by Janet Ellis
‘Please finish your . . . meal,’ I tell him, wishing I was still five minutes down the road and he could stuff his snack into his face without an audience. I gesture to the seats beside me. ‘I will sit or, rather, kneel here for a minute.’ I hope I am making the face of someone who genuinely wishes to do this.
He nods in agreement and I assume a position of piety and try to ignore the noise of mastication from behind me. I have no prayer to offer up for, even if I believed in a helpful god, I would surely be trying his patience with my list of needs. Perhaps I should petition for my mother, that her health be restored and her strength renewed, that she might take up her full place in the house? For her greatest happiness, though, I suspect my father must die and leave her a widow, but to ask for that in this place would be more like witchcraft than religion.
I look up to the vaulted ceiling. Come, then, I think, punish my wicked thoughts. But no lightning strikes. The pale stone is blank. Of course, I reason, this is because I have right on my side and any just deity worth their salt would approve of my request and act on my behalf. Perhaps, when I get home, there will be only a smouldering pile of ash where my father stood. A large pile, as He might as well burn Onions too, while He’s at it.
A little cough behind me and I remember the vicar is there. I stay kneeling a moment longer, as though I am finishing off an especially lengthy prayer, then I get to my feet. Edging to the aisle, I put my hand out to the polished wooden orb at the pew end. The vicar mistakes this for a greeting and takes my hand, so that I am pulled towards him while stuck by my skirts in the row of seats. His hand still has crumbs on it, several more garland his neckpiece. I pull my hand back. He pats at his unwigged hair with his messy hand. The man will be so covered in foodstuff as to be almost edible himself by nightfall. He waits awkwardly while I wriggle free.
‘There!’ I say, then I extend my hand to cheer him up.
He looks perplexed by all this social difficulty. He takes my hand gingerly, lest more awkwardness prevail.
‘Mistress Jaccob. From Thomas Jaccob’s house,’ I say.
He puts his head on one side, like a bird. ‘Ah, yes?’ There is a question in his voice. Surely he knows my father? We might not be often in this place, but we are a long time in the parish.
‘We are at Castle Street.’
‘Of course.’ He makes little soft fists of his hands and rubs his fingertips where the crumbs still stick and chafe. ‘Shall we go to my study?’
He indicates the door behind me, but then squeezes past to lead the way. It seems he must do everything in the most uncomfortable way. He goes to the little side door, then holds it for me to go in. It is a narrow entrance, again, and quite hard to get my wide dress through. I cannot think of any conversation to fill the moment, so hold my breath as I manoeuvre myself. He says nothing, either. Inside the small room, there is a table with a lone chair behind it, which must serve as his desk. There are only a few books on top, along with a large solid Bible and the rest of the cake. It sits resplendent on white paper. We both regard it solemnly.
‘The kindness of some parishioners . . .’ He points at the cake – it is a great doorstop of a thing and although he took a considerable slice, there is plenty left. ‘Would you . . .?’ A vague opening of his hands.
‘I am not hungry, thank you.’ Nor do I want to manoeuvre any of the cake – I have witnessed how hard it is to consume it at all daintily.
He sits behind the table, then jumps up again as he realises I am still upright. ‘Forgive me, Miss Jaccob. I don’t seem to have had many visitors of late. I am out of the habit of entertaining.’ He looks disconsolate, then casts about for a chair.
‘I can stand here . . .’ I begin, but he is out of the door again, saying ‘Ah!’ as he goes, then returning with a little folded stool.
‘I had to stand on this to retrieve a dead bird,’ he says, as he straightens the thing out. A print of his shoe is clearly visible on the flat surface. ‘Ah!’ he says again, then rubs at it with one sleeve. ‘Ah,’ he says sadly, for the shape is still there despite his cleaning. But nothing else can be done and we must proceed.
My stool is much lower than the chair he sits on, so I have to peer at him over the edge of the table.
