Plague Child. Peter Ransley

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СКАЧАТЬ heard her going. The yellow glow from her candle under the door wavered and went. In that moment I did not care. It was the first thing I had ever written that said truly what I felt, and the words kept coming from my lips as though they had a life of their own.

      ‘“I know the windows of thy soule

      That when they gaze see not me

      but some strange Satyre. Perchance

      One idle day, they may see

      These stumbling lines of poetry.

      And, from these clumsy words know

      I have no hope of your love, only

      Hope that my love for thee

      May make your eyes see me.”’

      The words had calmed me. Now the sounds, the shuffling of the rats, the drip of water crept back. And with them another sound, but outside. The barest glimmer of yellow light had reappeared under the door.

      ‘Anne? Miss Black?’

      ‘They were not the words my father said.’

      ‘I will show you them – you should have read them.’

      ‘I cannot read, you know that!’ There was anger and humiliation in her voice.

      I did not know. I had often seen her with her Bible, going to church, or opening one of the books of Lovelace’s poetry we printed.

      ‘I will teach you.’

      ‘You!’ Now there was no mistaking the total contempt in her voice. ‘You copied that poem. You did not write that stupid jingle.’

      ‘I did!’

      ‘Liar,’ she mocked.

      My anger burst out uncontrollably and I hammered wildly on the door. ‘I did and it’s not stupid and I love you and always will – God knows why!’

      During this she tried to silence me, but it was only when I stopped I heard Mr Black’s grumbling distant voice followed by Mrs Black’s high-pitched tones.

      ‘There is someone!’

      I heard him say, ‘It’s Tom. Let him hammer away,’ then mutter something. Mrs Black’s voice grew louder, sharper and more urgent. ‘I can hear people talking.’

      Whatever Mr Black said was drowned in bad-tempered thumps and creaking of boards.

      I had heard nothing in Anne’s voice before but lightness and mockery. Now her whisper was panic-stricken. ‘Oh God! He must not find me here.’

      ‘Go! Go now,’ I urged.

      Her bedroom was off a landing one floor above Mr and Mrs Black’s. She might just make it. As the light of her candle vanished I heard a door open upstairs and a moment later she returned.

      ‘It’s too late. He’s coming downstairs.’

      ‘Open the door.’

      She gave a little moan of fear. ‘No.’

      ‘Open it!’

      I heard the key turn and pulled open the door. She was in her green nightgown, as I had pictured it. The rest I had never imagined. That wonderful hair was locked up in some loathsome nightcap. All her haughtiness and mockery had vanished and been replaced by this shivering drab, face as pale as the candle she was holding. I thought, when I wrote that poem, as youth does think, that I knew everything about love. I looked into her eyes, wild, darting like a fearful animal, and realised that I knew nothing, except that I loved her even more.

      She looked more frightened than ever at the sight of me, and backed up the steps. I snatched the key out of the lock.

      ‘Who’s that?’ Mr Black called out. ‘Who’s there?’

      Anne retreated back. I pulled her to me, clapping a hand over her mouth, afraid she would cry out. I whispered into her ear. ‘Stay – when you hear a noise in the shop, run back to your room.’

      I snuffed her candle out, stifling her little cry of fear, and crept up the steps.

      ‘Who’s that?’ Mr Black repeated.

      I heard the crack of a stair that was rotten, followed by Mr Black’s muttered curse, and knew he was nearly downstairs. I slipped into the kitchen as he entered the room, holding up his candle. Its light flickered towards me. I ducked behind a chair. From there I could see into the printing shop.

      As Mr Black, candle in one hand, stick in the other, approached the stairs that led to the cellar, I flung the key into the shop. It hit the press and, by great good fortune, dislodged some of the drying pamphlets, the clips holding them clattering down.

      ‘Thieves!’ he yelled, setting the candle down and running into the shop. I went after him, ducking round the press, trying to get to the door, but he saw me and blocked my way. He drew back his stick. Whatever vague plan I had formed deserted me.

      ‘It’s you!’ he said. ‘How did you get out?’

      ‘Run!’ I shouted. ‘Run!’

      ‘Two of you are there!’

      I dodged the first blow. He had his back to the kitchen and I glimpsed Anne’s petrified face as she emerged from the cellar steps.

      ‘I can handle two of you!’

      Distracted by the sight of Anne, the next blow caught me and a third sent me to the floor.

      ‘Where’s the other? Who let you out?’

      I flung my hands round my head, curling up into a submissive ball as I had done so many times before to receive his blows. Then the thought of him seeing Anne drove me to fight in a way I had not done since they first took me from Poplar. Through an aching, blurred mist I saw his legs, inches from me, grabbed them, and pulled. Off balance as he swung back his stick, he went down easily, a look of great astonishment on his face, hitting the floor with such a thud I thought the house must fall down.

      I was at the door, fumbling with the key, before I realised he hadn’t moved, and there was no sound from him. I went back to him. Mr Black was still, his eyes closed. One wild thought after another chased through my head. I was in love. I had told her I loved her. And moments afterwards I had killed her father!

      As I bent over him, his eyes shot open and he grabbed my wrist. He was a powerful man and I could not wrench away. I grabbed hold of the table to stop him from pulling me down. A chair clattered down.

      ‘Damn you!’ he panted, gasping for breath. ‘Would you –’

      I thought his grip would break my wrist. He pressed his other hand on the floor to push himself up. Another moment and I would have fallen. I brought my boot down on the hand he was using as a lever at the same time as I saw Anne returning down the stairs into the kitchen, as if she had just awoken. A look of horror crossed her face as her father yelled in pain and released СКАЧАТЬ