by Graham Swift
I care not for kings. I cared for the King. I knew him well. I was charged with the King’s body, not with the body politick. It was a small and slight body, for all its loftiness of position and mien. It was stunted by rickets. It was a body indeed that was sniggered at. How many of your party knew so well your enemy, knew his fleshly infirmities as well as his kingly towerings, knew his private graces? When I attended his hunts he would set aside for me so much of his quarry, his stags, hinds and hares, as I might want as fresh matter for my dissections. He did not trample on the advancement of learning, nor even on the defying of Galen. When he took up his headquarters in Oxford he ensured I should have place and time for my studies. It was his fortress of war, but still a seat of learning. True, Ned, I was a Caius man, before Cambridge was Parliament’s school, who found sanctuary in Oxford. Did I choose my party? I was made, by the King’s wish, Warden of Merton. You were made Colonel of Horse. We find our places, Ned, we find our colours.
Either way now, the orchard, the kingdom—the commonwealth, the republic, what are we to call it?—lies bleeding and cut down. A commonwealth? Look at its poverty. A republic? A headless body.
When I was at Edge Hill, in attendance, before my days in Oxford, I observed the pallor in my master’s brow. It was but a man’s pallor, the pallor of any man on hearing the opening shots of cannon, but it was a king’s pallor. No other man could have worn that pallor. It was the first battle. Pray God, he must have thought, it would be the only one. It was the first occasion of his leading an army in battle, and certainly the first against his own people.
What times, Ned, what times. We who played at knucklebones. Truly that battle, if such disorderliness could be called a battle, was well named, since was it not a great edge of things, a great precipice overstepped? It was not for me, dissector of corpses and philosopher of the blood, to be affrighted at the carnage and slaughter. In truth I spent much of the time behind a hedge endeavouring to read a book. Yet I was affrighted at the look I saw on almost every man’s face, be he for King or Parliament (and you could not often well tell the difference), the look that said, as it were: It is a true thing now, and it is of this sanguinary substance, this thing that was but hours ago still a thing of speech and protestation. It is a thing now of experiment, and such is the experiment.
Had they chosen their party, those green recruits who had not known a fight before? Had they chosen their party, those who turned and ran or galloped for their lives before the charge of Prince Rupert? And had they chosen their party, those of Prince Rupert’s command, who knew, it seemed, no command, but charged ever on beyond the field, as if the battle were not a battle but a great chase, a great hunting of men? It almost cost the King the day. It certainly cost his winning it.
Would that he had won it. Do I speak treachery? It would have settled the matter. There would have been a battle only and no war. I believe it was in that pallor that I noted. That he knew he could win. He had the ridge, indeed the edge, and all the advantages. He held the London road. He might prevail, as a king should all at once prevail. Yet it was that day that led to his placing his neck upon the block.
But did you see it, Ned, that look upon the common face? I know you were there. That is, it came to my later knowledge that you had been among Sir William Balfour’s horse, who led the counter-charge, against an army naked of its own horse, and very nearly seized a victory. It was the beginning of your late-won eminence, not as man of law or even of Parliament, but of arms.
But did you know, even then, that I was there? Did you know how close your cuirassiers came to the King and to those in his attendance? Did we look upon each other, Ned? This I would know. Your face would have been hidden by a helmet, but not my own. Did you see my face? Yet did you see, in any case, or were you blinded by your purposes, that look upon the general face that said all England is a butcher’s yard now, a very shambles? All England is a hunting ground and every man a quarry.
I would know it, Ned. I did not fight. I carried no weapon. I carried a book, thinking I might be idle. I attended the King and I tended the wounded, of both parties. It was an October day, bitter cold, and darkness, blessedly, came early, ending the matter in no party’s favour but not stopping the flow from wounds. Did we look upon each other? It is seven years past and we were both even then men with grey hairs. I was never a man of arms, but I am haunted by the dream, Ned, that we face each other on a field of battle. I have no potion to drive away the stubborn vision. We both have swords drawn. They are not wooden rulers. It is not apples and orchards. It has come to this. Did you see my face, and should I be thankful I did not see yours?
It is bitter cold this night also. I write by firelight and candlelight. Either way, the land lies ravaged. Soon, they say, Parliament’s victory will be further visited upon the people of Ireland. You are surely too old now to command there a regiment. Yet, physician as I am, I know not the mettle of your ageing body. The army is a toughening and late schooling, no doubt; and the heat of battle, so it would seem, is a heater of the soul, even a forger of zeal for the Lord. We are all of God’s party now, but some more so. Is it not the case? There were all along in this affair but two parties, the army and the people, that too is now more so, and either the army would be our church or the church our army. Is it not so? We have no civility but a confusion of godliness and war. Such our new world.
Well, Ned, I am of the people’s party now, I am only of the people. Though I have served kings, I am, as physician, only of the party and of the care of Every Body. I believe, and indeed can demonstrate, that every man’s organs obey the same internal government. I still hold faith in the advancement of learning, if I believe less that by learning we advance.
