about her. He thought of school, of leaving behind the usher with his gnawed nails and yawning half-attention to their exercises, and moving up to the master. Impressive – but you knew now the questions would be harder: there would be no hiding.
‘I mean to. I’m going to do what’s right, Mother. But I am not being driven there. Neither of us is. We go freely to it.’
‘Your father should hear this, not me alone,’ she said, taking the bridle from him: he saw that he had been twisting, throttling it. ‘You must have his permission, for one thing. It must all be talked of properly, openly. Discussed.’
For a moment he heard that word wrongly: perhaps because of what he saw in her face. Moving away from him, she hung up the bridle. Not quite her son any more, Will said: ‘Never mind Father for the moment, what do you think?’
‘I think as he does, always.’ She shook her head: as if the pupil were not proving promising with these new lessons. At any rate, thought Will, as she left him, soon I shall be new-clothed: I can wrap myself in the cheap grandeur of the parent.
* * *
No, Anne told him when he wanted to come into the farmhouse and speak out now, no and no. ‘Because that would make it seem something you ’ve done. Instead of both of us. Go, sweet. I’ll do the first speaking. There, see, I’m playing the shrew-wife already.’ They laughed at that, high and nervously.
Now, indoors, she half repents; wonders, watching Bella at her spinning, whether to tell her first. For Bella is not an unkind woman – unkindness requiring a certain imagination, after all, the ability to picture what will hurt; and most importantly, she is a woman. Yet still it seems unnatural. She and Bartholomew have the rich closeness of rancour.
After supper she follows him to the brew-house, stands watching him as he taps a new keg.
‘What, Anne, turning toper?’
‘Brother, I want to be married.’
‘Hm. Is this a mere general wish, or have you someone in mind?’ He frowns at the ale seething to the jug’s rim; then with a shrug drinks straight from it. ‘You never like my jests.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I am. I think. It’s just the way you land it on a man, as if you want it to slap him down. Is it Will Shakespeare?’ A glance, though their eyes skim away from each other. ‘Dear Lord. Curious business. You know, of course you know, he’s very young. And while he may talk of betrothal and marriage and all, remember a young man’s tongue will run away with him. I can see, I can well see, that you might be flattered. But consider. Consider George Godden, who’s still much taken with you, you know. Think on it, is all I say.’
Now she wishes she had spoken first to Bella, to anybody, rather than say what she has to say to her brother. ‘I don’t – we don’t need to consider, Bartholomew. The match is made up.’
‘Aye, so, but you can still change your mind, Anne—’
‘No, I don’t want to. Also I can’t.’ She finds her voice rising sharply: a mouse scuffles. Bartholomew, setting the jug down, nearly drops it. Ale slops and stinks and Anne tries not to gag, not to put her hand to her belly, not to look at him. ‘I can’t.’
‘Oh, dear God.’ After a moment he bursts out laughing, in a terrible wheezy way, as if someone has punched him in the stomach while telling him a joke. ‘Lord, I’ll be hanged. I’m a blind buzzard. Oh, Father, do you hear this? You’re buried at last, old man, you can rest…’
She turns. ‘It’s true, I never do like your jests.’
‘Wait. Anne. Tell me this – there was naught against your will?’
‘No.’ She feels various kinds of disgust. ‘Hark to this too, Father: this is Bartholomew being the good brother.’
‘I always am. So I thought.’ His face now is cold and stripped. ‘Well, then, there’s not a great deal more to say, is there? It’s not as if you need permission. Not at your age.’
He leaves her to
‘I mean to. I’m going to do what’s right, Mother. But I am not being driven there. Neither of us is. We go freely to it.’
‘Your father should hear this, not me alone,’ she said, taking the bridle from him: he saw that he had been twisting, throttling it. ‘You must have his permission, for one thing. It must all be talked of properly, openly. Discussed.’
For a moment he heard that word wrongly: perhaps because of what he saw in her face. Moving away from him, she hung up the bridle. Not quite her son any more, Will said: ‘Never mind Father for the moment, what do you think?’
‘I think as he does, always.’ She shook her head: as if the pupil were not proving promising with these new lessons. At any rate, thought Will, as she left him, soon I shall be new-clothed: I can wrap myself in the cheap grandeur of the parent.
* * *
No, Anne told him when he wanted to come into the farmhouse and speak out now, no and no. ‘Because that would make it seem something you ’ve done. Instead of both of us. Go, sweet. I’ll do the first speaking. There, see, I’m playing the shrew-wife already.’ They laughed at that, high and nervously.
Now, indoors, she half repents; wonders, watching Bella at her spinning, whether to tell her first. For Bella is not an unkind woman – unkindness requiring a certain imagination, after all, the ability to picture what will hurt; and most importantly, she is a woman. Yet still it seems unnatural. She and Bartholomew have the rich closeness of rancour.
After supper she follows him to the brew-house, stands watching him as he taps a new keg.
‘What, Anne, turning toper?’
‘Brother, I want to be married.’
‘Hm. Is this a mere general wish, or have you someone in mind?’ He frowns at the ale seething to the jug’s rim; then with a shrug drinks straight from it. ‘You never like my jests.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I am. I think. It’s just the way you land it on a man, as if you want it to slap him down. Is it Will Shakespeare?’ A glance, though their eyes skim away from each other. ‘Dear Lord. Curious business. You know, of course you know, he’s very young. And while he may talk of betrothal and marriage and all, remember a young man’s tongue will run away with him. I can see, I can well see, that you might be flattered. But consider. Consider George Godden, who’s still much taken with you, you know. Think on it, is all I say.’
Now she wishes she had spoken first to Bella, to anybody, rather than say what she has to say to her brother. ‘I don’t – we don’t need to consider, Bartholomew. The match is made up.’
‘Aye, so, but you can still change your mind, Anne—’
‘No, I don’t want to. Also I can’t.’ She finds her voice rising sharply: a mouse scuffles. Bartholomew, setting the jug down, nearly drops it. Ale slops and stinks and Anne tries not to gag, not to put her hand to her belly, not to look at him. ‘I can’t.’
‘Oh, dear God.’ After a moment he bursts out laughing, in a terrible wheezy way, as if someone has punched him in the stomach while telling him a joke. ‘Lord, I’ll be hanged. I’m a blind buzzard. Oh, Father, do you hear this? You’re buried at last, old man, you can rest…’
She turns. ‘It’s true, I never do like your jests.’
‘Wait. Anne. Tell me this – there was naught against your will?’
‘No.’ She feels various kinds of disgust. ‘Hark to this too, Father: this is Bartholomew being the good brother.’
‘I always am. So I thought.’ His face now is cold and stripped. ‘Well, then, there’s not a great deal more to say, is there? It’s not as if you need permission. Not at your age.’
He leaves her to
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