by Kim Wilkins
“Betty looks like an elephant,” Deborah said.
“Except her arse is bigger,” Mary added. “’Tis a wonder it doesn’t swallow the pot when she goes.”
“Mary!” her sisters chorused together.
“Do you know she is twenty-four?” Mary continued, as though she hadn’t heard. “Liza told me.”
“And how old is Father now?” Deborah asked. “Six and fifty? It seems you and our new stepmother have something in common, Mary: a taste for older men.”
“They can’t possibly be lovers,” Mary said in a mock-serious voice. “For Father can’t see where to put it.”
“Mary, you’re outrageous,” Deborah said, choking back a laugh.
“Death, I am! I revolted myself,” Mary said, giggling. “You’re right to admonish me, sister. Mad Mary has finally gone too far.”
They lay in the grass for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the city closing around them: carriages and street vendors and builders; the creaking of nearby windmills. Max, tired of playing by himself, returned to Mary and dropped a stick in her lap. She sat up and threw it for him, and he raced off again.
“Anne,” Mary said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Have you thought any more about the summoning for the angel?”
Anne felt her whole body tense against the question. She sat up. “No,” she said. “And I shan’t. You should p-put the whole thing out of your mind, for it was many years ago and the angel p-probably has other young charges now. We are n-nearly grown women.”
“But why can you not remember? Didn’t Mother make you repeat it over and over?”
“Can you remember every n-nursery rhyme of your childhood?”
“I can remember some. The important ones. Come, Anne, it is important.”
As soon as the pressure was on, words failed her and she became angry. And then the anger locked up her voice tighter still, leaving her with nothing but a mouthful of frustration. “I … y-you sh-sh —”
“Leave Anne alone, Mary,” Deborah said. “You’re upsetting her.”
Mary stood up and stalked off, muttering darkly under her breath. She joined Max on the other side of the field. Anne watched them for a while, as they ran and played together. Then Deborah said quietly, “She’ll lose interest in the idea soon, don’t worry.”
Anne didn’t reply. Her tongue still felt incapable of forming words.
“And you really must let go this notion that you are responsible for Johnny’s death.”
“I cannot,” Anne said in a whisper. Although Deborah was determined not to believe her, Anne knew what she had seen and heard. Far from seeming unreal, it was the most vivid memory of her childhood. Even her mother’s face was blurred from her recollection now. But the angel, with his fierce beauty and his soft voice, was seared into her imagination.
“Look!” Mary shouted, motioning towards the road behind them. Anne turned to look. An elaborate carriage was approaching.
Mary ran towards them, skidding to her knees on the ground. “Do you see that carriage? Why, ’tis so rich and fancy it must be the King’s!”
“The King, Mary?” Deborah said, exasperated. “Why on earth would the King be trundling around near Mooregate?”
“He does sometimes come out in his carriage. I have heard he does.”
“On special occasions, with a full retinue and liveried servants, and people crowd the streets to see him. That is not the King.”
Mary’s face fell into disappointment.
“Come, let us return home.” Now conversation had turned elsewhere, Anne found it easier to speak. “It will soon be supper t-time.” She was always conscious of incurring Father’s anger by being late.
“Yes, I suppose we should,” Mary said, standing up and brushing grass from her skirt. “Max. Here, Max.”
The little dog trotted up, the stick still hopefully clasped between his jaws.
They made their way across the street and back up the hill. The houses were dark and narrow around and above them, blocking out the sun. Walking uphill always troubled Anne. Her hips felt more out of balance than usual.
“I’m so disappointed that I didn’t see the King,” Mary said.
“You might see him another time,” Deborah said.
“I should like it if the King loved me,” Mary continued, a sly smile on her face.
“He’s too young for you,” Deborah replied coolly, refusing to be baited.
