‘And what became of Mercer and his girls?’ asked Monsarrat. He’d noted that the older man and his daughters were no longer around. But arrivals and departures were frequent here, and he had not given the matter a lot of thought at the time.
‘Diamond sent him to Rolland’s Plains. He muttered about putting him in the lime-burners’ gang, didn’t want him around making accusations. The man took his girls with him, and I’ve heard nothing of them since.’
‘And what do you intend to do now?’ asked Monsarrat.
‘Well, I’m hoping you will assist me in a delicate balancing act. An official report on the major’s return, when he is obviously coming back to such awful tidings, would not get the recognition I believe it deserves. But I wish to be in a position to quickly make an official complaint when the time is right. When that time comes – given Diamond’s current mood, God knows what will happen to anyone – I feel the information should not reside only with me. If you’d be kind enough, Monsarrat, I’d like you to draft a report based on what I’ve told you, and hold it until such a time as I deem fit to share the information with the major. Or, if for any reason I am no longer present, use your own judgement. But it is a story I believe must ultimately be heard.’
The two men now turned around, and when they reached Allman Street again, the doctor said, ‘I’ll continue from here, Monsarrat. You may prefer to go back to Government House by way of the riverfront.’
Monsarrat walked on alone, past the commissariat stores where Spring was no doubt scratching in some ledger or another, and leaving the river when he reached the lumberyard. He knew the doctor had insisted they part ways for the sake of discretion, and felt it could do no harm to vary his route, so he doglegged halfway up the hill, passing the five huts which belonged to the overseers.
Young Billy Branch was sitting outside one of the huts. He was named after his father, one of the overseers, and was more properly referred to as William (or Master Branch, to Monsarrat). Branch the Younger attended the schoolhouse with the children of the officers. He had the liveliness of all young boys, but had always seemed to Monsarrat to be a decent lad.
There was no trace of that liveliness now, though. Billy sat on the ground in front of the hut, toying introspectively with some marbles in his hand, the ground being too soggy to roll them on.
‘Master Branch,’ said Monsarrat as he approached the hut, ‘you seem a little downcast. Where’s that monstrous hound in whose company I always see you?’
The monstrous hound was in fact a middling-sized dog of indeterminate breed, which young Branch had adopted and persuaded his father to let him keep. The pair always seemed quite content in each other’s company.
Billy Branch, who could not have been more than six, looked up with unusually sad eyes. ‘He gone and died, sir. Didn’t come for breakfast, so I went to look for him. He was laid down in the yard and his face was all snarly. He never snarled at me. We would jump in puddles today if he was here. Do you think he’s snarling in heaven?’
The boy’s eyes had started to fill. Monsarrat assured him there was a special place in heaven for loyal hounds and promised to bring him some of Mrs Mulrooney’s shortbread when he was next by.
Before resettling in his office, he went to the barracks to see Lieutenant Carleton. He intended to keep the mask of mundane clerical activity in place, by reporting to the lieutenant and removing the need for the lieutenant to come and find him.
The lieutenant was parading his soldiers up and down the yard behind the barracks, his face arranged as though he was in the midst of some act of great importance and necessity. When Monsarrat approached he looked down from his horse. ‘Have you need of me, Monsarrat?’ he said, half-hopefully.
‘Sir, I simply wish to report that Dr Gonville still requires my services, and has given me dictation to transcribe. With your permission I will return to my workroom and carry out his requests.’
‘Very well then. I know I can trust you to do just that,’ said the lieutenant, turning back to watch the soldiers march across the ground for the umpteenth time.
Chapter 18
There had been no hound, monstrous or otherwise, in Monsarrat’s youth. His boyhood companions had been an irascible widower and a dead Roman.
He had fractured memories of the scent of his mother, her smile, and the almost suffocating nature of her hugs. She had been a large-bosomed woman, and had been able to almost completely envelop him when he was small. But on a grey winter morning, on the outer fringe of London, consumption had dismissed her from this life not long before her son attained his eighth year.
