I sit in the common room next to a woman who is too thin. She asks about my book, and I decide there’s no reason to ignore her. I can see the veins sticking up on her arms, and her face is all angles with a thin covering of skin pulled tightly across her skull and cheekbones. What makes it really sad is the fact that she’s pretty, or rather she was pretty, but I imagine that nobody’s ever told her this. I open the book and explain to her that it’s all about royal gardens, and she says that my accent suggests to her that I’ve travelled quite a distance, and I tell her I must have because I used to have two children and heaven only knows where they are now. I laugh out loud, and so she laughs too, just to be polite. That’s funny, she says. I let her know that after the pills I spent another three weeks in the hospital and they told me that Ben would have to stay with these Gilpin people. At least until I was back on my feet and capable. That was nearly a year ago now. Last summer. She mops her brow with the sleeve of her nightdress. It’s hot, isn’t it? Yes, I say, and then she tells me that she’s sure I’ll like it in the courtyard. After everything I’ve just told her, that’s the best she can come up with? It’s hot and I’ll like it in the courtyard. I’m sorry, but nobody can say that I didn’t try. Once I realized that I’d messed up, I did everything I could to try and get Ben back. She suggests that we go for a walk and have a little explore. What’s your name? I tell her Monica, and she seems to think that’s quite a pleasant name. A bit unusual, she says, then smiles. But quite pleasant.
IX. THE JOURNEY
Seeing him step gingerly from the neglected barn, where he has sheltered from the fury of a sudden storm, and pass into the weak March sunlight, an onlooker might initially mistake him for a furtive man who hides in hollows and picks berries, a sad fellow who wraps himself in nostalgia for a happier past that has been swept away by ill luck and squibs of gin. But this is unequivocally a man of quality whose loose-jointed stride is soon long and true, and whose descent to the floor of the valley is assured. He effortlessly straddles an old stile, and is alert enough to sense that the moist air is now filled with the newly liberated scent of heather. He draws deeply upon the fragrance, and notes the tint and form of every flower, the texture and density of the many varieties of moss, and he is mindful of the nests of tadpoles wriggling furiously in the streams. On the other side of a narrow beck he sees a small patch of turf surrounded by clear springs, and he discerns a makeshift pathway of large flat stones that he decides might serve as dappled steps along which he can navigate his way to the safety of the green island.
Once there he lays down his bag and strips off his cloak and shirt, revealing a stout but firm stomach that suggests that this man’s appetite for good food and wine has not yet been corrupted by addiction. Wading ankle deep into the water, he scoops rivers to his face and lets the cool, sweet taste soothe the inside of his dry mouth. He stretches his arms above his head and feels the fresh breeze pass by both sides of his body. Two hours before dawn, he left his house to the sound of the dogs barking wildly, as though some unseen hand was administering a vicious beating. He instructed Joseph that he should quieten them so their unruly noise would arouse neither his sensitive wife nor the children. Joseph whistled and then released a string of unintelligible curses that soon had the beasts whimpering and then rolling on the ground with flapping tongues as though anticipating some tantilizing surprise. As he strolled away from his residence, he looked up and imagined the sky to be a black velvet glove that might, at any moment, reach down and lift him into the starlit heavens and propel him on an altogether different journey. However, he quickly averted his eyes and continued his lonely pilgrimage. Sometime later, the first light of daybreak arrested his attention, and he realized he could now see his fidgeting fingers, and the spongy soil on which he was walking was visible beneath his feet; then dawn broke with a quietly confident majesty that would have caused a less secure man to fall to his knees in supplication, but he pulled his cloak to against the morning chill and simply increased his pace.
He lowers himself down on his heels, knees jutting out on either side like awkward wings, and again he disturbs the sleeping beck by plunging his cupped hands beneath the surface and hoisting icy water across his broad shoulders. He kneads the cascading ribbons into the leathery skin on his chest and back with quick circular gestures that suggest thoroughness as opposed to haste. Tonight he will sleep at the familiar rooming house, which for many years has accommodated this gentleman’s eccentricity, without demanding any explanation of why he chooses to promenade on foot across country instead of taking to the roads and riding in a carriage in a manner more becoming for one of his status. The fact is, walking affords him the gift of exercise and an opportunity to refresh his mind and achieve a clearer understanding of deeds past and tasks present, but he has never shared this intelligence with anyone. The anxious commerce of Liverpool, conducted in crowded, dusty rooms choked with tobacco smoke, will offer him scant recourse to luxuriate in reflection, and this being the case, he has discovered that time invested in the ruminative quality of his excursion generally pays dividend once his mind begins to be assaulted by the discordant cacophony of the blustering world of business.
He worries about his children, for the radiant yet desperate light in the eyes of the passionate girl suggests a troubling delicacy, while the son’s wilful behaviour hints at an obstinate temperament that neither his wife’s line nor his own has ever accommodated. The young man always affects to listen, but with a slither of icy dissent lodged in his bosom, and he behaves churlishly towards both parents as though life has somehow been unfair to him. His angry and despondent wife finds it increasingly arduous to cope with the most trifling details of daily survival, and last night, after she had taken to her bed, he reclined in his chair and wondered if they would ever again enjoy the pleasant tenderness of time shared as man and wife. His children squabbled noisily next to the hearth, but then his daughter broke free, and the poor girl stood trembling before him as though ill clad in a hard frost. (Please, must you go, Father? Your ship is in Antigua, isn’t it? Are there problems at your sugarworks?) Old Joseph tended the roaring fire and said nothing, but neither son nor daughter could disguise their great frustration at the prospect of their father’s impending absence. Of course, the children had often been told that their father had little choice but to conduct dealings in Liverpool with men whose hearts were hard like stone, and whose Christian charity went no further than the looking glass: these men of commerce were his colleagues, the gentlemen for whom the children were continually being deserted, but last night both daughter and son found it difficult to mask their disappointment. Joseph looked on, and when he recognized an appropriate moment to speak, he rescued the situation and reminded his tongue-tied Master to be wary of petty thieves and vagabonds during the sixty-mile walk, men who, spying a gentleman, would undoubtedly demand both pocket watch and money.
He stands rooted in the water and observes the distant hills, and the newly formed bank of ashen clouds lurking dismally above them. It will rain again, of this he is sure. He remains still and vigilant; a passing native would see a stout bird silently waiting for a languid fish or a drifting insect. However, he is perplexed. A whole life built upon swift decisions, and now, marooned in this beck, he is crippled by a lack of certitude that tastes bitter in his mouth. Some years ago his acquiescent wife had accepted the notion that the distractions of Liverpool had most likely captured her husband’s mind, but of late she has been unable to prevent her tolerant acceptance from curdling into peevish bitterness. And now the children are also judging him harshly; he sees it in their defiant scrutiny, and yet he can find no comforting words for them. Half naked, he carefully picks his way across slippery stones until he reaches the safety of land. The forsaken water ripples and purrs as though lamenting his absence, and midway through the day his heart beats with a dread with which he is unacquainted. He listens to the rumble of distant thunder and understands he is truly alone.