The Wilding
Page 31
‘Reading’s well enough,’ she said. ‘And writing.’
‘And embroidery?’ I had seen some coloured stitching, clumsy as a child’s first attempt, flung down on a nearby chair.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed crossly, ‘Mrs Godolphin says a woman must embroider, to show off the hands and arms.’
‘To catch you a husband.’
She gave a wry smile. ‘I’m all scars up to the elbows, I don’t know who’d be caught by that.’
I knew one man at least. I said, ‘You can always wear your sleeves long.’
‘That’s what she says. She had me laughing, Jon, asking did Mr Eliot use to beat me. It’s only marks from work!’
She had a supper brought to us and served up on little tables, near the fire. Tamar’s manners were so improved, when I recalled her attempts to eat fried eggs at the inn, that I thought a day might come when she would indeed pass as a gentlewoman. Alas, the meal also reminded me of Father and Mother, who must now be waiting for me. To leave Tamar was a wound, but there was nothing to be gained by spinning out arting. It would hurt just as much when the moment came, and in the meantime my mother would be greatly distressed … yet I could not leave just yet.
After supper we still sat on in the firelight, no longer talking but perfectly harmonious.
‘I shall have to go,’ I said at last.
Tamar would not permit me to depart on foot. She explained that Mrs Godolphin would be brought home in a neighbour’s carriage.
‘You shall have hers,’ she said.
‘How will you explain to her tomorrow?’
‘Oh – my cousin required it.’
‘Will she believe that?’
Tamar shrugged.
So I was spared another cold walk under the stars. Tamar came outside, bareheaded, to wave me off. At the door of the coach we embraced.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Sister!’
‘Marry Poll.’ She kissed my cheek. ‘Live happy.’
One minute we were there, a torch casting its fitful light over us and the coachman, poor wretch, yawning at the reins. Tamar held out her hands and I clasped them. I gazed on her, on my darling, upright and fruitful as a young tree and with as little need of me. The next minute gravel rasped under the wheels, and Tamar went out of my life.
1674
23
Writings and Writings
She has been true to her word. My father has no notion that I was ever at Chitton; so on that occasion I got the better of him, if on no other.
Since then I have been occupied in keeping a memorandum, to the best of my ability, of everything that passed during those few months. My account of myself is now almost complete and I shall not be sorry to make an end of it. For one thing, I have been obliged to keep the writing a secret, which is no small task in a house like ours. For another, I have been perplexed over whether I should omit certain passages. In the end I chose to keep everything in its place, and in this way much has been preserved that would otherwise have been lost and forgotten. Whether I now tear it out is another matter.
Our family, that was forever changing, is changed again: a child is come into the world, and an old woman departed. Mrs Harriet died a month ago. Her death had been expected a good year earlier; as Master Blackett said, she doubtless argued the case with the Destroying Angel but was forced to yield at last.
My aunt’s second marriage never took place and Robin’s will made ample, not to say lavish, provision for his widow’s funeral. We all thought it strange, therefore, when Dr Green paid for a brass plaque to be fixed above her grave; but nobody, least of all the Seatons, cared to interfere. The plaque is the largest on that side of the church, and deeply engraved. It represents a woman struck down by three skeletons, one of them clutching a scroll. Any man who sees it may judge for himself whether Dr Green forgave Father, Blackett and me for depriving him of a house in Devonshire.
So much for the old. What of the young?
Tamar is now able to write, after a fashion and with my father’s permission. The child appears to be a likely boy. With a father’s pride, and a father’s pangs, I gaze on a little painting she sent me. My son has hair like lamb’s wool; in him I see my youth again.
These days I often think of Robin, for whom the lad is named. Indeed, I have never stopped thinking of him, shamed yet returning like the dog to his vomit, as my father once said of me; and I am forced to bow to Father’s wisdom in keeping Tamar and me apart.
For all Robin’s wickedness, I pity him. Who would choose to die with such secrets weighing on his breast? Not I; nor would I wish to haunt any man’s dreams. After such painful thoughts as these, my way seems to lie clear before me: on my son’s coming of age he should be sent my private account and read every last word of it; in this mood, I would not withhold the dot of an ‘i’. Better he should feel anger or disgust towards me, than be taken in by a sham, told his father was an angel, &c., &c., and all the time be deceived as to how he came into the world. And if I can forgive my natural father, then he may bring himself, in time, to forgive me.
But then I come always to the same stumbling block: the boy’s mother. Were I to scratch out the worst of my meetings with her – as indeed I would – still, brother and sister are not easy words to soften down.
What, then, shall I tell him? Truth is a purge, best given full strength. Wrap it up in sugar pills and it fails of half its effect. Purge too much, however … I am in sore need of advice, and perhaps not my father’s.
How many people became lost to me, almost without my noticing, while I fancied myself the offspring of Mathew Dymond! I lost my natural parents from the start, and also my sister, and my son. Now that I come to reckon it up, I am like an orphaned child.
* * *
Joshua Parfitt has been here talking with my parents about the money Poll brings with her. I cannot say I care much for that. If I may say so without pride, I gave away more than her entire portion comes to when I handed over Robin’s will. Besides, we have land enough and everything we need. Father, though, says things must be done in the proper way, as is fitting. Put more bluntly, he is resolved we should not appear desperate to ally ourselves with the Parfitts. I cannot help but be amused at this, since it strikes me that he is indeed not far off desperation, not so much for their money as to get me off his hands at last. I am sure nobody could think it of me, whom the families have dragged to the altar as if to sacrifice.
