by Alix Nathan
Yes, through James Wintrige she could enter a higher sphere. Moreover, she could surely abandon the tedium of flattery; the stink of tobacco and charred meat that hung about her like a garment. The misery of swollen feet.
This curious courting took place in moments of lull in trade, for Sarah hardly ever left Battle’s. She couldn’t. Too much depended on her.
Of course there was Sunday, when Battle’s was shut. Her mother Anne had been evangelical. As a girl she’d heard Wesley preach, stood in a thronged field, watched men and women collapse on the stubble, groaning as if in death. Sam would have none of that, arguing that trade would suffer if she was known to attend meetings where people behaved like madmen. So Anne had taken Sarah to St Mary-le-Bow instead, with the injunction to listen to the preacher. Each Sabbath they’d come away, Anne complaining of the miserable divines, the shocking behaviour of the congregation, talking and laughing throughout. Sarah’s sense of compulsion was mixed with the unpleasantness of her mother’s mood and her own boredom. After her mother’s death she continued to go each week through a sense of obedience to the dead woman, though more to get away from her father for a few hours.
Sunday afternoon, then, was the one time she might meet James, though only after she’d lied to Sam, telling him she was visiting Charlotte and her little boy, which was bad enough. She could certainly not go to a play with him in the evening, nor did she think they could risk being seen walking in Goodman’s Fields. On two occasions they took a stroll to Ludgate, looking in shop windows, hoping not to be noticed by coffee-drinkers who might tell. They were never completely alone. Yet somehow his proposal was uttered, murmured out of the side of his mouth and received as he pressed his lips nervously with his fingertips.
‘You must ask my father,’ she said, guessing the outcome.
He spoke to Sam Battle in a private room, emerging after less than five minutes, his eyes sunk in their shadows and left the coffee house.
‘I’ll not have it,’ Sam told his daughter.
‘He has a good post. He’s a gentleman.’
‘Pfooh!’
‘He’s well schooled. He writes plays!’
‘Pfooh! They tell me he’s a damned Jacobin.’
‘That’s not true. And father, I am turned twenty-two. I am a woman. I can decide.’
‘And me? Me? What of me? Running Battle’s all on my own?’
‘I…’ Her father pushed her out of the room.
‘Another sketch, Sarah!’
‘I know. A variation of your previous one of father.’
‘Yes: Sam in full armour, two hands grasping a massive sword with ME! ME! written on it. And you in mob cap and apron thrusting a tiny knife and fork. The title? Battle of Battle’s!’
With admirable speed Wintrige suggested an arrangement. While they would live elsewhere as a married couple (he was already searching for rooms), Sarah could continue to work at Battle’s and return home each evening.
‘We’ll employ a housemaid to keep our place in order,’ he promised when Sarah’s face fell.
They married in St Michael’s, the vicar a customer at Battle’s who took pity on Sarah. Sam refused to attend despite being not displeased at James’s ‘arrangement’ and after the ceremony they walked all the way to their rented rooms in Winkworth Buildings at the Moorgate end of City Road.
Mr and Mrs James Wintrige. Sarah went straight to the window. No sparrows, no view over the city’s dense forest of chimneys and steeples. The glass was darkened by the proximity of the house opposite. She watched a cat creep across the roof towards an open window, saw the reflection of James as he came up behind her.
*
Their lodgings were a brisk walk from Battle’s. Neither convenient for Sarah, nor for James, though he liked to lope along on his thin, stockinged pins. The maid lit a fire and heated water early, for Sarah must be at Battle’s by six in the morning. Betsy washed sheets, removed cobwebs, spread a cover for the evening meal. She had no need to cook, for Sarah carried back their supper each night wrapped in several cloths to keep it hot. Bottles of wine clinked in the basket.
James set out his books, his writing table, told her not to call him Jem. Gave Sarah pamphlets to read while he wrote. She asked about his meetings, what the men in his division discussed, what they resolved by democratic vote. He told her little. Had to be cautious even with his own wife, he said. She was startled at his severity; stopped asking. Opened the bedroom window to catch the early robin song in February, trilled from the top of a bush in the yard.
