by Janet Ellis
When I close the door behind me, I gulp for air as if I had been underwater.
* * *
I cannot settle after this. I pick up my book, but cannot read; the pages blur and I lose my place. I go to the front door, as if to leave, but do not go.
When Jane appears with a list, I am glad of the distraction as she bids me go through it with her, to approve her purchases. She worries over every detail, as usual.
‘So many eggs. And so much beating.’
‘Stand back from the bowl so you do not perspire into it, then, unless the receipt calls for salt.’
From time to time I go to the dining room and consult the clock, but its hands hardly appear to move. When, at last, it approaches the half-hour, I set off in such haste that I am still pulling on my gloves and tying my bonnet strings as I walk.
There is no sign of him at first but, before I can fret, Fub saunters towards me.
‘Long time since I was so close to a church,’ he says. ‘How do you do?’ My earlier melancholy dissipates like puddles under sunshine now he’s come.
At first, we walk through the graveyard as if we are visitors to an exhibition, courteous and restrained. We remark on the names on the stones or point out their sentimental verses. It is as if we must constantly talk of these trivial things to prevent ourselves saying what is really in our heads. At one moment, I trip over a wayward root and he catches me, then holds on too tightly to be just making sure I am upright. At another, I seize his arm to indicate another amusing epitaph, but I don’t need to keep my hand there for such a long time after as I do. Our eyes meet for an age as we decide which way to walk next. Anyone observing us would think the only way we wished to go was straight towards each other.
‘Miss Jaccob?’
Just as he did before in the church, the vicar seems to materialise out of thin air rather than walk solidly as other men do. He wears a heavy cloak over his priest’s garb, but his collar still shows.
‘Miss Jaccob? Is it you? Ah, yes!’ He looks expectantly at Fub.
‘This is Master Warner,’ I say. We all look at each other.
‘I had better take my leave, Miss Jaccob. Mind where you put your feet, now. She almost tripped and I saved her from the fall.’ Fub is walking backwards as he says this, addressing the vicar the while and bowing.
‘No!’ I cannot help myself. He must not go! Both men look at me sharply.
‘She protests at my kindness.’ Fub bows quickly to me: ‘It was only what anyone would do.’
Crestfallen, I watch his retreating back.
‘A good Samaritan, then.’ The vicar watches his departure, too. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handful of soft bread, studded with raisins. He examines it with affection, then holds it up and out to me. ‘Would you like to share this? Newly delivered. Still warm.’ I shake my head. ‘Have you had any moment to peruse the verses?’ He takes a large bite, then has to keep his mouth wide as the sticky bread resists his teeth.
‘I have read some of them.’ I think of the charred leather cover and blackened pages inside. ‘Most edifying.’
‘Opinion is divided,’ he says, still chewing, ‘but I find him realistically romantic, if such a thing is possible. He was a church man too. When you have read further, perhaps we may discuss them?’ He is so disappointed that we may not talk of poetry now and yet so hopeful that we might do so in future that his expression shifts about like the moon behind clouds.
‘I should like that,’ I say, and mean it.
‘I climbed to the top of the bell tower.’ He points upwards and I follow where he indicates. The tip of the tower seems to move towards me against the scudding clouds.
‘It is very tall,’ I say, dizzy even from looking up at it.
‘Many steps to climb,’ he agrees, ‘but the view is extraordinary. There is a little window from where you may see almost all of the city. Certainly, I could clearly note the extent of my parish.’
Can you observe your flock going everywhere and anywhere but into your church, I wonder?
‘I should like to look out from there,’ I tell him.
‘Then bring a muffler. There is no glass and the wind blows right through.’ He rubs his hands together, though whether in memory of the cold air or to remove sticky crumbs I could not say. ‘I, ah, have commitments this afternoon, Miss Jaccob.’ He pulls his wayward cloak onto his shoulders. ‘Until we meet again, farewell.’
He cuts an almost dashing figure as he strides off. Once he is free of doorways and aisles and furniture and other man-made impediments, he is quite graceful.