His father, also a clerk, was affectionate when he remembered to be. He would have liked to have more children, young Monsarrat heard him telling an aunt, but the way things had turned out it was probably a blessing that there was only Hugh, for he did not know how, on a clerk’s salary, he could have supported a bigger family, when he couldn’t even afford the governess who was now needed for his son.
The solution to the problem of his son’s education came in the form of a friend, a Mr Collins, who offered for a modest stipend to put the boy up in his house. Mr Collins was a schoolmaster near Exeter, and for a further fee he agreed to teach Hugh.
Mr Collins, a widower with no children, ran a small grammar school, and he and Hugh would walk there together each morning, although Mr Collins insisted the boy stay a few steps behind, so that one of Monsarrat’s clearest childhood memories was the sight of Mr Collins’s hands clasped behind his back as they made their way to the schoolhouse.
Monsarrat had been told by Mr Collins that he must never let on that he knew the master outside of the walls of the school. Monsarrat understood that this was a serious exhortation, and that he would disobey it at his peril.
So the silent boy lived with the silent man, the former occupying a cramped room to the rear of the house, well away from the living quarters, which Mr Collins reserved for his sole use.
It was one of the boy’s greatest fears that Mr Collins would find disfavour with him and send him away to who knew where. There might be a poorhouse in his future if he didn’t tread carefully, and he knew that once people went in there, they rarely came out, and when they did, they were shadows.
So as he grew tall and lean, and his voice shattered and re-formed itself into a sound with a deep, pleasant timbre, Monsarrat studied and studied, hoping to please Mr Collins, or at least to avoid displeasing him.
There were very few things which seemed to excite any kind of emotion in Mr Collins, but one was poetry, in particular the Roman poet Catullus. On Saturdays, when Monsarrat was allowed into the main living areas of the house to clean them, he would often find volumes scattered about, poetry from ancient times as well as more recent volumes from the likes of Wordsworth and Blake. But Catullus was, in Mr Collins’s view, the pinnacle.
Mr Collins used some of Catullus’s tamer verses – and Monsarrat had heard it implied that there were many which were less appropriate for young ears – to teach Latin in the grammar school. Monsarrat had never seen one of the Roman’s poems in English. As far as Mr Collins was concerned, if you couldn’t read the work in Latin, you shouldn’t read it at all.
So while it took him many months, the boy eventually found the courage to ask his master, teacher and gaoler if he might peruse one of the volumes that lived in the front parlour of the house. ‘I would very much like the opportunity to improve my Latin, sir,’ he said.
Mr Collins narrowed his eyes. ‘Latin can always be improved, particularly yours,’ he said. ‘Very well then, you may look at the volumes for one hour each Saturday, after you have finished your other work. I need not remind you that there will be a severe penalty should any harm come to them.’
Young Hugh certainly needed no such reminder, and if he’d had gloves of sufficient suppleness, he would have used them in handling the books. His reading was restricted to the volumes which contained material Mr Collins considered appropriate – this disappointed him som
ewhat, as he’d been looking forward to finding out exactly what wickedness lurked in some of the other verses. But he was grateful for the indulgence, and quickly came to look forward to that hour on a Saturday as the highlight of his week.
One morning, as he walked to school several paces behind his teacher, he found himself reciting one of Catullus’s poems under his breath, in time with his steps. The poem appealed to him: it was about a boat – and what boy does not love boats – but written as though the boat were alive. The idea intrigued him. So that he could squeeze every drop of meaning out of the poetry, he had taken to translating the verses in his head from Latin to English, and back again. He was, without thinking, reciting in English now.
This boat you see, friends, will tell you
that she was the fastest of craft,
not to be challenged for speed
by any vessel afloat, whether
driven by sail or the labour of oars.
Collins stopped in his tracks, and turned around. ‘Stop muttering, boy! What is that you’re saying?’
