Not unnaturally, I was feeling extremely pleased with myself and, as a reward, was taking the rest of the day off. So I was free to spend half an hour or so with my former mother-in-law, listening to her complaints about the heat, her neighbours and the poor quality of the sermon that had been preached the previous day at Saint Thomas’s Church, all the while nodding sympathetically. In return, I told her of John Overbecks’s offer and of the subsequent outcome, watching in amusement as her face registered the conflicting emotions of horror at what she saw as a golden opportunity thrown away for a scruple, and relief that Adam would not, after all, be living too close to Jane Overbecks. In order to ease her dilemma, and to escape a homily on the necessity of finding somewhere to live other than our present cramped accommodation, I disclosed Cicely Ford’s subsequent offer of her house in Small Street. I could see that Margaret was secretly delighted by the way she sat up straighter in her chair and relaxed the tight, disapproving expression round her mouth. But all she said was, ‘I suppose that’s something. Especially now you have that mongrel cur to feed and house, as well.’
I decided it was time to be on my way. I kissed the children, exhorting them — as all parents do, but without much hope of being attended to — to be good and do exactly as they were told. They nodded impatiently and continued with the game they were inventing, which seemed to centre on lining up Margaret’s billets of firewood and making Elizabeth’s doll jump over them. I glanced enquiringly at my companion, but she only shrugged.
‘They make up their own games.’
‘I’ll call for them sometime on Friday,’ I said, stooping to peck her cheek. ‘And I’ll bring the dog to see you.’ She shuddered.
I walked briskly across Bristol Bridge, stopping only to buy Adela a length of ribbon at one of the shops — having sold all my own supply that morning — and was crossing Saint Nicholas Backs towards High Street, when I heard my name called. I recognized Cicely Ford’s voice and paused at once, searching the crowds for her familiar figure. I saw her at last, making her way along the Backs from the direction of the Marsh Gate, and raised a hand in greeting. She smiled in return, but it was a tired smile, and her feet dragged as though she was ineffably weary. It struck me for the first time that she might be ill, or that the life of poverty and self-denial that she now chose to lead was sapping her strength. Her delicate, flower-like face was pale, in spite of the continuing days of relentless heat. Everyone else, including myself, was red and sweating. She looked cold.
As she drew abreast, I proffered my arm. She accepted it gladly, almost with relief.
‘Are you going home?’ I asked.
‘Yes. I’ve been visiting Master Hulin, my lawyer,’ she explained, adding, ‘He must be John Overbecks’s lawyer, as well, because I met Master Overbecks going in just as I was leaving. Master Hulin lives in Back Street.’
‘I know,’ I said.
She didn’t ask how I knew; indeed, I doubt if she heard me. Her weight on my arm was becoming heavier with every passing minute as we fought our way up High Street through the midday crowds. Three seagulls were perched on top of a pile of offal in the central drain, and as we passed, one of them rose up screaming, a piece of bloody entrail hanging from its beak. Cicely jumped and clung tighter still. I could feel her trembling.
‘I–I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘The bird startled me.’
‘Are you unwell?’ I asked, concerned that she might be about to faint. I could already feel a prickle of embarrassment as I visualized the scene. (As my womenfolk will tell you, men are such cowards!)
‘I’m perfectly well,’ she assured me, lifting her face to smile at me. She gave a little chuckle as though guessing my thoughts.
Nevertheless, when we eventually crossed the Frome into Lewin’s Mead, I insisted that she rested a while in our cottage, where Adela fussed over her and gave her a cooling drink of sweet nettle wine and let her nurse Adam until her arms grew heavy. Our son was clean and on his best behaviour, having just been fed and had his napkin cloth changed, ready to delight any stranger discerning enough to admire him and tell him what a beautiful boy he was.
‘You shouldn’t be wearing yourself out in this heat,’ my wife scolded our visitor. ‘It has been a little cooler these last few nights, but now there’s all the din of the fair to keep honest folk awake. Mistress Ford, are you safe in that cottage on your own? Couldn’t the nuns find you a bed until the fair is over? They must have somewhere you could sleep.’
Cicely gave her gentle, tired smile. ‘I don’t notice the heat and the noise,’ she replied softly. ‘I prefer to be on my own. And after all, who would want to harm me?’
‘Plenty of men,’ I told her roughly, trying to disguise my concern. ‘The fairground’s full of evil characters. Adela’s right. You ought to move into the nunnery. Speak to Sister Jerome. She seems fond of you. She’ll do something about it.’
Cicely gave an obstinate shake of her head. ‘I’m all right,’ she repeated.
I said no more, indicating to Adela that neither should she. I could guess what was going on in Cicely’s head. She felt that if anything untoward happened to her, it would simply be what she deserved for abandoning the man she had loved to his fate, for failing him when he had most needed her, for not believing him when he had protested his innocence. I suspected that she might even welcome death as an end to her unhappiness.
She stayed with us for about an hour, maybe a little longer, but it was early afternoon when I escorted her home, taking the long way round in order to avoid the worst excesses of the fair. Even so, we encountered a fight between a party of drunks in Horse Street, just by the Virgin’s shrine, and I had to shepherd Cicely past this lively brawl, keeping my head carefully averted in case one of the contenders decided to take exception to my face. All the same, I saw enough of the warring parties to suffer a jolt of recognition. I felt I knew one of the men, but slunk by so fast, propelling Cicely along with an arm about her waist, that the impression was fleeting. By the time we were approaching Saint Michael’s Hill, I was convinced that I must have been mistaken. And all other thoughts were soon driven from my head by the sight of John Overbecks deep in agitated conversation with his sister-in-law outside the nunnery.
Still acutely conscious of the former’s anger with me over my rejection of his offer, I hung back, although intensely curious, reluctant to intrude and risk a snubbing. It was Cicely, therefore, who hurried forward to ask, ‘Is anything the matter, Master Overbecks? Sister Jerome? Can Roger or I be of any assistance?’
Neither of them had heard us coming, and at the sound of her voice, they both swung round, their faces — one so thin, the other so square and shiny — puckered with concern. They stared at us for a second or two as if they were unsure who we were, then the baker drew a deep breath and passed a hand across his forehead. Marion Baldock, too, pulled herself together.