“And you shall have a fire soon, Pa. We also need candles. There’s only a stub left in that holder above the mantel. Perhaps, Miss Ward, you could read something to Pa while I’m gone. There are books here in the chest. I won’t be above an hour.” And then he gave me the key. “Open the door to no one but me,” he whispered as he left.
“Light the candle, Miss,” said old Scarfe. “There are flints about, I believe. What are you called?”
“Aerlene, sir,” I said. I found the flints by the candle-holder and with some difficulty lit a piece of paper and then the candle. Beyond the window the sky was dark with rain.
“And you’re from Warwickshire, then?” he asked, and I said I was, for I might as well have been according to the Scarfe family. Martin Scarfe then asked me how I came to live in London and I told him about the circumstances that
had brought me there and all of it was the truth except my invention of the shire I had come from.
“And how long have you known Robin?”
“Not long, sir. We talked mostly at the bookstall, but we spent a pleasant few hours together one Sunday in Finsbury Fields.”
“Yes,” he said, “Robin told me about your afternoon and gave you good report.”
For several moments we said nothing and finally he asked, “Why did you come to this place, Miss? Why would you leave your uncle’s on Threadneedle Street and come to these rooms? I know Threadneedle Street. It’s a proper address. Why come here?”
“Your son said it was his birth date and he wished me to be at his celebration.”
The old man was absently rubbing his palsied hand as if agitated. “Well, it is his birth date and that at least is no lie. He was born eighteen years ago this day. But I don’t know what there is to celebrate beyond the bare fact of his coming into this world.”
I was surprised that Scarfe was eighteen; I had thought he might be only sixteen. The old man was rubbing his hand again, and I found it troubling to watch, for he looked so bewildered and unhappy.
“I fear for him, Miss. I truly do,” he said. “We came to these rooms early this morning. Trundling our goods in a
carter’s wagon through the streets at daybreak, fleeing the wrath of a landlord. It’s beyond shameful.”
He settled back in his chair as though grateful for someone to listen to his tale. I was no longer afraid of him.
“Robin hasn’t told me, but I fear he has lost his position at Sharples. I got him the apprenticeship four years ago because Henry Sharples has been a friend for thirty years and he did it as a favour; it worked at first and Robin did well enough. He’s clever and knows books and was personable in the trade. But within the year past he has changed. I don’t know what has come over him, but the boy is not what he ought to be, Miss. You should know that now and I tell you as his father. He is not as he ought to be. I have done my best with him, but I have failed, and now I fear he is in some difficulty, either with the authorities or possibly with a moneylender. I’m sure he was stealing from Henry Sharples and the poor man simply ran out of patience. Who could blame him? Now Robin may be stealing from others. Or borrowing money from those who practise usury and have ruffians about who will do their bidding if the debtor doesn’t pay. We travelled those streets this morning like fugitives. You sound like a good girl, Miss, decent and well raised. And you are very young. You should leave this place. I’ll be all right alone.”
“I am not afraid, sir,” I said, though I was.
“Go out,” he said, “and find your way back to Threadneedle Street before it grows too dark. I thought I heard
a nearby clock striking three a while ago. It must be nearing four now. If you lose your way, ask someone, but don’t inquire of the rougher sort or anyone in drink. I surmise we are in a poor neighbourhood. Ask a vendor. Be courteous.”
I was tempted to do as the old man said, but I was even more fearful of being out on those streets by myself. “I think,” I said, “I’ll stay until your son returns. He promised to take me back to my uncle’s by the six o’clock bell. He told me he had news of my fellow countryman, the poet Shakespeare, but he hasn’t yet told me.”
“Ah, Shakespeare the poet,” he said, as though he’d quite forgotten his instructions to leave. “You know him, then?”
“No, sir, but we both come from Warwickshire.”
“Yes, so you said. He’s a fine playwright, Shakespeare. Robin took me to the Globe playhouse to see his
Hamlet.
It was in the early spring. After Eastertide. It had a good run, that play, and I enjoyed listening to it. I found the young Prince’s mind quite astute with many fine distinctions in his thoughts. Have you seen the play, Miss?”
“I have not,” I said. “I only arrived in early September.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps it will be printed soon, for it was well received. An exemplary poet, Shakespeare. Does your family know the man?”
