Ace, King, Knave (8 page)

‘Go away, Sir. I have no rum.’

‘Talks Zedland, too!’ the man exclaimed in what seemed to be admiration. ‘Gives it out real pretty.’ This last, though broken and debased, was undeniably something like English: perhaps he was a strolling lunatic? Seeing a lady and gentleman approach, Sophia waved to them and cried, ‘If you please, be so kind as to walk with me and deliver me from this . . .’ She gestured and the gentleman at once stepped forward, eager to assist. But it seemed the man was not mad after all, or could at least distinguish what was said, for he turned, crossed to an alleyway and was gone.

*

Over the tea table she attempts to impress upon her husband the peculiarly unsettling nature of this encounter.

‘
Rum
, he said. As if he craved drink.’

‘How very extraordinary,’ says Edmund.

The fire is smoking into the room. She must speak to the landlady about it.

‘If you could have heard his laughter! Exactly like a lunatic.’

‘No doubt he was one. Now, shall we ―’

‘He said I
talked Zedland
.’

Edmund looks grave. ‘Titus has his uses, you see. Perhaps, after all, you had better not walk without him.’

‘I’d prefer to walk with you,’ Sophia says. ‘When you talked of settling your affairs in Bath, I had no notion they would occupy you to such an extent.’

‘That’s not quite fair, is it, my love? I’m never entirely away.’

‘No, but you’re never entirely here. It’s always business. If not morning, then afternoon, and if not afternoon, then evening.’

Edmund puts down his teacup. ‘Let us suppose this – reprobate, madman, what you will – wanders about Bath and latches onto any lady not under male protection. A nasty, scurvy fellow, no doubt – had I been there, I’d have taught him his manners. But only consider, love. Should I neglect important business, that may affect us for years to come, for fear of his approaching you?’

Yes,
Sophia longs to reply, though restrained by a sense of the ridiculous.

Sophy is rational.

Seeing he has gained his point, her husband half-smiles. ‘I should’ve explained to you earlier, my dear, and then I believe you would see matters as I do. My father, God rest his soul, was too generous – he’d lend to anyone in need. Most of his debtors behaved honourably but with others,’ he shrugs, ‘it was the old story. One family even left the district in order to evade him. He died still trying to call them to account.’

‘And this is your business?’

‘These very debtors are here, taking the waters, imposing upon others by giving themselves out as people of fashion. I therefore intend ―’

‘Did you explain all this to Papa?’ asks Sophia, puzzled. ‘The debts, I mean?’

‘Yes indeed. We went through the notes of hand together.’

‘He never mentioned them.’

‘Why should he? I persuaded him of my determination to resolve the matter once and for all. You see now why I was set upon Bath for our wedding trip. Here I can exert pressure. Once returned to Essex, I am no longer a matter of urgency and must, I imagine, yield place to other creditors.’

‘But why press your claims in person?’ she cannot help asking. ‘Couldn’t you send an agent? Or take them to law?’

‘You don’t understand these things,’ he says shortly. ‘Law costs money. This has to be tried first.’

‘Edmund – I’m not an idiot. I know that one must pay to go to law.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘But surely you could employ an agent? It must give a bad impression, if you appear unable to afford one.’

‘Have you ever dunned for debt?’

‘No, but ―’

‘In that case, you’ll oblige me by not meddling.’

Sophia bites back an angry reply. It strikes her that Edmund is looking seedy. There are mauve shadows beneath his eyes and even a suspicion of beard on his cheeks.

‘You seem a little unwell,’ she ventures.

‘True, I’m not plump currant.’

‘Plump currant’ is one of his inelegant expressions. With her husband’s permission, Sophia often corrects these; it is a lady’s prerogative and duty to soften down a husband’s bearishness and polish his manners but at present she is not in a polishing mood.

‘I hope you’re not sickening for something, Edmund.’

‘It’s only lack of sleep. Killerton invited me to a game.’ But you cannot play, thinks Sophia. You came to bed very late. And you stank of tobacco and brandy, so it’s small wonder you’re not . . . plump currant. ‘We indulged somewhat unwisely, I confess. You may now spare me the sermon.’

Has he lost money? Is that what has brought on this ill temper? She cannot ask him and instead attempts a joke: ‘Some wives might have suspected you with a lady.’

He studies her and grins. ‘You mean you did suspect me. After what you put me through, can you honestly think I’d have strength in reserve for another woman?’

