‘What in heaven’s name have you done with the other coachman?’ asked he. His angry little eyes were set too close together.
‘My esteemed Lord,’ said I, bowing. ‘Your other coachman has chosen immorality over attention to your service.’
‘Speak English, you fool.’
‘He has passed out, sire, with a whore.’
‘And why are you here?’ spoke he, some glimmer of interest in his left eye.
‘When I saw he wasn’t going to wake, I stole his clothes and ran here. I’ve longed for the chance to travel to London, sire, and to work in the service of a Lord as great as yourself.’
‘You met him in a brothel?’
‘No, sire, at an alehouse, with your first coachman, the kind Mr Saltwell. We then journeyed to my house, where he passed out, and I made the decision to attempt this most saucy plot.’
‘Your house?’
‘A manner of speech, My Lord.’
‘You’re a saucy plotter indeed,’ replied he, thinking. A fly landed on his powdered nose then disembarked white. ‘Very well,’ spoke he after a further moment. ‘I respect the ambition. But try anything ambitious with me and you’ll be imprisoned before you know it. Mr Saltwell will instruct you on the terms of your employment.’
‘I am exceeding grateful!’
‘Before you go,’ said he. ‘Turn around for me. Let me see how that uniform fits.’
I complied, turning on the spot.
‘Doesn’t fit you at all. Saltwell will make the arrangements. And you’re how old?’
‘Almost eighteen, sir.’
He laughed at this, and I knew not why.
I bowed and walked backwards, as he and Saltwell conferred in soft tones. I stood with hands clasped behind my back, welcoming the morning sun; rejoicing in the vindication of my new beliefs, for surely it had just been proven me – despite the sayings of Our Father – this world is one that rewards the cunning.
DEFOE
Daniel and Mary to the church
April 1724
He and Mary go by Amherst. The low-hanging fog is parted by the movement of their bodies. Their shoes crunch against the road. Above the cooper’s workshop, a pair of shutters swing open and clatter against the wall. Dirty smoke leaks from a single chimney like a ribbon of ink dispersing in water. On Sundays Stoke Newington is like a country hamlet; no shopkeepers, no carts on the road, no London coach. Apart from the rectory and two grand estates, there are mostly old clay cottages, some still with thatched roofing. Even with the building of three new retail stores, a victualhouse and rumours of a theatre, it is still a place that harbours the nocturnal hooting of owls, the braying of goats and the whisper of leaves with each bluster of wind.
It is a fine morning. With his dear wife’s hand weaved into the crook of his arm, the cool air at his shins, his Sunday periwig snug against his head.
‘It’s warmer,’ Mary declares.
Somewhere in the mist a horse blows its lips, stamps four hooves.
‘A wondrous morning indeed,’ Defoe agrees. ‘How unfortunate to spend it in church.’
‘Daniel!’
‘You know my feelings on Rector Simpson.’
‘Sidrach is a good man,’ Mary replies. ‘If at times stern.’
‘Conviction is a thing to be admired,’ Defoe assents. Mary begins recalling one of the rector’s kindnesses, something about providing rooms for a scullery maid. The morning is such that he can’t help but be agreeable. The Sabbath is serving its purpose, he realises. For indeed he will rest. The attic door will stay closed. The inkwell shall dry black and flaky.
‘Daniel?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you not hear a thing I just said?’
‘Forgive me, I was elsewhere.’
‘You are troubled, I know.’
‘It’s …’
‘The tobacco deal,’ Mary offers. ‘Is it shaping up as you expected?’
‘Quite. There’ll be a bundle to be had, if Captain Godbehere … if he acts reasonably.’
‘How many rolls was it?’
‘Seventy. Seventy rolls.’
‘An impressive amount.’
‘Let’s not discuss business on the Sabbath.’
‘Maybe you should become Rector.’
Defoe halts, her fingers slipping from his arm. His hands go to his hips, and he tilts his head in disapproval. Mary rolls her eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh.
‘Must you be so sensitive?’