Yet tell me, did we see each other? And tell me, might we yet, in the time remaining to us, see each other again? We are kinsmen and, whatever the divisions between us, we are now old men. I would have been your physician, Ned, most happily and truly, if you had asked me. And would be so still. Old men require physicians. Unless your Cromwell takes a crown, neither of us, I dare say, will know another king. We are as one there. We have only our allotted years. You would be welcome here at my brother’s house. You may view, for your amusement, my experiments. It is not a long journey from Westminster, and but a short way from Putney where you would have held your late debates. Were they not upon ‘An Agreement of the People’? There is good ale. There is an orchard, be it bare. We should sit and be at peace, Ned, and talk, as old men are given to talk. And remember. What times we have seen.
Your humble servant and cousin
Will
William Harvey, Doctor of Physic
REMEMBER THIS
THEY WERE MARRIED now and had been told they should make their wills, as if that was the next step in life, so one day they went together to see a solicitor, Mr Reeves. He was not as they’d expected. He was soft-spoken, silver-haired and kindly. He smiled at them as if he’d never before met such a sweet newly married young couple, so plainly in love yet so sensibly doing the right thing. He was more like a vicar than a solicitor, and later Nick and Lisa shared the thought that they’d wished Mr Reeves had actually married them. Going to see him was in fact not unlike getting married. It had the same mixture of solemnity and giggly disbelief—are we really doing this?—the same feeling of being a child in adult’s clothing.
They’d thought it might be a rather grim process. You can’t make a will without thinking about death, even when you’re twenty-four and twenty-five. They’d thought Mr Reeves might be hard going. But he was so nice. He gently steered them through the delicate business of making provision for their dying together, or with the briefest of gaps in between. ‘In a car accident say,’ he said, with an apologetic smile. That was like contemplating death indeed, that was like saying they might die tomorrow.
But they got through it. And, all in all, the fact of having drafted your last will and testament and having left all your worldly possessions—pending children—to your spo
use was every bit as significant and as enduring a commitment as a wedding. Perhaps even more so.
And then there was something . . . Something.
Though it was a twelve-noon appointment and wouldn’t take long, they’d both taken the day off and, without discussing it but simultaneously, dressed quite smartly, as if for a job interview. Nick wore a suit and tie. Lisa wore a short black jacket, a dark red blouse and a black skirt which, though formal, was also eye-catchingly clingy. They both knew that if they’d turned up at Mr Reeves’ office in jeans and T-shirts it wouldn’t have particularly mattered—he was only a high street solicitor. On the other hand this was hardly an everyday event, for them at least. They both felt that certain occasions required an element of ceremony, even of celebration. Though could you celebrate making a will?
In any case, if just for themselves, they’d dressed up a bit, and perhaps Mr Reeves had simply been taken by the way they’d done this. Thus he’d smiled at them as if, so it seemed to them, he was going to consecrate their marriage all over again.
It was a bright and balmy May morning, so they walked across the common. There was no point in driving (and when Mr Reeves said that thing about a car accident they were glad they hadn’t). There was no one else to think about, really, except themselves and their as yet unmet solicitor. As they walked they linked arms or held hands, or Nick’s hand would wander to pat Lisa’s bottom in her slim black skirt. The big trees on the common were in their first vivid green and full of singing birds.
They were newly married, but it had seemed to make no essential difference. It was a ‘formality’, as today was a formality. Formality was a lovely word, since it implied the existence of informality and even in some strange way gave its blessing to it. Nick let his palm travel and wondered if his glad freedom to let it do so was in any way altered, even enhanced, now that Lisa was his wife and not just Lisa.
Married or not, they were still at the stage of not being able to keep their hands off each other, even in public places. As they walked across the common to see Mr Reeves, Nick found himself considering that this might only be a stage—a stage that would fade or even cease one day. They’d grow older and just get used to each other. They wouldn’t just grow older, they’d age, they’d die. It was why they were doing what they were doing today. And it was the deal with marriage.
It seemed necessary to go down this terminal path of thought even as they walked in the sunshine. Nonetheless, he let his palm travel.
And in Mr Reeves’ office, though it was reassuring that Mr Reeves was so nice, one thing that helped Nick, while they were told about the various circumstances in which they might die, was thinking about Lisa’s arse and hearing the tiny slithery noises her skirt made whenever she shifted in her seat.
It was a beautiful morning, but he’d heard a mixed forecast and he’d brought an umbrella. Having your will done seemed, generally, like remembering to bring an umbrella.
When they came out—it took less than half an hour—the clouds had thickened, though the bright patches of sky seemed all the brighter. ‘Well, that’s that,’ Nick said to Lisa, as if the whole thing deserved only a relieved shrug, though they both felt an oddly exhilarating sense of accomplishment. Lisa said, ‘Wasn’t he sweet,’ and Nick agreed immediately, and they both felt also, released back into the spring air, a great sense of animal vitality.
There was a bloom upon them and perhaps Mr Reeves couldn’t be immune to it.