Sophia feels the shock through every fibre of her frame.

‘You’re speaking to your
wife
, Edmund. Do you imagine I’m accustomed to comparing men or calculating their . . . abilities?’

For an instant she glimpses the cold expression that has frightened her in the past, but when he speaks it is with amusement. ‘It was but a rally, my dear. The wife’s part is to laugh and let the poor fool fancy himself a wit.’ He takes her hand. ‘Come, shall we talk like practical people? Your easiest way to discourage these prowling wolves is to reinstate Titus. Never mind his English. What matters is that you are seen to be accompanied.’

‘Perhaps,’ she murmurs, reluctant to give way. Edmund smiles: what a smile! One would think she had just righted every wrong he had ever undergone. Emboldened, Sophia continues: ‘And you, Edmund? You won’t continue with business every day that we’re here?’

‘I expect to bring matters to a prompt conclusion. Does that content you?’

‘Yes, if you will walk out with me afterwards,’ she says humbly. She rings the bell for the maid to take away the tea things.

‘Mind you tell her about that damn chimney,’ says Edmund, rising and leaving the room.

The maid is slow in arriving. Sophia sits drumming her fingers, then leaps up, seizes the
Bath Chronicle
from the table and holds it in front of the flames to encourage them upwards. Smoke at last begins to flow up the chimney instead of out into the room, but no sooner has the fire started to draw in earnest than the paper ‘catches’ and she is forced to let it go.

12

As the weather grows colder, Sam Shiner comes home more and more drunk. Betsy-Ann knows how
that
song goes: lying about in Harry’s lodging with the rest of the crew, soaking up nantz. Not that she grudges him a drop or two; even Harry can’t do it without. Once they’re past caring it’s off to the crib, dig up the merchandise, cart it to where it’s needed. Harry insists on payment in darby, no promises or notes of hand, they’re fly to all that, and then with each man’s share burning holes in his pocket it’s lush, lush, lush, anything to forget. Sam’s rarely in a condition to fetch himself home. Betsy-Ann goes to sleep without him, but she keeps a candle burning, just in case, and gets up if she hears his key. As she helps him peel off that terrible coat of his, she’s hit by the nantz. He sucks on that bloody nantz like a kid on a titty: it’s on his breath, it’s the glaze over his eyes. Under the coat he’s wet to the bone, his shirt sometimes soaked with rain but always with sweat. Christ, how he sweats. She pictures the booze boiling up in his belly and squeezing itself out through his skin. His coat is mouldy; when she hangs it up over the fire it breathes death through their two little rooms, their cups and plates, their bed.

The death carried in on that coat has spread through everything. Sam hardly eats, but he’s developed a pale, greasy fatness like a maggot. His brain’s dead, his mouth’s dead (devil a word does she get out of him, these days), his prick’s been dead a fortnight at least. Try resurrecting that, Sam Shiner!

Tonight he’s out again. Hail tattles on the window; she wonders if the ground will be soft enough for working. All the more time to drink. The hail drums more loudly. A wonder if he doesn’t come home with pock-holes bored in his face.

She’s pulled the covers off the bed and brought them over to where she’s lying by the fire. They never had such a blaze when she was a kinchin. Ma would light a fire in a bucket, ash or birch if they were lucky; it was hard to get the good firewood and keep it dry. Here in Romeville it’s coal, nothing but coal. The smoke’s foul, a stinking yellow-grey, but it makes a brisk fire and Betsy-Ann makes bold to order plenty. She can afford to: she shakes Sam of his blunt while he’s still boozed up, not all of it, just enough to go unnoticed. It makes up for the nights when he doesn’t come home. Then in the morning she asks for her cut in the usual way.

She lies down, lays her head on one side and gazes into the fire’s depths.

Sheer folly, on nights like this, to think of the panney, but she can’t help herself. She has everything laid up in store, sour pickles and sweet plums; she preserves it, cherishes it, deep in her mind where Sam can’t see, and she has a little taste each night before she goes to sleep.

Tonight she’s tasting the sour: her coming to Romeville. For all its sourness, it’s a common tale, common as sparrows: herself, Mam and Keshlie, huddled round a cold hearth.

Mam hung down her head. ‘I should never have sold the horse.’

Betsy-Ann was silent. This was what came of trusting in Harry, in the fine bragging letter he’d paid someone to write. They should join him in Romeville, such a life! Aye, and such fools as they’d been, to follow on. Harry was to make all their fortunes: Mam talked of nothing else.