I look about the empty churchyard and the silent companions beneath. I am still thoroughly frustrated by the manner of Fub’s going. We have not even arranged tomorrow’s rendezvous, and my heart sinks that I may once again have to trudge to the Leveners’ shop to find him. I am almost wearing a groove in the road there, like a coach’s wheel does, with my steps. Before I can summon my strength to set off, I hear a low hiss nearby.
‘Psst!’ It comes from the church doorway. ‘Psssst!’ again. Then Fub appears, beckoning me to him. He pulls me into the great porch, where we are concealed from the road and cannot see the passers-by, nor they us.
‘Did you wait here?’ I cannot conceal my delight.
‘He seemed no threat to us, that priest type, nor to have any purpose other than church business.’ Fub imitates the vicar, mocking his mouth coping with its contents and pretending to swirl his cloak and take great strides.
‘He is a good man,’ I say gently, surprising myself by wishing to defend the fellow.
‘Here is another.’ Fub takes a step towards me.
‘Where do we meet tomorrow?’ I keep him at bay, to postpone what will follow, however earnestly I wish it to happen. Nervous excitement digs into my stomach with sharp spades.
‘Westminster Bridge.’
There is no space between us worth measuring now. We breathe the same air. He puts his mouth to mine.
It is not a kiss that a mother might give a child or a priest’s lips might give the sacred chalice. Nor is it the polite brushing of a lady’s hand in greeting. It opens me from my head to my toes like a paring knife. Then he slides his tongue between my teeth and I leap back in horror. He cannot have meant to do such a thing! It must have been his eagerness made him clumsy.
‘What’s the matter?’ he speaks thickly, as if he had just woken.
How can I explain his error kindly? I feel as if I have just broken something into so many pieces it cannot be mended. I am embarrassed for both of us.
‘You put—’ Oh, I cannot say it. ‘I felt—’ I pant, not wanting to meet his eye.
‘Have you never been kissed before?’ he asks, surprised. This is a riddle I cannot safely answer. One way, I am a wanton and the other, a child.
‘I am not fruit, ripe for picking.’
‘I am not after fruit.’ He cups his hands to my cheeks and moves his mouth closer. ‘If I do this . . .’ he kisses me softly, his lips dry. ‘You don’t object to that?’
I shake my head. ‘I do not.’
‘And again?’ Another kiss.
‘No.’
He kisses me once more, pressing harder this time. I don’t close my eyes completely, but peek through my lids to see that his are shut. He stops, looks at me and raises his eyebrows in enquiry. I nod.
‘And, now, further . . . But if it doesn’t please you—’ He doesn’t finish, instead kisses me once more, this time snaking his tongue in little by little till my mouth is full.
At first I feel wet softness then it hardens to muscle till I can hardly tell our mouths apart. It is no mistake. I am sure there must be places in the world where people fervently wish this very moment gone. But not I, not here, in this mossy porch, with this boy at my mouth. I do not want this time to end. I would be quite content to stay fixed
here for all time, until I have no breath in my body and even till I rot into the ground where I stand.
He stops, then holds me away from him a little and inspects me.
‘Oh, Fub. If I died now, I would make a happy skeleton.’
‘Are you thinking of death, Anne? I’ve not felt so alive before.’
‘Give me another lesson.’ I lean to him.
‘I cannot believe I am giving you instruction like this in the doorway of a church,’ he says.
I kiss him myself, to show that I am a quick learner.
‘Anne!’ Fub says. ‘Will you remember this lesson, then, do you think?’
‘One more, to make sure.’
He kisses me again. ‘You are an excellent student. Till tomorrow? Will you come to the fair?’ He points to my feet. ‘Tough boots and a purse, please, when we meet.’
‘Tomorrow!’ I say.
We move apart but keep our eyes fixed on each other, recording every small detail of our faces. I put both my hands against the cloth of my clothes and trace the shape of my body. I feel the curve that goes in at my waist and the swell of my hips below and marvel at the living warmth. I am a new-made miracle. Not since I yelled my way into the world at my birth have I been so loudly alive.
