An Instance of the Fingerpost (87 page)

Here again I confess freely, and say I wished to play the part of magnitude. However much she had caused me injury, yet I wished to show myself charitable and forgiving. Perhaps this was the greatest punishment I could bestow, for I would show her the extent of her foolishness and lord it over her with my condescension.

So, after much thought, the following evening I covered myself in my cloak, put on my warmest hat and gloves (Cola was certainly right about the coldness of the weather; my friend Mr Plot has meticulously gathered measurements which show it to have been bitterly cold. Although spring came suddenly and brilliantly only a week or so later, winter held the country in its icy grip until the last moment) and walked down to the castle.

I was nervous of being seen, and even more nervous about encountering Sarah, as I had no expectation of being welcomed. But she was not there; I knocked, waited, then walked in with relief in my heart, thinking that I would be able to comfort the mother without the risk of angering the daughter. That woman, however, was asleep, no doubt due to some potion or other, and although I was tempted to wake her so that my kindness might not go unnoticed, yet I refrained from doing so. Her face shocked me, so gaunt and pale that it resembled a death’s head; her breathing was harsh and difficult and the smell in the room was oppressive in the extreme. Like all people, I have witnessed death on many occasions; I watched my father, my brothers and sisters, my cousins, and my friends all die. Some young, some old, of injury, illness, plague and simple old age. No one, I think, can reach the age of thirty without knowing death intimately, in all its guises. And it was in that room, waiting its chance.

There was nothing I could do at that moment. Anne Blundy did not need any practical help I could give, and any spiritual comfort would not have been pleasing to her. Reluctantly I stood watching her, overcome by that sudden hopelessness that results from wanting to do well but not knowing how, until a footstep at the door roused me from my meditations. Overcome with a fear and a sudden reluctance to confront Sarah herself, I quickly took myself into the little room
next to the chamber, since I knew there was a small door through which I could once again gain the street.

But it was not Sarah; the footfalls in the room were far too heavy for that, and so I paused out of curiosity to know who had come into the house. By carefully peering through the door – a deceit I am ashamed to acknowledge, as it is the sort of falseness no gentleman should ever perpetrate – I could see that the man in the next room must be this Cola; no Englishman (in those days at least) would ever have dressed in such a fashion. He was behaving very strangely, however, and his activities caught my attention in such a way that I compounded my ill behaviour by continuing to watch, and continuing to make sure that I was myself unobserved.

First, he came in and established as I had that Widow Blundy was still perfectly asleep, then knelt down beside her, took out his rosary and prayed deeply for a short while. As I say, I had considered doing something of the same myself in a more Protestant way, but knew her better than to think even that would be welcomed. Then he acted most strangely indeed, taking out a small phial, which he opened, and spreading some oil on his finger. He applied this finger gently to her forehead, made the sign of the cross and prayed again before putting the bottle back under his coat.

This was odd enough, although might be explained by great personal devotion, which I could admire as much as I condemned his error in doctrine. Thereafter, he bewildered me completely, as he got up abruptly and began searching the room. Not out of idle curiosity, but a thorough and determined search, pulling the small number of books off the shelves and flicking through them one by one before shaking them to see if anything should flutter out. One, I noted, he tucked under his coat so it could not be seen. Then he opened the little chest next to the door, which contained all the Blundys’ possessions, and went through that as well, meticulously searching for something. Whatever it was he did not find it, for he closed the lid with a heavy sigh and muttered some imprecation in his native language – I did not understand the words, but the sense of disappointment and frustration was clear enough.

He was standing in the room, clearly wondering what to do next when Sarah arrived.

‘How is she?’ I heard her say, and my heart stirred to hear her voice again.

‘She is not well at all,’ said the Italian. He had a thick accent, but spoke clearly and evidently understood the language perfectly. ‘Can you not attend to her more?’

‘I have to work,’ she replied, ‘Our position is already grave now my mother cannot earn. Will she recover?’