Now she never mentioned Harry’s name.

‘The pain’s worse,’ she said. ‘God help us if it’s the wolf. If it’s the wolf, it’s the end of me.’ She kept on about the wolf until Betsy-Ann went out for gin and made her drink it. At last Mam got into the bed, which was for one person, and went off into a sleep. Her girls got in on either side of her. The sisters were used to sleeping close.

Betsy-Ann woke to find her mother cold beside her. She rose in the dark, pulled the sheets over Mam’s head and sat by her an hour or two, letting Keshlie sleep on. It was strange sitting there, not crying. People always cried, but Betsy-Ann felt hollow and numb. She wondered did she love Mam enough. When her sister finally woke, Betsy-Ann lifted her out of the bed saying Mam was tired and needed her rest. After a while, though, Keshlie wanted to be talking to Mam, and like the little fool she was, must go tugging at the sheets behind Betsy-Ann’s back. She wept and wailed enough for two but still Betsy-Ann couldn’t cry. She pulled back the sheet and lifted Mam’s shift.

‘What are you doing, our Betsy?’ Keshlie asked.

Mam’s titties were meagre and sagging: men liked what they called ‘pouting bubbies’, and smacked their lips when they spoke of them, but women of Betsy-Ann’s acquaintance were rarely plump enough for pouting bubbies. She knew the wolf came first from the sides and gnawed its way in from there. You could feel it under the skin. Timidly, she touched Mam in the armpit.

‘Don’t,’ Keshlie said.

‘I want to know was it the wolf.’

‘You’re nasty.’

Cold spread from Mam’s skin into her hands. Shaking, Betsy-Ann pulled the shift down again to cover everything. What did it matter, after all? Mam was just as dead. She took Keshlie by the hand and set out to walk to Harry’s lodging.

‘I’d a share in the horse and cart,’ Harry said, standing in the doorway. Betsy-Ann tried to see round him but he shifted to block her view.

‘There’s nothing left, Harry! We paid two months in advance, I told you.’

‘I know what you told me.’

Betsy-Ann wondered if he had a woman hidden in his rooms. She said, ‘We was done brown, first on the horse and then on the rent.’

‘More fool you.’

‘And Mam, what can we do with her? You have to help, she’s your mam same as ours.’

‘Never mind her. She’s not eating anything. Your business is how
you’re
going to feed.’

‘I don’t know,’ Betsy-Ann said. ‘How will we?’

Harry rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe she needed telling. ‘Strapping wench like you, Betsy, and new in town? Sovereign a time.’

‘Gold!’ Keshlie breathed.

Betsy-Ann pictured her sister, whose frail limbs and pale, heart-shaped face made her seem younger than her twelve years, standing in line with the whores. The ones in Harry’s street looked ready to do it for a shilling.

‘No, no,’ she said to Keshlie. ‘It’s very bad work.’

Harry sniffed. ‘Wish I could make my way as easy. If you don’t like it, go and dig turnips.’

‘Wait,’ Betsy-Ann pleaded. ‘I was thinking. I can be your second, can’t I? John Mucklow’s sister does for him in the ring, I’ll do the same.’

‘I don’t want any second. I’m sick of pugilism. Finished with it.’

She stared at him. ‘How are you living, then?’

He began to close the door on them. Betsy-Ann flung her weight against the boards, wailing, ‘What about Mam? I don’t know anybody,’ but she was no match for Harry. She heard him drive home the bolt on the other side.

Some friends of his came, when it was dark, and loaded the corpse onto a cart. Keshlie lay face down on the bed, refusing to speak, as Mam was wheeled away.

The night was terrible. Betsy-Ann dreamed she was buried alive, yet at the same time floating in the air, watching from above: she saw Keshlie and Harry stamping down the earth over her. She woke sweating and whimpering with relief, until she remembered they had lost Mam.

‘Get up,’ she said to Keshlie as soon as it was light. ‘Let me comb your hair.’

They put on their best duds, ancient and flittered by the standards of the women prowling the pavements, and went to a street of respectable-looking houses. To face after face she told the story of coming to Romeville and of her mother dying, leaving them to earn their keep.

Again Betsy sees the servants turning them away, the ones who did it kindly (one woman pressed a coin into her hand) and the ones who tossed their heads and said things like, ‘That’s my eye, Betty Martin!’ before clapping the door to.