McCann, Maria - As Meat Loves Salt

by Balefanio

  'He's setting the Lord's Prayer,' Ferris told her. 'When it's done I'll bring it you.'

  But she was already drifting off. Her nephew put his hand to her forehead.

  'She's hot,’ he said on the stairs. 'But I doubt it's more than a cold. Let's check your typesetting.'

  He found only two errors, and I had composed as far as Thine is the Kingdom. When the whole thing was properly justified and my name added in a smaller point at the bottom (which I thought was like the ending of a young girl's sampler), he took me over to the press.

  'This is a Dutch one,’ he said. 'The frame is wood and as presses go it's not heavy.'

  'Was your uncle licensed to print, then?'

  'No. He got the press as part-payment for a debt, took it as a commodity, you might say; then he got the itch to use it, and paid a licensed man to run off lists of his goods, and so learnt.'

  'But he did not use it himself? That would be against the law.'

  'They were but lists. I did the same when I traded in linens.'

  And you, you—'

  '—have no licence. Don't look so sick.’ He placed his hand on part of the machine. 'Here. This is the bed — it rolls in and out so we can get at the type and ink it. Put your form onto the bed — like this.'

  I watched him fix the form, with all my labours in it, to the flat bottom part of the machine.

  'See that? Now, we ink the form with these inkballs.' He put them in my, hands. 'Run them over the type.'

  "They stink,' I said, passing them back and forth. Their smooth leather surface gave off an odour like rotting kidneys.

  Ferris laughed. 'I piss on them. To keep them sound.'

  'Make me not your story!'

  'Ask anyone in the trade.' He grinned. 'Your privilege to piss on them tonight.'

  The form was inked and he arranged a little frame about the let­tering. 'This is what you call your frisket. It stops ink getting where you don't want it. Now, paper. There's some behind you.'

  I reached for the top sheet of a pile.

  'And don't paw the rest of it,’he cried.

  'Yes, Your Lordship.' I held out the sheet to him.

  'Don't give it me, put it there. That thick thing is the tympanum — it evens the pressure—'

  'I won't remember all these names.' I laid the clean white sheet atop the tympanum, as he called it, and Ferris showed me how to work the hinges so that the paper was bedded between two layers. Then the bed was rolled underneath the enormous screw at the other end of the press.

  'Now, pull the lever to bring your platen down.' He showed me the way I should bend my arm. I took a firm grip and dragged the metal bar all the way.

  'When you let go, the thing will move back of itself, because there's a counterweight,' he warned me. 'Right, let go now.'

  I watched the lever return to its original position. The platen rose. 'Is that it?'

  He nodded. 'Do you remember how the paper comes out?'

  I was excited as a child with a gift, undoing all I had seen him do until at last the paper came off the form. He came to look it over with me.

  The Lord's Prayer stood out clearly, properly pointed, and my name underneath like a real printer's. I capered in the smoky air.

  'Let it dry,' he warned. 'Lay it here until the ink is set.'

  A thought struck me. 'Did you go back for the paper?'

  'Roger Rowly brought it.'

  'Ah.'

  And why, Ah? This is good quality merchandise ... now, load an­other sheet while I watch.'

  After a few false starts I was able to set up the machine and print off correctly. Ferris, ink blotching his unscarred cheek, made me say the name of each part of the press as I handled it. Though he watched like a cat all the time I was performing my tasks, in the end he could not fault me. Five copies of the Lord's Prayer lay drying on the stand.

  'That's plenty for one day.' He rubbed his eyes and gave himself another smear on the other side.

  'Ferris?'

  Aye?'

  'Does your scar still hurt?'

  'It itches sometimes. Now, your prentice's privilege. Take the ink-balls into the back courtyard and wash the ink off.'

  He was serious. I went out and pissed on the things, turning them about and shaking them. Coming back I held them out for his inspec­tion. He looked up from the type which he was poking at with a little brush, and nodded approval. 'Next time you complain of the stink, remember whose it is.'

  We wiped our hands on rags, laid by the heavy aprons and went upstairs to wash off the remaining ink a more civilised way.

  For once, sitting by the fire with him, I consented to share some wine.

