Signals of Distress

7. Sitting on Blisters

AYMER SMITH had fled the smoke and herrings of the parlour. (‘My chest and throat are raw, Ralph. My nose already is a tap. I shouldn’t be surprised if I were feverish by breakfast time.’) He was sleeping, fully clothed, on his sheetless bed. Whip, exhausted by the snow and cold, curled at his side, her nose tucked in between her legs. She didn’t know or care that Aymer was (brother Matthias’s judgement, endorsed by faithful Fidia) a blunderer, a bore, a hypochondriac, a meddling and self-serving man. She had adopted him.

Robert and Katie Norris hadn’t waited at the chapel door to shake the preacher’s hand. They had returned from evensong ahead of Mrs Yapp and all her other guests. They hurried through the parlour, nodding briefly at Ralph Par-kiss by the fire, took a lighted candle from the mantel, and almost ran along the corridor and down the flights of steps to what they thought would be an empty room. They hadn’t come out of the chapel edified by hymns or by Mr Phipps’s passages from Ornithologia, but impassioned rather by the holy, warming congruence of worshippers at church, their thighs in contact on the pew, their two thumbs touching on the shared hymnal, their voices mating when they sang.

Katie Norris had forgotten how beautiful her husband’s voice could be. His voice, her hair. She didn’t mind that he was not a handsome man, that he was thin-haired, shortsighted, bony, clerkish in his manner and his speech. What mattered was his kindness to her, his steadfastness. Who’d emigrate to Canada for the sake of curls, blue eyes, a lordly nose, fine skin? Good looks do not the lover make. No, what a woman needs is not a beau but someone — Katie Norris loved the word — resolute.

Katie had a resolution of her own, that she would be with child before she put to sea. A pregnant woman, she’d been told, would get a bunk on board a migrant ship, a decent place at table, and generally would be coddled by the sailors. But, more than that, she wanted to take away a child from home, a child not made in Canada, a blessed, honeymooning child. She’d only hoped that Robert would indulge this wish without inflicting too much hurt on her. In those days before the wedding to Mr Norris, the local notary-cum-ledgerworm, and their departure from the village forty miles inland from Wherrytown, her elder married sister and her ma, not pleased to lose their Katie to the colonies, had warned of ‘duty’ and ‘indignities’ and ‘getting used to manly ardours’. They had not mentioned that manly ardours might be shared by wives. Perhaps they didn’t know. So no one had prepared Katie for how satisfying baby-making would prove to be. Their wedding night, just a fortnight and one day ago, had been a shock, a revelation. To think that mellow-singing, thin-haired Robert could be so resolute in bed! Where had he learned such sorcery?

Her husband had, on that first night of ‘duty and indignities’, proved to be a virtuoso. The man could sing and touch! He’d caressed her beneath her wedding shift until her breathing had seemed so frail and heavenly, her mouth so dry, her thighs so open and invaded by his hand that she had cried out in the night too loudly. And Ma, a wattled wall away, had cursed ‘that Robert Norris’ for his cruelty and called to the newly weds, ‘Enough’s enough!’ For Katie Norris, babymaking was no indignity. So when — in Wherrytown chapel — her husband sang, ‘Our Home in Thee, Our Lord, Thy Life and Light Afford, A Pathway to Thy Side, and Let Our Love Abide’, and every syllable of his stood out so that the other women turned around to see whose voice it was, Katie let her thumb cross over his. She stroked his fingernail. She couldn’t wait to get him home in bed, alone. They wouldn’t have to suffer Mr Smith’s foul coughing nor the fear that he might hear them making love, or see her passing water in the pot. Thank heavens that the tiresome man was gone! They’d have the bedroom to themselves. She’d wrap her hair around his head. She’d count his ribs and nipples with her tongue. She’d sit on him by candlelight while he sang hymns to her.

Robert had his hand on her bottom as they ran along the corridor. Already she had got her bonnet off and pulled the ribbon from her hair. He lifted up her skirts when they arrived outside the bedroom. She yelped and snapped his hand between her thighs. His fingers were icicles. His face was icy too.