They retraced their steps, or rather took a longer route via the White Lion on the edge of the common. It seemed appropriate, however illogical, after what they’d done, to have a drink. Yes, to celebrate. Lunch, a bottle of wine, why not? In fact, since they both knew that, above all, they were hungry and thirsty for each other, they settled for nothing more detaining than two prawn sandwiches and two glasses of Sauvignon. The sky, at the window, meanwhile turned distinctly threatening.
By the time they’d crossed back over the common the rain had begun, but Nick had the umbrella, under which it was necessary to huddle close together. As he put it up he had the fleeting thought that its stretched black folds were not unlike women’s tight black skirts. He’d never before had this thought about umbrellas, only the usual thoughts—that they were like bats’ wings or that they were vaguely funereal—and this was like other thoughts and words that came into his head on this day, almost as if newly invented. It was a bit like the word kindly suddenly presenting itself as the exact word to describe Mr Reeves.
As they turned the corner of their street it began to pelt down and they broke into a run. Inside, in the hallway, they stood and panted a little. It was dark and clammy and with the rain beating outside a little like being inside a drum. They climbed the stairs to their flat, Lisa going first. Nick had an erection and the words ‘stair rods’ came into his mind.
It was barely two o’clock and the lower of the two flats was empty. Nick thought—though very quickly, since his thoughts were really elsewhere—of how incredibly lucky they were to be who they were and to have a flat of their own to go to on a rainy afternoon. It was supposed to be a ‘starter home’ and they owed it largely to Lisa’s dad. It was supposed to be a first stage. He thought of stages again, if less bleakly this time. Everything in life could be viewed as a stage, leading to other stages and to having things you didn’t yet have. But right now he felt they had everything, the best life could bring. What more could you want? And they’d even made their wills.
He’d hardly dropped the sopping umbrella into the kitchen sink than they were both, by inevitable progression, in the bedroom, and he’d hardly removed his jacket and pulled across the curtains than Lisa had unbuttoned her red blouse. She’d let him unzip her skirt, she knew how he liked to.
It rained all afternoon and kept raining, if not so hard, through the evening. They both slept a bit, then got up, picked up the clothes they’d hastily shed, and thought about going for a pizza. But it was still wet and they didn’t want to break the strange spell of the day or fail to repeat, later, the manner of their return in the early afternoon. It seemed, too, that they might destroy the mood if they went out dressed in anything less special than what they’d worn earlier. But just for a pizza?
So—going to the other extreme—they took a shared bath, put on bathrobes, and settled for Welsh rarebit. They opened the only bottle of wine they had, a Rioja that someone had once brought them. They found a red twisty candle left over from Christmas. They put on a favourite CD. Outside, the rain persisted and darkness, though it was May, came early. The candle flame and their white-robed bodies loomed in the kitchen window.
Why this day had become so special, a day of celebration, of formality mixed with its flagrant opposite, neither of them could have said exactly. It happened. Having eaten and having drunk only half the bottle, it seemed natural to drift back to bed, less hurriedly this time, to make love again more lingeringly.
Then they lay awake a long time holding each other, talking and listening to the rain in the gutters and to the occasional slosh of a car outside. They talked about Mr Reeves. They wondered what it was precisely that had made him so sweet. They wondered if he was happily married and had a family, a grownup family. Surely he would have all those things. They wondered how he’d met Mrs Reeves—they decided her name was Sylvia—and what she was like. They wondered if he’d been perhaps a little jealous of their own youth or just, in his gracious way, gladdened by it.
They wondered if he found wills merely routine or if he could be occasionally stopped short by the very idea of two absurdly young people making decisions about death. He must have made his own will. Surely—a good one. They wondered if a good aim in life might simply be to become like Mr Reeves, gentle, courteous and benign. Of course, that could only really apply to Nick, not to Lisa.
Then Lisa fell asleep and Nick lay awake still holding her and thinking. He thought: What is Mr Reeves doing now? Is he in bed with Mrs Reeves—with Sylvia? He wondered if when Mr Reeves had talked
to them in his office he’d had any idea of how the two of them, his clients (and that was a strange word and a strange thing to be), would spend the rest of the day. He hoped Mr Reeves had had an inkling.
He wondered if he really might become like Mr Reeves when he was older. If he too would have (still plentiful and handsome) silver hair.
Then he forgot Mr Reeves altogether and the overwhelming thought came to him: Remember this, remember this. Remember this always. Whatever comes, remember this.
He was so smitten by the need to honour and consummate this thought that even as he held Lisa in his arms his chest felt full and he couldn’t prevent his eyes suddenly welling. When Lisa slept she sometimes unknowingly nuzzled him, like some small creature pressing against its mother. She did this now, as if she might have quickly licked the skin at the base of his neck.
He was wide awake. Remember this. He couldn’t sleep and he didn’t want to sleep. The grotesque thought came to him that he’d just made his last will and testament, so he could die now, it was all right to die. This might be his deathbed and this, with Lisa in his arms, might be called dying happy—surely it could be called dying happy—the very thing that no will or testament, no matter how prudent its provisions, could guarantee.