Young Hugh was too flustered to think of a convenient fiction; in any case Mr Collins was skilled at spotting fabrications and dealt with them harshly. So he repeated the first few lines of the poem, in English.
‘And where did you come by the translation?’ Mr Collins demanded.
‘I translated it myself, sir,’ said Hugh.
‘Did you indeed?’ said Mr Collins thoughtfully. ‘Well now, if that is the case, you will not mind giving me the verses in Latin.’
Hugh swallowed, and began to recite:
‘Phaselus ille, quem videtis, hospites,
ait fuisse navium celerrimus
neque ullius natantis impetum trabis
nequisse praeterire, sive palmulis
opus foret volare sive linteo …’
It transpired that Mr Collins had been working on translations of Catullus and other Roman classics. Despite his aversion to teaching the works in the vernacular, he had been giving some thought recently to the benefit of allowing the boys under his tutelage to compare the more easily read English verses to their Latin originals.
So it was that Hugh came to be Mr Collins’s tacit assistant. In the evenings, he was permitted to eat in the parlour with his teacher, rather than retiring to his room with a plate as had been his habit. After supper, they would work together on the translations, with Hugh transcribing a first version, which would be polished by Mr Collins, whose Latin was, after all, far and away the best in Exeter.
The man noticed, too, the neatness and precision with which the boy wrote. He had no way of knowing that the young fellow, anxious to please the man who represented his only security, had practised on the back of stray scraps of paper, in the dirt, even sometimes on his own arms when writing paper wasn’t available, in a bid to please his teacher. Mr Collins was indeed pleased, and quickly got into the habit of dictating his correspondence to the boy.
Before his mother’s death, Hugh had been an affectionate child, and had not been wanting for affection in return. He constantly found himself fighting the urge to embrace Mr Collins, but knew this would be an indulgence too far. Nevertheless, a kind of guarded amity developed between them, so that by the time Monsarrat was ready to leave Mr Collins and his school, the man found himself uncharacteristically distressed. This only betrayed itself to Monsarrat via certain quirks in the face, more frequent rubbing of the eyes, Mr Collins staring at him just a fraction of a second longer than usual after finishing a sentence. But Hugh knew that face well by now, and could read some degree of genteel desolation in it.
He toyed, for a while, with asking Mr Collins whether he could stay and assist him in the school. Had Mr Collins made such an offer, he would have accepted immediately. But no offer was forthcoming, and Hugh had dreams of legal greatness, entering that world in the only way open to him, as a clerk. On the day of his departure, the old man gave Hugh a handsome glass inkwell, and his favourite volume of Catullus.
Monsarrat didn’t know, now, what had become of those items. The book had been in his Exeter lodgings, and the inkwell on the desk in his fraudulent barrister’s chambers. They had probably been seized by the constables, and sold at auction. He vaguely hoped they had brought the new owners more luck than he had had.
* * *
Monsarrat returned to his workroom to carry out the doctor’s orders. Sometimes the information he was given to transcribe was so dull that he wished for something of interest to happen in the settlement just so that he could distinguish one day from the next. He cursed himself now for that wish. He tried to concentrate on rendering each word as though it was a picture, rather than something with a set meaning. Hearing the story once was enough; he didn’t want it ingrained on his soul.
He finished the doctor’s report on Mrs Shelborne’s death first, and laid it aside to dry, thinking to take it to the hospital later for Gonville’s signature.
Then he wrote down the particulars of Diamond’s treatment of Mercer. He did not attribute the tale, nor did he give the paper a heading or inscribe a title for signature. His penmanship alone, far above that of which anyone else in the area was capable, would identify him as the author of the report. But its source should remain mysterious to any reader until the time was right.
He made to put this last document under the blotter on his own desk, then thought better of it and slid it into the pocket of his black coat, thinking to secrete it in such a hiding space as he could find in his small hut.