‘Let’s get warm in bed,’ she said.

They’d hardly entered the room and dropped the door latch when Whip was barking at their knees and jumping up at Katie’s skirts. She tried to force the dog outside. The candle toppled from its holder, fell onto the bedroom boards and lost its light. She put her boot against Whip and pushed her into the corridor. ‘Where are you, Robert, my sweet love?’ she said. ‘Come here.’ And then again, more softly and more richly, ‘Come here. Come. Here.’

‘Hello. Is that you?’ said Aymer Smith. He sat up now in bed and could be seen in silhouette against the windows of the room. ‘Mr Norris, Mrs Norris? How very pleasant. And so you are returned?’

‘We are,’ said Katie, ‘yes.’ Her bones had liquefied. Her chest and throat were quivering like some trapped thrush. She found her husband’s hand, still icy cold.

‘Then, pray, will you address yourselves to this small mystery, which causes me, perhaps, some distress but which might afford a little entertainment for yourselves.’ He sniffed and coughed and chuckled. Good humour in adversity. He judged it struck the proper note with Katie Norris and her hair. He wished there was light enough to see her hair. ‘I have returned from my expedition along the coast to find my bedclothes taken off and my belongings stowed somewhere — perhaps elsewhere is better said — and no one in the inn to put the matter right. Do you suppose there are sheet-thieves about? Hot beef, stop thief. Is that our cry? Or should we look to that odd fellow George, or even Countess Yapp, to shed some candlelight upon their whereabouts?’ When there was no immediate answer from his fellow guests, he cut short their silence: ‘And you, dear friends? You passed a tolerable day, I trust? Myself, I have been lost in snow, and taken on the meanest touch of influenza, but not before I shook the Cradle Rock. That is an excursion you are advised to take before you leave these shores …’ Again he coughed and sniffed and chuckled. He couldn’t stop himself. He was so happy.

Katie Norris whispered something. And then she spoke a bit too audibly, ‘You tell him, Robert!’

‘Your clothes and bag, your cakes of soap, your books,’ said her husband, ‘are taken by our landlady …’

‘Indeed?’

‘Indeed, they are. I do believe she thought you were not here. That is to say, she feared you might have left. And that your few possessions might be payment for your bill …’

‘The Inn-that-has-no-name, has no rhyme nor reason to it, either. Excuse me while I solve this mystery …’ He blundered to the door. The Norrises were forced to stand apart and let him through. He smelt of fish and damp. ‘I will return with light,’ he said. He and the dog had gone before the Norrises could say another word. Perhaps the less they said the least harm done.

Robert put his arm round Katie’s waist.

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back too soon … I wonder if he’s got his trousers on?’

Aymer found the parlour occupied by an advance party of some of the younger fishermen. Their nets had been blessed by Mr Phipps. Now they were hoping to have their spirits fortified by Mrs Yapp’s hot wine and beer before the Sabbath ended and the moment came to set off for the pilchards. Aymer rang the parlour handbell, but no one came.

‘They’s steppin’ down from chapel,’ one man said. ‘There in’t no point in shaking that, not till they’s back inside.’

Aymer took his damp tarpaulin coat off its hook and went out of the inn’s front door. He put his coat on, underneath the granite lintel, and went down into the lane. He was impatient to be back amongst the Norrises in candlelight, with Katie Norris in her nightshift just three yards away. And Miggy Bowe to dream about. How fortunate, for him at least, that Duty had brought him west, the bearer of bad news. His life had blossomed since the Tar had docked in Wherrytown and he had come ashore! He’d moved the Cradle Rock. He’d freed an African. He’d bested Mr Walter Howells. He had new friends, the Norrises, Ralph Parkiss, some of the kelpers at Dry Manston. Even George the parlourman. The dog! The hairy little dog was his friend, too! And, best of all, he had the prospect of a wife — though, when he tried to summon Miggy Bowe in his mind’s eye, he couldn’t picture her. What colour were her eyes? How had she worn her hair? Instead, his mind was full of Katie Norris, her freckled calves upon the pot, her sandy hair a flapping flag of colour on the sea.

