An Instance of the Fingerpost (80 page)

How do people converse in such situations? I have never succeeded in a matter which others seem to find simple. Perhaps it is the result of too many hours spent in books and manuscripts. Most of the time I had no trouble at all; with my friends over dinner, I could converse with the best of them and I pride myself still that I was not the least interesting. But in some circumstances I was at a loss, and making conversation to a serving girl with beautiful eyes was beyond my powers. I could have tried playing the gallant, chucking her under the chin, sitting her on my knee and pinching her bottom, but that has never been my way, and most obviously was not hers either. I could have ignored her as not worth my attention, except that she was. So I ended up doing neither, staring at her dumbly, and had to leave it to her.

‘You have come to consult my mother on some trouble, no doubt,’ she prompted after she had waited for me to begin a conversation.

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you have lost something, and want her to divine where it is? She is good at that. Or maybe you are sick and are afraid of going to a doctor?’

Eventually, I dragged my eyes away from her face. ‘Oh, no. Not at all. I have heard of her great skills, of course, but I am most meticulous and never lose anything. A place for everything, you know. That is the
only way I can proceed in my work. And my health is as good as man might expect, thanks to God.’

Babbling and pompous; I excuse myself by pleading confusion. She assuredly had not the slightest interest in my work; few people have. But it has always been my refuge in times of trouble, and when confused or sad my thoughts fly to it. Towards the end of this affair, I sat up at nights, week after week, transcribing and annotating, as a way of shutting the world out. Locke told me it was for the best. Strange, that: I never liked him, and he never liked me, but I always took his advice, and found it answered.

‘Amen,’ she said. ‘So why have you come to see my mother? I hope you are not betrayed in love. She does not approve of philtres and such nonsense, you know. If you want that sort of foolishness, you can go to a man in Heddington, although personally I think he is a charlatan.’

I reassured her that my quest was entirely different, and that I did not wish to consult her mother on any such business. I was beginning to explain when the door opened and the woman returned. Sarah rushed to assist, and she collapsed on a trestle stool opposite, wiped her face and getting her breath back before she peered at me. She was poorly but cleanly dressed, with gnarled hands strong from years of labour, and a red, round open face. Although age was beginning to gain its inevitable triumph, in her manner she was far from the desolate, broken bird of a woman she later became, and moved with a sprightliness that many others more favoured in life do not have at her age.

‘Nothing wrong with you,’ she said forthrightly after gazing at me in a way which seemed to see me entire. Her daughter had the habit as well, I later learned. I think it was that which made people frightened of them, and consider them insolent. ‘What are you here for?’

‘This is Mr Wood, Mother,’ Sarah said as she came back from the tiny room next door. ‘He is an historian, so he has been telling me, and wishes to consult you.’

‘And what ailments afflict historians, pray?’ she said with little interest. ‘Loss of memory? Crabbed writing hand?’

I smiled. ‘Both of those, but not in my case, I am pleased to say.
No; I am writing a history of the siege, and as you were here during that period . . .’

‘So were several thousand other people. Are you going to talk to them all? A strange way of writing history, that.’

‘I model myself on Thucydides . . .’ I began ponderously.

‘And he died before he could finish,’ she interrupted, a comment which surprised me so much I almost fell off my stool. Quite apart from the speed of her riposte, she had evidently not only heard of that greatest of historians, she even knew something about him. I looked at her more curiously, but evidently failed to disguise my astonishment.

‘My husband is a great bookman, sir, and takes pleasure in reading to me, and getting me to read to him of an evening.’

‘He is here?’

‘No; he is still with the army. I believe he is in London.’

I was disappointed, of course, but resolved to make do with what I could discover from the wife until such time as Blundy himself might return.

‘Your husband’, I began, ‘was of some significance in the history of the town . . .’

‘He tried to combat injustice here.’

‘Indeed. The trouble is that no one I have come across seems to agree what he did and said. This is what I want to know.’

‘And you will believe what I tell you?’