‘I confess that I have not yet made acquaintance with your household.’ He looks down at me, as he might from the pulpit. ‘I am quite new in this parish, of course. My predecessor unfortunately, ah, died not long ago.’
I would have thought dying was the highest achievement of any priest, putting him at last in the vicinity of the unseen realm that he had spoken of at such length.
‘He has not left me very busy, Miss Jaccob. Not a very, ah, substantial flock. Hence I am not much called on. I rather think,’ he leans forward, ‘that there might have been a great exodus here to, ah, the Methodists.’
I might ask Grace if she now worships in the open air. In her Sunday-best clothes with those cornflower eyes raised heavenwards and her little bosom swelling to sing Wesley’s plain hymns. If I cared to know where she aims her soul, which I probably do not.
‘Jaccob.’ He looks quizzically at me, then at the books, then opens one. It is a register, full of columns and detailed entries. ‘What does your family require?’
I retrieve my father’s note from my pocket and hand it over, which requires me to lift my arm quite high to reach him. He opens it, turns it about, then reads. He is a slow reader, and while he deciphers the message, I look at him carefully.
The surfaces of his face are curiously flat and they meet in straight lines and sharp angles – chin with cheek, brow with forehead. Where the light hits them, they darken beneath in rigid shadows without a curve. Only his nose is wayward – at the tip, it is round and purple as a grape. He is probably the same age as Dr Edwards, I think, and that thought gives me such a great pang of sorrow. If Dr Edwards had not behaved as he did, we might sit now in his study somewhere and discuss, oh, everything!
My gaze goes to the tabletop. Just as the books my father has in his study gather dust because they are unopened and unloved, so these, too, seem seldom used. They are at eye level to me, so I can clearly see a faint layer of grey dust on their covers. Squinting, I read the titles on their spines. There is a Greek primer, something about the birds and beasts of Wales and Some Theological Musings From a Learned Source. They are sideways on to me, so I have to crane my neck to read the lower titles. When my head is inclined at the furthest point, the vicar pushes the volumes aside to speak to me and, finding my face at an acute angle, he tilts his large head to match. As I right my head, so does he, like a figure in a mirror. I am tempted to tip my head over the other way to make him copy me.
‘Do you like to read?’ he asks, when we face each other upright again.
‘I do, very much,’ I reply.
‘Ah.’ He chews at his lip. ‘I have a small library. Most of it collected during my time in Oxford.’ He turns his head away, smiling wistfully to himself as if seeing a lovely vision. I have never been to Oxford; it might as well be the moon. Or Wales. Or Derbyshire. But I am sure Oxford is lovelier than any of those, for it seems to cheer him up a great deal to think of it.
‘Yes!’ he says brightly. ‘I should like to share it. Do you have a particular preference?’
What should I say? I try and remember even one of the books Dr Edwards used to bring to our lessons. But they are all jumbled up together in the past and I cannot think of anything specific to mention. Then the image of Onions, reciting at dinner to Jane’s mortification and my cold eye, flashes before me.
‘Poetry!’ I state.
The vicar frowns. ‘Ah. I have tried,’ he ventures, ‘to assemble a collection of, ah, improving works. But a friend gave me a volume of the writings of, ah, John Donne, and many say he is quite adept. I have only glanced at it, but perhaps you, Miss Jaccob, might volunteer to be my reader?’
He le
aves the room, and is gone a while. His scent – a mixture of camphor and incense – hangs in the room as if he were still here. When he returns, it will settle on him again like a cloak on its owner’s shoulders. My father’s note lies on the table. We have not yet properly addressed this business and I wish now to hasten, to go quickly to where Fub is, even to see him as he leaves on an errand. Any sight of him would be enough. I am suddenly irritated by the vicar’s absence.
When he comes back in, I begin to get up. The stool is so low, I have to cling to the front of the table to aid me and it wobbles alarmingly. The vicar leaps forward to steady it, dropping the book he was holding and attempting to keep the contents of the desk safely in place. The books survive this earthquake. The cake does not.
