Poor Tom's Ghost

by Jane Louise Curry

  The Syon meadow road’s long curve towards the river Thames brought Jack before long to the New House lane along the old Wardenhold parsonage wall, and he was halfway down its length before the silence caught his ear. There was no racket of alarm from Fawn and Buff, the dogs who guarded the lane and house so jealously that after a long absence even Tom was suspect. Dogs, Jack knew, were being killed as plague-bearers in the City and Westminster, but—here? He broke into a run.

  But no, there was no cross daubed on the door, no despairing Lord, Haue Mercie uppon Vs printed on a quarantine placard. Jack felt a faint guilty twinge of relief. Perhaps he did not truly wish Katherine dead—only to be shed of her. Recovering himself, he knocked at the nail-studded door in loud impatience.

  There was no answer. If there was no plague sign, neither was there light in any window or a maidservant to come running at his knock. Something was wrong, and it took a maddening time in the fading light to find the iron key in his box, and then to fit it in the lock. Once in, he groped along the shadowy oak chest beside the door for the candlestick kept there and, finding it, struck a light.

  The wide, wainscoted hall was oddly bare. The table-carpets, pewter and plate, the little piles of books, and pretty plants in pots—all the movables—were gone, leaving only the heavy furniture and the rush floor mats.

  “Katherine? Molly? Molly, you slut, where are you?”

  The house was deserted, the kitchen and larder stripped, the linenfold shutters in the ground floor windows fastened. His own room upstairs looked untouched, but there was a note propped against his pillow. My dere brother, it read, I haue taken your siluer mirour & siluer backt combe wth mee to Kyngston for safe kepyng & I shal hope itt will not be longe tyll I see you thyr wth oure dere Tom. Yr loving sister Katherine.

  To Kingston? Home to her family? Why? And with his silver comb and mirror! As to that, she was probably right, though not having them to hand was irksome. An empty house drew thieves. Jack grinned at the thought of the houses he and Bob had rummaged through in Lambeth, and the silver spoons rolled up in his spate hose in the leather box. But why should she flee this comfort for a house crowded with brothers and sisters, servants, and her father’s ’prentices?

  There was another note, bulkier and sealed, propped against one of the embroidered pillowcases on Tom’s and her own bed beside a nosegay of wilted, drying flowers. Taking up the letter, Jack set the candlestick on the chest at the bed’s foot, drew his knife and after heating the thin blade, ran it neatly under the letter’s seal. Unfolded, it proved to be four pages in Katherine’s painstakingly neat hand, and he skimmed through them quickly.

  My onely dere swete harte. I am sore distrest that you shd come hoame & finde mee gone for all these weekes I haue longyd onely to be wth you. I haue no othyr comforte but to see you & nowe yor loue swete harte & I pray All mighty god tht yor rehersalls haue gon well & you are safely come hoame to read thys. You must knowe tht if I do not stay for yor comming itt is becos in Istleworth the syknes grows so gret tht I am feared to stay. XXX or XL are dead tht I knowe of & more who are kept secret so thyr howses be not shut upp & theyr people stopped from comming & goeing. & the skynes goes everywhere euene to the mayds att Mr Plums for hys moat wyl not kepe Deth oute. The curate & Mr Moris & som othyrs sey itt is the paper mille tht is the cause of the gret skynes here for gret loades of raggs & cloathing come upp eche tide from the Cittie to be made into paper & itt is sayd they are cloathes & linnens from infected howses & poore ded folk. Mr Moris sayes itt is agaynst the Cittie law but here nott.

  My derest I pratle on becos I feare you haue not had my letters sence I haue had none from you these weekes. I feare you are stille angrey with mee for walkyng wth that man in Sion fielde but what could I do when hee would followe mee so boldely & nott let goe my hand? I was soe happy when you came & rescued mee for hee would not believe I was maryed & then to haue you thynke it my fault was hard to beare. I am shamed to tell you now tht in my hurt I did not giue you the gret good newes tht come October we are to haue a child, god willyng. It is soe wonderfull newes tht I am shamed now to haue kept itt from you & my mother wrote to chide me for itt. Now shee & my father hearying how evill the syknes is in thys place haue sent theyr seruant wth the waggon to Kew & Istleworth ferry to bring mee hoame to theym in Kyngston wher itt is not soe bad. I do not wish to goe but my father seys itt is my dutie to you to kepe safe my selfe & childe. Do not I pray you tary at New Howse. I looke tor you to come quick as you may.

