Ingenious Pain

by Andrew Miller

  James settles back, shakes his head slowly, sniffs, reaches for the jug.

  'Ghosts. Merely ghosts. You were saying?'

  'Nothing at all, sir. Nothing at all.'

  EIGHTH

  'Mrs Cole,' says the Reverend Lestrade, wiping his mouth, 'not only are you good enough to laugh at my stories but these are the juiciest pigeons in the world. I cannot think what we should do without you. Dr Dyer, will you not second me?'

  James raises his glass. 'Mrs Cole is the finest cook in Devon. She is an artist.'

  'An artist indeed!' The Reverend fills his glass. 'You have said the necessary thing, Doctor. Tabitha dear, will you pass the prawns. I thank you. Now tell me, is this sergeant of yours coming to see us before he embarks for the Americas?' Dido says: 'Leave the poor girl to eat her dinner, Julius.' The Reverend says: 'She may eat her dinner and talk, may she not? It was a simple question. I take an interest in the fellow's fortunes. He is a very able botanist. Did you know that? Nothing he cannot tell you about roses.'

  'You are making her blush, Julius. Do give it it over.' A tear falls from Tabitha's downturned face, plops in the buttery gravy on her plate. Mrs Cole pulls a cloth from her sleeve and forces it roughly on to the end of Tabitha's nose. Tabitha blows. Dido scowls at her brother, who shrugs guiltily and sips his wine. James winks at Sam, who is sat opposite him.

  321

  It is Sam's birthday. In his honour the entire household - with the exception of George Pace, who would be uncomfortable in such company - is dining together. It is May. A light rain is falling. Mary is sitting next to Sam.

  James says: 'Miss Lestrade tells me, Reverend, that you are going up to Bath.'

  1 think we may. Astick wants to go with his daughter. My sister likes the place.'

  Dido says: *I should like to go to the theatre again. They are performing The Merchant of Venice with Mr Barrett and Mr Death. Perhaps, Doctor, you should join us.'

  The Reverend says: 'The doctor does not care for theatre.'

  James says: 'I used to go sometimes, to the theatre in Orchard Street.'

  'What did you see?' Dido asks.

  James smiles. 'I am afraid I did not notice.'

  'In the winter,' says Dido, 'I always have a dream of going to Bath. It is always a fine day, all the world dressed in their best clothes, and I am going to a ball.' She laughs, blushes. 'It is a very fooHsh dream, to be sure. Do you care for Bath, Dr Dyer?'

  James reorders the pigeon bones on his plate. 'I find it somewhat . . .'

  The Reverend claps his hands. 'Here come the puddings! I hope you have kept some room for these, Sam.'

  Tabitha and Mrs Cole lay cakes and syllabubs on the table. There is a warm smeU of almonds and cinnamon. When the cakes are cut, Mrs Cole gives a large slice of the seed cake to Mary. The cook says: 'I know this is to her fancy. She likes the sweetness.'

  Mary eats the cake, breaking pieces off with her fingers, rolling the crumbs into a pellet. James grins at her. She looks up at him, briefly.

  Tabitha, recovered from her tears, says: 'There's a show over at Cow this afternoon.'

  What is it?' asks the Reverend.

  'It is a Negro,' says Mrs Cole, 'from Exeter.'

  Sam says: 'He's going to wrestle. An' lift up a cart an' a horse an' two men on each of his arms.'

  Tabitha says: 'His wife is there an' all. She's no bigger than your thumb.'

  'And does the wife also wrestle?' enquires the Reverend.

  Dido says: 'Tabitha could go with Sam to see it. It is not indecent, is it, Mrs Cole?'

  'I do not believe it is,' says Mrs Cole, 'but I shall go with them in case. The boy is too young to know, and Tabitha has not the wit.'

  The Reverend says: 'You are a female Solomon, Mrs Cole. Now then, Sam, if you wish for that last piece of cake we must have a song from you. I know the doctor likes your singing.'

  James says: 'As it is his birthday, should we not sing to him?'

  The Reverend nods. 'Then we shall all sing together. Sister, will you start us off on something?'