“Not exactly, sir,” I said, but he might not have been listening.
“I was born in Canterbury,” he said, “and that’s where Marlowe too was born. My family knew the Marlowes. His father was a shoemaker, and when I came to London in 1568, I was wearing shoes made by Marlowe’s father. I was just your age, Miss. Fourteen. And I walked to London for work on the recommendation of a family friend. I was apprenticed to a stationer named Robert Hill. Would you believe me, Miss, if I told you that over the years I became a prosperous and respected man in my trade, that I once gave a speech on legal language in Scriveners’ Hall on Noble Street? Robin was there. A Christmas party for scriveners and their families. He was only six or seven and I could tell he was proud of me even if he didn’t understand a word I said. There I was in front of all my fellow scribes, talking about the law and the words that define the laws. Now we trundle our few goods through the streets, ahead of the creditors. He is too fond of wine, Robin, and not to waste words, Miss, he is also a thief. He doesn’t think I know it, but I do. I may have lost my sight, but I haven’t yet lost my reason. I believe he is stealing from Henry Sharples, a good man who took him on as a favour to me. I think he’s also stealing from other bookshops, and borrowing from rough people. He hasn’t said as much, but that is surely why we are in these straightened circumstances, here in the suburbs of the city. It’s shameful to me, Miss.”
“Can I read something to you, sir?” I asked, but he seemed lost in his thoughts and anxious to tell his story.
“I can understand why you might want to meet your fellow countryman,” he said. “In 1587 when Marlowe’s
Tamburlaine
was playing at the Rose, I felt as you do now. Why, he came from the same town as I, and there he was with a great success in London and still only in his twenties. Everyone was talking about
Tamburlaine
that year. I would have liked to meet Marlowe and tell him how proud I was to be from the same city, but I was told he was prickly and difficult, and I was afraid. Robin told me that he met Shakespeare at the bookstall and said how moderate he is in temperament, so a different sort of man than Marlowe. I hope you meet him, Miss. But poor Marlowe. Had he lived longer, I do believe he might have proved a greater poet than your countryman. Do you know his work at all, Miss?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Well, you are young.
Tamburlaine
was an entertainment, but the plays following:
The Jew of Malta, The Massacre at Paris
and
Dr. Faustus.
Oh, I loved those plays.
Faustus
I saw performed at least half a dozen times. I believe I could yet recite it all. I have spent my life among words, Miss, though not, alas, the words of poets. For my sins, the words of lawyers. The words that bind us to the laws of our land. I often wished I had been a joiner or a mason, but I had neither the strength nor the inclination. I was frail as a youth and fit only, it seemed, for taking down words. As your countryman Shakespeare has Hamlet say to the old
fellow, the girl’s father, ‘words, words, words.’ I have been fit only for the taking down of other people’s words. Countless words. Over thirty years of writing words ten hours a day, six days a week. I can still recall writs and leases, bills of sale and conveyances, the entanglements of law, and behind all the words, stories—the bitterness of disinherited children; the disputes over everything from a childhood toy to five hundred acres and a fine house; the stories of lives enhanced or ruined by property and goods and money. Hope or despair in the words I took down. Shakespeare makes good sport of lawyers and the law near the end of
Hamlet.
Robin told me the Prince was staring at a jester’s skull in the churchyard as he mocked the men of law.”
Old Scarfe stopped for several moments and I didn’t know what to say to him. Then he continued, “I often sit in this darkness imagining the thousands of reams of parchment, the thousands of quills, the hogsheads of ink used in my lifetime. My wife used to chide me for my stained fingers. Claimed she couldn’t abide the smell of my right hand. She couldn’t read a word herself, poor little thing, and never appeared to understand that my stained fingers paid for her bonnets and gowns. I fell in love with a pretty child, Miss, and have lived to regret it. She wasn’t much of a wife to me, and soon took up with bad company. Did Robin ever speak of her to you?”
“He did, sir, yes.”