Throughout the day he had been quietly fretting about Mrs Mulrooney. Her sentence, long ago served, was harsh enough for a woman stealing to feed a boy who was now a large and lolloping man droving cattle somewhere to the west. That she might hang for no greater crime than lavishing attention on a sick woman was an unthinkable prospect. But so were lashes or banishment for a man guilty only of protecting his daughter, and in Monsarrat’s mind the shadow over Mrs Mulrooney was beginning to grow larger and close around her.
He made sure his workroom and the major’s study were in order, as he had no way of knowing when the major would return, and did not wish to add to his coming grief by leaving him with an administrative mess to unpick.
As he made his way across the courtyard to the kitchen, he noticed that very little smoke was trickling out of the chimney.
He entered to find Mrs Mulrooney staring into a dying fire. She was sitting down, a rarity in itself, but particularly so when the fire or anything else was not behaving. She had her hand over a small stack of papers. Their thickness spoke of quality, someone with enough means to afford fine writing paper rather than directing the funds towards food. But they looked quite comprehensively crumpled, as though their recipient had meant to inflict significant damage while still preserving their contents.
She glanced up as Monsarrat entered, and then returned her gaze to the flames.
‘You should know,’ he said, ‘that Gonville has dictated to me a report which comes as close as he possibly can to clearing you of involvement in Mrs Shelborne’s death. I have left it as the first packet of paper the major will see on his desk when he returns.’
‘Kind of him, and of you,’ she said.
‘I don’t believe that description can be applied to either of us, at least not all the time. You are far more worthy of it. Please, try to lift your spirits.’
‘Is there any need to, though? The major’s still away, and I’ve no one to make breakfast for now.’
‘You realise, I hope, how important your care of her was. It doesn’t seem that anyone could have saved her, which I regret greatly. But no one did more than you.’
‘Still, it wasn’t enough, of course.’
Monsarrat had an uneasy feeling her listlessness would grow and consume her, if something wasn’t done. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you would show me how you make your tea. I’ve tried, but I can never achieve the depth of flavour which I find in your cups.’
Mrs Mulrooney gave a wan smile, perhaps re
cognising the question as an attempt to divert her. But the temptation to hold forth on the proper handling of domestic objects (which would get up to all kinds of mischief otherwise) proved too great. And, it must be said, she wholeheartedly agreed with Monsarrat’s assessment of her tea.
She stood, pocketing the crumpled papers, and got down a pumpkin-shaped teapot, painted simply with tiny flowers. The more elaborate, taller pot in which she had brought Honora her tea was nowhere to be seen.
‘I would venture, Mr Monsarrat, that you fail to warm the teapot first.’
‘Ah, when I’ve had occasion to make tea I’ve poured the water directly from the kettle into the pot, over the leaves.’
Mrs Mulrooney gave a small, derisive ‘Tch’. How, said her expression, have you survived to manhood knowing so little?
The fire needed stoking so as to bring the kettle to the boil. This done (by Monsarrat, under Mrs Mulrooney’s direction on the precise placement of each quartered log), Mrs Mulrooney poured hot water into the teapot, leaving it for a few minutes to warm the china before pouring it out. As she went to refill the pot, Monsarrat asked, ‘Won’t you need to boil the water again?’
Mrs Mulrooney gave him a look of pure pity. ‘If you scald the poor little leaves, they can’t give you all their flavour, can they? The water needs to be hot, yes, but not boiling. Honestly, Mr Monsarrat, did they not teach you anything at that fancy grammar school?’
‘Clearly not,’ said Monsarrat, ‘at least nothing of any practical value.’
Mrs Mulrooney said the tea needed to be given a decent amount of time to steep. ‘I usually leave it for two Hail Marys and an Our Father, but as you’re not of the one true faith you wouldn’t know how to time it properly. Recite one of those Roman poems you like so much in your head twice, and that should do it.’
The Soldier's Curse Page 19