  The rain stops. By the time they have drunk their tea, the afternoon is glittering with watery light. They go out into the garden. The Reverend inspects his yellow roses, his lilac and his wisteria. He says: 'There is some tying-in to be done on the creepers.'

  Dido wraps a scarf around Sam's eyes. She turns him twice, says: 'Off you go!'

  The others scatter, whistling and calling, all except Mary who, to James's great satisfaction, looks genuinely puzzled. He says: 'It is a game, Mary! You must not let him catch you.'

  Sam, standing half a yard in front of her, senses a presence, reaches out both hands, then pauses, cocks his head, turns, and runs directly to where the Reverend is bent over his tulips.

  Dido calls: 'He can see! Shame on you, Sam!'

  'It was not that,' says James.

  Sam takes off the blindfold and gives it to the Reverend. The boy looks at Mary. He laughs. The Reverend puts on the bHndfold. After several minutes he catches Mrs Cole. Mrs Cole catches Tabitha. Tabitha, surprisingly fast on her feet, catches James. James catches Dido. They are all flushed, slightly breathless. Tabitha, Mrs Cole and Sam set out for Cow. Dido goes into the house and comes out with a book in her hand. She holds it up. James recognises it: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy. The last volume. They have been reading the book aloud two or three evenings a week, sometimes Dido reading, but mostly James. He says: 'You wish to read some now. Miss Lestrade? In the garden?'

  'I thought we might walk a httle first and read by the river. JuHus, will you walk off the effect of Mrs Cole's cakes with us? I will find your strong shoes.'

  The Reverend says: 'The effect of Mrs Cole's cakes is entirely benign, my dear, which is more than I may say for Laurence Sterne.'

  'Twaddle, brother. You were laughing Hke a horse last time James read.'

  The Reverend says: 'Sterne was a doubtful man. No, you two go ahead. I am happy here. Make her go, Doctor. It is her who needs the exercise. Why don't you go and see the wrestHng Negro and his wife while you are about it, eh?' He chuckles, takes a ball of twine from his pocket. From the stable courtyard comes the sound of a saw. George Pace working something up. Dido goes into the house. James follows her. A cloud twists for a moment in front of the sun, then passes. The light seems stronger than ever.

  The track to the road is muddy but the air under the young leaves is pleasantly green and cool. They walk on the bank, in single file, to save their shoes. Dido asks James how his leg is today. He replies over his shoulder that the weather agrees with it, that it is not near so achey as it was.

  When they come to the bridge, they cross the road and go down the bank on the other side. There are flat stones here, shaded by trees and out of sight of the road. They have stopped here before, to read or talk or gaze at the river, though the river is little more than a stream here, the water flowing in shallow tresses over the stony bed.

  Dido gives James the book. There is a ribbon marking the page. He rubs his eyes. He does not wear his gloves now. He clears his throat, looks up, meets Dido's smile. He wonders briefly, and for the hundredth time, if he is misleading her, if she expects him to talk love to her. Has she never heard or seen Mary coming from his room? Has she chosen to ignore it? But then, he himself could hardly begin to explain his relationship with Mary. It has so many aspects, and is in many ways quite innocent. It would be no betrayal of Mary to court Dido. It may even be what Mary intends.

  Dido says: 'Can you not find the place?'

  James says: 'I have found it now.' He begins to read.

  'Upon looking back from the end of the last chapter, and surveying the texture of what has been wrote, it is necessary, that upon this page and the five following, a good deal of heterogeneous matter be inserted to keep up that balance of wisdom

  and folly, without which a book would not hold together a single year . . .'

  James reads to the end, closes the book and lays it on the stone. Dido says: 'It is not a ver
y proper book, yet I cannot help liking it. I am sorry that we have finished it.'

  James nods. 'Mr Askew was of the opinion that it was only the author's death that finished it. That he would have written more had he been able.'

  'Well,' says Dido, 'if I were to write a novel I think it is the ending that should give me most trouble. Perhaps it was the same for Laurence Sterne.'

  'You mean,' says James, 'it was easier for him to die than to finish the book?'

  She laughs. 'I am sure I cannot mean that. That would be extreme.'

  'No. But death is certainly an ending.'

  Dido raises her eyebrows. 'You must not let my brother hear such heresy.'