  Jack turned to the fourth sheet where Katherine ended in a hasty scrawl:

  Ile say farwell then Tom sense the man is waiting for mee though thys letter is too short for all tht I woulde saye. I ende prayenge almighty god blesse you for his mercies sacke & prayenge yo’ forgifnes for my sad deciept.

  Yor woefulle Kitten

  Jack stared blindly at the pages trembling in his hand. He shivered uncontrollably, his eyes blurting with angry tears. A brat. The bitch was going to have a brat and next year there would be another and where would he be then? Alone in lodgings on Bankside with his room at New House readied for even more of the mewing, smelly things. The beautiful room had been his for only the two short months since the house was finished, and though it might not be in London Town, it was his. And Tom. Dear rackety Tom would grow thick-waisted and tame, become a vestryman at All Saints’ and dote so on his growing family that he would scarce spare a thought for brother Jack who once had been the apple of his eye.

  Unless … unless … Jack wiped his eyes and looked again at the fourth sheet. Almost—almost it had by itself the look of a hasty note. A farewell note. If it were read in haste…

  It was the mention of that nasty scene in Syon Field that gave him the idea. Katherine had gone to Syon Garden to watch Tom and William Percy rehearse the lords and ladies in their speeches and dances for The Fairy Pastorall the masque Percy had written for entertainment at the great banquet the Earl was to give for the King on the eighth of June. Young Harry Cliffe had seen her there and followed when she slipped out to walk home through the pretty tree-shaded pasture, but jealous, sharp-eyed Tom had read Cliffe’s hungry look and was not far behind. It had come almost to blows, with Cliffe sneering that no low-born, ranting player could hope to keep such a pretty piece to himself and Tom tearing strips off his hide with words as keen as knives. Cliffe would have liked to run him through for that, unarmed or no, but may have been unsure of Tom’s standing with the King’s Men, for he held his anger in check. The Globe playhouse sharers by their charter literally were “King’s Men” –Gentlemen of the Bedchamber to King James and privileged as such, low-born of no.

  But if Cliffe backed off, he had not forgotten Katherine. Twice on Bankside he had sought Jack out to offer him a fat and tempting purse of gold for putting him in the way of speaking with her away from New House and the maid and manservant. That he meant to abduct her Jack was sure, but he dared not help, for Kitten’s tale of his part in such a plot would surely come in time to Tom. But this now … this might be safe. If Cliffe would play his part in exchange for word of where Katherine was and how he might come at her…

  There was not much time. An hour, perhaps, if that. Swiftly Jack re-heated his knife blade to seal up the fourth sheet of the letter by itself, and when it was done he replaced the folded paper against the pillow. Tom in his haste would never notice the smeared edge of the sealing wax. What next? A quick look in Katherine’s fripperie told him she had left a dress or two behind. It would not matter in the dark that they were her shabbiest. Jack took up the candle and hurried out and down the stairs, pausing briefly on the landing. There was no time to burn the three pages he still held, so he put down the candlestick and tugged upward at the great round knob of the newel post. He had found the shallow hiding-place when it came loose by accident one day, and since then a little wedge of paper had kept it tight and secret. There was just room for the much-folded papers on top of his small hoard of money.

  In the next minute he was out
the door and hurrying back to the Lion, this time not the long way round by the road, but over the gate into Syon Field and racing north through the summer-dry grass.

  The coming back was faster yet. Cliffe took Jack up behind him on the bay gelding and passed Syon gatehouse at a canter, putting the horse at the field gate as if it were no higher than a joint-stool. In mid-field he pulled up among the trees. “I’ll ride to meet you when I see y’at the far side,” he said shortly. Jack was almost glad the dusk beneath the trees obscured the young man’s exultant grin.