‘Never mind,’ he says bravely and falsely, for I can tell as he stares at the destruction that it is nothing less than a calamity. He picks up The Poems of John Donne, retrieves a little bit of cake from its spine and puts it in his mouth. Too late, he catches me watching him do this. He gives me the book.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘And perhaps you could write a reply to my father?’
‘Of course.’ He pats at his pockets, then goes to his table. ‘Ah! No pen, no ink.’
I think I shall go mad with frustration. ‘You could say it to me, I’m sure there would be no offence?’ I offer, trying not to break in to a run to the door.
‘Yes?’ He looks quizzical. ‘Then please convey to your father my very good wishes . . .’
‘YES!’ I almost shout now. ‘I shall,’ I say more softly.
He runs one long finger down the page of the ledger, straight as a rule, till he comes to a space. ‘I shall organise events for tomorrow week and pay a visit to the house on . . .’ he looks to the ledger again, ‘ . . . Friday, to discuss the order of things. Can you remember that?’
I would learn the works of Shakespeare backwards if it would speed me from this room. ‘Of course, and I am grateful for the poems. Thank you!’
I fairly fling this last sentence at him, while reversing, encouraging him to remain where he is while I leave. He, though, is resolute in his intention to bid me a proper farewell. The distance between us is too great for him to reach me comfortably and we have to hold hands in an arc over the broken cake beneath us. It is a positive vignette of regret.
I am halfway down the path when I think that I did not ask his name and I would like to know it, the better to quote him to my father. When I put my head round the door, I see that he is on his hands and knees, tidying up the cake by eating it straight from the floor. I tiptoe away.
Chapter 10
If Bet and Levener are surprised to see me, they hide it well.
‘Come for our business?’ he says, smoothing the front of his apron as if he stroked his own skin.
‘Have you brought a cover?’ Bet asks, looking askance at my dress.
‘Of course.’ I took an apron of Jane’s, a plain thing but serviceable.
‘Better leave that there,’ Bet indicates the book. She probably cannot see the need for it at any time, certainly not now.
Without explanation, they bid me follow to a doorway behind the shop. Beyond, a corridor goes into a high windowed room. Long ropes dangle from the beams above and there is a broad, low, wooden trestle, fit only for one purpose, to one side. I wait for my eyes to accustom to the gloom.
The little calf is tethered to a post in the middle of the room. Its hooves skitter on the floor but the restraining ropes leave it little freedom to move. Its bright eyes catch any available light.
‘Where is Fub?’ I ask. They exchange a look.
‘Need him to hold your hand, ayee?’ Bet says.
‘I do not. But my business was with him and he should see I keep my word.’
‘Here.’ Fub steps from the shadows. ‘I bring the weapons.’ He unrolls a cloth with an array of different knives inside. Great blades jostle thin ones. ‘Each has their purpose,’ he speaks so fondly, they might be his clever children.
‘Right,’ Levener instructs, but Fub is already next to him and together they bind the creature’s legs deftly and neatly. Levener pulls on one of the ropes above him and grabs the hook that descends. The calf has seen the world right ways up for the last time. It now hangs suspended and the hook sways as the animal twists uselessly on its line.
I do not see him stick the knife in, he stands so close to his quarry they might be intimate. Then he pulls hard at the handle, left and right, till an arc of blood gushes with such force that some almost hits the ceiling and sprays a red shower outwards. Fub has a bucket almost full in minutes.
‘You want the heart beating strongly when they go,’ Bet says. She is next to my shoulder and I jump, but only with her presence, not the slaughter. She snickers. ‘Poor little thing, is that what you think, ayee?’
I move away from her, nearer to the corpse. Its brown eyes are still open but dull. The pupils are cloudy as if, instead of looking out at the world, it turned its gaze inward to its slow, visceral decline. I examine it carefully. How is it here, but gone? I touch it and it swings, still warm.
Levener has begun to saw away its head. ‘Take care, precious stuff this,’ he says, more to himself than me.