  'You have to do a lot more to be a printer,' Ferris explained to me. 'There's the printing of several pages on one sheet, all in order.'

  'What, one - two - three?'

  'No, but so they come out in order after being folded. And all properly justified and nicely finished off— no blanks, no widows or orphans.'

  'Widows and—?'

  'Bits left over, stuck alone on the last line. Looks ugly.'

  I asked if he could do all that himself and he said he could manage some part of it, but nothing like the skill of a real craftsman. 'Go and look in the bookcase,' he urged. "The big collection of sermons on the top shelf

  I did as I was bidden. There were frontispieces and borders and different typefaces: a lovely piece of work. He said not every master was as skilled, and some let their prentices do too much too soon and thus spoilt the volumes. It was hard to listen to this and think of those slovenly prentices. Why was I not born in London, I found myself thinking, and raised in a trade where a man can set up for himself? Put to it early enough, I would have made a good printer. But there is no profit in crying out against the will of God. How fast do we forget our resolutions! That very morning I had been touched by Grace, yet like treacherous Simon Peter, I was already denying what had been revealed. I reminded myself that all was well.

  'More wine?' Ferris held out the bottle.

  I shook my head and for good measure pressed my hand over my goblet.

  'I shall go up to Aunt soon,’ said he. But he stayed, staring into the fire.

  'Go now, if you're going to drink,' I urged him. He looked an­noyed, but I went on, 'You take my meaning.'

  'Yes, yes! She dislikes it.' He got irritably to his feet. 'Not the only one, is she? Will you come up?'

  'Later, when you're tired.'

  'When I'm drunk, you mean.'

  I looked exasperation at him.

  When he was gone up I must have dozed off. I was picking fluff off someone's coat and fitting it into a form no bigger than a mini­ature when a dull thunk woke me - Becs banging the dish against the door panels - and I smelt the fishy stink of eels. I sluthered up in my chair and blinked my way over to the table.

  The things were lying in a mess of onions and parsley. They were not ill cooked but I have never liked them, no matter how prepared.

  And be it noted here, that few people will allow a man his natural dis­likes, but instead folk are always crying up some new receipt supposed infallibly to give delight: Sure, you've never had them done in the Vene­tian manner. I could see from Becs's face that it was her fixed intent to impress upon me her skill in eel cookery. Ferris sat opposite me and observed my difficulty with amusement. I feared he would laugh, but he kept his countenance quite civil as long as Becs could see it.

  'Please to give me some of that wine,' I begged, thinking to wash the things down.

  'Finished,' he returned sweetly. 'Shall we have some more brought?'

  'Not for me. Becs, some ale please.’ As she closed the door behind her, Ferris and I pulled faces at one another.

  "They'll get cold,' he said. I poked at the smallest eel with the serv­ing fork and it flaked apart. He took the fork from me and dumped two of them on my dish, then spooned the greenish sauce on top. Having done the same for himself, he began eating with relish. I took small gobbets and crushed them
on my back teeth, carefully spar­ing my tongue. It was slow going: I could only manage one to his two.

  Becs brought me the ale. 'I'm taking supper to the Mistress now,' she announced, depriving me of my hoped-for escape. 'Do you want anything?'

  Her eyes fingered reproachfully on my plate. Ferris beamed at her and crammed great lumps of the slimy flesh into his mouth, closing his eyes in a mock ecstasy.

  'Unkind,' I hissed when she was finally gone.

  'I'm not Elect like some. Here,' he relented, 'try the wine,' and he fetched the bottle from its hiding place behind the chair where I had been sleeping. It did take off the worst of the taste. But I was careful not to indulge myself, swallowing just enough to enable me to clear the platter. I was glad when the girl returned. She presented us with a hot apple pie, and smiled as she gathered up my empty dish.

  'He knows now what he's been missing,' said Ferris, turning an angelic face up to her. I fumed silently as she lumbered off with her pile of plates.

  'You want her to serve them again!' I exploded when we were left alone.

  'I like eels. And she would most certainly give them you any way.' He laughed. 'Don't you know what eels do to men?'