‘It is too soon to say. I am drying out the wound, then I will rebind it. I fear she is developing a fever. It may pass, but I am concerned. You must check every half-hour for signs of the fever getting worse. And, strange as it may seem, you must keep her warm.’

I see here that my recollection of the conversation matches that of Mr Cola very well; his memory is sound as to the beginning of the matter, so I will not continue to repeat what he has already said. I will, however, add that I noticed something he does not mention, which is that there was instantly in that room a most palpable tension between the two of them, and, while Sarah behaved perfectly normally, concerned only for her mother, Cola became distinctly and ever more agitated as the conversation proceeded. I thought initially that he was alarmed at the thought that his bizarre behaviour might have been spotted, but realised this could not be. I should have left instantly, and slipped away while I had the chance to do so unobserved, but I could not bring myself to go.

‘I am fortunate indeed. Forgive me, sir. I mean no insolence. My mother told me how well and generously you acted to her, and we are both deeply grateful for your kindness. We are not used to it, and I am truly sorry I misspoke. I was frightened for her.’

‘That is quite all right,’ Cola replied. ‘As long as you do not expect miracles.’

Will you come again?’

‘Tomorrow, if I can. And if she worsens, come and find me at Mr Boyle’s. I will be attending him. Now, about payment,’ he said.

I reproduce, more or less word for word, the conversation as set down by Mr Cola, and admit that his account, as far as my own memory serves, is impeccable. I will merely add one thing which, strangely, finds no mention in his description. For, as he spoke about payment, he took a step closer to her and rested his hand on her arm.

‘Oh yes, your payment. How could I think you would forget about that. We must deal with that urgently, must we not?’

It was only then that she broke away, and led him into the room where I swiftly concealed myself in the gloom so I might escape observation.

‘Very well then, physician, take your payment.’

And, as Cola says, again with perfect truth, she lay herself down and pulled up her dress, revealing herself to him with the most obscene of gestures. But Cola does not mention the tone in her voice, the way her words trembled with anger and contempt and the sneer on her face as she spoke.

Cola hesitated, then took a step backwards and crossed himself. ‘You disgust me.’ It is all in his account, I merely plagiarise his words. But again I must differ on a point of interpretation, for he says he was angry and I did not detect that. What I saw was a man horrified, almost as though he had seen the devil himself. His eyes were wide, and he all but cried out in despair as he recoiled from her and averted his gaze. It was many days before I learned the reasons for this bizarre behaviour.

‘Lord forgive me, your servant, for I have sinned,’ he said in Latin, which I could understand and Sarah could not. I remember it well. He was angry at himself, not at her, for she was nothing to him but a temptation which had to be resisted. Then he ran, stumbling in his hurry out of the room, not slamming the door, it is true, for he left too fast to shut it at all.

Sarah lay there on the straw pallet, breathing deeply. She rolled over and buried her head in her arms, face down into the straw. I thought she was merely going to sleep, until I heard the unmistakable sounds of her weeping her heart out, heavy choking sobs which tore at my soul and rekindled, in an instant, all my affections.

I could not help myself, and paused not even an instant to reflect on what I was doing. She had never cried so before, and the sound of such deep sadness flooded my heart, dissolving all bitterness and rancour, and leaving it pure and clean. I took a step forward, and knelt down beside her.

‘Sarah?’ I said softly.

She jumped in fright as I spoke, pulling her dress down to
cover herself and recoiling from me in terror. ‘What are you doing here?’

I could have given long explanations, could have made up a story about how I’d just arrived and was anxious about her mother, but the sight of her face made me abandon any thought of pretence. ‘I have come to ask your forgiveness,’ I said. ‘I do not deserve it, but I have wronged you. I am so very sorry.’

It was easy to say, and I felt as I spoke that those words had been waiting their chance for months. Instantly I felt better, and relieved of a great weight. What was more, I truly think I did not mind whether she forgave me or not, for I knew she would be quite within her rights not to do so, as long as she accepted that my apology was genuine.

‘This is a strange time and place to say such a thing.’

‘I know. But the loss of your friendship and regard is more than I can bear.’