For a moment, there is only the sound of the blade through hide, gristle and bone. Levener grunts occasionally and the effect of all this together makes me blush, though I do not know why. He turns the head upside down and carves out the tongue. Fub hands over instruments like a doctor’s companion: this little blade to skin it, this stout one to cut off the tail. There is so much fluid and mess that I am surprised to see my apron is still clean. As each part of the beast is detached, so more of the glistening innards are revealed, in layers, like the rings of a tree. The three work almost in silence, only sometimes saying perhaps ‘Here!’ or ‘Hold!’ They move carefully, with respect, as though at a funeral rather than a dismembering. They are like dancers, each knowing the steps without instruction. The music is a steady sawing with the occasional, percussive crack of bone.
They carry the body over to the trestle once its legs are off and, bracing themselves against its stomach, let the guts out. A rush of dark green liquid flows first, then they catch the looping intestine. Bet tends to the contents of each pail like a midwife, dousing the head with cold water in one then tenderly swirling the blood in another.
The place smells of iron and ordure, of sweat and straw. There is a sudden flutter above us as a bird flies through the narrow split of window and zigzags to and fro, seeking escape. It is so alive, so present, that I want to hold it, to feel its tiny heart beat. I remember the calf, how it looked at me in fear through long-lashed eyes. It has left only its meat ghost.
Levener and Fub are brisk now, their shoulders square with pride, their voices loud again. They slap each other on the back at a job well done.
Bet takes my right hand and turns it palm up, laying her index finger lightly against my wrist. ‘Does your blood flow more quickly with all this?’ she asks, looking to Levener conspiratorially, as if they both test me.
‘I feel quite calm,’ I say.
She smiles. ‘Yes, you were not afraid. Ayee. You still have a good steady heartbeat.’
‘The better for slaughter, then.’ I turn to Fub. ‘I think I learned my lesson well.’
He takes my wrist, too, but not to feel my pulse. Which is just as well, for my heart leaps in my chest at his touch. Instead, he leads me to the remains on the trestle. Dipping his thumb into the flesh of the beast, he then twists it against my forehead. ‘Blooded,’ he says.
Levener giggles and says, ‘There’s always blood the first time!’
The air on the skin between my eyes, where he wet me, feels cold.
* * *
As I return to Castle Street I spit on my hand and rub my forehead. The mark there has dried and I have to go at it several times until I c
an no longer taste iron. I wish I had a mirror to test my efforts. I would like to crouch and pull up my skirt at the hem then wipe my face with my petticoat, to ensure no trace remains. Instead, I cautiously use my sleeve ruffle. The cloth is white. There is no bloodstain. My father opens the door wide as I climb the steps. He has been waiting for me. Judging by the look on his face, he has been waiting for some time.
‘Father, I come from the church,’ I announce and make to pass him.
He stops me, his hand on my arm quite tightly. ‘And where else?’ How does he know? ‘You were seen on the street nearby some two hours since.’
Who saw me? Who is my accuser, my traitor? ‘I became . . . lost.’
He stares at me, his anger making his features livid and tense. ‘LOST?’ he thunders. ‘You may have lost your wits, I can’t vouch that you haven’t, but you had better come up with a better tale than that.’
‘I became lost . . . in this book.’ I hold up the little volume of verse. ‘The vicar lent it to me, he could see I had a taste for literature when I admired the books in his study. I sat on a wall and began to read and before I knew it, the day sped by.’
This is plausible. My father takes the book with suspicion, holding it as if it were poisonous. He may not be fond of reading himself, but he must allow the habit in others.
‘You had better not read more, then, for your days are to be taken up and there’ll be no time left over. Make yourself ready at ten tomorrow, Onions calls here for you.’ He looks me up and down with distaste. ‘Thank heavens I shall not be responsible for you for much longer. I only hope you can keep civil and obedient for long enough to ensure your smooth and speedy passage from this house.’