With food from Battle’s kitchen, they ate well. James was often preoccupied, would rise in the middle of supper to write something down that he’d just remembered.
‘Ah,’ he’d say, leaving the table, sometimes mid-mouthful. ‘Yes!’ He never explained, looked always as though he were reading something inside his head.
‘His eyes are not frog-like,’ she said in her imagined dialogue with Newton, which marriage had failed to diminish. ‘They live in slits under his eyebrows.’
She tried asking him about the stage, his plays, the actors with whose names he’d enchanted her when they first met. She sought detail of people and places about which she knew nothing, but his replies were vague or else dismissive as though her questions were ridiculous.
It was only late at night that he paid her close attention, pouncing as she began to unpin her hair, nibbling, pecking at her, his thumbs sinking into the flesh of her upper arms. Once he’d secured her in bed, he’d strew his clothes in heaps round the room, pull on a nightshirt and leap onto her as if to prevent her escape.
Sometimes, as they ate, he said she reminded him of his mother and grandmother who’d brought him up. The same rosy colouring. Forgiving nature. She wondered what he meant.
The world of intellect remained elusive. She struggled with the pamphlets, James too busy to help her understand, longed to hear more of the ideas he’d uttered during their courtship. Her life seemed barely changed. Each day she supervised, checked, ordered, mixed, stood for hours behind the bar, not smiling, ever redder, an accidental siren. Each night she walked home through the streets in a private fume of broiled steak and tobacco. Dick, the ageing, arthritic boy from Battle’s, who was also first grinder and shoe cleaner, escorted her to protect her from footpads.
Her father treated her as he’d always done, ignoring her unless she made a mistake. He never asked about her other life, never mentioned James’s name. Working in the coffee house with an unseen, unmentioned marriage was like when she went to school after her mother and Newton were killed and no one said a word. Had it happened at all, she’d wondered then? Was she married at all, she wondered now, or had she imagined it? James, chill, preoccupied, painful, was he a phantom? Perhaps she should take the stairs to her childhood room at the end of the day, climb into the high, narrow bed of her girlhood, listen to sparrows under the eaves, cheeping in the dark.
Exhausted at night, she returned to find James writing rapidly or, more often, out at a meeting. As she must arise before five she sometimes ate alone, one of James’s books propped up before her. She gradually made her way through Macbeth. Went to bed and fell asleep before he returned. He jerked back the covers after two a.m. smelling of wine, shreds of meat in his teeth and crushed her dreams with his heavy bones and long, cold, ink-stained fingers.
And his income was erratic. Once, he gave up the Customs Office to pursue the performance of a play he’d written. Went to Margate. A satire on gaming, it closed after one act to howls of derision, he said. His coat was spattered with egg.
‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed for him and for herself.
‘I should have acted in it myself. It would have been a success if I had,’ he said.
‘Might someone else put it on, here in the city? I thought you knew actors.’
‘No hope of that.’ How can he grin, she thought, while uttering such words? ‘No. No hope. But how often do great writers go unrecognised?’
She had no rep
ly to give but in any case he suddenly laughed aloud and asked her what she’d brought to eat.
Somehow he retrieved his position at the Customs Office, but apparently there was little left over after the landlord and Betsy had been paid. It was out of the question for Sarah to leave the coffee house, he said. They couldn’t live without Battle food and wine, Battle money.
3
For two years the city is feverish with war. When the French execute their king and declare war on Britain and Holland, volunteers pull on uniforms and march about; mercenaries from Hesse and Hanover reinforce the King’s Men against expected invasion.
Opinion is divided in Battle’s. There are those who pledge competitive sums to defend the realm; those who complain with disgust at the draining of the Exchequer.
‘We know quite well who will don the uniform of these new militia,’ snarls Bullock. ‘It’s what all those Irish traitors have been waiting for. Free weaponry!’