An older fisherman approached the inn, a length of newly blessed net on his shoulder. ‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Indeed it is.’

‘A bitter night, though.’

‘But a well-shaped Universe,’ Aymer said.

‘Amen to that. That’s worth a cup of anybody’s time.’

Aymer waited while Whip relieved herself against the stone and then went chasing smells. The snow had almost stopped, but what had already fallen was hard and biscuity underfoot. Aymer put his hands into his coat, whistled for the dog and set off up the lane.

The next men that he met were two sailors from the Belle: ‘Captain Keg’, the portly mate, and a taller, younger deckhand. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Or should I say the contrary, that it is a dreadful evening and fearful cold?’

The Americans stared at Aymer with theatrical delight. ‘Well now!’ the mate said to his companion. ‘And lookee lookee here, see what the dog’s brought home!’ They stopped and grinned at him. Aymer was impatient with their ‘sauciness’. He walked on. They followed him until — to loud American guffaws — he collided with George the parlourman.

‘Ah, just the fellow. George? Let’s see if you are worth the shilling that you’ve had.’

George seemed at a loss for words for a moment, and then he said, ‘It’ll take more than a shilling to save your tail …’ and added, ‘… sir!’

Again the two Americans were laughing, inexplicably. Aymer felt excluded from some joke. It was a feeling he was accustomed to. He joined the laughter with a lifeless ‘Ah-ha’, and then took George by the elbow and spoke softly: ‘We must not fence, George. It is too cold and late to fence. Can you throw any light on this? My bed is stripped. My bag and my possessions are no longer in my room and Mrs Norris says that Mrs Yapp has taken them in lieu of payment …’

George was smiling now from ear to ear. ‘We thought you had eloped with the captain’s dog,’ he said, ‘and taken that Otto Africanus as your valet. But now you’re back, so that’s all right, so long as Otto’s nice and snug on this cold night inside the tackle room. I hope he is.’

‘Well, he is not …’ Aymer hadn’t given much thought to Otto. He’d provided food. He’d sent for a physician. He’d set the fellow free. And that was that. The man would be, well, sleeping somewhere else by now and on his way to … Aymer didn’t know the names of any towns that could be walked to in a day. He’d done his duty and hadn’t considered that there might be consequences, repercussions. ‘Well, he is not,’ he said again, with some attempt at firmness.

‘Then, Mr Smith, you’d better turn about and find some place to hide unless you want a beating. For kidnapping. And dognapping. And soapnapping. And knapsacking. And walking out without your trousers on.’ Again there was much laughter, though not from George.

Aymer put his hand up to his mouth. What did the sailors know? What had they seen? Was he observed when he pulled back the bolt, when he was masturbating in the alleyway, when he was peeping through the curtains at Katie’s naked thighs? He coughed, and sniffed, but didn’t chuckle. ‘I cannot think,’ he said, ‘that this is any of my making …’

George put his lips to Aymer’s ear, and whispered, ‘You let that blackie go. You know you did. And, more’s the point, they know you did, those sailors standing there.’

Aymer didn’t dare to look. ‘What do those fellows want? Do they mean harm?’

‘They’ll not do any harm themselves. They mean to be spectators to it, though. It’s the captain who will break your bones.’

‘Captain Comstock?’

‘He’s the one. He is the only captain you’ve robbed, I hope.’

‘Well, yes … well … no!’

‘How many captains, then?’

‘Good heavens, George, do you mistake me for a highwayman? I am not guilty of a spate of crimes. Or any crimes at all. No one could wish to break my bones. Besides, the captain is a gentleman, or ought to be, if he is worthy of command. He would not strike me. What example might that set? If he has grievances then he should settle them by law. This is not America, I hope. The law is clear. We have emancipated slaves and habeas corpus here. He will not strike me in my native land.’

‘Who can tell what he might do? I just know this: you stick your bum in fire and you must sit on blisters. You interfere in someone else’s life, and there’s a price to pay. And that’s the truth, for captains and for gentlemen, no matter what the law might say.’

