She did not smile; I would go so far as to say she looked in pain, her one eyebrow drawing towards her nose and eyelids flickering as though heat was upon them.
‘But why the long face?’
‘I know I’m tall, there’s no need to gibe.’
‘I’m not gibing, ’tis a figure of speech. You look sad is all it means.’
‘I’m not sad, I only fear that we’ll be discovered.’
‘Let’s not spend our time in worry, I can see the crowd dispersing.’
Millicent, upon the realisation that our union was to be concluded, grabbed at my breeches, her long fingertips working at my plonker.
‘I’ve always wanted to know about these,’ said she, mapping the dimensions of it with her hand.
‘Aye.’
‘’Tis a thing of wonder. Like cream into butter, only much easier to turn.’
‘Will you meet me here tomorrow night? After curfew, at one of the clock.’
‘You wish to be a criminal?’
‘For you, aye.’
She searched the ground and then nodded.
‘I will be here.’
I’ve not yet had cause to describe my own appearance, being much preoccupied with Millicent’s, but in short I was very short, five foot and one inch only, and the inheritor of my father’s fat lips and bulbous nose and my mother’s mismatched cheekbones. Now you’ll know why I’ve not made mention of my time at school nor the diminutives I was called by; I will only make the following abridgement: when you have not one true friend on earth you learn a self-fortification that you do not think possible (there was Tomaso Di Sessa, but I can hardly count him as a true friend; he spoke no English and was always sniffing at his fingertips), and being the way I was viz. not pleasant to behold, it made me all the more grateful and bewildered by Millicent’s arrival the following night in only her sleepshirt and pumps, shivering by the tree, her person illuminated by the moon that was very small and chilly in the corner of the sky like a coin. Her body trembled, teeth chattering together like horses over the stones as I embraced her, holding her inside my coat so that she might warm herself against me, and wishing I was a larger man that might fully envelop her and not the other way around.
Modesty doesn’t permit me to elucidate the full gamut of experimentations into which we delved, only to say that Millicent had the energy and aplomb of a woman with twice her experience and was not unwilling to seek her own pleasure with a tree root … aye, I will leave it there, lest the devil take me. In any case, such were our nocturnal adventures which began taking place two or three times per week, until as these things happen, Millicent did indeed become with child; little did we realise by her symptoms, which we considered but the effects of love.
Once her belly grew to a considerable rotundity and we could deny it no more, we were forced to consider the matter of our parents.
‘We must do it soon before scandal spreads.’
‘My father might murder you,’ said Milli, the name that I came to call her. ‘Making no exaggeration.’
‘Well, let us run away then. To London.’
‘I am not interested in London. It is a place of filth and plague.’
‘It may have its filth, but it is also a place of great riches.’
‘You will sell buckles here in Wolverhampton,’ said she.
‘I will do as I please,’ replied I, shocked by the liberties she was taking with my fate.
‘I’m sorry,’ granted she, nodding grimly. ‘It is the belly which speaks, not I.’
On Sunday morning before church I sat down with Father, whose breath carried an earthy zest.
‘There is something about which I must speak,’ said I.
‘Bring me some water and a warm ale, then we shall speak.’
‘I have no ale.’
‘Well go and acquire some and maybe I’ll be persuaded.’
‘Aye.’
An hour later, I returned with what he requested.
‘Here is your ale and water, but it turned cold.’
‘Give it ’ere.’
He drank thirstily, the foam turning his upper lip a very bright white; but I couldn’t tell if it was the foam that was white or his face that was filthy.
‘There is a matter I must speak to you about,’ repeated I.
‘Can it not wait,’ answered Father, ‘till I’m finished my brew.’
‘I’m in love.’
‘You’re what?’
‘In love, sir. With Millicent Dampier.’
‘Who the crackfart –’
‘Master Dampier’s daughter, sir.’
‘Well, be in love then.’
‘I wish to marry her, with your permission.’