‘I should beat you for such insolence!’ he announces, having never in his life beaten her or anyone else.
Mary steps to him, her eyes unmoving, and yanks him forward like he’s a child. Defoe scans the road to ensure no one has seen the exchange.
‘How dare –’
‘Can we simply walk the road without disagreement?’ Mary interrupts, weary.
Defoe sighs. Steam flows from his mouth. ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘We shall enjoy our morning.’
Mary pats his arm and pulls him close. There is the rough stitch of her dress against his coat; somewhere behind it is the warmth of her bosom.
‘Mary?’
‘Yes?’
‘I know it can’t be easy. That we’ve much less by way of staff and funds, that I’m elsewhere, and that the elsewhere doesn’t bring us money. It can’t be easy for you.’
Mary says nothing, pats his arm again, squints into the white distance.
The church bell resounds. The building is newly constructed, the stone a buffed yellow, the white lines of mortar undiminished and plumb. He detests its grandiosity. Not only is it an incongruence in Stoke Newington, but he cannot envision God’s presence in a place so … so new.
Many are now approaching the portico, funnelling into the entrance like ants to a fallen honey drip. By the eighth or ninth strike, the sound of the bell is unbearably cold and metallic. Defoe slows his pace. Already the faces are visible; the proprietorial nods of men, and women aflutter over bonnets and buttons.
‘Let’s wait until the crowd settles,’ he says to his wife.
‘Come on, then. We’ll get crappy pews.’
‘I want to sit at the back. No one will spy our donation.’
‘You intend to make it measly once again?’
‘We needn’t throw our money into Sidrach Simpson’s basket. He is richer than all of us.’
‘It’s not his basket, it’s God’s.’
‘I’ll make it up to God another time.’
‘Daniel.’
‘Also, up close you can see the spit flying from his mouth.’
‘’Tis true. I have seen the flying spittle.’
‘I still love you, Mary Tuffley.’
‘And I, you.’
Sidrach Simpson surveys his parishioners from the intricately carved pulpit. A pew creaks. His body is motionless; only his dark eyes are moving, running along the length of each row, counting those not present. His hairy hands grip the polished mahogany. Shepley, who is two rows ahead and wearing his usual double-length wig, turns to nod at them. Defoe takes his half-smile to be an indication of their outstanding debts.
Rector Sidrach Simpson, in his white and gold vestments, begins.
‘For those who don’t know of it, my father was the late Sidrach Simpson Senior, Master of Pembroke Hall.’
His voice is too high for the gravity he is trying for.
‘He was imprisoned by the masters of our brief and failed Protectorate, imprisoned for the expressions of faith that he insisted were incumbent upon each and every one of us, in our service to God Almighty.’
Simpson pauses, grips the railing and leans forward, softening his voice. His body is shaped like an oversized teardrop, with no shoulders to speak of.
‘How, I ask you, my dear parish, can the expression of faith be a crime?’
There is the sound of a paper rustling as someone tries to extract a wrapped candy. Simpson glares, then continues.
‘Faith is that which is pure, that which is i
mmutable. Who dares stand up today in the name of faith, to die just as he did, just as Our Saviour did?’
Simpson and his square jaw look about the room. He lets the silence thicken, the discomfort grow.
‘For the power of a man is not in the possessions that he foolishly accumulates, nor is a woman’s beauty found in the sartorial finery with which she enshrouds herself. It is inside a place that is both unknowable yet inexorable. And this place is inside of each of us. As it is written …’
Defoe is elbowed awake by Mary as the congregation stands. He totters and blinks; the boy-choir begins. ‘How goodly are thy tents, oh Jacob …’
The voices join, filling the hall. The lame son of the rectory groundsman sings too loudly. His proud father nods along, his head moving within his wig. As the choir loudens to a crescendo, Defoe tries to fight the feeling. But he cannot suppress it; God’s greatness. Yet if he must face God, let him experience it alone. Not in the same room as Shepley.
The fog has dissipated. A glorious clear sky stretches above the rolling fields. To the east he can see the timbered hill of their estate.