George put his arm round Aymer’s shoulder and led him into the blackness of a courtyard where they could not be watched or heard by the two Americans. Aymer couldn’t see his face, so couldn’t tell if there was any mockery in the new, honest tone to George’s voice. ‘The wisest thing for you is to let me find a horse and tackle, Mr Smith. Then hide yourself under my bed, or in the loft above the stables, until it’s dawn. And then it’s flesh and leather and you’re away back home and no damage done to you excepting saddle sores.’

‘I have no choice, you think.’

‘You have a choice. It’s blisters here, or saddle sores at home. If your backside’s got any brain it’ll settle for the sores. You put a sovereign in my hand to find the horse and it’s as good as done, and done so cheaply on account of my esteem for you, sir. For no one likes to see a fellow black and blue for meaning well but doing harm. One sovereign ought to settle it. Though two would put four legs beneath the horse, instead of three legs and a limp …’

‘Two sovereigns, George? I now begin to see your strategy …’

‘Save yourself two sovereigns then, and you’ll see this in’t no strategy. It’ll cost ten sovereigns for Fearful Phipps to set and mend your bones. Save yourself eight, Mr Smith, and do it quick because that is the captain I can hear and you’ll be caught.’

They stood on tiptoe looking over the courtyard wall into the lesser, sloping darkness of the lane. Twenty or so crewmen and Wherrytowners were descending, clustered round two lanterns on a pole.

Their path was steep and slippery and dark, and women had to hold strangers’ arms to stop themselves from falling in the snow. There was a lot of laughter, clutching, tumbling, apologies.

‘He’s there,’ said George, pointing, ‘and in good hands, poor man.’

The captain followed fifteen yards behind the rest, almost out of lantern light. But there was no mistaking his square build, nor Mrs Yapp’s oval one. She had her arm wrapped round the captain’s waist. Her bonnet was inclined towards his chest. They were too engrossed and, like the Norrises, too impassioned by the warming congruences of church to pay much heed to anything but how they’d seal the Sabbath with a little commerce of the flesh. She had the captain’s dollar in her hand.

‘Stay still,’ said George.

‘I will not hide myself. This is a public place, and I am well within the law.’ He was too frightened to stay still, or quiet. So Aymer Smith, with George and Whip on either side, stepped into the lane and stood beside the Belle’s fat mate and in the congregation’s path. He had no plan, except to keep his dignity, tell nothing but the truth, and hide behind the law. Shipmaster Comstock would benefit, in Aymer’s view, from some enlightenment. And some plain speaking.

Stand firm, he told himself. Though standing firm was difficult in his fine-weather boots. He’d put his feet too close together and too parallel. He lost his footing and he had to grasp the mate for balance. When he had regained his poise, he found himself surrounded by the crowd. The Wherrytowners amongst them raised their hats and said Goodnight; the Americans offered guffaws, whistles and expletives, and waited for their captain to arrive.

‘Good evening, Mrs Yapp,’ Aymer said, his voice uneven and a little high. ‘I understand you have my clothes and other things in your safe keeping. If this is so, then I’d be obliged if you could let me have them back, and ditto sheets, as I am tired and not a little feverish and would be glad to go to bed …’ He sniffed and coughed to illustrate his point.

‘Dear Lord,’ said Mrs Yapp. ‘A ghost!’ And burst out laughing.

Shipmaster Comstock let her go, and advanced to within a foot of Smith. Their gelid breaths made tiny, short-lived clouds, back-lit by lantern-light.

‘Good evening, Captain Comstock,’ Aymer said. ‘I trust you had a halfways decent day.’

A halfways decent day? What should the captain make of such effrontery? What should he say, with his crew stood by, and people from the town? He had intended to intimidate the man and then to thrash him. He clenched his fist. The nugget of his ring protruded from his finger. He’d knock Smith to the ground with just one blow. And then he’d stamp on him. But he was now discovering what Aymer had discovered moments earlier, that icy snow on sloping stone without a woman’s arm to keep you steady provides poor footing for a fight, or even for a dressing-down. He slipped, and Aymer had to — briefly — hold his hand. God Damn It that they had to meet like this, in public view, the captain thought. He’d like to hold on to the fellow’s hand and break all twenty-seven bones. He’d like to have him in his crew, and flogged for mutiny. Alice Yapp tugged at the captain’s coat: ‘Don’t get too wild.’ Aymer Smith had backed away. For the moment Comstock was reduced to words. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said at last, attempting something out of character, a note of irony. ‘I understand you have my property in your safekeeping. I’d be obliged as well if you could let me have it back, as Mrs Yapp and I would like to go to bed.’

