Read Online Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diane Setterfield
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another.
Paul, taking the swaying for faintness, grasped his shoulder more firmly.
The thing inside was rattling him. He could not keep his arms still, his legs vibrated dangerously under him. He was cold in his stomach, cold down his spine, his rib cage was locked, his throat was blocked, he couldn’t breathe—
William closed his eyes in a slow blink.
Nothing will ever be the same again, he thought.
When he opened his eyes it was to the glare of sunshine and tears. Was that someone signaling to him on the far side of the grave? Some gesture, it seemed to be. Exhorting him? Encouraging? Will blinked and squinted. A raised arm, he thought. The wide drape of a black cloak, splayed fingers emerging from the cuff. Something glittering. Dazzled he could look no longer. His eyes sought respite in the darkness of the grave. At the edge of his vision he was aware of the great sweep of the cloak as it blacked out the sky and the sun, the mourners, everyone and everything, and last, Will himself.
· · ·
Later. By some tacit arrangement, it was his friends from the mill who had the care of him for the night. Will’s mind was dull and blank already so he didn’t see what help cider and whiskey could be to him, but others knew better and they took him to the Red Lion. After three days of sympathetic ironing from the Misses Young, he welcomed the rougher way in which the men from the mill administered their consolation. There was a jug of cider on the table, and no sooner was it empty than it was filled. Fred from the bakery dropped in to clasp him in his arms and nearly lifted him off the ground. “She was a good’un, your ma. Can’t stay. Must get home. Got a littl’un now, you know?” Hamlin and Gambin the shearers came in especially to shake his hand; their words were inaudible above the hubbub of the inn, but the sensewas clear enough. Thank you, Will said, Kind of you. A jolting blow on his shoulder was Rudge’s leather hand dealing out robust sympathy. Mute Greg made a delicate display of compassion, fingertips and temples expressing fellow feeling in a mime that came closer to touching Will than anything else. Some left and others came, and every minute, Poll the landlady was there, refilling the cider jug, giving him a pat or a stroke as if he were a nice stray dog, taken in at the Red Lion to be the inn’s pet. In the hubbub around him, men were smiling, men were laughing. At the edge of Will’s mouth a muscle twitched. Some raucous shouting burst out, someone accusing someone of exaggerating . . . Will listened as men leaned in toward each other to recount lewd and improbable stories about respectable women. “On us, eh?” Poll ruffled his hair as she refilled the jug for the goodness knows how manyeth time.
The current was strong, Will let himself be carried by it.
The cider bore his mind to a silent place far from all the commotion. When he was restored to his senses, it was to discover himself bellowing the words of a vulgar song. Hoarse his voice was, a rusty croak.
Someone leaned over his shoulder to place a whiskey in front of him. “See if that mends your voice.”
He felt slow. He lagged a few seconds behind everyone else. He organized some words and spoke them to the blacksmith’s son he’d known once. “Luke! Thank you. Not having one yourself?”
Luke pulled a face. “Poll’s only serving me for ready money now.” His hair was dulled with grease, his skin yellow and stringy. “Can’t blame her.” He shrugged. “All right, are you? Saw you keel over up the churchyard this morning.”
“Oh. You were there, were you?”
“Dug the grave. I’ve covered her up, nice and cozy.” A grimace, black sticks of teeth in his gums. “Well, you know. Best I could.”
What to say? “Thank you. Kind of you.”
“She was all right, your mother.” His good eye drifted, either to aplace where Will’s mother was still opening her pantry for a hungry boy or to nowhere. “Well,
Paul, taking the swaying for faintness, grasped his shoulder more firmly.
The thing inside was rattling him. He could not keep his arms still, his legs vibrated dangerously under him. He was cold in his stomach, cold down his spine, his rib cage was locked, his throat was blocked, he couldn’t breathe—
William closed his eyes in a slow blink.
Nothing will ever be the same again, he thought.
When he opened his eyes it was to the glare of sunshine and tears. Was that someone signaling to him on the far side of the grave? Some gesture, it seemed to be. Exhorting him? Encouraging? Will blinked and squinted. A raised arm, he thought. The wide drape of a black cloak, splayed fingers emerging from the cuff. Something glittering. Dazzled he could look no longer. His eyes sought respite in the darkness of the grave. At the edge of his vision he was aware of the great sweep of the cloak as it blacked out the sky and the sun, the mourners, everyone and everything, and last, Will himself.
· · ·
Later. By some tacit arrangement, it was his friends from the mill who had the care of him for the night. Will’s mind was dull and blank already so he didn’t see what help cider and whiskey could be to him, but others knew better and they took him to the Red Lion. After three days of sympathetic ironing from the Misses Young, he welcomed the rougher way in which the men from the mill administered their consolation. There was a jug of cider on the table, and no sooner was it empty than it was filled. Fred from the bakery dropped in to clasp him in his arms and nearly lifted him off the ground. “She was a good’un, your ma. Can’t stay. Must get home. Got a littl’un now, you know?” Hamlin and Gambin the shearers came in especially to shake his hand; their words were inaudible above the hubbub of the inn, but the sensewas clear enough. Thank you, Will said, Kind of you. A jolting blow on his shoulder was Rudge’s leather hand dealing out robust sympathy. Mute Greg made a delicate display of compassion, fingertips and temples expressing fellow feeling in a mime that came closer to touching Will than anything else. Some left and others came, and every minute, Poll the landlady was there, refilling the cider jug, giving him a pat or a stroke as if he were a nice stray dog, taken in at the Red Lion to be the inn’s pet. In the hubbub around him, men were smiling, men were laughing. At the edge of Will’s mouth a muscle twitched. Some raucous shouting burst out, someone accusing someone of exaggerating . . . Will listened as men leaned in toward each other to recount lewd and improbable stories about respectable women. “On us, eh?” Poll ruffled his hair as she refilled the jug for the goodness knows how manyeth time.
The current was strong, Will let himself be carried by it.
The cider bore his mind to a silent place far from all the commotion. When he was restored to his senses, it was to discover himself bellowing the words of a vulgar song. Hoarse his voice was, a rusty croak.
Someone leaned over his shoulder to place a whiskey in front of him. “See if that mends your voice.”
He felt slow. He lagged a few seconds behind everyone else. He organized some words and spoke them to the blacksmith’s son he’d known once. “Luke! Thank you. Not having one yourself?”
Luke pulled a face. “Poll’s only serving me for ready money now.” His hair was dulled with grease, his skin yellow and stringy. “Can’t blame her.” He shrugged. “All right, are you? Saw you keel over up the churchyard this morning.”
“Oh. You were there, were you?”
“Dug the grave. I’ve covered her up, nice and cozy.” A grimace, black sticks of teeth in his gums. “Well, you know. Best I could.”
What to say? “Thank you. Kind of you.”
“She was all right, your mother.” His good eye drifted, either to aplace where Will’s mother was still opening her pantry for a hungry boy or to nowhere. “Well,
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