Father thought this was very funny, slapping his knee and laughing. ‘Bring me my pipe.’
I considered this to be a good sign, that he intended to discuss the issue over tobacco, so I gathered his pipe and filled it for him, and brought a cinder to ignite it.
‘Now fuck off,’ said he, drawing on the pipe. ‘Marry. Ha!’
‘Permit me to be plain with you, Father,’ I spake nervously. ‘As one man to another.’
Father looked into the end of his pipe, exhaling slowly, rubbing his brow; once again I searched his lineaments for a willingness to counsel me.
‘I do not like the chronology of this conversation,’ said he, after some time.
‘It is as you expect,’ said I. ‘We have performed an evil that can’t be undone.’
Father drew again and again on his pipe, nodding, his mind turning over. ‘You’ve shagged your master’s daughter, am I to presume?’
‘Aye.’
‘Is she with child?’
‘She is.’
‘How far along?’
‘Her belly is yea big.’
Father absorbed the news calmer than I anticipated; indeed, he looked more grave and thoughtful than I had seen him in a number of years. He directed all attention to his pipe, that he rapidly puffed and sucked, smoke filling the space to such a degree I could scarce see him.
‘There are but two things to do,’ finally said he, through the miasma.
‘I am all ears.’
‘First, to beat you. Second, to calculate the dowry.’
I made to run but he threw the cinders of his pipe at my face, momentarily blinding me then holding me with one hand and taking up a Tudor chair leg from his bench. He set to work with the decorative end.
‘He is like a Jew,’ said Father, wheezing from his exertions. ‘Hoarding his money. There is talk he is worth near a hundred.’
I was not able to reply, being near unconscious from the beating.
‘I think we should backdate the wedding,’ continued he. ‘Charge interest at fifteen per cent.’
I can’t say Millicent had a better time of relaying the announcement, with her mother a-swooning, hitting her head on a chest and requiring a visit to the barber to stitch her wound. As for Master Dampier, he responded by taking his sword from the cabinet and quoting the Bible.
‘With only two fish and twelve baskets,’ said he. ‘And a she-donkey.’
‘I know not what you mean,’ said Millicent.
‘I’m going to slice off his cock,’ clarified Master Dampier.
By and by, both sets of parents were in no position to deny our marriage so close to the time of Millicent’s confinement, though there was some delay upon my father’s request for a one-hundred-pound dowry with fifteen guineas in interest. Master Dampier countered with two pounds, three shillings and zero interest, but eventually they were brought to agreement on the figure of seventeen pounds, seven shillings and zero interest, and the minister was called to officiate a ceremony that took place in the Dampiers’ home, with only our parents present to witness our wedlock, and me scarce able to stand, my legs so bruised and beaten.
DEFOE
A visitor one Wednesday evening
April 1724
Defoe is absorbed in the day’s bankruptcy cl
assifieds. With a forefinger, he scans down entries of business equipment, clothing, furniture, pausing at an entry: Gentleman’s cane. Polished elm, alabaster garland. Plate tip. Gold owl head. He picks up his quill, and circles it. The front door is knocked twice. His wife watches him walk to the door. His fingers rest on the handle as he hesitates. The door rattles again.
‘Daniel,’ his wife says.
Captain Godbehere is chin-down and enormous. All daylight is blocked by his frame.
‘Surprised?’ the captain asks, grinning. Always with that grin.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Defoe. ‘I was …’
‘Yes?’
‘Preoccupied.’
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘Prithee.’
The captain grips his limp hat in one enormous hand, evidently the sort of man who doesn’t mind crushing his own hat. They sit at the dining table and Captain Godbehere looks around.
‘A fine home.’
‘My thanks.’
His wife now appears and the captain stands, bows.
‘The lucky Mrs Defoe,’ says the captain.
She curtsies but doesn’t smile, fingers her cap.
‘If you would be so kind,’ says Defoe to his wife. ‘Tea. And, if we have, those butter biscuits.’