‘I have no property of yours …’

‘Well, then, I think you have.’ He shook off Mrs Yapp and took two careful steps towards Aymer. He made a fist again.

‘Then, search me, sir, and you will see I’ve not.’

Captain Comstock was infuriated now. ‘My dear man Otto has been robbed from me! Do you deny that you pulled back the bolt, and sent the fellow out to die of cold?’

‘I did not …’ Did not mean to leave the poor man cold was what he meant to say. Instead he fumbled for the words. He wasn’t rough enough for this. His eyes were wet. His chest was tight. His lip and voice were trembling. Was it the image of poor Otto, dead in snow? Or was it just that Aymer’s fear was stronger than his dignity, and lies were safer haven than plain speaking or the law? He said, ‘I did not pull back any bolt,’ and sounded like a boy.

‘You did, sir.’

‘No, sir, you are mistaken. Nor do I understand what vexes you.’ He stepped two paces back.

‘It vexes me that you deny your meddling … that you have sent into this night of wind and snow a man who has enough misfortunes as it is.’

‘Misfortunes of your making, Captain Comstock.’

The captain stretched and caught Aymer by the coat. ‘No, sir! I rescued Otto from the fields. I paid good dollars for the man in open auction. He does not suffer from unkindnesses aboard my ship.’ (His men grunted their agreement.) ‘I work him no harder than any of my sailors here, and in the galley too, where there is always food and warmth for him. He is not muzzled like some black cooks. He helps himself. He eats at will. What kind of food and warmth will he find now that you have put him out of doors, like some poor dog? Like my poor dog indeed. Not only do you steal my man, you steal my dog as well.’ He swung his arm and caught Aymer round the side of his head. Aymer hadn’t seen it coming. There was a storm in his ear.

‘There is your dog!’ Aymer pointed to Whip, who, luck would have it, was sitting in the snow behind the captain. ‘I will not press you for your apology, though it is clear to anyone with eyes that I have earned it.’

‘You’ve earned yourself a beating, Mister Smith.’ The captain let go of Aymer’s coat and spread his feet in preparation for the knock-out blow which he now planned for Aymer’s chin. The sailors clapped their hands and whistled. ‘Defend yourself.’

The Wherrytowners were uneasy now. Bewildered, too. It wasn’t long since they had been at prayer and sharing hymns with the Americans. It wouldn’t do if bones were broken on the Sabbath. Blood on snow would bring bad luck, and who needs bad luck when their men would put to sea at midnight?

‘Call Mr Phipps. He’ll settle it,’ one said. And even Mrs Yapp was alarmed by fisticuffs between her guests. ‘Apologize or pay up, Mr Smith,’ was her remedy. ‘And then we’ll put this little contretemps to bed … For God’s sake, find your tongue.’

Aymer kept his hands down by his side. He sniffed and coughed and blinked his eyes. ‘This is not just,’ he said. ‘What must I say to reassure you, Captain Comstock? I am a businessman, and well regarded hereabouts …’ (There was no one to grunt agreement.) ‘I am a son of Hector Smith & Sons. We have markets for our soaps in Boston, New Orleans and Philadelphia. I have no grudge against America. I have my errands here as well, in Wherrytown. Speak if you will to Walter Howells, who is our agent in these parts, and is acquainted with my standing. And should you doubt it that my errands here are innocent then you should talk with your own man, Ralph Parkiss. We were companions on the coast today and we have had no dealings with an African. I do not broadcast any views on slavery. I have no interest in your man. I did not put him out of doors, nor make the fellow cold. I did not pull the bolt for him. He is your loss, not mine. My loss is this. My sheets are stripped. My clothes and bag have disappeared. My books are seized …’ He paused for breath.