‘Did you see what happened just now?’

I hesitated before admitting the truth, then nodded.

She did not instantly reply, then began shaking; I thought that it was with tears once more, but then discerned to my astonishment that it was with laughter.

‘You are a strange man indeed, Mr Wood. I cannot make you out at all. On no evidence at all, you accuse me of the most vile behaviour, and when you see a scene such as that, you ask my forgiveness. What am I to make of you?’

‘I hardly know what to make of myself, sometimes.’

‘My mother is going to die,’ she continued, the laughter ceasing, and her mood changing on the instant.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I am afraid she is.’

‘I must accept it as God’s will. But I find it impossible to do so. It is strange.’

‘Why so? No one has ever said obedience and resignation are easy.’

‘I am so frightened of losing her. I am ashamed, for I can hardly bear to see her the way she is now.’

‘How did she break her leg? She fell, Lower told me, but how could that be?’

‘She was pushed. She came back here in the evening when she
had closed the wash house, and found a man in the house, looking through our chest. You know her well enough to realise she would not run away. He got a black eye, I think, but she was pushed to the ground and kicked. One of the blows broke her leg. She is old and frail and her bones are not strong any more.’

‘Why did you not say so? Make a complaint?’

‘She knew him.’

‘All the more reason.’

‘All the less. He is a man who worked once for John Thurloe’s office, as did my father. Even now he will never be caught or punished for anything he might do.’

‘But what . . .?’

‘We have nothing, as you know. Nothing that could interest him, at any rate. Except those papers of my father’s, which I gave to you. I said they were dangerous. Do you have them safe still?’

I assured her it would take many hours to find them in my room, even if someone knew they were there.

Then I told her of what I had seen that evening, and said that Cola also had made a thorough search. She shook her head sadly. ‘Lord, why dost thou persecute thy servant so?’

I wrapped my arms around her and we lay there together, I stroking her hair and giving what comfort I could. It was not much.

‘I ought to tell you about Jack Prestcott,’ she began eventually, but I hushed her. ‘I do not want, or need, to hear anything,’ I said.

Better that it should be forgotten, whatever it was; I did not want to hear, and she was grateful to be spared the humiliation of having to speak.

‘Will you return to work for us?’ I asked. ‘It is not much to offer, but if it becomes known in the town that the Woods will admit you into their house, it will begin to mend your reputation, quite apart from giving you money.’

‘Will your mother have me?’

‘Oh, yes. She was very angry when you left, and has never stopped complaining how much better the housework was done when you were there.’

She smiled at that, for I knew my mother had never once allowed
herself to issue even the faintest word of praise in Sarah’s hearing, lest it make her grow proud.

‘Perhaps I will. Although as it seems I am not to pay for doctors now, then my need for money is the less.’

‘That’, I said, ‘is carrying submission to divine will too far. If it can be done, then your mother must have attention. How do you know this is not a test of your love for your mother and that she is meant to survive? Her death would be punishment for your negligence otherwise. You must have treatment for her.’

‘All I can afford is a barber, and even they might refuse. She has refused any treatment I can give her, and I could not help in any case.’

‘Why?’

‘She is old and it is her time to die, I think. I can do nothing.’

‘Perhaps Lower could.’

‘He can try, if he will, and I would be happy if he succeeded.’

‘I will ask him. If this Cola will say she is no longer his patient, then he might be prevailed upon. He will not abuse a colleague by doing so without his leave, but it sounds as though there should be no trouble gaining that.’

‘I cannot pay.’

‘I will see to that, somehow. Don’t you worry.’

With the very greatest reluctance I pulled myself up. For all the world, I would have stayed there all night, something I had never done before, and which I found strangely enticing; to hear her heart beat against mine, and feel her breath against my cheek, were the sweetest sensations. But it would have been an imposition and would also have been noticed the next day. She had a reputation to rebuild, and I had one to preserve. Oxford then was not like the king’s court, nor even had it the laxity of the town now. All had ears, and too many were swift to condemn. I was myself.