‘You smell traitors round every corner, Bullock, hopping out of every cesspool you peer into along your way,’ says Thynne, his chin jutting ever more sharply at his opponent.
‘Pah!’
The military diversions are good for those who employ quick wit in crime, like William Leopard, a lawyer with a fine living from excise fraud. But then people become disgruntled with war, its colossal expense when harvests are poor. Riots break out like the pox. There are too many Runners about the place, too many Extra-Constables, and now they’re onto him.
A warning to Leopard from a ‘friend’ comes wrapped in a parcel of sprats. He has no time to destroy evidence, gather cash, a clean shirt and stockings, escapes across the yard at the back of the house, flees over the bridge, darts along Tower Street, down Beer Lane to the quays. Porters’ Quay seems deserted until he sees someone chucking stones at gulls.
It’s a boy with an accurate throw. The birds are quicker of course; like crows they sense hostility before it strikes. If he sits next to him nobody’ll look twice, will they, seeing two anonymous backs along the quay? They’ll think they’re fishing.
The constables will start with Hardman, obviously, his partner in law. He didn’t have time to send on the sprat parcel. But if they’re busy with Hardman, it’ll give him more time. Eventually Hardman will squeal, of course. His name’s a nonsense! Then they’ll pick up on the copemen in Tooley Street and the light-horsemen, but they’re far too canny to be caught out.
The bills of lading game is shot. He’ll have to mizzle quick, get right away. Soon.
He’s fat, out of breath, needs to sit down. The boy’s legs hang over the slimy stone, a pile of chippings on the ground next to him.
‘You’re good,’ he says. ‘Ever tried a pistol?’
The boy looks up, startled. Leopard notes: clean, well fed, not living on the streets. Sensitive, self-absorbed. About fifteen. Blue and yellow bundle nearby, his discarded uniform.
‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ Still no reply. The whole quay is oddly deserted. That’s good. He’ll easily hear if steps approach.
‘William Leopard,’ he extends his hand though it isn’t taken. ‘May I sit here with you?’
‘As you wish,’ the boy growls, voice new-broken. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘A nice point!’ Leopard laughs. ‘Give me one of your stones, will you?’
Before them are barges lashed together three deep, stretched six along. Wooden chests marked B E N G A L. So easy for scuffle-hunters! Perhaps straight theft is better than false papers. Damned bad luck. But he’ll not stoop to jemmies and night work. Too much effort, no sleep.
Gulls stand in a row on the outer edge of the barges, fly up, screaming, dive and fight for booty, return to the row again. Leopard aims, misses. As he expects, the boy picks a missile, lines up and drives a bird, screeching, into the air.
‘Bulls-eye!’ What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Matthew Dale.’
‘Matt?’
‘Matthew.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better further up, Matthew, fishing from Dice Quay?’
‘I’m not fishing.’
‘No, but if you went further up you could.’
‘Can’t take fish home.’
‘Ah.’
‘As you said, I’m supposed to be at school.’
‘And which school is that?’
But the boy isn’t going to say, just as he, too, will keep certain facts to himself.
‘What is your work?’ the boy asks Leopard suddenly, plucking at erratic courage.
He looks at the man and finds him extraordinary. His clothes are grimy, tight-fitting, stained yet made from good cloth. He’s educated too, as well as prying. Must be cautious, can’t have the man report him. Yet he doesn’t look the reporting type. Too unshaven and amused.
‘The law,’ says Leopard. ‘I’m a lawyer. Doing a little business.’
‘Here?’
‘A somewhat difficult transaction. Merchants have need of lawyers, you know.’ He waves his hand vaguely.
‘Oh.’
‘Sugar, brandy, wheat. There’s seventy-seven thousand tons of iron due from Petersburg,’ he sighs.
Matthew yawns.
‘I see you have no interest in trade, young man.’
‘No.’
‘I’ll wager you’re a revolutionary. A Jacobin – I bet that’s what you are.’
