The Vizard Mask

by Diana Norman

  A rattle of hooves and wheels over setts announced that other presager of dawn, the burial cart. She went into her attic to wait for it.

  The actor's room was empty. She stood at the side window, kneading the sheet in her hands. Please God. Please God. Please God.

  His door opened and he came in. His eyes went immediately to her window. He looked dreadful. 'Fanny?'

  She nodded.

  'Tell the bearers to call here too. The baby orange is dead.'

  'I'm s-ssorry.' The orange-seller's children had been the bane of his life, running in and out of his room, interrupting his writing, but he'd formed an attachment for the smallest and cheekiest.

  'Boots.'

  'Yes?"

  'Take care.'

  'You too.'

  From her balcony she added her 'Here' to the chorused answer to the buryers' call, and started back downstairs to sew Fanny into her winding sheet. On the clerestory she heard Sabina's voice: 'Is it time?' She went into Phoebe's room where the two girls always slept together, despite the heat. Two pairs of eyes looked warily at her. They didn't want to hear. She didn't want to tell them.

  'I'm s-sorry.'

  Phoebe's arm went round Sabina's bare shoulder. 'We'll get up.'

  'You've g-got an hour yet.' They divided work into shifts, but all four were becoming exhausted.

  'We'll see her off.'

  They'd been unprepared for the casualness of the buryers and their grappling hooks. They were ashamed that Kinyans and Francesca had been taken away like sacks of rubbish to a tip, no ceremony, no priest, and, they knew, at the end of the bouncing plague-cart's journey, no marker for the grave they shared with hundreds of other corpses.

  As Penitence sewed the sheet round the body, Her Ladyship said: 'You're the Bible-pounder. I want something said over Fanny. A bit of a psalm. Only I don't want no God in it, and nothing to do with sin.'

  'That's w-what the Psalms are ab-bout,' protested Penitence.

  The four of them carried Fanny to the door and laid her down.

  Adapting the first Psalm, Penitence said: 'And she shall be like a tree p-planted by the rivers of water, that b-bringeth forth its fruit in its season; its leaves also shall not wither; and whatsoever she doeth shall p-prosper.'

  She'd won Her Ladyship's approval for once: 'That's nice. Like she's going to the country.'

  A key turned, the door opened, letting in sunshine. In the foulness of the salon the incoming air from Dog Yard smelled as fresh as a summer river. Penitence lifted Job's head so that it could cool him and closed her eyes, letting it wash over her. A voice said: "Morning, girls. Mind yourselves now.' She heard the clunk as the hooks were thrown expertly over Fanny's body, the rattle of the chains to which they were attached, the sound of dragging.

  There was a sudden kerfuffle. Sabina screamed. The door slammed. She opened her eyes. Sabina was clawing at the door: 'Out. I've gotta get out.' She collapsed, sobbing. 'There's people living out there.'

  Her Ladyship pulled the girl to her feet. 'No they ain't.'

  'They are, they are.'

  They ain't. Listen.' The bells were starting on the day's toll. Today it was louder than ever, as if encircling steeples were bending over them. 'All London's got it now. There's thousands like us.'

  Sabina sniffed, listened. 'All our clients?'

  'Yes.'

  'All the lords and ladies?'

  'Yes.'

  'Even the King?' Her Ladyship nodded. Sabina hadn't seen the gentry's mass exodus. Penitence watched her find comfort in the unexpected democracy of pestilence. The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve. She was magnanimous: 'Hope all them mistresses is taking care of the poor King.'

  August came in with the temperature rising.

  As manufacture stopped and the chimneys of dyers, brewers and soap-makers ceased smoking, London became sharp- etched. The Bridge stared down at a traffic-less river which reflected back its span of houses in upside-down exactitude.

  If it hadn't been for the bells of 130 churches ringing the news that the Plague was now in each parish, the City would have been reminiscent of an Italian town in the afternoon where everybody slept.