  James grins at her. 'You misunderstand me. Miss Lestrade.'

  From the village comes the single note of a horn. Dido says: 'That must be the show. They must be beginning.'

  After a moment of silence, James says: 'Should you care to have a look? I have seen them once before, last wintertime, but I have not seen their performance.'

  Dido stands, pats her gown. She has a sweet, sad, patient smile. She says: 'We might just peep. I should not care to be much noticed.'

  "We shall only look from the door. There is no harm in that.'

  The horn sounds again, just as they reach the empty road.

  The afternoon is growing hotter. The sun has almost dried the

  puddles in the road. The booth is on a scrap of land near Caxton's place; the canvas, once red and white, is faded now to cream and rust. As they walk towards it there comes a burst of applause and cheering. They stand by the side entrance where the flaps of the booth have been tied back. The smells that come to James's nose are vividly familiar: crushed grass, sweat, canvas, beer. He would like to tell Dido how he once performed in a place like this, Marley Gummer sticking him with pins.

  There are some forty people in the booth watching John Amazement bend a poker. He is stripped to the waist; his shoulders tremble, he narrows his eyes, then holds up the U-shaped poker. He passes it to his wife, who is smaller even than James has remembered her, and she takes it among the villagers, letting them handle it and nod their heads and muttet to their friends. In a shrill voice she calls on some strong lad to challenge 'the Moor'. The young men bay. Jack Hawkins is pushed forward. He tries to get back into the crowd but they push him out again. He shuffles into the ring and raises his arms awkwardly. The woman takes his waistcoat and his shirt. He is almost as tall as the Negro, and twenty years younger. A solid build, working on his father's land since he could walk. The crowd settle. A fat man just inside the door shouts: 'Kill 'im, Jacko!' John Amazement looks round. For an instant he sees James, and briefly gestures as if he has recognised him. Then he turns to face his opponent.

  They grip up, their feet scuffing in the dirt, the muscles in their backs and arms gleaming and distended. Hawkins charges; the Negro staggers, goes down on one knee, though his face is still calm, as though he were thinking of something else, something serious and peaceful. The crowd huzzah. Some shift about as though tussling with ghostly opponents of their own. James feels the faint pressure of Dido's shoulder. Jack Hawkins is driving the Negro back towards the wall of the booth, his head hard in the

  Negro's belly. Then John Amazement pivots, adds his own force to Hawkins's drive, and flips him over, lightly and neatly as if the farmer were a boy of Sam's age. Hawkins lies a moment on his back, winded, then gets to his feet, the dirt stuck on to the sweat of his back. He shakes his head, grins and takes his shirt and waistcoat from the woman.

  The woman issues a second challenge. Who can beat the Moor?' John Amazement is standing quietly behind her, massaging his left shoulder. Suddenly he staggers backward, bawls, snatches at nothing and collapses, the ground shivering under his weight. The quickness of it stuns them. They stare at the great outstretched body, its weird stillness; the woman walks towards him slowly. She calls his name. There is no response. Dido whispers: 'What is it? What has happened?'

  James's strongest instinct is to leave; to walk quickly away, with or without Dido. He knows that if he does not go now, this very instant, it will be too late, but the now passes and he has not moved. The woman is kneeling by the Negro's head. She is calling for someone to help him. She is begging.

  James steps into the shade of the booth; heads turn to stare at him. He hears his name. He does not look anywhere other than at the Negro and the woman. When she sees him coming she stops crying out. His presence seems to calm her. She holds up her arms to him, blabs something he cannot understand, is not listening to. He is looking down at John Amazement. It is no more than half a minute since the attack but already he seems long dead. James kneels. He wants to say to her: 'He's dead,' but he cannot; he cannot stand the thought of her grief He puts his hand lightly on the Negro's chest. The skin is clammy but he feels a warmth at the heart. He has felt this before; it lasts some minutes after the patient has ceased to breathe, after the heart has stopped. He remembers an evening in Bath, a young woman at a dance dropping down as suddenly as this. They had been dancing the

  hornpipe. He was there with Agnes Munro, and he had stooped over the girl, guessing it was her heart. For a moment then, he had considered something wild: attempting to resuscitate her by opening her chest. It had come to him quite spontaneously, and the thought had excited him, yet he did not have his bag to hand, and the sight of him cutting open a young woman in a ballroom was unlikely to have enhanced his reputation. Now he has no reputation. He looks at his hands. They are steady, steady enough. He reaches into his coat pocket and takes out his clasp-knife. George Pace sharpened it on the whestone the other day while he was doing one of the scythes. It has a good edge on it now. Pace said: Tou could bone a fish wi' that. Doctor.'