‘Always harping on about his father,’ Defoe says, once they’re out of earshot.
‘He was more impassioned than usual.’
‘It’s not something the rector needs to augment, his passion.’
‘When was the last time you made conference with him?’ Mary asks.
‘A long time. Not since Rector Willow passed. We have all been in health.’
‘I think it will serve you, to be reconciled with Simpson.’
They briefly separate to veer either side of a pile of horseshit, then their arms link again.
‘I’m not fond of the prospect.’
‘Of that I am aware.’
Maybe the rector will buy seventy rolls of tobacco, Defoe thinks.
‘What are you smiling about, then?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
The hedging has been freshly clipped by the groundsman. Mary slides her palm over the top of it. ‘I hope James has been safe?’
‘Who’s James?’
‘Lord!’
Defoe pauses, wondering what he’s done wrong now. ‘Oh, the baby,’ he says, pushing the gate open. ‘Of course he is fine.’
‘Five hours without his mother. And a father who forgets his name.’
‘I can hear his bellows from here.’
‘Daniel, I don’t want them playing outside all afternoon, I want them to spend some time indoors, as a family.’
‘’Tis the day for it.’
After supping, the family gathers around the harpsichord to sing ‘Bessy Bell and Mary Gray’. Little William has no ability to tune his voice, and sings the loudest of his children, while Margaret, who has a sweet, gentle timbre, will not allow her voice above a murmur. Their singing is interrupted by wails from the cot, and Defoe calls the nursemaid to bring him down. Moments later, little James appears on the landing, his face wet with tears and arms outstretched to his gathered family. The boy was a miracle, at Mary’s age.
Elizabeth begins a lullaby on the harpsichord: ‘O Waly Waly’. The kitchen maid, who is watching by the doorway, is waved over by Defoe. She approaches gingerly, hands at her waist.
‘Sing with us,’ says Defoe. ‘If you will.’
She clears her throat.
‘And you too,’ Defoe says to little James, who sucks on a ball of muslin. ‘You have no idea what I’m saying, do you?’ Defoe asks.
The children giggle. ‘Sing, James!’ they call.
James waves his hands manically and runs in circles. All laugh, then join in song. The toddler searches the familiar faces, sucking his muslin, on the precipice of mirth or collapse.
‘O waly, waly, but love be bonny,
A little time while it is new …’
Momentarily – a perforation in the contentment – Defoe yearns for the quiet of his study. He holds a sense of the space, waiting coolly for his return. It is a wonder. How can a Sunday’s wholesome moments – God in a music-filled church or a family united by song – be less compelling than the solitude of his desk, the tap of the nib against the side of the inkwell and the cold of the timber against his wrist?
Once the children are deposited in their rooms, Defoe assists his wife in the unhooking of the various latches of her dress. It is a crude task for a husband to perform, but a handmaiden is no longer tenable.
‘If only all Sundays were spent so,’ Mary says, letting her dress fall down around her.
Defoe fingers the band of his wig over the wooden head on the dresser. He rubs at his scalp then sets to unbuttoning his trousers.
‘I’m not looking forward to tomorrow,’ he replies.
‘What is tomorrow?’
‘The week begins.’
Mary steps over. The knobs of her feet have grown in the past years.
‘Is there anything I can do to assist?’ she asks, pressing his head into her belly. The gauze of her shift is smooth against his ear, the flesh of her stomach warm and yielding.
‘There is, surely,’ he replies, placing a hand on her bare calf, squeezing the flesh there. He slowly embarks on the journey upwards, feeling the side of her knee, the luscious fat of her thigh, the emanation of heat as he approaches. He pauses his hand at the end of her thigh, soft flesh against his forefinger. He waits for an indication from her, the pressure of his finger maintained.
‘Very well,’ Mary says, walking to their bed, extinguishing a candle with her fingertips on the way. Soon she is lying on her back, her legs spread in waiting.
‘Shall we not,’ Defoe says softly, kissing her neck, ‘do things differently? Like the time in Yorkshire.’