“If we had an angel who could grant wishes, I would ask him to make the King love me and —”
“Don’t!” Anne shouted, stopping in her tracks and turning on her sister. “I asked y-y-y—”
Mary looked horrified. Clearly she hadn’t expected such a violent response. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’m only making a joke.”
“D-don’t.” Already her tongue was letting her down. She wanted to say so much more. Sister, if you love me, don’t mention this again, for it terrifies me all the way down in the pit of my soul. But all she could say was, “Don’t.”
Mary fell silent. Deborah took Anne’s arm. “Here sister, let me help you up the hill.”
“I c-can manage,” she said, trying to shrug off her sister’s help. Deborah, who always seemed to be able to sense Anne’s needs, steadfastly held on, supporting her the last few steps to the house. Once inside, Mary mumbled an excuse about finding food for Max, and Father called for Deborah, so Anne found herself ascending the steep staircase to their room alone.
She sat on the floor near the dresser and opened the lowest drawer, carefully pulling out folded scarves and ribbons, making her way to the bottom where her first prayer book was kept. The book seemed so small now, but when she had it from her mother it had seemed enormous, the largest book she had ever owned. She opened the cover and found the woodcut portrait of Jesus on the first page. Her fingers traced the beloved lineaments of his face, his loving eyes, his forgiving smile, and she felt the familiar pull between peace and yearning. If she met him, he would heal her. She knew this for a certainty, and for this reason had been in love with him since first learning of his sacrifice and his forgiveness and his unbounded love.
Anne held the prayer book to her nose, hoping to smell the lingering fragrance of Mother in its yellowed pages. Nothing but dust and years. She flipped it open and found between its central pages a folded piece of paper. It was safe here: Deborah wouldn’t dream of touching Anne’s possessions, and Mary would have no interest in a prayer book. Anne carefully removed the letter and smoothed it out, glanced over the lines her mother had written.
Dearest Anne,
To summon Lazodeus, who will watch and protect you …
She didn’t need to read the words; the summoning was imprinted forever in her brain, as much as she hoped to forget it. Her eyes scanned down to the bottom of the page, where the name of the wise woman was written carefully in letters made large enough for childish eyes. Amelia Lewis, Leadenhall Street 251.
Perhaps she was no longer there. Nearly fifteen years had passed. Perhaps Amelia Lewis was dead by now.
Anne refolded the paper. If it wasn’t such a dear reminder of her mother, she would have thrown it away. But here it was: a letter addressed solely to her, not a trifle to share with her sisters. It was far too valuable to consign to the fire.
She hid it inside the prayer book, and buried the book below layers of clothes. Safely away from Mary’s inquisitive eyes.
Routine made its mark upon their lives as the first and second weeks passed. Deborah would arise early and sit with her father, writing his letters and reading to him from the Hebrew bible; Anne would help Liza with the washing or daydream on a seat in the tiny back garden; Mary played with Max and found a new reason each day to dislike Betty. They squabbled over the dog; over the dusty old rugs Betty had arranged for their bedroom; over how much firewood was being used; over how many biscuits Mary ate. They squabbled over whether it was bad luck to leave shoes on the west side of the door, or to eat bread burned o
n top, or to wash on Lord’s Day. It seemed Betty had a superstition for every occasion. Each new day presented Mary with an opportunity to exchange words with her stepmother. But they wisely kept their fights away from the ears of Father. Betty probably knew as well as Mary how he disdained pettiness, how his fiercest exasperation was aroused when he was bothered by domestic trivia.
Early in June Betty was called away to visit her sister, and on the same day that she left a letter arrived for the girls.
“What does it say?” Mary asked, peering over Deborah’s shoulder. Anne and Father had already heard its contents.
“Uncle William is in London, staying with friends near Temple Stairs,” Deborah said. “He has asked us to come and spend the week with him. Particularly Mary.”
“Uncle William!” Mary said, shuddering. Even though he was her mother’s brother, Mary detested him. At Grandmamma’s house he had always tried to get her alone, or made excuses to press his body near hers.