“Yes. She leapt from London Bridge one night, did Kitty. Pursued by who knows? Demons? The henchmen of her creditors? A jealous lover? The boy was only three years and his mother not yet twenty. A sad tale indeed, but over and done with now these many years. You asked if you could read something to me and I would enjoy that, Miss. It’s been some time since I’ve heard good words. Words of comfort or understanding. When he was younger, Robin used to read to me, but he no longer cares for Scripture. I fear he has lost his Christian beliefs, and much as I admire Marlowe’s work, I think his influence on Robin was harmful since Marlowe made no secret of his disbelief. A dangerous mind, and his wild thoughts and reckless behaviour, honey to the young. I am now forty-eight years of age and must seem ancient to you. I hardly saw the sun in my lifetime, and breathed the dust of generations in my searching through old court scrolls. But I admire the talent of men like Shakespeare and Marlowe. I still believe in God and his Son, the everlasting Christ, and my greatest regret is that I am no longer able to read Scripture.”
“What would you like to hear, sir?” I asked.
“You could read a psalm to me,” he said. “The forty-sixth has always refreshed my spirit. I believe you will find a Bible in that chest.”
And I did, though I might have easily recited the words by heart, since I remembered them well enough from the Geneva Bible on the sideboard in the dining room of the
house in Worsley, with Aunt Sarah at her embroidery, listening with prim satisfaction as I read.
When I finished the psalm, we sat in silence. I had thought Martin Scarfe an old man of at least sixty, but he was only forty-eight. How strange it all was to me there in that shabby room in Whitechapel, listening to the rain in the dwindling light, having just read a psalm to a blind man. But what must have scored my imagination that December afternoon so long ago—for over the years the Scarfes, both father and son, have returned to me in dreams—was the depth of that old man’s misery: a life of toil at a trade he despised, an unfaithful wife and a wayward son, blindness and a palsied hand and penury towards the end. Job himself had scarcely endured more. And looking at Martin Scarfe in our silence together, I remember wondering how I could avoid such unhappiness. Such thoughts are apt to trouble us most in the hours of a sleepless night, and then with daybreak vanish like the mist across a meadow. But I have carried such thoughts from that room in Whitechapel over all these years and with them attendant questions. How may we find some measure of contentment in this life? Or should we look instead to whatever lies beyond the grave? And if we fail the test, as preachers are so fond of prophesying? What then? Damnation?
Old Scarfe seemed on the verge of sleep when I heard footsteps on the stairs, a light knocking on the door and
Scarfe’s voice. I opened the door to see him dripping with rain, his arms filled with parcels and bottles, a satchel of charcoal.
“Is that Robin back?” called his father.
“Yes, Pa, and I’m laden with good things,” he said, stepping past me into the room, glancing at the Bible I was still holding. “Reading Scripture to the old fellow, were you?” he whispered. “Thank you.”
In his quick, nervous fashion he laid out the wine and foodstuffs upon a worn deal table. “Could you start a fire, Miss Ward? It’s damp enough in here and no mistake.”
I knew how to work a grate, and so found paper and crushed a small basket for kindling, and with the charcoal soon had a proper blaze.
Scarfe, still shivering from the cold and wet, addressed the fire as he held both his hands before it. “Oh, warm us, we beseech you. Have pity on us poor, suffering mortals. We are in your debt.”
“A fine fire now, Robin,” said his father. “Miss Ward has done the job. I can feel the heat now.”
“Are you close enough to it, Pa?”
“Yes, I don’t want a spark to light upon me. I don’t want to perish in fire.”
Scarfe laughed. “No fear now, Pa. Our little friend from Warwickshire will keep an eye on you—won’t you, Miss Ward?”
“I will,” I said.
Scarfe abruptly clapped his hands. “Now, we’ll celebrate. Giddy should be with us soon.”
“Where is he, then?” I asked.
“Where is he?” said Scarfe, looking around in mock alarm. “Why, he’s selling books for Mr. Sharples, I hope. Someone has to earn a living in this household. Now, some wine to warm our innards.”
And soon he was filling the wooden cups again. I took a little, but had no great taste for it. Scarfe had bread and cheese and mustard and sausages. He found a toasting fork and set me to cooking the meat. There were also pippins and medlar tarts and plenty of wine. The meal was ready when Gideon Parrot came in, sodden from the rain and in ill temper. Scarfe fussed over the boy with wine and a cloth to wipe his face and hair, but Parrot was not easily placated, complaining of the long walk from St. Paul’s with bawds and louts in the streets.