the cider.’
‘Nonsense. Besides, it was I that proposed it; a walk will clear my head. So – where are we taking this most wonderful log?’ I asked playfully. ‘To the wood, perhaps?’
Her eyes widened.
‘You’d be surprised what I know,’ I said, laying a finger to my nose. ‘Here – catch hold of one end.’
Out of the little gate we went and into the wood. This time there was nobody else about; we had the path to ourselves.
‘Won’t my aunt miss you?’ I enquired as we tramped along.
‘She’s gone to market,’ said Tamar.
The cool, fresh air under the trees soothed my spirit. Tamar set a brisk pace; she walked faster, I think, than any woman I have known before or since, stepping easily on the uneven ground and carrying her end of the log without strain. All this she did in her long, heavy gown while holding herself bolt upright. I wondered if she really did wear stays all over, or perhaps no stays at all. Then I thought of other things: of her cleaning Robin’s body in his bed, and laying it out afterwards.
I wondered at my aunt over this business of the laying-out. She should have employed an older woman; it was not usual, perhaps even a little shameful, to give such a job to a young maid. But perhaps Aunt Harriet knew what she did; perhaps Tamar was not a maid in every sense of the word, if my uncle –
I must stop these thoughts, which threatened to taint with lewdness my memory of a man so dear to my father. As soon as I fixed my mind on our progress, however, I realised that we were on the path I had already trodden, the one leading to the place where the woman had slipped away from me. That was it, then: she had been hurrying towards a forbidden meeting, but not with a lover.
‘Tamar,’ I said.
‘Sir?’
‘This old woman we’re visiting – is she the beggar-woman – the one Geoffrey drove away?’
She answered without turning round, ‘Did he?’
Was it my fancy, or was Tamar growing less respectful as we advanced deeper into the wood? It was impossible to read the back of her head. I have lowered myself to oblige a servant, I thought, and this is my reward. My aunt does well to cherish her hereditary rights.
We were approaching the place where the other woman had got away from me. As we reached the holly bush, Tamar slowed and put down her end of the log.
‘Now, Sir, I must show you how to proceed.’
She moved off the path onto the grass slope I had observed before and had taken only a few steps when she dropped through the ground, as one might drop through water, and vanished.
The sweat burst out on my skin.
‘Tamar!’ I called.
Her head popped up out of the grass like a rabbit’s. ‘Leave the log, Sir, and walk down to me. Take care where you put your feet.’
I made my way down. When I had almost reached her the ground gave way and I fell, crying out, into a sort of dry ditch or ha-ha, a wrinkle in the face of Mother Nature running right across the slope but invisible from the top of it. Tamar and I were again side by side.
‘From here, Sir, you just look for that oak’ – she indicated a fine tree to our left – ‘and walk along towards him, and in no time you’re there.’
‘There’ was such a place as I have never seen before and hope never to see again. It can only be described by the word hovel : an opening into the bank, partly shielded by hurdles smeared with clay and hung with scraps of oiled woollen cloth. At the entrance lay a mess of grey ashes, remnant of a past fire, perhaps the very fire I had smelt from the path.
Next to the opening stood a blackthorn bush from whose prickly arms dangled small greyish objects, threaded along with bird bones and nutshells on wisps of sheep’s wool. These I took to be the amulets of which Rose had spoken.
‘Let me warn her first.’ Tamar pushed aside a spider’s web and entered the darkness within. Left outside, I felt equally compelled to follow her and to flee; these opposing impulses so warred
‘Nonsense. Besides, it was I that proposed it; a walk will clear my head. So – where are we taking this most wonderful log?’ I asked playfully. ‘To the wood, perhaps?’
Her eyes widened.
‘You’d be surprised what I know,’ I said, laying a finger to my nose. ‘Here – catch hold of one end.’
Out of the little gate we went and into the wood. This time there was nobody else about; we had the path to ourselves.
‘Won’t my aunt miss you?’ I enquired as we tramped along.
‘She’s gone to market,’ said Tamar.
The cool, fresh air under the trees soothed my spirit. Tamar set a brisk pace; she walked faster, I think, than any woman I have known before or since, stepping easily on the uneven ground and carrying her end of the log without strain. All this she did in her long, heavy gown while holding herself bolt upright. I wondered if she really did wear stays all over, or perhaps no stays at all. Then I thought of other things: of her cleaning Robin’s body in his bed, and laying it out afterwards.
I wondered at my aunt over this business of the laying-out. She should have employed an older woman; it was not usual, perhaps even a little shameful, to give such a job to a young maid. But perhaps Aunt Harriet knew what she did; perhaps Tamar was not a maid in every sense of the word, if my uncle –
I must stop these thoughts, which threatened to taint with lewdness my memory of a man so dear to my father. As soon as I fixed my mind on our progress, however, I realised that we were on the path I had already trodden, the one leading to the place where the woman had slipped away from me. That was it, then: she had been hurrying towards a forbidden meeting, but not with a lover.
‘Tamar,’ I said.
‘Sir?’
‘This old woman we’re visiting – is she the beggar-woman – the one Geoffrey drove away?’
She answered without turning round, ‘Did he?’
Was it my fancy, or was Tamar growing less respectful as we advanced deeper into the wood? It was impossible to read the back of her head. I have lowered myself to oblige a servant, I thought, and this is my reward. My aunt does well to cherish her hereditary rights.
We were approaching the place where the other woman had got away from me. As we reached the holly bush, Tamar slowed and put down her end of the log.
‘Now, Sir, I must show you how to proceed.’
She moved off the path onto the grass slope I had observed before and had taken only a few steps when she dropped through the ground, as one might drop through water, and vanished.
The sweat burst out on my skin.
‘Tamar!’ I called.
Her head popped up out of the grass like a rabbit’s. ‘Leave the log, Sir, and walk down to me. Take care where you put your feet.’
I made my way down. When I had almost reached her the ground gave way and I fell, crying out, into a sort of dry ditch or ha-ha, a wrinkle in the face of Mother Nature running right across the slope but invisible from the top of it. Tamar and I were again side by side.
‘From here, Sir, you just look for that oak’ – she indicated a fine tree to our left – ‘and walk along towards him, and in no time you’re there.’
‘There’ was such a place as I have never seen before and hope never to see again. It can only be described by the word hovel : an opening into the bank, partly shielded by hurdles smeared with clay and hung with scraps of oiled woollen cloth. At the entrance lay a mess of grey ashes, remnant of a past fire, perhaps the very fire I had smelt from the path.
Next to the opening stood a blackthorn bush from whose prickly arms dangled small greyish objects, threaded along with bird bones and nutshells on wisps of sheep’s wool. These I took to be the amulets of which Rose had spoken.
‘Let me warn her first.’ Tamar pushed aside a spider’s web and entered the darkness within. Left outside, I felt equally compelled to follow her and to flee; these opposing impulses so warred
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