  James looks at the woman, manages a smile, a grimace. She sees the knife in his hand. Trust me,' he says, speaking to himself as much as to her. 'Trust me.' She nods. Perhaps she understands. She looks away. He has Grimaldi's watch in his pocket but no one shall time him today. He presses the point of the knife against John Amazement's breastbone, then eases his grip on the wooden handle. He knows how hard it is to cut into human beings, how stubborn the flesh can be with its knots and grains; but the knife must not be held as a child holds a pen. It must float in his hand, Hke the brush of an artist.

  He cuts, unaware of the sighs of horror, of disbelief, from the watchers all around him; unaware of the heat of the booth, the pain in his leg as he kneels. He opens the chest, cuts the costal cartilage of the ribs, sites the heart inside the fibrous glove of the pericardium, half hidden behind the sac of the left lung; feels for it, grasps it, squeezes. For a single minute he has regained his former purity of attention. This is the target to which the arrow of his life has been flighted. In this act, all his experience unites. It is the true and unlooked-for harvest.

  His hand mimes the rhythms of the heart. Life bobs to the surface of the Negro's eyes. The dead man lives, gasping, sputtering, as though he has been under water and has come suddenly, fiercely into the air again. He speaks, a voice retrieved from silence, from death. He gasps, then speaks, soft and clear, a half-dozen words that sound to James like words inverted, mirror words, the language of the dead, a sentence smuggled back in the mouth. The woman looks at James. There is dust on her face which has adhered to the path of her tears. She says: 'That's 'is own lingo. That's Africa.'

  In time he grows a great grey scar across his chest and changes his name. He does not wrestle any more. He lives. It is the surgeon, whose name the Negro forgets, but whose face floats in his sleep all the years of his life like the moon on water, who was a friend of the parson and his sister, and who had been, some said, truly or otherwise, as far as Russia and met the Empress and had adventures; a neat, sad, limping, clever sort of man; it is he who does not live out the summer, dying on an August morning in a field of summer barley near the village, his sketchbook on his lap; pole-axed by death, keeling backward from his stool, a single short yell of surprise, and only a boy beside him,
a boy and a dog. No one to reach inside and bring him back.

  For almost an hour, while the boy runs for help, James lies there alone, a dark and cruciform figure, his face brushed by the shadow of the clouds, the crop swaying all around him like a crowd, an incurious golden crowd. In the kitchen of the

  Reverend's house, Mary, peeling apples for a pie, pauses in her work, lays down the knife and the apple on the chopping-board. Mrs Cole, looking up from her pastry, is amazed to see that her friend is smiling.

  EPILOGUE

  The coffin is brought to the bridge by cart, then carried on the men's shoulders. George Pace, Mr Astick — at his own particular request - Ween Tull, Killick, and Urbane Davis, all of them tricked out in their best, with black silk hatbands and black shammy gloves, two and six a pair, courtesy of the Reverend. The Reverend walks ahead of the coffin with his sister and Lady Hallam. Behind come Mary and Sam, Mrs Cole and Tabitha, Dr Thorne, Mrs Clarke, and a dozen of the small farmers and tradesmen who knew the deceased, enough at least to greet him on his road.

  It is a day for a funeral: cool air, low cloud, a light drizzle. Clarke, the sexton, meets them at the gate. They carry the coffin into the church, up the path under the tolling of the bell.

  'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake . . .'

  Dido mops at her eyes, as do Mrs Cole and Tabitha, and Sam, learning grief for the first time, the tears unstoppable despite his best efforts. The Reverend thinks: Shame the boy had to be there when he died. A terrible shock. And James had seemed to be getting better, stronger. Happier too. You could almost have called him a happy man, the last months.

  ^And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away . . .'