‘Can we not kiss again?’ I hold up my face and shut my eyes tight and wait to feel his lips on mine.
‘Just this.’ He lifts the strands of my hair and puts his open mouth to my neck. His teeth don’t bite though he sucks hard. ‘Another lesson,’ he says when he stops.
‘My turn.’ I have to stand on tiptoe to reach him, but I do as he did. He tastes of soap but smells of sweat.
He rubs at his neck where I sucked. ‘Go,’ he says, ‘or I’ll keep you longer.’ He is looking at me as if he’d just bought me and I was worth more than he paid.
‘And then?’
‘We address a different subject.’ He is serious.
‘Will you teach me?’
‘I may have to. I may not be able to keep myself from teaching you.’
‘I am ready for that.’
* * *
The house smells of rotten eggs. Aunt Elizabeth is nowhere to be seen, but there are urgent, raised voices from the kitchen.
Opening the door, I can hardly see across the room for acrid smoke. After my much calling her, Jane appears, her eyes pink from the haze. She is never calm, but now she is raised to an alarming level of agitation.
‘Oh, Miss Jaccob,’ she glances round in each direction as if someone had summoned the magistrate. ‘Your aunt gave me a receipt for a strong cake that’s to be served at dinner. And I followed the instruction to the letter, I’m sure I did. But it’s a sorry thing – half burned and half raw. And it took so many eggs! There are shells all over the kitchen.’
‘It can’t be helped.’ I have bigger concerns. In my mind’s eye, I walk to Fub. I remember his wet mouth.
‘Your aunt does not approve of waste.’
‘Is there any hope of a rescue?’
‘I might fashion the centre, where it’s cooked through, into a flower, and add some candied peel for effect.’
‘That’s a good plan, Jane. And I have one, too. Tomorrow, as we are a small household, please take a half-day’s holiday.’
‘A holiday? Is someone hanged?’
‘For half a day, that’s all. My father won’t return for two days yet and I’ll inform my aunt of my instruction.’
She looks suspicious, as if I had given her a jewel which she expects any minute to turn into a turd.
‘Jane!’ I speak to her as though she is simple and deaf. ‘Here are your instructions: Get to your work and present what you can of the cake tonight! Take a half-day holiday tomorrow, from noon! Is that all understood?’
The poor woman ties herself into her usual knot as she bends in answer. Her legs must be so tangled under her skirts that they’ll cut off her circulation one day.
* * *
I cannot bear any more of my aunt’s sighs and glances, so instead at dinner I ask her about her plans for her home. She is constantly painting walls and moving furniture around. The effect is always the same – a drab house where a fussy woman lives – but she is pleased to describe the colours she might choose or detail the tables she might commission. I think of Onions, with his book of wallpapers – these two have more in common than they know.
‘I am inspired by The Ruins of Palmyra,’ she announces.
When Jane comes in with the platter of cake, I avoid her eye. Then I avoid Aunt Elizabeth’s, too, for the object is as far from appetising as it is possible to be and if she saw me laugh at it as I want to, she might suspect my heart was repaired without God’s involvement.
It is a monstrous creation, resembling both a mountain and a lake. Jane has placed little slices of fruit on the central mound, which has a flat top like a plateau and this is surrounded by a roiling sea of unrisen mixture. The egg smell hangs about it like a little cloud. Jane has presented the origins of the world in cake form; you would not be surprised if Adam and Eve emerged from its depths.
‘What’s this?’ My aunt sounds menacing as she regards the culinary Creation.
‘The cake you requested.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. My cook never prepares it to look like this.’
‘I am sorry, Mistress Jaccob.’
My aunt shudders as if she is looking at a rotting corpse. She pauses, then raises weary eyes to Jane. ‘Take it away,’ she waves her hand, ‘I shall not speak to my brother about the appalling waste of ingredients. You may thank me for that. I would say it was a waste of good ingredients, but I suspect you have used up the store cupboard for this and I’ll wager the eggs are rotten and the flour is full of weevils.’