  Back in his own room at New House Jack stripped to his small-clothes, bundling the doublet and trunk-hose into a worn old cloak-bag of Katherine’s. The muslin dress was an uncomfortably tight fit across his shoulders—his costume for The London Prodigal would have been perfect but this would have to serve, fastened at the bodice-front or no. A handkerchief pinned there would hide the gap. From his own box he drew the two wig bags and looked in each to find the blonde one. A few loosened pins, a deft twist or two, and when he slipped it on it transformed him not into a lady of the Danish Court, but a passable sort of Katherine. He had two pairs of ladies’ shoes as well, but decided to keep to his own in case he had to run for it. The shoes, the rest of his own clothing, and his makeup box he crammed into the cloak-bag. The leather box he pushed out of sight beneath his bed.

  Tom Garland, when the waterman put him ashore at the ferry landing, came past the church and up the road in long, impatient strides, his box upon his back and a bulky parcel wrapped with coarse muslin and twine under his arm. He had come no further than the first gate into Syon Field and the Wardenhold parsonage opposite when twenty yards ahead he saw a figure in a pale dress move into the moonlight from New House lane, waver uncertainly, and then hurry away with a distinctive, familiar skimming gait, half walk and half run. Kitten! Out at night? And alone? He could have felt no more than bewildered at first, but he had dropped his burdens in the lane and followed. What he must have felt at seeing her throw a cloak-bag over the next Syon Field gate and go nimbly after it, full skirt, farthingale and all, or at recognizing the horseman who cantered up to meet her, Jack could not imagine. Anger surely, then betrayal. Pain. And then disgust. To be cruelly sure, Cliffe laughed and bent to kiss “Kitten’s hands.

  “Dearest Kitty-Kate,” Cliffe said in a laughing, carrying voice. The boatmen wait at Syon Wharf. We must be away before your foolish husband comes. My baggage waits us at the Temple. Here, let me hand you up.”

  And then the horse was drumming away, leaving poor Tom Garland rooted by the gate, caught fast in the long nightmare.

  That if againe this apparision come

  SO LONG AGO. IT HAD HAPPENED SO long ago. But in this room in this house it seemed scarcely a day ago, an hour ago.

  “Are you all right?” A whisper.

  Roger came out of his reverie to find Pippa, sitting up in her sleeping bag, watching him doubtfully. “I was just remembering,” he said slowly.

  And he told her.

  “I don’t know whether I can explain it,” Roger said unhappily when he had finished. Pippa lay curled on her side watching him, accepting the tale of Jack and Tom matter-of-factly, without wonder, without questions, “l don’t know whether it’s explainable.”

  But he wanted very much to understand, and so he tried. “Look: thinking about the past we usually think about certain people in this story or that out of times past, not about all the things that were going on in that minute. Well, maybe a patch of time can be something like a theatre. The audience is in the present, coming and going, eating and drinking and talking, and looking at the past up there on the stage. But suppose there were seats up on the stage too, the way there were in Tom’s time. And that’s this house. Anyway, while you sit there you feel inside the play on one side, and still part of the audience on the other, and you know that if you weren’t afraid to break the rules you could leave your chair and be a player in the past yourself…” He paused, unsure. “No, maybe that’s not it at all. But it’s the way it feels.”

  “That’s awfully complicated,” Pippa said doubtfully. “Maybe it’s how, but it doesn’t tell why. If poor Tom’s heart was that broken maybe he just goes on looking for her and forever and over dying in the plague—didn’t Alan’s notebook say he might’ve? And he’s using Tony to help look.”

  But Roger shied away from anything so alarmingly direct as a ghost—and at that a ghost who desperately and endlessly sought a truth that he knew. “I suppose it could come to the same thing,” he said uncomfortably. He fell into an unhappy silence.

  Into that silence came the sound of a car’s motor and, after a moment, the front door closing and the murmur of voices below. The door across the way closed quietly and Jo’s footsteps whispered towards the hall stairs.

  “Alan’s back,” Roger said. He felt in the dark shadow on the floor beside him for his sandals. “You stay here.

  “I’ll see what Jo says about how Pa’s feeling.”

  He meant to join Jo and Jemima and Alan in the front room, but when he came to the bottom of the stairs he heard Jo’s quiet voice saying, “No, I’ve not looked at it. I’ve been too occupied with Tony. But Jemima did tell me it a little. You don’t actually think Thomas Garland’s haunting this house, do you? It sounds quite absurd.”