‘I will set what you tell me against what other people tell me. From that the truth will emerge. I am convinced of it.’

‘In that case you are a foolish young man, Mr Wood.’

‘I think not,’ I said stiffly.

‘What are your religious persuasions, sir? Your loyalties?’

‘In religion, I am an historian. In politics, an historian as well.’

‘Much too slippery for an old woman like me,’ she said with a slightly mocking tone in her voice. ‘Are you loyal to the Protector?’

‘I took an oath to the government in power.’

‘And what church do you attend?’

‘Several. I have attended services in many places. At present, I attend at Merton, as I am bound to do since it is my college. I must
tell you, I suppose, lest you accuse me again of being slippery, that I am of an episcopal instinct.’

Her head bowed in thought as she considered this, her eyes closed, almost as though asleep. I feared very much that she would refuse, thinking that I would twist what she said. Certainly she had no reason to think that I would be in any way sympathetic to a man like her husband; I knew enough of him already to be sure of that. But there was nothing more I could do to persuade her of my honourable intentions. Fortunately, I was not stupid enough to offer her money, as that would inevitably have been my downfall, however much she needed it. I must say here that never once did I discern in her, or her daughter, any of the greed which others claim to have seen so easily, although her poor situation would have been ample cause for it.

‘Sarah?’ she said after a while, her head lifting from her chest. ‘What do you think of this angular young man? What is he? A spy? A fool? A knave? Someone come to disinter the past and torment us with it?’

‘Perhaps he is what he says, Mother. I think you might talk to him. Why not? The Lord knows what happened, and even an historian from the university cannot hide the truth from Him.’

‘Clever, child: a pity our friend here did not think of it himself. Very well,’ she said. ‘We must talk again. But I have a customer soon who has lost the deeds of his house and I must divine their whereabouts. You must come back another day. Tomorrow, if you wish.’

I thanked her for her kindness, and promised that I would be there the next day without fail. I was conscious that I was treating her with unnecessary deference, but something prompted me to act so: her person demanded courtesy, though her station did not. As I was picking my way through the debris and puddles in the street outside, I was stopped by a whistle behind me, and, as I looked around, I saw Sarah running after me.

‘A word, Mr Wood.’

‘By all means,’ I said, half-noticing my pleasure at the prospect. ‘Do you object to taverns?’ This was a normal enquiry in those days, as many of the more obscure dissenters did so object, and very strongly. It was best to find out who you were dealing with early on, for fear of bringing down a heap of abuse.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Taverns I like.’ I would have led her to the Fleur-de-Lys, that belonging to my family and a place where I could have drink cheaply, but I was concerned for my reputation so instead we went to another place, a low hovel scarcely better than her own dwelling. I noticed that she was not treated with friendliness when we entered. Indeed, I had the feeling sharp words might have been exchanged had I not been there. Instead, all the woman gave me, along with the two tankards, was a sneering smile. The words were polite, the sentiment they hid was not, although I could not make it out. Though I had nothing to be ashamed of, I found myself blushing. The girl, alas, noticed and wryly commented on my discomfort.

‘Not at all,’ I said hastily.

‘It’s all right. I’ve had worse.’ She even had the tact to lead the way to the quietest corner of the place, so that no one would see us. I was grateful for this consideration, and warmed to her for it.

‘Now, Mr Historian,’ the girl said when she had drunk a quarter of her pot, ‘you must tell me frankly. Do you mean well by us? Because I will not have you causing us more trouble. My mother needs no more. She is tired and has found some peace in the last few years, and I do not want that disturbed.’

I tried to reassure her on this point: my object was to describe the long siege, and the effect that the quartering of troops on the city had had on learning. Her father’s role in the mutiny, and in stirring up the passions of the Parliamentary troops was of significance, whatever it was, but not critical: all I wanted to know was why the troops had refused their orders then and what had happened. I hoped to set all that down before it was forgotten.

‘But you were here yourself, weren’t you?’

