The Butcher's Hook

by Janet Ellis

  ‘You cannot ever love her,’ I say, my protesting voice high and thin. ‘Why do you say that?’

  He lets me go, then strokes my arm where he gripped me. ‘Anne, don’t make me say these things.’ He cups my chin with his hand and tilts my face up to him. ‘I don’t think of the future. I hardly consider two days hence. But this is the truth: Margaret and I weigh equally in the scales. She knows the price of things. She won’t bother me with books. My family will take her to their hearts and hearth. Levener will give me a position and so it goes on. You and I cannot be together anywhere where you are known, even if your father gave you money to live on, which he would not. If it isn’t Onions, it’s somebody else’s big house you’ll live in and whose large purse you’ll spend. You’d quickly tire of going hungry and having no change of clothes. And you’d be wanting your own soft bed after a very short while in this one.’ He pats the coarse, hard mattress to demonstrate. ‘Margaret could suffer,’ he mimics in a childish treble. ‘I don’t like to hear you pretending to be evil.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘When you are wicked underneath me, though, I like it very much! This much!’

  He grapples with me and, although I do not resist, I am like a rag doll, flung this way and that. He quits me before the end and I feel his spilling and watch his gurning dispassionately. With a shock as hot as fire, I feel a flash of distaste for all this careless fluid and his awkward limbs. I kiss his mouth and neck till I am blind and deaf to any doubt.

  * * *

  When we lie tangled afterwards, I examine him carefully. I know his broad forehead and his blemished eye very well. If he stuck his arm through a fence and I could not see the rest of him, I would know it was his. If I flew over him, I would be able to pick out the top of his head amongst a crowd of others. But if I was asked if he preferred berries to apples, I could not answer. Neither do I know his childhood fears or his first words. The house where he grew up is a mystery; his favourite toy is unknown. We have never talked of our families, except to mock them to each other for effect. I could not tell you how he decided on his trade or if he chooses summer heat over winter chill. I only know how he likes his mouth kissed and that he wants my fingers on his sack while he finishes.

  I will not ask him anything now. He believes he has happily silenced me. But when our time of talking comes, he will be hoarse from answering my questions.

  Chapter 24

  We speak of nothing much while we dress. Fub whistles as he fastens his clothes and pulls his boots back on; he has put in a good day’s work with me and is satisfied. An insistent thought flits and buzzes around my head like a fly: perhaps one more, it hisses, then he’ll understand. He only thinks he cares for Margaret because she still exists – if she is no more, then all his affection must come to me. This seems so simple to me, so clear and so true that I open my mouth to share this with him. But when I look at him, Fub’s face is as blank as putty. I must keep all my thoughts to myself. With a thrill of revulsion, sudden as stepping barefoot on a slug, I resent his simple head.

  ‘How goes the rest of your day?’ Fub asks conversationally as we negotiate the confined spaces of the house.

  ‘My sister is to be christened,’ I say, although I had forgotten it until he spoke.

  ‘And will you say the Lord’s Prayer backwards while the priest talks?’ he says and rolls his eyes and shakes his head in imitation of someone touched. It makes him look lumpen and solid. I look away.

  ‘You mock my proper hatred of the baby and ignore the reasons why,’ I almost whisper in my fury.

  He stops his gibbering and looks at me with amusement. ‘I know you feel nothing for the child. I am impressed by how steadfast you are in your disinterest.’ I am steadfast in my intentions, too, I think. My plans for us are unaltered.

  One more, perhaps. I cannot meet his eye in case my excitement shows and he wants to know the cause of it. ‘I shall be appropriate at the ceremony,’ I say. ‘I would not want to keep her out of heaven when her time comes.’

  ‘You are morbid, Annie.’ He laughs at me again. ‘Do you foretell my end? Imagine me slicing through a vein or crushed under a cow?’ I hold him tight in answer. The only death I want for him is simultaneous with my own.

  ‘I shall come to your house tomorrow.’ Fub is slipping his heavy apron over his head, his eyes on the meat he needs to joint.

  ‘You won’t have to attend to your cousin then?’ I say.

