Page 96 of The Armor of Light

Sal and Joanie looked at cured and smoked meat, bacon and salt beef, but even they were dear. In the end they bought salt cod. ‘I don’t like it,’ Sue whined, and Joanie said brusquely: ‘Be grateful – some children have nothing but porridge.’

On their way home they passed the Assembly Rooms, where a party was about to begin. Carriages were drawing up at the front, and the ladies were trying to keep their fabulous gowns dry as they rushed into the building. At the back, the kitchen was taking in last-minute deliveries: huge sacks of loaves, whole hams and barrels of port. Some people could still afford such things.

Joanie spoke to a porter who was carrying a basket of oranges from Spain. ‘What’s the party for?’

‘Alderman Hornbeam,’ said the man. ‘A double wedding.’

Sal had heard about it. Howard Hornbeam had married Bel Marsh and Deborah Hornbeam had married Will Riddick. Sal felt sorry for any girl who married Will Riddick.

‘It’s going to be a huge party,’ said the porter. ‘Couple of hundred people, we’re expecting.’

That number would include more than half the town’s voters. Hornbeam was now chairman of justices and would surely stand for mayor one day. In some towns the post of mayor was rotated annually among the aldermen, but in Kingsbridge the mayor was elected and remained in office until he retired or was thrown out by the aldermen. Right now Mayor Fishwick was in good health and popular. But Hornbeam would be playing a long game.

They made their way home. Sal put out the bread and salt fish in the kitchen. Later they would let the fire die and go to the Bell, taking the children. By saving money on firewood they could afford a mug of ale. That thought cheered her. And tomorrow was a day of rest.

Joanie shouted upstairs for Aunt Dottie. Jarge came into the kitchen and they sat around the table as he sliced the fish. Dottie did not appear, so Joanie said to Sue: ‘Run upstairs for your auntie. She’s probably sleeping.’ Sue stuffed bread into her mouth and went upstairs.

A minute later she came back and said: ‘She won’t speak.’

There was a moment of silence, then Joanie said: ‘Oh, Jesus.’

She hurried up the stairs, followed by the others, and they all crowded into Dottie’s attic room. The old lady was on her back on the bed. Her eyes were open wide, but she was seeing nothing, and her mouth was open too, though she did not breathe. Sal had seen death and knew what it looked like and she had no doubt that Dottie had passed away. Joanie was silent, but tears streamed down her face. Sal felt for a heartbeat, then for a pulse, but she was going through the motions. As she handled the body she realized that Dottie had become very thin. Sal had not noticed that, and she felt guilty.

This was what happened when food was in short supply, she knew: it was the very young and the very old who died.

The children were wide-eyed with shock. Sal thought of sendingthem out of the room, then decided they should stay. They would see plenty of dead people in their lives, so they might as well get used to it early.

Dottie had been Joanie’s mother’s sister, and had raised Joanie after her mother died. Now Joanie was grief-stricken. She would recover, but for a while Sal would have to take charge. Dottie had been Jarge’s aunt too, but the two of them had never been close. Anyway, much of what needed to be done was women’s work.

Sal and Joanie would have to wash the body and wrap it in a winding sheet – a burdensome expense to add to all the price rises. Then Sal would go to the vicar of St Mark’s and talk about the funeral. If it could be held tomorrow, Sunday, then all of them could work normally on Monday and avoid losing pay.

‘Jarge,’ Sal said, ‘would you give the children their supper while Joanie and I take care of poor Dottie’s body?’

‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Ah, yes. Come on downstairs with me, you two.’

They went out.

Sal rolled up her sleeves.

*

Elsie and her mother, Arabella, sat at the side of the ballroom, watching the dancers surge and ebb in the gavotte. The women had billowing skirts, swooping sleeves and puffed ruffles, all in bright colours, plus high towers of beribboned hair, while the men were armoured in tight waistcoats and stiff-shouldered tail coats. ‘It seems odd to be dancing,’ Elsie mused. ‘We’re losing the war, the people can hardly afford bread, and the king has been stoned in his carriage. How can we be so frivolous?’

‘This is when people need frivolity the most,’ said her mother. ‘We can’t think about misery all the time.’

‘I suppose. Or perhaps the people here don’t care about the war, the king or the hungry mill hands.’

‘That might be a nice way to live, if you could manage it. Happy apathy.’

Not for me, Elsie thought, but she decided not to say it. She loved her mother, but they did not have much in common. She had little in common with her father either. Sometimes she wondered where she had come from.

She thought about what kind of children might be produced by the two pairs of newly-weds now on the dance floor. Howard Hornbeam’s offspring would probably be plump and lazy, as he was. ‘Howard looks bewildered but happy,’ she remarked.

‘It was a short engagement, and I hear he didn’t have much say in the choice of a bride,’ said Arabella. ‘He’s entitled to be bewildered.’

‘He seems content with his bride, anyway.’

‘Despite her rabbit teeth.’