Read Online Curiosity by Joan Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Thomas
Tags: Historical
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“Look!” and all eyes would have gone to the oak tree, where the child Mary Anning lay as dead in a dead woman’s arms. When Mary turned her mind to the scene that followed, the story grew in fullness, words coming out on its branches the way blossoms come out on an apple tree. Mary would never be able to tell it properly – her tongue was enslaved to Dorsetshire speech. But no matter: the moment its branches were filled in, the story assumed a voice, bypassing Mary’s tongue and flowing out of Mary’s mind:
Father and Mother were in the workshop when came the news of this heavenly lottery and the unfortunate mortals selected by it. On the heels of the news rode a horseman on a tall chestnut stallion, carrying my senseless body in the crook of one arm. No one could countenance it, so many of the Anning children having been seized already by an ill fate. Doctor Reeves was sent for and said I must be dipped in water. And so they rapidly undressed me, and before the congregation of them all, my naked infant body was immersed. At the touch of the water, I roused myself and then I spoke, although no one can recall my utterance on that occasion, the nineteenth day of August in the Year of Our Lord 1800. My salvation by immersion did not convert my parents to Baptists, as one might suppose. They remained members of the Independent Chapel, and credit my cleverness to the vitalizing effects of fork lightning
.
There were the accents of the high-born in that voice. It was the voice of Miss Elizabeth Philpot, Mary realized suddenly.
But the school did not open. Mary grew like a heron that year; she was powerful thin. There was seldom meat on their table, and all the fish from the shore went into salt barrels for the navy or by stage to London, where it fetched a better price. Her mother began to fret about the colour of the bread they were eating, and went to the baker and accused him of putting gypsum in it. Percival still spit back his food and did not grow, and Molly still talked of Exeter. Then a lady’s maid from that very town stopped by the curiosity table, and when Mary overheard where she was from, she went to call her mother. Molly eagerly asked the woman what she had heard of the seventh son who worked as a healer, whether she knew the family’s name. “Higgins,” said the woman. “On Bobbin Lane. They be neighbours of my father. I know them well.” But she would not confide in Molly as to the extent of the boy’s powers. All she would say was that an older brother, the sixth son, had sickened and died that year.
“What is a seventh son when his brother has died?” Molly cried in bed that night.
They needed something, something to anchor them. As she lay on her pallet and listened to the waves beat against the seawall, Mary had the sense that they were on a narrow platform above it, just an inch away from being washed away, the lot of them. Her father knew it too – he was looking for the crocodile bones after all, tramping the shore every chance he had. Mr. Buckland had put a price on his enthusiasm: twenty pounds, he’d said, for the whole skeleton with all its parts. Twenty pounds! In his best week as a cabinetmaker, Richard made fourteen shillings. So now he walked the shore at low tide and high,clambering up to examine a promising layer, thrusting his shovel in every crumbling ledge. A lunatic, dangerous occupation – Mrs. Stock came by the cottage to impress this on Molly.
Mr. Buckland had left Lyme Regis for a time, but now he was back. They would run into him on the shore and greet him and then drift apart, bent over the rocks with searching eyes. But often when Mary looked up, her father and Buckland had come together again, the wind whipping and snapping at their clothes, their heads bent close in conversation. The wind took up their voices and blew them back in snatches, mixing them with the cries of the gulls and curlews and the crash of the waves. Mary longed to listen, but if she picked
Father and Mother were in the workshop when came the news of this heavenly lottery and the unfortunate mortals selected by it. On the heels of the news rode a horseman on a tall chestnut stallion, carrying my senseless body in the crook of one arm. No one could countenance it, so many of the Anning children having been seized already by an ill fate. Doctor Reeves was sent for and said I must be dipped in water. And so they rapidly undressed me, and before the congregation of them all, my naked infant body was immersed. At the touch of the water, I roused myself and then I spoke, although no one can recall my utterance on that occasion, the nineteenth day of August in the Year of Our Lord 1800. My salvation by immersion did not convert my parents to Baptists, as one might suppose. They remained members of the Independent Chapel, and credit my cleverness to the vitalizing effects of fork lightning
.
There were the accents of the high-born in that voice. It was the voice of Miss Elizabeth Philpot, Mary realized suddenly.
But the school did not open. Mary grew like a heron that year; she was powerful thin. There was seldom meat on their table, and all the fish from the shore went into salt barrels for the navy or by stage to London, where it fetched a better price. Her mother began to fret about the colour of the bread they were eating, and went to the baker and accused him of putting gypsum in it. Percival still spit back his food and did not grow, and Molly still talked of Exeter. Then a lady’s maid from that very town stopped by the curiosity table, and when Mary overheard where she was from, she went to call her mother. Molly eagerly asked the woman what she had heard of the seventh son who worked as a healer, whether she knew the family’s name. “Higgins,” said the woman. “On Bobbin Lane. They be neighbours of my father. I know them well.” But she would not confide in Molly as to the extent of the boy’s powers. All she would say was that an older brother, the sixth son, had sickened and died that year.
“What is a seventh son when his brother has died?” Molly cried in bed that night.
They needed something, something to anchor them. As she lay on her pallet and listened to the waves beat against the seawall, Mary had the sense that they were on a narrow platform above it, just an inch away from being washed away, the lot of them. Her father knew it too – he was looking for the crocodile bones after all, tramping the shore every chance he had. Mr. Buckland had put a price on his enthusiasm: twenty pounds, he’d said, for the whole skeleton with all its parts. Twenty pounds! In his best week as a cabinetmaker, Richard made fourteen shillings. So now he walked the shore at low tide and high,clambering up to examine a promising layer, thrusting his shovel in every crumbling ledge. A lunatic, dangerous occupation – Mrs. Stock came by the cottage to impress this on Molly.
Mr. Buckland had left Lyme Regis for a time, but now he was back. They would run into him on the shore and greet him and then drift apart, bent over the rocks with searching eyes. But often when Mary looked up, her father and Buckland had come together again, the wind whipping and snapping at their clothes, their heads bent close in conversation. The wind took up their voices and blew them back in snatches, mixing them with the cries of the gulls and curlews and the crash of the waves. Mary longed to listen, but if she picked
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