  ‘No, I will not,’ he says, distracted by his task and missing the teasing in my tone. ‘I will come in the afternoon.’ He picks up the meat with tender care, like a father at his child’s crib. ‘Make sure you can . . .’ he turns it over, holds it to his nose, inhaling, then looks at me at last, fully concentrating on his words, ‘ . . . supervise.’

  ‘If I have no other calls on my time.’

  ‘Let me take up your time. I will try not to be too quick about it.’

  ‘If you are too fast, I will wait till you are ready again.’

  ‘I am always prepared for you.’

  ‘Are you ready now?’

  ‘You could feel how ready if you come here.’

  It is easy for us to talk in this way. When we share a house together, when we are man and wife and a large bed waits upstairs every night, then we can play and jest in this manner all the time. How could I have doubted that he was anything other than everything to me?

  I hear Levener’s wheezy cough from the slaughterhouse. This is spurs to my flank and I’m off. I know the route home so well now that I am able to think of other things as I walk, so when someone calls my name, I do not take any notice at first. But then ‘Miss Jaccob!’ called out a second time snakes into my head and scatters my thoughts like startled chickens. I swing round.

  Margaret stands there, smiling at me as if we were friends. Her lustrous hair gleams as if it were recently oiled; her white skin shines too.

  ‘Miss Jaccob.’ She curtsies, then looks up at me from her bent stance, her eyes glittering bright under her black lashes. ‘You visit us again?’ If it were not for her clear gaze and even-toothed smile, I might imagine she was making fun of me.

  ‘I do.’ She waits for my explanation. Her thoughts stack as neatly as children’s bricks, it will be up to me to pull out the lowest and watch them topple. ‘I owed Mr Levener an apology. My housekeeper was mistaken in thinking the beef was poor quality.’

  ‘How kind of you to intervene for her.’ Once more, I study her for signs of amusement. She is serious. The fates mixed beauty and sweetness in her bowl but omitted wit and humour from the recipe.

  ‘She does not have the words to explain herself.’ Poor Jane! By the time I have finished describing her, she might as well be made entirely of dough, so daft will she sound. ‘And we value Mr Levener’s business too highly to entrust an explanation to her.’

  Margaret will not be versed in the way of dealing with servants, I can say what I like. She smiles again; she has an endless supply of smiles. I think of my little knife, buried under my clothes in the drawer in my room. Its sharp blade could slice at each corner of her mouth and scar her smile onto her face for ever. She would have to grin through every sadness as she’d be rendered unable to look anything but happy for the rest of her life. However long – or short – that span turns out to be.

  She pulls her shawl about her, planning to walk away and, as she does, I notice a token threaded on to a thin ribbon and pinned to her dress. ‘What is that?’ I say, as I snatch at it. I know what it is. It is a button, identical to the one Fub gave me.

  ‘This?’ she looks down to where my fingers grip. ‘Frederick wanted me to have it. It was from his mother, to remind him of his home.’ She puts her hand over mine to detach my fingers; two tiny lines of concern appear between her brows. ‘It is worthless.’

  ‘Then you will not mind if I take it.’ I tug at it and the ribbon frays and gives.

  ‘Oh!’
Margaret whimpers, her hand now closing only on the empty pin. ‘Why do you want it?’

  My mind races. I regret my impulse; I did not want to betray myself to this creature before I had made my plans for her. I wanted to keep her as happy as a caged bird, swinging to and fro and singing to herself, till I had decided her fate.

  ‘It is the very same as one I lost,’ I say. ‘Forgive my rude haste, I should have asked properly if I could have it, but I was so relieved to find a match. May I take it?’

  Margaret tips her head from side to side as if she lets this idea fly about. It settles. She smiles. ‘I am delighted you have found it so unexpectedly,’ she sighs, ‘although if I am sorry to let it go, it is only because it was precious to Frederick.’ I could tell her he has plenty more.