“Do I take it you don’t want to go?” Father asked. “For I can write and tell him I can’t spare you.”
Mary was about to open her mouth to say yes, when it occurred to her that Uncle William might know about the wise woman Mother had consulted. She hesitated.
“No …” she said, “perhaps it would be nice to have news of Grandmamma.”
Anne looked around shocked. “B-but Uncle Www—”
“I should like to go, Father.”
Father fixed her with his stern, blind gaze. As always it unnerved her. “Then you shall go, and you shall take your sister Anne.”
“I d-don’t want to go, Father,” Anne said.
“Uncle William is not kind to Anne,” Mary said.
“It matters not, Mary, for you told me that you would be your sister’s keeper and so you shall. But Deborah, I cannot spare you. Not as Betty is away.”
“I’ll stay then,” Deborah said willingly.
Irritation prickled. How was Mary to ply Uncle William for information about the wise woman when sad-eyed Anne was nearby? But then, knowing Uncle William, it wouldn’t take long for the lecherous old devil to contrive for them to be alone.
Deborah awoke just before sunrise. Ever since childhood, she had always woken at the same time, as though her body sensed the start of the day. Her closet was still dark, but she knew that outside the sun was making its way towards the horizon; the sky was lightening, the stars fading, the birds beginning to wake. And Father was waiting.
She rose in the shadowy darkness and moved past her sisters’ empty bed to the dresser, choosing a dark blue dress. She shivered and thought about pulling on a shawl, but Liza would have risen half an hour earlier and stoked the fire for Father before heading back to bed. Deborah combed her hair, then descended the stairs and made her way through the quiet whitewashed withdrawing room and down to her father’s study.
He heard her approach. “Deborah, you are late this morning.”
“Sorry, Father,” she said, even though she wasn’t late. The sun was not yet above the horizon. The firelight was the only light in the room and it glinted off the brass fire irons hung on the dogs. Father was still rumpled from sleep. She picked up the shell comb which lay upon the mantelpiece and began gently to comb his hair and then straighten his shirt. His rug still lay over his knees, and she took it from him and folded it aside. She had never been able to comprehend how he slept straight-backed in the chair every night, but Father always prided himself on his austerity. He interpreted austerity as a sign of strength.
“That’s enough, that’s enough. I have a special project for you to work on today, Deborah,” he said, resuming his erect aspect, his head slightly tilted to the side.
She replaced the comb and moved to the desk. His desk was adjacent the fireplace; an elaborately carved piece of furniture Father had owned since childhood. “Certainly, Father. Is it Latin? Greek?”
“No, it is English. It will be the greatest poem in the English language.”
Deborah found her writing tray on top of the desk, next to the inkwell and the bronze-inlay human skull in which Father stored his pens. She selected one and checked its point. “Poetry, Father?” Deborah had so far only taken letters, or worked on her father’s prose tracts about politics and religion.
“A poem in the style of Virgil, or Homer. I have been composing it for some time, but I am now ready to arrange it into a clear form. Retrieve the pages in the second drawer.”
Deborah did as he asked. In the drawer she found a tied collection of papers covered with the writing of his previous assistant. Across the first page, Adam Unparadised was written.
“May I read it, Father?” she asked.
“I insist that you do,” he said. “Read it aloud to me, from the start.”
She returned to the short stool before him and made herself comfortable. As the sun rose and weak sunlight made its way into the room, as Liza woke and brought them bread and tea to break their fast, as Father sat listening with an expression wavering between smug self-satisfaction and artistic distress, Deborah read. The poem told a story of angels and paradise, God’s love and man’s temptation. In places it was beautifully written, in others awkward enough to make Father cringe. The narrative was disjointed, jumping from one scene to another with little attention to continuity. But Deborah knew they were the bare bones of something which would eventually be magnificent. She had worked with Father since childhood; when he was ready, he would make her read the same lines, the same passages, over and over, effecting tiny changes until they were perfect.