‘I wish it’d never happened,’ she says coldly. ‘With your incessant attempts at repeating the moment.’
Defoe now feels like a scolded child. In an effort to hold the moment, he kisses her on the lips and enters her. ‘Let us forget I asked.’
Within a minute, she is making small gasps. Defoe sees this as a second opportunity, and withdraws, attempting to roll her onto her stomach.
She is unresponsive. ‘Why can’t you be satisfied with a moment’s pleasure?’ Her voice is cool and inquisitive.
‘I am satisfied,’ Defoe begs.
‘Clearly not. You are always wanting more – some ungodly position or practice.’
‘Very well,’ he replies, resuming his position atop her. Fury, shame and disappointment ascend as he tries to return to the moment. He is now alone in their lovemaking. Worst of all, despite this distaste he feels towards the act and himself, some mechanical part of him is still able to propel the matter forward. His wife resumes her shallow display of pleasure. It is like she is climbing the stairs, a slight grunt of knee-pain with each step. After a further minute he ejaculates and the matter is thankfully over. Mary rolls to her side and he is once again left with himself, his wife quite content with the performance of her duties.
‘Mary?’ he asks a few minutes later, but she is already asleep. Defoe sits up and reaches for his greatcoat. He grabs the tinderbox and climbs the stairs to his study, taking up the quill, and begins before he has even taken a seat.
THE LAD
Throw the vices in
1721
There was good spirit between the employees of Mr Wood, who numbered no fewer than seven owing to the considerable size of his concern, and as was the custom of our troupe we concluded each and every day with a visit to some or other ginhouse or alehouse or, if poorly from the previous night’s imbibing, we sustained ourselves with victuals and coffee only. By this stage all had fell to presuming I was a mute, which was a satisfactory presumption as I didn’t have to embarrass those around me; it was their awkwardness I couldn’t bear. Our tendency was for tomfoolery and gibing – Wright was teased for his stature, Cometrowe for his girth, Collingwood for his stupidity and me for my silence. It is my belief that anyone who cannot laugh at his own failings – even those failings that are most humiliating to
him – is a miserable sort of creature.
But that’s not to say, when exhausted and sleepless on my bunk in Master Wood’s Hampstead attic, I didn’t concoct worthier versions of myself. Fantasy never stops, not even into adulthood; while an adult’s fantasy is a construal of the world – imagining their crumbling hovel as a grand estate – an adolescent’s fantasy is a construal of himself – a larger, stronger, better-dancing, sure-speaking self, sitting astride a marble fountain while a girl swirls her salmony parasol for attention.
Visitations to my mother and brother had become fewer and fewer, but remembrances of my father lost no intensity. I could still summon the exact smell of hand-oil and sawn timber that accompanied him when he once tucked me in of the evening. But the frequency of these remembrances was diminishing; I suppose I was becoming my own man. And, as I was soon to discover, the moment you go from boy to man, a hole opens up inside you for the world to throw its vices in.
By my account it was 1721 or thereabouts when I discovered the evil and transitory cure to my muteness, the cure of gin. Here is when I learned it:
It was a Friday and together with Wood’s troupe, I journeyed along the River Thames aboard Waterman Cox’s wherry. Cox liked a song of the evening, and the passengers were happy to oblige. Naturally I was the rhythm-keeper, tapping my ginpot to the tune – a favourite of Cox’s – named ‘Betty’s Panegyrick’.
I looked around the boat, at the dozen passengers enjoying their journey, gladdened to be away from their cold, inconsequential homes and upon the glistening water that here and there sparkled from the torches of passing vessels. So great was the cheer about me, that after four or five drams, I let myself hum a little. It began with a low reverberation in my throat that I allowed to travel up and down the melody. And as the brood grew louder and merrier, I let my lips form the words, mouthing them as I sometimes mutely did, only this time emitting the slenderest of volume. Then, before I knew it, I was singing along, hale and hearty, with nobody but me knowing that my mouth and lips and throat were fully engaged, just as theirs were.
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