  ‘Margaret.’ I take her hands in mine. Her fingers are soft and smooth. Even if they were to spend a long time under water, I suspect the tips would not pucker. She stiffens at this intimacy, pulling her elbows in. ‘I need something else from you.’ She starts like a cornered deer: perhaps she thinks I want every last item of clothing she stands up in and I’ll leave her naked in the street. ‘Do not fret,’ I say, trying to smile as widely as she had been doing, to reassure her. Holding the expression for longer than a second is tiring and my cheeks begin to ache. I marvel at her stamina. ‘What I want you can easily give. There will be no more stolen buttons.’ I laugh, but she only looks puzzled at the reference.

  ‘What do you want, Miss Jaccob?’

  ‘A lesson.’ What else could I say? Old habits die hard and most people seem to like the idea they can teach me something. ‘Do you sing? I expect you have a very fine tone, your speaking voice is so sweet.’

  ‘Oh, I love to sing.’ Her hands relax in my grip, softening like dead fish, and I let them go. She looks upwards at the pearly sky with her sapphire eyes. ‘But I am not sure I have any skills at music to pass on to you.’

  ‘I do not want a singing lesson, Margaret, but rather to learn a particular song. My sister is christened soon and I wish to serenade her.’ She sways at this news: it’s as if she herself rocks the baby’s cradle. ‘Teach me your sweetest lullaby. I cannot ask my mother or the nurse without revealing my intention.’ The christening will be over and done with by the time I see her again, but she’ll never know that.

  Margaret glances about her, as though surveying the street for a suitable place to begin.

  ‘Not here,’ I say sharply. ‘Where do you stay?’

  ‘I have a little room at the top of the house. It is very plain,’ she adds nervously, perhaps presuming I need furbelows.

  ‘That is perfect!’ I say. ‘But we must be alone. I should be embarrassed for anyone else to hear. My voice is only adequate at best.’

  She is still wary of me, alternately meeting my gaze and looking quickly away. You might think we were friends if you saw us, for we are standing very close together and only need to speak in low voices to hear each other. I could easily either slap her or stroke her cheek without much effort. The same muscles could move my arms to embrace or to hurt her. It would be such a simple thing to stop her heart. Her thoughts would fade like mist in sunshine.

  ‘When can we meet uninterrupted?’ I say. Behind her, I think I see Fub and step even closer in so that she conceals me. The figure moves on; it is not him but someone altogether coarser and stockier. I grunt with relief and she recoils as if my breath were rank.

  ‘Come tomorrow, early. Titus goes to see the cows driven in. Fub will go there, too.’

  ‘And Bet?’ I ask. Neither of them must see me. The christening is set for the late afternoon. I will have time to change my dress. I will need to change my dress.

  ‘Bet goes to her sister’s,’ she shrugs. ‘It will be all muck and mooing at the market, won’t it? They would not expect me to go.’ If she had a few more days alive, which she does not, we would include the visit. It would be diverting to watch her attempt to keep her skirt clean as cattle swirl about her.

  ‘If we are to be alone, leave a hat on your window sill where it can be seen from the street, and I will come in.’ She nods, her face solemn with committing the instruction to memory. It occurs to me that all her froth and airiness masks stupidity. ‘Do you have such a hat?’ I had better spell it out.

  ‘I have a bonnet. It has a blue ribbon, and many small flowers round the crown. Some are like daisies, only without a yellow centre. The colour is more akin to . . .’ she wrinkles her nose in thought ‘an orange. Quite pale, though. But the flowers are the brightest white. Oh, what colour is the middle exactly?’ I am exasperated by hearing her recite the interminable details of her hat. The more she speaks, the more vapid she appears. Fub will be very grateful to me for what I am planning. Two hours in her company would drive him to distraction and a lifetime would be untenable. ‘Apricot!’ she announces. ‘Oh, I love apricots. Do you?’

  Is this how friends talk to each other? I am glad I settled so early for my own company; I could only keep this sort of conversation up for a little while before I screamed. I smile. ‘Oh, I do!’ I agree, matching her tone. ‘Especially if they are still warm from the sun when they are picked.’ Prunus armeniaca, I think, seeing the small fruit cupped in the palm of Dr Edwards’ large hand.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ She would twirl right around with joy if there were space in the road. If all I needed to do to get her attention was warble about hats and fruit, I might have saved myself some time. Although I fear I might have expired with the effort. It makes me feel heavy to be so light.