Comstock’s hands were at his side as well. He looked uncertain and diminished. There wouldn’t be a beating after all. Aymer was — almost — believed. Perhaps he wasn’t guilty of anything but hot air and timidity and tears. This much was obvious to everyone: he hadn’t fled on the Tar with Otto and the dog as they’d all presumed. Here was the living — quaking — evidence of that. Here was the little dog. They had misjudged the man.

‘You struck me, sir, in full view of all these witnesses,’ said Aymer. He rubbed his face, and checked his hand for blood. ‘I cannot think what recompense can settle this. Apologies are not enough.’

‘Shake hands, the two of you,’ suggested Alice Yapp. ‘Then sleep on it. There’s no use nursing it.’

‘I am too bruised about my ears to sleep. I hope no lasting damage has been done.’

‘Well now, maybe we ought to sleep on it, like Mrs Yapp suggests,’ the captain said. He blew out cloudy air. He felt he’d made a fool of himself. The Wherrytowners would think he was a hot-head and a bully. They would not mistake that for captaincy. The crew had seen him weaken when they had hoped for bruises and broken bones. ‘Well now,’ he said again.

Mrs Yapp stepped between the two men. ‘Let’s see the pair of you shake hands,’ she said again. She was getting cold. ‘We have been hasty, Mr Smith. You’ll not be blaming the captain, I’m sure.’ She took him by the wrist and held his arm up. She dug the captain in the ribs until he put his hand out too and said, so softly that his men couldn’t hear, ‘Then, I am mistaken maybe, Mr Smith. I see I might regret my hastiness …’

‘And your bad temper,’ prompted Mrs Yapp.

‘I think I am man enough not to hold grudges,’ Aymer replied. ‘Let this be but an episode.’ The captain took his hand, and stopped it shaking. How pleasant it would be to crack some finger bones.

Many of the Wherrytowners hadn’t known that Otto had escaped, and now they were both angry and alarmed. They didn’t want an African at large, amongst their fields and flocks and families. What kind of man was he, they asked. Could he do any harm? What kind of flesh might he hunt for? What magic did he know? Would it be wise to send for soldiers, or could they hope the cold and snow had finished him, just like the captain said? Comstock was too angry and too thwarted to say much. He wanted just the privacy of Alice Yapp in bed. She held his arm again and they set off for the inn. But one or two of the Americans were quick to tease the Wherrytowners with tales of Otto’s superhuman strength, his tiger temper and his monstrous appetite: ‘I’ve seen him chewing leather boots.’

‘And he likes human hams!’

‘Flesh pudding.’

‘Finger pie.’

And then another added, ‘Make sure your daughters don’t give birth to Africans.’

Aymer volunteered his expertise. He was recovered now, or, at least, he had stopped shaking and could pretend that Captain Comstock’s odd outburst had caused him no embarrassment. ‘The Africans are a noble race of men,’ he said. Unlike Americans. ‘They have their grievous faults, of course, and high qualities as well, much as the rest of us who are not Africans … There are as many saints and thieves in Africa as there are here …’ He looked directly at the mate. And then he had an inspiration, one which should have been suppressed but which, if voiced, would clear his name, he hoped. Where was the harm in it? He called out to the captain’s back, his voice a little sharper than he’d meant: ‘Perhaps — and now this history becomes more clear to me — your African has stolen my affairs … my clothes, my few possessions. My sheets!’ Everybody turned to hear. ‘… At least the man finds warmth in them wherever he might be … There is a staircase from the courtyard of the inn. It leads directly to my room. The coincidences of our two losses at one time cannot be dismissed. We can presume your African is well equipped against the night. If he were not, I think he would have crept back humbly to his lodging at the inn. No, he will have found himself some little snug, an outhouse or a stable. He has my carriage rug. Some decent clothes. A set of sheets. And soap to wash himself, fit for the aristocracy.’

‘There’s truth in that,’ said Mrs Yapp. She couldn’t laugh. She had to swallow it. Smith’s clothes and soap and bag were on the settle in her room.