  Roger stopped and stood quite still.

  “Of course it is,” Alan agreed. “But it did have me going for a while. That colloquial Elizabethan accent, the way Tony changed, the confusion between past and present—I had some pretty crazy ideas going. But on the way up to town it hit me: here’s a chap under a tremendous strain who walks into a house straight out of his childhood fantasies. Who’s to say that didn’t stir up some long-forgotten tale of poor Tom’s ghost? If Coxes lived here as long as Tony seems to think, they might have picked up any old stories that were passed down along with the house. An actor who played on the same stage with Shakespeare and may have died in a plague epidemic would be remembered in a village the size this must have been, and Tony’s gran or his aunt could have told him the last few tatters of the tale when he was too young to think it interesting.”

  “It’s just possible,” Jemima said with cautious interest. “On one of the maps I copied bits from this morning there was something. Just a minute…” Her footsteps hurried into the dining-room and came tapping back. “Here it is. This one was dated 1627. This house is marked ‘New House’—though it’s shown as L-shaped—but there’s no owner’s name given as there are on these others. There is a ‘Coxes’ though. Up here beyond where the road used to turn north towards Brentford before it was straightened and cut up through the Town Field to the London Road.”

  “Well there you are, then,” Alan said happily. That’s it. Nursery tales have an uncanny way of surviving for centuries.”

  “I’m not sure it’s one Tony would have forgotten if ever he did hear it,” Jo said mildly. “It’s true we haven’t heard anything out of the way these past two nights while he was up in town … but I can’t worry about all this now. Tony’s asleep at last, but his breathing sounds dreadful and his pulse seems slow. He said not, but I wonder whether we oughtn’t look up a doctor to root out of bed. I don’t like to ask you to go out again, Alan, but since we’re so close to West Middlesex Hospital, I thought you might zip around and ask whether they have a list of local doctors who are on call.”

  “Dear Jo,” Alan protested. “Why didn’t you say so straightaway? I thought you were looking rather haunted, but I’m a little slow on the uptake at this hour.” There was the sound of the canvas chair scraping back as he pushed up out of it. “If I see a stray doctor passing the reception desk, I shall abduct him on the spot. What do I say if I’m asked Tony’s temperature?”

  “One hundred and one. That was fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

  “Right.” Alan emerged into the hallway and caught sight of Roger standing rooted in the shadows there. “Good grief, you startled me, Rog.” His voice dropped as he opened th
e front door, “I say, be a good lad and don’t let Jo see you looking so tragic. I’m off to fetch a doctor. Back in a trice.”

  Roger could not face Jo. His feelings were in too much of a turmoil. He fled upstairs instead, to Pippa and the ghost-filled room. Oh, yesterday he would have embraced Alan’s theory wholeheartedly. But even if he had not learned the truth since then, he would have known that Jo was right: if his father had been told at the age of three that Castle Cox had once belonged to one of Shakespeare’s actors, he would quite probably have remembered every word of it.

  There was a great deal of coming and going in the upstairs hall in the hour that followed, and nothing Roger and Pippa could do but leave the door ajar and keep out from underfoot. Roger found himself nodding where he sat, and gathered up his sleeping bag to spread it on the second camp bed. He could not sleep, but fell into a half-doze where the doctor’s murmured, “rather nasty inflammation of the throat…” and “…see whether this doesn’t make him more comfortable,” were mixed with a strange and distant female voice saying, “You’ve a touch of it yourself, my lad, by the look of you,” and Jo’s muffled, “I think the hall is wide enough, but they’ll just have to bring it on up to be sure.” It was two in the morning when he was roused by Jemima’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t be alarmed, love. The ambulance is here to take your dad to the hospital, and Jo thought you’d want to know. Close the door behind you. No need to wake Pippa.”

  The ambulance trolley stood in the hall and the two that attendants were helping Tony onto it. The doctor left Jo’s side to stand beside Tony as one man covered him with a light blanket and fastened the straps. “Have they made you comfortable enough, Mr. Nicholas?”

  “Hurts all over,” Tony murmured indistinctly. “Dam’ silly nuisance.”