  ‘And sing blow away the morning dew, the dew and the dew. Blow away the morning dew, how sweet the winds do blow.’

  Margaret sings in a high, pure voice. It is surprisingly loud, loud enough for two people passing to stop and listen to her, applauding briefly at the end. She catches their eye and then smiles, catching her bottom lip prettily in her teeth. Both she and her audience are delighted with this display. I clap my own hands together lest I seem dour.

  ‘So!’ I cry, to shatter the moment, taking my hammer to her stained glass. ‘You sing beautifully. I am very much looking forward to your tuition.’ Margaret dimples, a skill I do not have and cannot mirror. She goes on her way, still humming.

  * * *

  I am energetic with my enterprises as I walk home. How best to deal with her?

  ‘Anne Jaccob?’ says a child’s voice, close by my elbow and, without thinking, I turn straight away and say ‘Yes?’

  The boy who speaks looks as if he has won a race. He has overtaken me easily, hurling my own name in my path to trip me.

  ‘What do you want?’ I say. It is too late to deny being myself. He has only one eye fixed on me, the other iris wanders lazily away to the outer corner. It is hard to know which one to look at.

  ‘Here,’ he says, peering closely with his good side at a scrap of paper then thrusting it up to me. He has held it so tightly for so long it is warm and curled. I have to pick it open with my fingernails. Frederick Warner. Known as Fub, I read. The writing is thick and black, the vowels filled with ink. Dr Edwards’ hand is as familiar as my own. Indeed, I have seen it more. Cornu aspersum, it would once have said, or sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt.

  I look round instinctively, as if Dr Edwards were about to step forward and claim his paper. Two thoughts crash in my head as if they fought there: he is dead and he writes Fub’s name.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I ask the squinting child.

  He does not reply but instead he points across the street. I look at what he sees with his one straight eye. Onions, his oversized coat flapping, waves as though we met each other across a park on a summer’s day. He weaves in and out of the other pedestrians, making his way towards me deliberately but without haste. I realise that I have always known I would see him again. We were interrupted in our game of strategies and must now take it up.

  Reaching us, he extends a long
arm into one deep pocket. He brings out a lace-trimmed kerchief and puts it to his nose. Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply. ‘Musk,’ he says. ‘I have to remind myself that the noxious fumes around me do not represent every fragrance.’ The boy and I are an unwilling audience but he looks contentedly to the air above our heads as if we were about to applaud. ‘Here, child.’ The boy looks sideways at him as Onions hands him a coin. I am trembling and clench my jaw so that he will not notice.

  ‘Are you well?’ he says, unable to stop his lips curling in a smile. ‘Of course, I can see that you are recovered but, alas, that will change as surely and as swiftly as the waxing and waning of the moon, given the nature of your previous indisposition. Will it not?’ His voice is rich and dark as wet mud.

  The boy, who has not spoken save to christen me, pipes up, ‘One more piece, Sir?’ and wishes promptly that he had stayed silent. Onions smites him on the head with his many-ringed hand. The glancing blow reverberates like an echo and the boy sways on his feet. A bloom of fresh piss spreads on the front of his thin trousers. Onions closes his eyes and says ‘Go,’ with such weary menace that the boy cries out before he leaves. I cannot bear to watch his departure. My heart is a little out of place with sorrow for him and I need to right myself. I have no fellow-feeling to spare.

  ‘Ah,’ Onions puts his fingertips together. ‘You have the note? You know the handwriting, I think?’ He looks around. ‘It is unfortunate that we must converse in the street like this. But then you have had many intimate conversations in such places, have you not?’ He presses his fingers together and the tips whiten. ‘So many of your secret doings have, perversely, been conducted in the open air.’ He looks at me carefully, like a cobra poised to spit. ‘You have been observed,’ he says wearily, as though he himself had maintained a continual surveillance. ‘The author of that missive, my friend the scholar Thomas Edwards, is dead. Oh!’ He puts one index finger to his lips, stroking them with its long nail. ‘Oh! You did know he had died, didn’t you? I am not breaking the news to you, I hope?’ He raises his eyebrows and inclines his head in a show of sympathy.