  In the church of St Giles-in-the-Fields, the Reverend Robert Boreman led his congregation in the litany prescribed for this special day of Fast and Humiliation.

  'Deliver us, Lord ...' He was so afraid for the people massed before him that he couldn't meet their eyes. Where had they all come from? What marvellous expectation compelled them to take such a risk? Did they really think the Lord would deliver them?

  'For there is wrath gone out against us, and the Plague is begun.'

  Last week's Bill of Mortality had been such it had deluded him into thinking his entire parish was either shut up or dead. Only God knew what next week's would be like.

  'That dreadful arrow of Thine sticks fast in our flesh.'

  He felt a rise of irritation at Peter Simkin's absence. The clerk had begged leave to come in late so that he might stay in the vestry and finish the Bill that must be delivered tomorrow. But he should be here by now. It was the fault of that damned whorehouse Puritan he set so much store by, who'd let him down.

  As he knelt for the Silence, the Reverend Boreman fought to overcome the surge of anger. Cleanse me from all uncharitableness. He had no right to condemn her. Peter said she had her hands full nursing her harlots. He must stop despising Puritans. And Anabaptists. And Presbyterians. Even Quakers.

  There were churches round about where congregations would be facing empty pulpits this day if it hadn't been for these Nonconformers who'd come out of hiding to preach and tend to flocks deserted by their Church of England pastors. If the country survived the Plague and found Non- conformism popular, the established Church would have only itself to blame.

  He'd already seen a fly-sheet which jeered 'Pulpits to let'.

  A Day of Humiliation indeed.

  But will it survive? There'd been one baptism this week; one child born against almost five hundred deaths. They were facing annihilation. At the font he'd found himself huddling over the baby as if protecting a tiny flame from the wind.

  Peter Simkin had got writer's cramp entering dead names in the register. Where was Peter? Still in the vestry? Sometimes one didn't even know their names. Damn, damn, damned Holborn had found a woman and child dead from the Plague in one of its streets and grapple-hooked them both over the parish boundary into St Giles so that they shouldn't be a charge on it. To the burial of an unknown woman and child: 2s 3d.

  He clenched his hands tighter to stop them trembling. Cleanse me of anger. Help my fear. Let Thy nostrils be appeased by this foul disinfectant concoction now burning in Thy church's nightlights. By order of the magistrates he'd had to outlay £20 on the stuff. Let it be useful for something other than to make the congregation cough.

  He stood up for the Peace. 'Guard them, God,' he prayed. 'Guard these poor people whose faith in You has sent them to this, Your house, in this time of utmost peril.'

  At the church door, he shook hands, patted shoulders, reassured. Old Mrs Harris asked: 'Is He placated now, Rector? I'd like to die quiet.'

  'Pray,' he told her, and sent her out into a sunshine as remorseless as the God who made it.

  The bells of London, which had ceased ringing so that God could hear the general supplication, began tolling again.

  He stamped off to the vestry. It was not seemly for Peter Simkin, however busy he was, to absent himself on such a day. He began berating as he opened the door, 'It is not seemly—' and saw his clerk slumped over the tall desk on which the register lay open, the quill still in his hand, ink dripping from the overturned pot on to the floor.

  'Peter!'

  The eyes were open but the soul of the good little man had gone.

  The gold mayoral carriage was collecting its Lord Mayor and the Duke of Albemarle from the crowd on the steps of St Paul's. Its padded interior was sweltering.

  'Went well,' said the Duke, settling back. 'A lot of f
olk.'

  The Lord Mayor snorted moodily out of the window. 'Where was the Dean?'

  'Overcome by an urgent need to take the waters at Tun- bridge Wells, so I'm told.'

  The Lord Mayor snorted. 'Let's hope they drown him.'