  'Make them sick,' I said. I had a most pestilent queasiness coming on. Once back in my chair by the fire I dared not budge, and while waiting for the odious feeling to pass I again fell asleep.

  The fire was low. I could not tell what o'clock it might be, but there was nobody in the room with me. My left hip stabbed as I got up and went slowly downstairs. The kitchen was all in darkness, and Becs long gone to bed.

  Bed. From the kitchen to the top of the house seemed a weary long way for my heave limbs. This was worse than Beaurepair, where at least the great hall was on the same level as the offices and kitchen. I fumbled my way up the first set of stairs, lit a candle from the dying fire and started on the second lot feeling sorry for myself and hop­ing Becs had put something in the bed to warm it. Just as I reached halfway up the second flight the bells at Paul's chimed eleven. I had thought it later.

  At the bend of the stairs there was more light. I felt the rush of blood in my cheeks which heated me whenever I recalled the night of my mistake, as I called it. What if Becs were really in there, now? Should there be any noise I would go quietly to my chamber, hearing and seeing nothing. I turned the corner. The light was from Ferris's room, as I had known it would be. Again the door stood ajar. A full five minutes passed: the flame of my candle grew tall and clear in the motionless air, and the candle being tilted, wax piqued my hand before hardening into a second skin. Grace, I repeated inwardly, Grace; but since the morning it was become an empty word, a woman's name. Go away, I told myself. Walk, cripple, walk.

  There was a creak from within. The sound struck a cold blade into my chest and my heart beat painfully as if pierced. The coverlet rustled. I could not move now: I had to stay put. He might go back to sleep. In agony I waited, knowing myself free all the while to walk to my own chamber, except that I could not do it.

  I saw fingers fold round the door-edge. Ferris stood before me, clad in his nightshirt, eyes big and black in the yellow light. We stared at one another.

  'It's you,' he said stupidly. I thought, He took me for his wished-for ghost. The battering of my heart began to go down: I managed to say, 'I am sorry to have—' then my tongue dried. He was pulling at his hair, running it through his fingers and stroking it down on his neck. I had seen others do this while looking on me: Caro, and Becs. I had seen Patience do it while gazing at Zebedee.

  I stared at Ferris's parted lips. He was again the incubus. I could step up to him — force him over to the bed as I had once dragged the boy inch by inch towards the pond, feeling his struggles weaken until he was helpless, make him cry out—

  Deliver me from temptation, O Lord, let me not — not—

  'Do you want me for anything?' Ferris asked.

  The Voice laughed deep within my head. My sense sharpened to a cruel ache. It was all I could do not to pitch forward into the door­way.

  He went on, 'Sleep evades me.'

  The dry, knowing Voice of the Evil One whispered to me, Tire him out.

  I closed my eyes.

  'Well, Jacob.' His voice was unsure. I opened my eyes again and, looking down, saw my fist coated in candlewax. Ferris stared at it, say­ing, 'If you've nothing to say to me, best go to bed.'

  The door shut in my face.

  I undressed and lay down in tumult, my head brimming with foul images. No question of calming the blood this time, I was charged like a musket, and the seed fired off so hotly that I groaned; too bad if he heard it. Afterwards I lay calmed in body but racked in mind. Was this always the way of it, that a man climbed towards the angels only to drop into the midden? And he - he - I went over every look and gesture which had burnt itself into my memory. This, of course, was another snare. For it was a short way from what he had done to what I would have had him do; and once more I felt my weight bear him down and saw him grind his teeth, and then— in short, I was defeated afresh. The gushing forth of the spirit did at least

  bring on sleep, and sleep wrapped me up a little while from fear and shame.

  Waking brought back the knowledge of my filthiness. Things could not go on as they had; I dressed and considered what to do.

  It was possible I had seen my friend through a glass darkly, the image twisted by my own murky desires. Then I bethought me of the hand smoothing the yellow locks of hair; but this time, being on the alert, I at once felt the snare closing round me in the sudden tighten­ing of my loins, and I straightway put the thought to one side.

