All Fall Down by Sally Nicholls Page A

any more, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
    â€œShh,” I say, as though he’s as small as Edward. “Shh. I’m here.”
    Robin doesn’t answer, but he rubs his head against mine, to show me that he loves me. I put my arms around him and he lies against me, with his head against my shoulder and his arms around my neck. I hold him close, like Noah and Mrs Noah, sitting on the roof of the ark and watching the waters rise around them. In the mystery play, God promises never
to send another flood again. He doesn’t promise anything about a pestilence. I hold him tight, like I used to when we were smaller than Mag and played weddings with Geoffrey wrapped in a blanket as the priest. I think how often Robin looks after me, how often he tells me not to worry, or listens to me rage about Richard or Alice or the little ones. Now it’s my turn to look after him, and I don’t know how.
    I’m almost asleep when Robin lifts his head.
    â€œIsabel,” he whispers. “Let’s run away.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust you and me. And Geoffrey, if he’ll come. We could go and live in the woods like the hermits. We could have chickens and bees and a garden, and stay there until I’m old enough to inherit, and then we could come back as a freeman and a freewoman, and by then the pestilence would be gone and nobody could tell us what to do.”
    It sounds so lovely . . . like something in a minstrel’s tale. For a moment I am dizzy with the possibility of it.
    â€œWould Geoffrey come, though?” I whisper. “What would he do?”
    â€œWell . . .” Robin obviously hadn’t thought of this. “He could go back to being a priest if he wanted, after the pestilence was gone. Or he could live with us. Think of it, Isabel. Nothing could hurt us.”
    His voice is fierce in the darkness. On the mattress beside me, Maggie turns, mumbling to herself. Of course I couldn’t go. How could I leave these people? Father and Alice and my brothers and sister? And my land? How could I do such a thing?
    Robin must have heard my answer in my silence, because he sighs and rolls on to his back. I reach over and twine my
fingers through his, and we fall asleep together like that, his fingers locked tight between mine.
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    Later, much later, I’m woken by the sound of Edward crying. Robin shifts beside me, but doesn’t wake. Below, I hear Alice fumbling to light a candle, talking softly to Edward so as not to wake Father.
    I prop myself up on my elbows and lift the blanket-curtain aside, so as to see into the room below. Alice comes through from her chamber. She’s holding the candle in one hand and Edward in the crook of her other arm. Her hair is wild and dishevelled under her nightcap and her woollen slip is open at the breast. She settles herself at her stool, and lets Edward find her breast and start suckling. I watch from the solar, expecting Edward to finish and Alice to go back into bed with Father, but she stays there in the dark chamber, murmuring to Edward or perhaps to herself. In the yellow candlelight, there’s something beautiful about the two of them – a little like the painting of the Virgin Mary in the church, but more earthy, more solid.
    From the safety of my hiding place, I watch the two of them. After Edward has finished suckling he falls back quickly into sleep, but Alice stays awake for a long time, sitting at the stool by her loom, her rough head bent over her sleeping son. I wonder what she thinks, really, about having Robin living with us. I wonder what Father thinks about him sleeping in the same bed as me and Ned and Mags. I wonder, watching Alice holding her child, if somewhere inside her she regrets bringing him here. And I know that I will never, ever know.

18. Emma Baker
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    I t’s very strange having Robin living with us. At first, I’m awkward and a little shy – not sure how