  He detached his kerchief from his sleeve and wiped his face before holding it to his nose. He'd spent a fortune on brimstone, hops and pepper for the disinfectant fires that burned day and night in the streets, but as buryers collapsed from heat and plague into the pits they'd dug, the smell of rotting corpses joined the rising poison from refuse left lying even in the richer thoroughfares where there was no one left to clean them.

  He might as well be burning old shoes, like the poor did.

  He looked out at beautiful, still-whole buildings and saw ruins. Foreign buyers were refusing to accept goods manufactured in London. The Dutch were gaining confidence. One of their damned newspapers had said: 'The English Nation is now brought so low with the Plague that a man may run them down with his finger.'

  Even provincial towns one hundred miles away turned back trade from London. He supposed he couldn't blame them. Despite everything he did to contain it, rivulets of Plague escaped the shut-up and wound their way to Kent, to Yarmouth, up the arterial highways to Northamptonshire and Cheshire, to the Isle of Wight, and became a flood.

  A trickle of infection had even made its way to the willow- shaded meadows of Salisbury where the King was sheltering. One of the royal farriers had contracted it.

  Charles had been charming, by all accounts, and called up to the farrier's window on his way back from a stag hunt to ask if there was anything he could do.

  He wouldn't do it, of course, but the farrier would probably die cherishing the memory.

  He looked across at General Monck. 'Have you heard from the King?'

  'There were the Royal Proclamation disbanding officers and soldiers who served with the Parliamentary armies, forbidding them to come within twenty mile of London.' George smiled wryly. 'He were kind enough to send me a letter saying it weren't to apply to me.'

  The Lord Mayor said: 'He's afraid of rebellion, of course.'

  'Aye.'

  Rebellion, thought the Lord Mayor; the one matter he worries for and the one matter on which he can rest easy. Put half a million people in an oven with the Plague and you don't get rebellion, you get despair.

  The carriage bumped through the porterless gateway of the Guildhall. Upstairs curtains had been drawn allowing one crack to send a roadway of sun over the mayoral desk. Sir John dispatched his nephew for wine. 'I've had a letter from Salisbury too. From its mayor. He's unhappy.' His voice displayed a relish it hadn't shown for weeks. 'He's had to evict half his townspeople to make room for the royal party.'

  He picked the letter up. 'How big is the royal party, would you say?'

  The General considered. 'Ooh, mistresses, maids, pastrycooks, horse, grooms, bottle-washers. Four, five hundred?'

  'At least. Hoo, hoo. Poor old Salisbury. It's sweating him.' Sir John wiped the sweat from his own eyes and read: '"In acknowledgement of the honour done to it, the Corporation did present His Majesty with a pair of silver flagons, having had to borrow £100 for these and other gifts." Hoo, hoo. And he'd forgot till I reminded him that there were fees of homage due to royal servants from every Corporation when the King visits for the first time. Where is it? Here it is. "£5 to the day waiters of the Gentleman Usher. £3 16s to the Serjeant Trumpet, 10s to each Page of the Presence and a sum to the King's Jester."'

  He stopped being amused and flung the letter down. 'Jesus, London needed that money. Has the royal purse been opened in your direction yet?'

  The General shook his big head. 'Nowt.'

  'Nor mine.'

  He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain another inch. Behind him he heard Old George pour himself more wine.

  Why didn't the bells stop1 All day, every day, jarring the marrow of his bones. Where did the sextons receive the energy to keep ringing? The stone of the mullion was hot against his hand. Below him the Guildhall lawn had turned yellow with nobody to water it. Why didn't it rain?

  They're beginning to starve, George.'

  'I know it, John.'

  There was a knock on the double doors. They'd been waiting for it.

  'Come in.'

  The clerk to the Parish Clerks was apologizing as he entered. 'Not all the returns is in, my lords, I fear. Manifestly, there's been mortality among the clerks ... and, in course, there's the Quakers as won't have the bell rung for 'em, and we don't get no returns from the Jews ...'