‘I’m Captain Godbehere,’ he says, detaining her. ‘I hope you’ve heard only kind words?’
She nods. ‘Of course.’
‘What have you heard, then?’ he insists. His grin is like a barb collected unintentionally from a bush.
‘As you say. Kind words.’
‘So your husband spoke of our dealings?’
She flicks her eyes between her husband and this man, of whom she knows nothing. ‘I’m not much involved in my husband’s affairs. I’ll be brewing your tea.’
She withdraws behind a swinging door that, upon its second alternation, reveals the kitchen maid, prying. There is blood on her apron and her hands are wet.
‘You have a pretty wife, Mr Defoe. Smart, too.’
‘My thanks. Yes. A fine woman.’
The captain leans forward, both arms full on the table, saying nothing. Defoe watches his bristly cheeks protrude as he moves his tongue around his mouth.
‘I trust your travels were successful?’ the writer finally asks.
‘It was a short trip, as you know, only one year.’ The captain pauses to pick his teeth. ‘We made a stop in Cape Verde.’
Defoe senses this to be the beginning of something more, waits. The captain intertwines his enormous fingers. They are cracked and callused, with nails set back from the tips as though designed for a violent, hammering application.
‘You must excuse me,’ says Defoe. ‘Geography isn’t my strength.’
‘A Portuguese slave colony. The island we pulled anchor was Ribeira Grande. A thousand leagues from Brazil and two hundred from Africa. Infested with pirates.’
‘The stories are true?’
The captain, still not looking at him, begins a story while kneading his hat. He speaks in a slow, hoarse monotone; so slow that Defoe drifts off into thoughts of the gentleman’s cane with the gold owl. He catches snippets about twenty-five bushels of sugar and a shipowner, Mr Crowe, who assented to a pair of six-pounders and an ambush from a dozen pirates led by the one they call Avery.
‘They were met by buck and ball,’ the captain concludes, presumably of the pirates. He still does not look at him.
‘The high seas,’ answers Defoe. ‘Ho.’
‘I trust you received my dispatches?’
‘I’m sure, yes.’
‘Why, then, did you not answer?’
‘Well,’ says the writer. ‘You see. Well. I wasn’t in a position …’
‘Not in a position to respond to a dispatch?’
Finally, the captain raises his eyes. The whites are mapped with threads of red string. The pupils are large and murky like a dog’s. It is the first time he has looked at Defoe.
Mary thankfully enters with a tray. Biscuits are stacked into triangles. There is a steaming teapot and two overturned cups rattling in their saucers. She sets places for both Defoe and the captain, meticulously laying out saucer, cup, spoon, two biscuits to each man and a dish of sugar between them.
‘Will you join us, madam?’ asks the captain, standing. ‘These biscuits look exceeding moist.’
‘You must excuse me, I’m having trouble with a chicken.’
‘A chicken? You must be a rich man, Mr Defoe, eating such things on a Wednesday night.’
‘It was a gift,’ Defoe replies quickly. ‘From … from our parents.’
Mary returns to the kitchen, and Godbehere seats himself.
‘Applebee’s payment will be through any day now,’ blurts Defoe. ‘In fact, it’s quite overdue.’
‘I fail to see the relation. Between a publisher and a trading agreement.’
‘Well, you see –’
‘I have an offer of eighteen guineas,’ Captain Godbehere says slowly, his eyes now trained on Defoe.
‘Eighteen!’ Defoe ejaculates. ‘For seventy rolls! It’s an insult –’
‘Do not interrupt me. I have an offer of eighteen guineas. I am aware that the tobacco is supposedly worth more, however tobacco is not my business. Captaining is my business.’
‘But eighteen. It’s –’
‘I will give you two weeks to find a purchaser for the tobacco and to repay your debt, which currently stands at forty-three guineas for the tobacco, and my shipping charges of eighteen guineas, being a total of sixty-one guineas.’