When she had finished, the sun was full in the sky and her throat was hoarse from reading.
“What do you think?” Father said quietly.
“My opinion, Father? Why, I am only your daughter.”
“What do you think?” he repeated, more urgently.
“It is extreme splendid,” she said, immediately knowing she could impress him with more than praise. He valued a considered reply, even an intelligent criticism. Although his vanity was appeased by those who toadied to him, his intellect always cried out for dialogue.
“But is it worthy of an epic? Will it eclipse Virgil?” he asked.
“It am certain it will, when you have finished it. Only …”
“Only? Only what? Have you a criticism?” His head was cocked to one side, almost in a defiant gesture.
“Father, the title speaks of Adam being unparadised. But was not paradise lost to us all?”
He nodded. “Yes, yes. I have been unhappy with the title. I shall think upon it. Good work, Deborah.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, positive that she must be glowing with pride.
“We will start work on it tomorrow morning. No, the following morning, for tomorrow is Lord’s Day. I have plans to add more drama: the war in Heaven, the casting out of the rebel angels. Magnificent and thrilling. Now,” he said, as though suddenly embarrassed that he had revealed too much of himself, “we shall continue with your Greek lessons.”
“Father,” she ventured, “I am hoarse from reading. Could we not take a walk instead? It is a beautiful day.”
“A walk? Yes, I suppose we could. I suppose it matters not that Betty is away.”
“Certainly not, for I can guide you just as well.” His embarrassment, Deborah knew, stemmed from the fact that he had to hold her hand to walk with her. He was not given to any physical demonstrations of affection. Deborah could count in single figures the number of times they had touched more than accidentally. Ignoring his discomfort, she helped him into his coat and hat and led him out onto the Walk.
“Which way, Father?” she said.
“There is a churchyard, a mile or so to the west. It is very peaceful.”
“Come then.” She took his hand in her own, momentarily surprised by how aged it was. Her Father always seemed to her ageless, some marble-skinned god of wisdom. They walked down the hill towards the main road. He strode along with characteristic self-possession, his affinity with the cit
y lending his blind footsteps an almost arrogant confidence.
“Be my eyes, Deborah,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
She veered left and they walked under dark, overhanging jetties. “I see a tobacconist, and a butcher, an inn with the sign of a bull upon it.” She scanned for the details that would satisfy his imagination. “I see a warm haze over the city, and here we are about to pass a gentleman with …” She broke off as the gentleman moved into earshot.
When he was past, Father said impatiently, “What about him?”
“With a silver nose, Father,” she said quietly. “He must have suffered syphilis.”
“Was it a fancy nose? Or plain? What kind of man was he?”
“Plain-shaped, but embossed. He was dressed in wealthy clothes, but they were dirty.”
“A syphilite on a downturn,” murmured Father. “What else do you see?”
“The nightsoil cart approaching. Let us cross the road away from the smell.”
“The churchyard should be nearby on the left.”
“Yes, Father. Come with me.” She led him across the street and down another dark hill to a walled churchyard. She let go of his hand for a few moments to open the gate, then they entered.
“Go to the newest graves, Deborah. Oh, I can feel the sun on my face.”
“Yes, the sun is shining, and there are many trees around. Here, we stand at a gravestone.”
“Whose is it?”
She read from the inscription. “John Edward Cross. Born 1589, died 1663.”
“Who else?”
Deborah remembered this game from childhood. Father wanted her to find an unfortunate who had been born the same year as him. She scanned the graves nearby. “Yes, I think I see … Let us approach a little closer.”
“Yes, yes.”
She led him further into the churchyard. “Here we are. Philip Pettigrew. Born 1608, died 1659.”
“1659!” he exclaimed. “Ha, he did not make it far.”
“Not in comparison to you, Father.”
“Indeed not, but I have always been of a strong constitution.”