  It wanted yet an hour to the time when the house would begin to bustle. I looked out on the black courtyard, now my familiar view, yet unforeseen in the New Model, undreamt of at Beaurepair. In the spring I would leave for something clean different, and this too would join the dead lives I had put behind me. At the front of the house was Ferris's window and his view was stranger still — firstly, the place where he had remarked a pretty girl; then a secret communication with a room become her prison; later, he had looked out on the night with her before taking her to his bed; and still later, the steep walls fenced in a ghost's walk.

  I wondered what the view was to him now. The field where he hunted Mister Cooper? A walk shared with his comrade and friend? Did he lie lonely— snare, snare, snare. I fell again on my knees, im­pelled by fear, and spoke aloud: 'Help me, Lord! I am not equal to the task; be Thou my strength!' and in the silence I heard that I must wait and trust as better men had done before me.

  Fully clothed, I got into bed so as to sleep out the time. When I next opened my eyes the sky was dark blue: once risen and at the window, I could distinguish the boundary wall of the courtyard. I took a few deep breaths and after braving the landing, made my way down­stairs without looking at the door next to mine.

  They were all risen before me, Ferris sitting at his usual corner of the table. He looked up as I entered; I turned my eyes away in confu­sion. Aunt wished me a good morning and went back to slicing bread. Becs was on her way out as I went in, and stepped back to ask me

  would I like the new eggs. I said yes, and would have said the same to a dish of spiders.

  'Good morning.' I paced awkwardly to a chair. Aunt raised her head to smile. Plainly she was still unwell, her cheeks an unnatural red and the skin round her nostrils tettered and cracked from constant wiping. I saw from the corner of my eye that her nephew bent his head over his plate. When I stole a glance at him he was crushing a slice of bread in one hand, biting off pieces as if to punish it. I prayed briefly and then remained silent, not because I was resolute in keeping my vow, but because I could think of nothing to say.

  The maid brought me some eggs fried in butter and Aunt put down a hunk of white bread next to the plate. The eggs were excel­lent, and spiritual turmoil had actually given me a hunger: I devoured there in silence, and scraped the dish. Afterwards, I bethought me that taking less victual might be of h
elp in curbing other appetites, but by then it was too late.

  'It is good to see you well again,’ I said to Aunt as I mopped up the last shreds of egg.

  'I don't know about well,' she said. 'Still, I made use of my time, ly­ing there. Thinking.' She tapped her head. 'Christopher, will you come to my chamber?'

  Ferris nodded. His aunt got up from her chair, and he rose with her.

  'Not just yet,' she said. 'In a little while.' Ferris did not return to the table with me, but went over to the fire and the bigger chairs, and flung himself down there. Silence settled on us like a pall. I was ill at ease lest he should think me unfriendly, so I went over to the other chair where I had him in full view. He flushed deeply and began to fidget, crossing and recrossing his legs.

  At last he said, still not looking at me, 'Have you something to say?'

  'I'm always fain to talk with you,' I said, and then remembered that I had not spoken to him the night before, when he had said he could not sleep. Perhaps he thought me selfish. That might be it, for his expression was wary as he said, ‘Aunt has something to break to me.'

  'I know,’ I replied. 'She said as much.'

  'Indeed.' His voice trembled. We each looked into the fire. He went on as if attacking me, 'It concerns you.'

  'Well, tell me what it is.'

  'Such innocence!' His laugh was a harsh bark which filled me with pain. Stunned, I watched him rise and leave the room.

  SEVENTEEN

  Brothers and Sisters

  Mistress would speak with you.' Having delivered this message, Becs withdrew before I could gather my wits and question her.

  Stung by curiosity, I bounded up the stairs. On my tapping at the door I was at once bidden to enter. She was propped against a reddish cushion, the empty salep cup by her side, and at the first glance I saw she was certainly not angry with me.

  'Come, sit down.' She patted the quilt as if inviting me onto the bed itself, but I guessed she meant me to take a chair, and did so. The room smelt of orris, and on the table I remarked an untidy heap of papers which had slithered onto her comb and hairpins.

  'May I speak frankly to you, my lad?' Her voice was grave. With­out waiting for a reply, she went on: 'When you left the army, what did you bring away with you?'