Jane is weeping. She does not cry prettily. No little tears fall: instead, two streams of yellow snot stream from her nose.
My aunt watches this dispassionately for a while then, when she can take it no longer, she stands up. ‘Get out!’ She is changing from sparrow to fishwife. ‘Stay out of my sight tomorrow, for if I clap eyes on you I may strike you!’
‘I have given Jane a half-day holiday,’ I announce. ‘It would seem fortunately timed.’
Jane’s molten flow has not diminished – in fact, my aunt’s anger has made it worse. Now she is confused, too.
‘I do not deserve . . .’ she begins.
‘Jane,’ I say, ‘my giving you a holiday has fortunately coincided with my aunt’s desire that you become temporarily invisible.’
‘I did not mean—’ Aunt Elizabeth realises that while Jane’s punishment has been reduced, she may not impose anything else. We cannot be without a cook for two days.
Jane looks from one to the other of us, her misery complete. I doubt she will enjoy her sudden liberty tomorrow, knowing she must face my aunt’s wrath thereafter. It is unlikely to be cooled by then. My aunt is almost on fire with fury.
‘You and I will call on our neighbours tomorrow, Anne.’ My aunt puffs out again with this announcement.
‘No, I—’ What can I do? The fair recedes like drained water.
‘Alas, Aunt, I cannot.’
She frowns. Surely I can stay away from my prayers for one day?
‘I fear I am . . . visited.’ I look down to my stomach with a modest expression.
‘Visited?’ She sits back in her chair. She weighs up our possible mutual embarrassment at further questioning, but cannot resist it.
‘Do you mean . . . a woman’s curse?’ she whispers.
‘Yes,’ I whisper too. ‘And I am most uncomfortable and might do better to rest here.’
My aunt’s eyes are veiled with suspicion. She looks me up and down carefully, as if she might see some outward manifestation of my inner trouble. Short of wrestling me to the ground and raising my skirts to inspect me, she’ll have to
make do with my explanation. I am certain she is extremely tempted by the wrestling notion. I am ready to slap her away if she does.
‘Thank you for being so . . . understanding.’ I keep my voice in a whisper, thinking it seems to add an authentic note of sorrow.
‘Well.’ She shakes her little shoulders. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. It is yet another burden we women must carry.’
I wonder what weight she struggles with, save having to decide between green or blue walls or which bonnet to wear. If she knew that I had given exactly the same excuse to Onions two days ago, she might send for the physic to investigate my prodigious loss.
In lieu of our making plans for tomorrow, and as time hangs heavy before we retire, Aunt Elizabeth decides to read to me from the Bible. She has a flat little voice, until it comes to quoting any speaker, at which point she fairly shouts. This combination means that one minute I am lulled by the monotony of her narration, the next jolted awake, as she impersonates yet another figure.
‘And He took him outside and said: “Now look towards the heavens, and count the stars, if you are able to count them”.’ She sits upright, her back as straight as if there were a board behind it. ‘Do not fear, Abram. I am a shield to you. And your reward will be very great.’
‘That is a very well chosen passage,’ I say, trying not to put my hands to my ears. ‘Were it not that you are the wrong sex, I would suggest you might make a fine preacher.’
She simpers. ‘I read to the poor of the parish, Anne. A small kindness, but I want to share the Word where I can.’
I imagine the poor preparing for her visits by stuffing their ears with whatever comes to hand. ‘Perhaps you would just bring some stale bread for us next time, Mistress Elizabeth,’ they’d say, wincing as she read. ‘Nonsense, this is bread for your souls.’ And on she’d go, boring and startling by turns.
I yawn with great exaggeration, stretching my hands above my head. ‘I am fatigued, Aunt.’
‘What does he say?’ She has a sharp little look about her.
‘Who, Aunt?’
‘The priest. Of course I agree you may not go tomorrow as you are . . . ailing . . . but has he given you anything to commit to memory, to comfort you?’