‘But we were … we are partners. I shouldn’t solely bear the losses on the tobacco. It is hardly –’
‘We are not partners. You are a trader, I am a captain. You said the price of tobacco was to skyrocket. It was a sure thing, you said. The locust plague in Brazil, the basics of supply and demand. Remember? I offered a service to you, and I have performed it.’
Defoe nods, raises his palms to Captain Godbehere. ‘Yes, you have been most diligent, I agree. It’s only that we were to split the profits. Such an arrangement is one of partnership, and so too with losses –’
‘Two weeks, Mr Defoe.’
The captain bites a corner of his biscuit, chewing slowly, looking it over. It is like he is chewing Defoe. ‘These are moist.’
A long silence fills the room. Defoe exhales loudly. Those imbeciles at Stern’s Coffeehouse! What do they know about locust plagues!
‘Fuck!’ he exclaims.
The captain savours the last of his biscuit, emulsifying it further in his tea. Defoe watches him chew, glaring.
‘Here are the consignment notes,’ Godbehere says, pulling two folded papers from his breast pocket and sliding them over the table.
Defoe pushes them aside without looking.
‘I’ll be taking my leave then.’
The writer waves him off, without standing.
‘Two weeks then?’ Godbehere asks.
‘Yes, yes. Two weeks.’
Before leaving, the captain turns. ‘By the by, how is your writing?’ The large man’s grin has returned.
‘Applebee, he owes me … it doesn’t matter. Very well, very well.’
‘My gratitude to your wife.’ Godbehere walks slowly off, not closing the door after him. A horse grunts as it bears the captain’s weight.
WILD
I am a married man, blinded by my master
1700
Our son, William Wild, was born but three weeks following our matrimony and thereafter passed a good year between us, taking a room in the Dampier home as our own and living as man and wife, albeit under the scrutiny and disapproval of Master Dampier, who called our son an abomination for the first two months of its nursing.
He was a curious thing to be had, the child, transforming from a screaming, crumple-faced worm-devil to a sleeping cherub in a matter of seconds, wooed between these states by the constant rocking and singing of Millicent, whose attentions now lay entirely w
ith the boy. After my labours at Master Dampier’s workshop I climbed the stairs to our room, eager to see the boy, harboured by mounds of white linen, thrusting his hands upwards, grabbing at bunches of nothing and gurgling with a timbre sweeter than any bird.
I had nicknames for them: Milli for her, Willi for him and My-Willy for them both (which Millicent hated but laughed at sure enough). Once Milli’s privates were recovered from birth, we returned to long hours devoted to the ins and outs, excuse the pun, of each other’s proclivities and once sated, held each other tight, gathering Willi between us, all three snuggled on the mattress, a happy family if ever there was.
My indenture to Master Dampier was to continue until I had fulfilled seven years, a commitment to which I was obligated under written contract, but being a father and husband it now seemed a ridiculous position, to answer to every call and whim of old Master Dampier when I was now more skilled at the buckle trade than he. I proposed ways of increasing his profits – manufacturing an adjustable mould, offering volume discounts – but he was deaf to my importunings; indeed, any alteration to his method he perceived as a personal insult.
‘You will be doing the jobs that you are charged with,’ repeated Master Dampier, when one day I suggested a slimmer design. ‘And that be all.’
‘I only make the suggestion for your advantage. Mr Briar is selling quite some –’
‘The floor clean as the eating irons,’ muttered the old man. ‘That is my advantage.’
That same evening, after I had my way with Millicent – or she with me, more the likely – I grumbled apropos her father.
‘He will not listen to reason,’ said I.
William lay asleep across her. ‘When you’re free of him you can make decisions of your own.’
‘I have a mind to quit this arrangement.’
Millicent sighed with exasperation. ‘What, are you a criminal now, breaking your indenture?’
‘A decent man would tender me an early release. I am a husband now, with a child no less. Or at the least, offer me wages.’
‘He is not obliged to offer you anything.’
‘Are you siding with him?’
Wild Page 3