Still, Father is in the right. Parfitt rents part of his land whereas we own all of ours; it is Poll, not me, who marries into the warmer nest, and her father should give her what he can.
We thought it best to say nothing of Tamar or the child. Wives grow curious and knowing a little, as Mother said, quickly turns to knowing a lot. It is a pity. I would have as few lies in my life as possible, and yet they go on breeding.
I wonder if Poll and I will have children – if there will be more Dymonds at last? If so, they will not cut out my boy. There is so much I would wish to say to him, were he old enough to understand. At nights I dream not of Poll, but of little Robin, a grown man and in conversation with me. I have written two or three letters that he might read upon coming of age, and torn them up again. I found part of one the other day, in the pocket of my coat:
To Mr Robin Eliot
Sir,
You are now of age, and it is fit that I explain my intentions towards you. This letter, which supplements the provisions of my will (should that have been read) is for your private information.
You will be aware of the allowance I have made you since your birth …
That letter I destroyed. What could be less like a father’s embrace? And then, he would naturally wish to write back and ask why I had kept away so long. What could I reply?
*
Let me try again, and send the letter to Tamar to see how she likes it. If we can once agree on what the boy is to know, I shall go to my wedding as cheerfully as a drunken man to his hanging. Indeed, I shall go one better and put my h
ead in the noose sober.
To Mr R. E.
My Dear Son,
Pray prepare yourself for some unexpected news. You have been told that this is a letter from your father, and so it is; you naturally expect a letter from Mr Roger Eliot, but what you hold in your hand comes from your most loving father, Jonathan Dymond. You may remember a Mathew Dymond who has sometimes visited your mother; that is my father, and your grandfather.
I beg of you, do not start away, but hear me out. To know yourself, it is necessary that you know something of me.
Mine is a sorry tale of youthful ignorance, an ignorance born of mistaken kindness but with results no less painful for that. Like all young men I had moments of folly, and like some others I fathered a child. Had I been able to, I would certainly have marris sometimeother, but my situation rendered this impossible. That is the exact word: I was forced to come away, for both our sakes, and never to see her again. The loss, dear son, has been a heavy one. I treasure up every scrap of intelligence that reaches me concerning her doings, and also yours.
Perhaps you think these mere empty excuses. You should know that I have stood your friend in more than words: it is by my help that you are become the heir to End House. Should you doubt it, ask your mother. You are also heir (under the name of Robin Eliot) to my estate along with any other children I may have, and though I may not see you, yet I swear you shall never be loved the less. I have your miniature, limned when you were just six months old. I keep it by me and look at it every day.
By the time you read this I shall be married – perhaps many years married, if God spare my bride and me – yet your allowance shall go on just the same. It may be that in time I will find a way to tell my wife where it goes, and why. Nothing, I repeat, nothing, can dislodge you or your mother from my heart.
You may wonder why I choose to write to you now. In a sense I do not choose now, for my now is not yours: this letter has long been written, to be given you when you come of age, or when your mother believes you capable of understanding. As a young man I walked blindfold and tumbled into a pit; I wish you to walk with your eyes open. My own natural father (for here I am in the same case as you) died with a conscience so burdened that his spirit could scarcely find rest after death. I would lie quiet in my grave, and so I give up my secret before my day of reckoning.
There is also another whose secret this is. Never blame your mother; think of her rather with admiration. As a young woman she endured hardships painful even to speak of; it is for her to tell you more, if she will. I will say here only that she has performed marvels; were all known, most folk would appear mere dust beneath her feet. This letter is given to you with her full knowledge and agreement. That is a mother’s sacrifice requiring no little courage, and a mighty act of love towards a child. Though it may humble you to learn what she used to be, be sure to weigh her by what she is, and by the pilgrimage she has made, for that is what God sees.
And now, my son, I take my leave of you, praying that you may forgive us all. Should you be inclined to be harsh upon me, consider that every crime I committed has been paid for; I lost the title of father, that would have been so dear to me, along with many other precious joys.
Your most loving father (for I may, at last, use this word to you)
Jonathan Dymond
*
Post Scriptum:
Should this paper reach you on the occasion of my death, there is one last thing; a small matter, but dear to my heart. During my happiest time I owned and worked a marvellous device for pressing apples, but ever since a certain accident I had, the labour brings on shaking fits and I am forcdth="1em"ve it up. The villagers in these parts say I took against my press at last, and burnt it.
The device is not burnt. It was an invention of my adopted father, the child of his fruitful mind. There is no other machine like it, and for love of him, as well as the cider-making, I have looked to it and kept it in repair. You have been raised to gentler pursuits and will not wish to press cider. Nevertheless, when my will comes at last to be read, you will find yourself in possession of the thing I have loved best in the world. Should you dispose of the press, pray do not break it up or sell it. Give it freely to a man who will preserve it and preserve his family by its use, since such was my father’s wish, and for that purpose was it made.
Is this enough? Still I am unsure. I will sleep on it, and perhaps send it tomorrow.
Acknowledgements
Thanks are due to my agent Ann
ette Green for her insightful advice, to the Rabses for their never-failing generosity and to all at Faber, especially Sarah Savitt for her energy and enthusiasm and Michael Downes for his patient attention to detail.
About the Author
Maria McCann’s first nov
el, As Meat Loves Salt, was published in 2000 to huge acclaim. Her fiction has also been published in various anthologies. Since 1986 Maria has been living and working in Somerset, apart from one year spent teaching in France. She combines teaching and writing with other interests such as voluntary communities and the allotments movement.
By the Same Author
AS MEAT LOVES S
ALT
Copyright
First p
ublished in 2010
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ISBN 978–0–571–25314–2