The boy blushes. His features are small, unfinished; bear the burden of transition, of daring in conflict with caution.
‘You hate this corrupt world, don’t you, this vicious self-seeking government. I’m sure you do.’
Matthew hunches himself. The man is laughing at him. Any minute now he’ll reveal himself as an unusual friend of his father’s and trudge him back home.
‘I’m serious, young man. I hate this corrupt world, this vicious self-seeking government.’
‘Then why do you work in it?’
‘How precise you are! Have you read Tom Paine?’
Matthew wishes the man would go. He knows they’ll find out and beat him sooner or later, but later is what he hopes for. He’s here because he hates his life, not because he hates the government. Wishes the man would go.
‘Look!’ Leopard rummages in his stuffed pockets and pulls out a book. Thumbed, greasy. Rights of Man, Part I. ‘Have you read it?’
‘It’s banned,’ Matthew says. Embarrassed at the folly of this remark he stutters: ‘And I’ve read Part II.’
‘I knew it! A man after my own heart. Shake hands, citizen!’
The gulls fly up at this burst of activity and noise from the quay.
‘What a book it is! Who has done more for the world than he? But here, you won’t have seen this.’ He thrusts a creased pamphlet at the boy. King Killing, it’s called, published at the British Tree of Liberty, Berwick Street.
‘Take it! Still, it’s no good reading banned books behind closed shutters, is it? You’re too young for action, I suppose. But sitting on the quayside’s not going to help the world.’
‘You’re sitting on the quayside, too.’
‘Yes, yes, now I am. But not for long. Well, no doubt dodging school is a start. What is your father?’
Matthew mumbles.
‘A chaplain! A man of the cloth! Oh Lord! Then I admire you, Matthew. You defy your school, you defy your father. You’ve started on the right road.’
‘Are you on the right road?’ The boy’s voice squeaks infuriatingly. He’s unused to praise; isn’t sure that’s what this is.
‘I myself shall go to America.’
‘Ah!’ Matthew sits back and stares at this surprising companion with the blackguardly face. Pocked skin, lank hair, all-seeing eyes.
‘France was the place, as you know. Once. But the French have defiled themselves, betrayed their principles. They have not drowned corruption in all the blood they’ve spilled; it has surged up again. America is the only place to be. Paine k
nows that himself, of course.
‘But you have made a beginning, young Matthew. The right road, as I said. Already you are countering authority. Is there not something even bolder you could do?’
‘Perhaps.’ As he hesitates an idea forms. Of striking simplicity. ‘Tomorrow. I think I can do something revolutionary by then. Will you come again tomorrow?’
‘Well, young man. I could. Yes, I could do that. I need some time to make arrangements, in fact. But maybe we should meet somewhere else. Mustn’t arouse suspicion. These new river police are on the prowl looking for men with hogsheads stuffed down their trousers.’ He laughs immoderately. ‘How about the beach below the Tower? At low tide.’
‘No! Here’s better. There’s nobody about, is there?’
‘True. Tomorrow might be different, though. Well, all right, here then. But look. Should anyone ask for me, you haven’t seen me. Have no notion who they’re talking about. Nobody of my description. Could you describe me?’
‘Easily.’
‘Well don’t. And I haven’t see you. Truant? Never met one! Agreed?’
They shake hands. ‘Porters’ Quay, eight o’clock!’
Matthew watches the insolent set of Leopard’s shoulders as he walks briskly up the street. He turns back to the river. He can’t go home for hours yet.
*
It’s clear and hot soon after daybreak. The river teems with boats. Barges form an inner margin below quays and wharves, dredgers, lighters, floating fire engines lie by. Mid-stream, masted ships rock, their sails half furled. They can go no further up-river for London Bridge stands in their way on all its legs. Brigs, cutters, West Indiamen, their cargoes unloaded into small boats by lightermen. Over the rest of the water dart skiffs and rowing boats, sculled, punted; fishing, scouting, ferrying.
