have been to see old Ruthven the apothecary,’ he says in a rush, then laughs nervously, a high-pitched, whistling giggle. He looks round at the door then back at me.
‘Come,’ he says, already backing up, ‘I will show you my rooms.’ Behind the door the stairs are cluttered with a strange assortment of refuse and abandoned things: chairs and carpets, cages for birds, an escritoire. As May closes the door he tells me they are the property of his landlord, a man with an aptitude for the accumulation of things of dubious value – then May is pointing first to one and then to another, giving an account of each, his words flowing in a spilling rush, each story beginning before the last has ended, before looping back to try to resume itself, until at last I laugh, and for a moment he stares at me in bewilderment, before he too laughs.
‘Here,’ he says, leading me up. The staircase is so steep it is almost a ladder. Still chuckling I follow him, up and in through the door at the top. The room is dark, a low-beamed space lit only through the panes of the dormers. Although a stove stands in one corner, the air is freezing, and as May strikes a match to light a candle I draw my coat closer. The place looks to have been furnished from the collection on the stairs, everything worn and broken, nothing matching. By the stove stands an armchair draped with a blanket, stuffing leaking out at the back; opposite is an old divan, one leg gone and propped up on a stack of books; beneath the window a chair on which a sketchbook lies. But the pieces of furniture are crowded out by the canvases which stand deep against the walls, and the boards and sheets stacked and piled on every conceivable surface.
The candle lit, May draws a flat bottle from his coat, and pours a measure into a wineglass on the floor. Though it isdone openly I turn away, something in the manner of its execution making observation seem an intrusion.
On the chair the boards of the sketch book are open, and on the uppermost page a face is visible, the first outlines of a body. Setting down his glass May approaches.
‘You draw?’ he asks.
‘A little,’ I say.
‘Perhaps I might give you a lesson some day?’
His face is earnest. ‘Perhaps.’ For a few moments we contemplate the drawing.
‘So, where is your master this evening?’ he asks then, his voice slower somehow, looser.
‘With his daughter,’ I reply. ‘And Charles.’
He pauses. Then, ‘How is Charles?’
I look at him in surprise. ‘You have not seen him?’
May shakes his head, jiggling the glass in his hand.
‘One does not quarrel with Charles,’ he says. ‘Surely you have realised that by now.’ For a moment May simply stands, then he laughs, as if to deny what he has just said. Then he pauses again.
‘He has made you his friend, has he not?’
For a long time I do not answer. Looking down I indicate the sketchbook on the chair.
Then I ask, ‘Who is the girl?’
May looks up from the sketch.
‘Come,’ he says.
A low door is partway open at the room’s end. May presses on it and quietly ushers me in. On a bed a girl lies sleeping, the blankets cast off so her breasts and shoulders are exposed to the icy air. She has the translucent skin of the redhead, her nipples as pink and small and hard as those of a child. Her head is cast back, the mouth slightly open, her face that of a dreamer, lost in some hidden place within. From outside comes the clatter of a carriage, the sounds of acoster’s cries, but here it is so still her breathing can be heard, gentle and steady. I feel myself colouring. This is some private thing – not her nakedness, but her vulnerability.
‘You think her beautiful?’ May asks, as we step out again, his face eager.
‘Who is she?’
‘Her name is Molly.’
‘She is a whore?’ I ask, my tone harder than it might have been. A look of hurt passes across May’s face.
Behind us there comes a sound. The girl has risen, and stands in the door
‘Come,’ he says, already backing up, ‘I will show you my rooms.’ Behind the door the stairs are cluttered with a strange assortment of refuse and abandoned things: chairs and carpets, cages for birds, an escritoire. As May closes the door he tells me they are the property of his landlord, a man with an aptitude for the accumulation of things of dubious value – then May is pointing first to one and then to another, giving an account of each, his words flowing in a spilling rush, each story beginning before the last has ended, before looping back to try to resume itself, until at last I laugh, and for a moment he stares at me in bewilderment, before he too laughs.
‘Here,’ he says, leading me up. The staircase is so steep it is almost a ladder. Still chuckling I follow him, up and in through the door at the top. The room is dark, a low-beamed space lit only through the panes of the dormers. Although a stove stands in one corner, the air is freezing, and as May strikes a match to light a candle I draw my coat closer. The place looks to have been furnished from the collection on the stairs, everything worn and broken, nothing matching. By the stove stands an armchair draped with a blanket, stuffing leaking out at the back; opposite is an old divan, one leg gone and propped up on a stack of books; beneath the window a chair on which a sketchbook lies. But the pieces of furniture are crowded out by the canvases which stand deep against the walls, and the boards and sheets stacked and piled on every conceivable surface.
The candle lit, May draws a flat bottle from his coat, and pours a measure into a wineglass on the floor. Though it isdone openly I turn away, something in the manner of its execution making observation seem an intrusion.
On the chair the boards of the sketch book are open, and on the uppermost page a face is visible, the first outlines of a body. Setting down his glass May approaches.
‘You draw?’ he asks.
‘A little,’ I say.
‘Perhaps I might give you a lesson some day?’
His face is earnest. ‘Perhaps.’ For a few moments we contemplate the drawing.
‘So, where is your master this evening?’ he asks then, his voice slower somehow, looser.
‘With his daughter,’ I reply. ‘And Charles.’
He pauses. Then, ‘How is Charles?’
I look at him in surprise. ‘You have not seen him?’
May shakes his head, jiggling the glass in his hand.
‘One does not quarrel with Charles,’ he says. ‘Surely you have realised that by now.’ For a moment May simply stands, then he laughs, as if to deny what he has just said. Then he pauses again.
‘He has made you his friend, has he not?’
For a long time I do not answer. Looking down I indicate the sketchbook on the chair.
Then I ask, ‘Who is the girl?’
May looks up from the sketch.
‘Come,’ he says.
A low door is partway open at the room’s end. May presses on it and quietly ushers me in. On a bed a girl lies sleeping, the blankets cast off so her breasts and shoulders are exposed to the icy air. She has the translucent skin of the redhead, her nipples as pink and small and hard as those of a child. Her head is cast back, the mouth slightly open, her face that of a dreamer, lost in some hidden place within. From outside comes the clatter of a carriage, the sounds of acoster’s cries, but here it is so still her breathing can be heard, gentle and steady. I feel myself colouring. This is some private thing – not her nakedness, but her vulnerability.
‘You think her beautiful?’ May asks, as we step out again, his face eager.
‘Who is she?’
‘Her name is Molly.’
‘She is a whore?’ I ask, my tone harder than it might have been. A look of hurt passes across May’s face.
Behind us there comes a sound. The girl has risen, and stands in the door
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