  'Give me the damned thing.' But when the paper was put in his hand, he didn't want to look at it. It was warm and crackling from the disinfecting oven. An idiot's precaution. If heat could kill the Plague, his city would be the healthiest in Europe. 'Well then.'

  Putting off the moment, he checked the date at the top of the columns of parishes and figures. 'From the 15 August to the 22. 1665.'

  He turned the sheet over. 'The Diseases and Casualties this Week.' Reluctantly his eye scanned the list: 'Abortive: 4 ... Chrisomes: 9 .. . Head-mould-shot: 1 ...' What the hell was that? 'Lethargy: 1 ... Palsie: 1 . .. Plague ...' He dropped the paper. 'Oh my God.'

  'Tell us, lad,' said General Monck.

  'Five thousand, five hundred and sixty-eight.'

  Chapter 9

  Job didn't die. Alania did. The next day Phoebe and Sabina developed the symptoms. On the day after that Her Ladyship said: 'Penitence, go get a sheet from the attic. We're going to have to make up another bed.'

  She was stupefied from tiredness: 'Who for?' 'Me.'

  She didn't believe it, couldn't. By the time she'd fetched the sheet, Her Ladyship had got everything ready; a bucket, a candle, a bottle of water and a beaker stood by the couch Fanny had died on. They made up the bed together as they'd done with all the others.

  'Are you sure?' Her Ladyship was thinner, but so was she.

  Her Ladyship tutted and, with an oddly prudish gesture, pulled aside an inch of peignoir to show the tokens. 'I'm not having any of that old electuary,' she said. 'There's two guineas in a purse under my bed for housekeeping. And get that slut Dorinda on her feet. You'll need her.'

  Penitence helped her on to the bed then ran for the stairs.

  'Penitence.'

  She paused. 'Yes, Ladyship?'

  'Whatever I say in the ravings is not to be taken notice of.'

  'Yes, Ladyship.'

  Dorinda's eyes were closed. They'd checked on her every day, emptied her pot, put food and water by her bed and left her. Downstairs her name was not mentioned.

  Penitence shook her with both hands. 'You've got to wake up. You've got to.' The girl's eyes stayed closed but her face was sulky. She's ashamed. The bitch doesn't know how to face me. She wanted nothing so much as to hit the girl till her teeth rattled. Instead, she said: 'Her Ladyship's got it. She's asking for you.'

  For a moment the appeal seemed to fail, then Dorinda's lips blew a petulant sigh. 'All bloody right,' she said.

  Phoebe began to cough. Her voice bubbled like somebody's under water, but she wouldn't stop talking. 'Haven't seen him since he were born, but I sent three shilling every week.' She turned towards Penitence. The skin of her face shone wet and grey, like clay. 'He's being brought up a gent.' She looked back to Dorinda. 'Turnstile Alley, Cheapside,' she said urgently. Her body arched and she cried out. 'Who'll look out for him now?'

  'I will, Pheeb,' said Dorinda. 'Hold on, girl.'

  'I'm trying.'

  If she hadn't been so tired, Penitence would have been appalled at her own naivety; it had never occurred to her that any of the girls might have had a baby.

  'Has Sabby gone?'

  'No,' lied Dorinda. 'She's holding on. And there's Her Ladyship, look. And Job. We'll beat it yet.'

  Phoebe turned desperate, blind eyes towards the others. 'I'm trying.'

  There was a moan from Her Ladyship's bed. Dorinda went to her. Penitence sat on as Phoebe
's hand ground the bones of her own. She bent her head down to listen to Phoebe's whisper: 'Sabby's gone, ain't she?'

  'Yes. A little while ago.' She'd died almost gratefully, as gratefully as she'd received the infection once she knew Phoebe had it.

  Phoebe nodded. 'Ask 'em to put us in together.' There was another burst of agony: 'I know it was sin, Prinks, but He won't punish us, will He? He'll forgive us now, won't He?'