Holy Ghost itself had inspired him and next thing he had a sentence sprinting across the paper like a hound after a hare. There was not a hint of hesitation in it. A tremendous hush fell on the crowd while Josey worked the pen. And yourself could not take your eyes off him. Very moonstruck by him you were then and always.
And do you recall Martin Lee, God rest his soul? You can’t imagine the number of times I have gone over that night when he came to your house. Don’t I wish we had listened to him. But he was as old as a field and well known for rambling talk that did not add up to much. And strong was his inclination for drink. Sure, as soon as he stopped in that night he asked if there was a drop in the place at all. You were bound to bring out the jar and invite him to pull into the fire, but you were not glad about it. You thought Martin took advantage of Josey’s generosity. It means the food and drink out of your own mouth, you would say to Josey. But Josey used to say he wouldn’t recognise himself if he refused a guest.
I can see Josey pressing Martin to take a drop and Martin saying, I will do the same so, Josey, right. He said that his own jar had been taken and he knew who was to blame for that. It was the good people up to their mischief. It’s well known, he said, that they like a drop. They come down from Sligo, so they do, and steal my drink. People say you see them strolling around as if they owned the place.
And then he warned us not to stay at home on the following day. Everyone was going to the saint’s island to pray at the well, which had begun to flow for the first time since ages past.
Nor will I forget this: as you were seeing me out that night, we noticed a queer little breeze swirl under the covering of the doorway and nudge it a little. A thickening of the air like that was supposed to be a sign. It meant that the other crowd was near at hand. We ought to have stayed out of their way, Nora. We ought to have gone to the saint’s island.
PART TWO
Sedge Court, Cheshire
February, 1758
I think of Mrs Waterland as a fateful figure. In fact the idea of fate weighs on me. You must think me quite a blasphemer, but when I compare the powers of our Christian God to those of the Fates, I find him less compelling. Is he capable of putting events into play or of altering their course? It seems to me that he only watches, and judges, and punishes. It is fate that makes things happen. Certainly it seems to have played a primary role in the story of the Waterlands – the family that reared me. I am not the only one to believe that.
Our scullery maid Abby Jenkins says that the Waterlands are so thwarted you would nearly think that a binding had been laid on them, although that is the kind of thing she is prone to say, since she is from Wales and they are known to be fanciful, the Welsh. You should have seen Abby when she first arrived at Sedge Court off the ferry from Flint. Her raven hair was wild and loose in the Welsh style and she wore a scarlet cloak and a round black hat like a man’s. Ten days passed before our housekeeper, Mrs Edmunds, could get her to lay that hat aside.
I wish I knew whether there was a difference between fate and a random concatenation of circumstances. And who is it that drives us forward? I should like to believe that weourselves, not God, nor the Fates, have the capacity to influence the actions of our lives, but I do not know how to explain persistent bad luck. For instance, many contrary events have occurred at Sedge Court and you could even say they had produced a pattern of misfortune – but is it possible to attribute them, as Abby insists, to an impost made by an unknown force upon the family?
There was a heavy atmosphere in the house during the winter that Abby came into service, which may have set the tone of her thinking. It was an atmosphere that pressed on the nerves of everyone except Mrs Waterland, whose sangfroid was unalterable in those days.
And do you recall Martin Lee, God rest his soul? You can’t imagine the number of times I have gone over that night when he came to your house. Don’t I wish we had listened to him. But he was as old as a field and well known for rambling talk that did not add up to much. And strong was his inclination for drink. Sure, as soon as he stopped in that night he asked if there was a drop in the place at all. You were bound to bring out the jar and invite him to pull into the fire, but you were not glad about it. You thought Martin took advantage of Josey’s generosity. It means the food and drink out of your own mouth, you would say to Josey. But Josey used to say he wouldn’t recognise himself if he refused a guest.
I can see Josey pressing Martin to take a drop and Martin saying, I will do the same so, Josey, right. He said that his own jar had been taken and he knew who was to blame for that. It was the good people up to their mischief. It’s well known, he said, that they like a drop. They come down from Sligo, so they do, and steal my drink. People say you see them strolling around as if they owned the place.
And then he warned us not to stay at home on the following day. Everyone was going to the saint’s island to pray at the well, which had begun to flow for the first time since ages past.
Nor will I forget this: as you were seeing me out that night, we noticed a queer little breeze swirl under the covering of the doorway and nudge it a little. A thickening of the air like that was supposed to be a sign. It meant that the other crowd was near at hand. We ought to have stayed out of their way, Nora. We ought to have gone to the saint’s island.
PART TWO
Sedge Court, Cheshire
February, 1758
I think of Mrs Waterland as a fateful figure. In fact the idea of fate weighs on me. You must think me quite a blasphemer, but when I compare the powers of our Christian God to those of the Fates, I find him less compelling. Is he capable of putting events into play or of altering their course? It seems to me that he only watches, and judges, and punishes. It is fate that makes things happen. Certainly it seems to have played a primary role in the story of the Waterlands – the family that reared me. I am not the only one to believe that.
Our scullery maid Abby Jenkins says that the Waterlands are so thwarted you would nearly think that a binding had been laid on them, although that is the kind of thing she is prone to say, since she is from Wales and they are known to be fanciful, the Welsh. You should have seen Abby when she first arrived at Sedge Court off the ferry from Flint. Her raven hair was wild and loose in the Welsh style and she wore a scarlet cloak and a round black hat like a man’s. Ten days passed before our housekeeper, Mrs Edmunds, could get her to lay that hat aside.
I wish I knew whether there was a difference between fate and a random concatenation of circumstances. And who is it that drives us forward? I should like to believe that weourselves, not God, nor the Fates, have the capacity to influence the actions of our lives, but I do not know how to explain persistent bad luck. For instance, many contrary events have occurred at Sedge Court and you could even say they had produced a pattern of misfortune – but is it possible to attribute them, as Abby insists, to an impost made by an unknown force upon the family?
There was a heavy atmosphere in the house during the winter that Abby came into service, which may have set the tone of her thinking. It was an atmosphere that pressed on the nerves of everyone except Mrs Waterland, whose sangfroid was unalterable in those days.
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