The Wherrytowners couldn’t be blamed for their alarm. Not only had the African escaped, but now it seemed that he had burgled someone at the inn and might be hiding from the snow in Wherrytown. They wouldn’t have been more worried if they’d heard a bull was loose. They understood the dangers of a bull. You could lock your door against a bull. But Africans? Lord preserve them from the savages. They might be raped and eaten in their beds. Some hurried off to check their daughters and their outhouses. Some looked uneasily into the shadows. How well would women sleep that night, with all their men at sea in pilchard boats and Otto on the loose?

A voice at Aymer’s shoulder muttered, ‘You are a provocation, sir.’

‘Ah, George!’

They walked without speaking till they reached the lintelled door of the inn. Inside, Americans and Wherrytowners were waiting to be served with beer.

‘No blisters! And two sovereigns saved, I think,’ said Aymer. He was delighted with himself, despite his throbbing ear. Ashamed as well. And then, ‘I can rely, I hope, on your discretion?’

‘Two sovvers buys discretion, sir, and also can provide you with some clothes that are a match for those the blackie stole. Such wickedness! And sheets and soap, if you require. And some very clever books from George’s Lending Library. Do you begin to see my strategy?’

It wasn’t long before Aymer was reunited with his property, and George (just a half-crown better off) was warming ale and punch for anyone with ha’pennies to spare.

Aymer took a candle to the room. How glad he was the Norrises were there, and still awake and talking softly to each other. He placed the candle on the sill and called to them behind the bed-curtain. ‘I have my clothes. The parlourman has brought them back. There has been some misapprehension by Mrs Yapp and the Americans.’

He recounted to the curtains what had happened in the lane, and how it had required ‘unusual restraint on my behalf, and dignity’ to check the captain’s temper. ‘He spoke to me with a deal of freedom, and he struck me once, but did not dare to do it twice,’ he explained. ‘I could not admire it. But I am glad that my rebuttals were not expressed with any greater roughness than was absolutely requisite.’

His hands were shaking again. Retelling what had happened was reliving it.

‘I cannot regard the captain as a man of much gentility,’ he said. ‘But it is good to share a room with people of distinction, such as you, dear friends. I hope I can regard you both as friends?’ His nose was running now. He wiped it on the damp arm of his coat. He sniffed back tears as best he could. But soon he couldn’t stifle them. The tears had let him down, and he was sobbing. ‘I am not easy that the African is out in weather such as this.’

At last the curtain was drawn back and Robert Norris poked his head into the room. ‘Don’t upset yourself. Whoever set the poor man free could have chosen better times, it’s true. But that’s for his conscience, not yours.’

And then his wife, invisible behind his back, said, ‘We should be grateful he’s free from his imprisonment. It broke my heart to see him so derided in the yard.’

‘You are so good,’ said Aymer Smith. His sobbing now was unrestrained, and he was shivering. Katie Norris stepped across the room into the candlelight, and pressed Aymer’s head against her stomach and her cotton nightdress as if he were a child and not a man.

‘No, you are good to care so much for a stranger. You are a Good Samaritan,’ she said.

‘You think too kindly of me.’ Aymer would have lifted up his hands and held her by the waist, and sunk his face more deeply into the cotton, into her mottled, salmon quilt of flesh, except that Robert Norris had crossed the room as well. He put his arm around his wife and placed his spare hand, like a preacher, on Aymer’s head. ‘Of course, we are your friends,’ he said. They held each other for a moment, and listened to new noises in the courtyard, two flights below. Footsteps on the hardened snow. A wooden door banged shut. A sneeze. Had Otto come in from the snow? The parlour clock was striking twelve.

‘It’s only fishermen,’ said Robert Norris. ‘The Sabbath’s over and they’re going to their boats. But we must sleep.’

‘I cannot.’ Aymer’s pulse was hammering.

‘You must,’ said Katie. But she was looking into Robert’s eyes when she recited,

‘Go to bed. Go to sleep.

Go all the way to the end of tired.

Sleep well. Sleep tight.

Don’t wake up until it’s light,

And all your heartaches have expired.’