‘I was, but I was only fourteen at the time and too busy at my studies to notice anything untoward. I remember being mightily displeased when New College School was turned out of its room by the cloister, and I remember thinking that I had never seen a soldier before. I remember standing near the outworks, hoping I could pour boiling oil on someone, hoping to perform deeds of valour and be knighted by a grateful monarch. And I remember how frightened everybody was at the surrender. But all the important facts, I do not know. You cannot write a book based on such paltry material.’

‘You want facts? Most people are content to make up their own. That’s what they did with father. They said he was turbulent and wicked, and abused him for it. Their judgement does not satisfy you?’

‘Maybe it will. Maybe it is even correct. But I ask myself questions, none the less. How did such a man come to be trusted by so many of his fellows? If he was so verminous, how was he also courageous? Can the noble (if I may use the term for such a person) coexist with the ignoble? And how did he’ – here I made my first ever venture into gallantry – ‘how did he have such a beautiful daughter?’

If she was pleased by the comment, there was no sign of it, alas. No modest look, no pretty blush, just those black eyes staring intently at me, making me feel more ill at ease.

‘I am determined’, I continued, covering over my little essay, ‘to discover what transpired. You ask whether I mean you ill or well, and I tell you I mean you neither.’

‘Then you are immoral.’

‘The truth is always moral, because it is the image of God’s Word,’ I corrected her, feeling, yet again, that I was mis-speaking myself and hiding behind solemnity. ‘I will give your father his say. He will not get it from anyone else, you know. He either speaks through me, or is for ever mute.’

She finished off her tankard, and shook her head sadly. ‘Poor man, who talks so beautifully, to be reduced to speaking through you.’

I do believe she was entirely unconscious of the insult: but I had no desire at that moment to rebuff her by giving the reprimand she deserved. Instead, I looked at her attentively, thinking that this initial confidence might at least get her to speak well of me to her mother.

‘I remember once’, she continued after a while, ‘hearing him addressing his platoon after a prayer meeting. I can’t have been more than nine, I suppose, so it would have been around the time of Worcester. They thought they would be fighting soon, and he was encouraging and calming them. It was like music; he had them swaying to and fro as he spoke, and some were in tears. Possibly they would die, or be captured, or end their lives in gaol. That was the will of God and it was not for us to presume to guess what that was.
He had given us only one lantern to discern His goodness, and that was our sense of justice, the voice of Right which spoke to all men in their souls if they would listen. Those who examined their hearts knew what the Right was, and knew that if they fought for it, they would be fighting for God. It was a battle to lay the foundation of making the earth a common treasury for all, so that everyone born in the land might be fed by the earth, all looking on others, even old, sick or female, as equals in creation. As they slept and ate, and fought and died, they should remember that.’

I didn’t know what to say. She had spoken softly and gently, her voice caressing me as she spoke the words of her father; so quiet, so kind and, I realised with a start, so profoundly evil. I began, very faintly, to understand how it was done and what the appeal of this Blundy was. If a mere girl could be so seductive, what must the man have been like? The right to eat: no good Christian could object. Until you realise that what this man desired was the overturning of the right of masters to command their employees, the theft of property from its owners, the hacking at the very roots of the harmony which binds each to all. Quietly and kindly, Blundy took these poor ignorants by the hand, and led them into the power of the devil himself. I shuddered. Sarah looked at me with a faint smile.

‘The raving of a lunatic, you think, Mr Wood?’

‘How can anyone who is neither a fool or a monster think otherwise? It is obviously so.’

‘Coming from a family of lunatics, I see things a little differently,’ she said. ‘I suppose you think my father used ordinary people for his own evil ends. Is that it?’

‘Something like that,’ I said stiffly. ‘That it was devilish was attested by the eating of babies and burning of prisoners.’

She laughed. ‘Eating babies? Burning prisoners? What liar said that?’

‘I read it. And many people have said so.’

‘And so you believed it. I am beginning to doubt you, Mr Historian. If you read there are beasts in the sea that breathe fire and have a hundred heads do you believe that too?’