Part 39 (1/2)

Chapter Three.

At first I panicked, backing away from the bed till I was brought up short by the wall and then sinking to my knees and covering my head with my arms, rocking back and forth and keening loudly. I felt as if I had been simultaneously kicked in the stomach and bashed over the head. She couldn't be dead, she couldn't! She couldn't leave me all alone like this! I didn't know what to do, I couldn't cope. . . . Oh, Mama, Mama, come back! I won't ever be naughty again, I promise! I'll work twice as hard, I'll never leave you, I didn't mean to upset you!

My eyes were near half-shut with tears, my nose was running, I was dribbling, but gradually it seemed as though a little voice was trying to be heard in my head, and my sobs subsided as I tried to listen. All at once the voice was quite plain, sharp and clear and scolding, like Mama's, but not in sentences, just odd words and phrases.

”Pull yourself together . . . Things to be done . . . Tell them.”

Of course. Things couldn't just be left. I wiped my face, took one more look just to be sure, then ran as fast as I could back to the village. Luckily the first man I saw was the apothecary. As shocked as a man could be, he hurried back with me to confirm my fears. He examined Mama perfunctorily, asked if she had complained of pains in the chest and shook his head as I described her symptoms of this morning, as best I could for the st.i.tch in my side from running.

”Mmm. Ma.s.sive heart attack. Pains were a warning. Must have hit her all at once. Wouldn't have known a thing.”

Indeed, now I had lit a candle for his examination I could see her face held a look of surprise, as though Death had walked in without knocking.

”Will tell the others. Expect us later.” And he was gone.

Expect us later? What . . . ? But then the voice in my head took over again.

”Decisions . . . Burial . . . Prepare . . . Food.”

Of course. They would all come to view the body, decide how and when she should be buried, and would expect the courtesy of food and drink. What to do first?

”Cold . . . Water . . .”

The fire was nearly out and there was a chill in the room. For an absurd moment I almost apologized to Mama for the cold, then pulled myself together, and with an economy born of long familiarity rekindled the ashes, brought in the driest logs and set the largest cauldron on for hot water. With bright flames now illuminating the room, I checked the food. A large pie and a half should be enough, with some of the goat's-milk cheese and yesterday's loaf, set to crisp on the hearth. There were just enough bowls and platters to go round, but only two mugs; I could put milk into a flagon and what wine we had left into a jug and they could pa.s.s those round. Seating was a problem; the stools and Mama's chair would accommodate three, and perhaps two could perch on the table or the chest. The rest would have to stand.

The water was now finger-hot, and I turned to the most important task of all.

Crossing to Mama's clothes chest I pulled out her best robe, the red one edged with coney fur, and her newest s.h.i.+ft, the silk one with gold ribbons at neck and sleeve, and the fine linen sheet that would be her shroud.

The heat from the fire, which had me sweating like a pie, had relaxed her muscles, so it was an easy enough task to wash her, change the death-soiled sheets, pad all orifices and dress her in her best. That done, I combed and plaited her hair and arranged it in coils around her head, but was distressed to see that the grey streaks would show once I had the candles burning round the bed. She would never forgive me for that, I thought, then remembered my inks. A little smoothed across with my fingers and no one would notice. . . .

I crumbled dried rosemary and lavender between the folds of her dress for sweetness, then went outside and burned the soiled sheets and the dress she had been wearing when she died. Outside it was quite cool, the sun saying nearer four than three, and the smoke from the bonfire rising thin and straight: a slight frost tonight, I thought. On the way back in I gathered some late daisies and a few flowers of the yellow Mary's-gold, and placed them in Mama's folded hands, then set the best beeswax candles in the few holders we had around the bed, ready to light once it grew dark.

I looked at her once more, to see all was as she would have wished and to my amazement saw that Death had given her back her youth. Gone were the frown lines, the pinched mouth, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She looked as though she were sleeping, her face calm and smooth, and the candle I held flickered as though she were smiling. She was so beautiful I wanted to cry again- ”Enough! Late . . . Tidy up. Wash and change . . .”

I heeded the voice, so like hers-but it couldn't be, could it?-and a half-hour later or so I had swept out and tidied, washed myself in the rest of the water, including my hair and my filthy clothes, hanging out the latter to dry over the hedge by the chicken run, and had changed into my other s.h.i.+ft and my winter dress. Mama would be proud of my industriousness, I thought. But there was no time for further tears, for I could hear the tramp of feet down the lane. My mother's clients come to pay their last respects.

Suddenly the room, comfortably roomy for Mama and me, had shrunk to a hulk and shuffle of too many bodies, with scarce s.p.a.ce to move. The only part they avoided was the bed.

They had all come: mayor, miller, clerk, butcher, tailor, forester, carpenter, thatcher, basket-maker, apothecary; all at one time my mother's regular customers. The new priest was the only odd one out. In spite of their common interest I noticed how they avoided looking at one another. At last, after much coughing, scratching and picking of noses, the mayor stepped forward and everything went as quiet as if someone had shut a door.

”Ah, hmmm, yes. This is a sad occasion, very sad.” He shook his head solemnly, and the rest of them did likewise or nodded as they thought fit. ”We meet here to mourn the sudden pa.s.sing of someone who, er, someone who was . . .”

”With whom we shared a common interest?” suggested the clerk.

”Yes, yes of course. Very neatly put. . . . As I was saying, Mistress Margaret here-”

”Margaret? Isabella,” said the miller.

”Not Isabella,” said the butcher. ”Susan.”

”Elizabeth,” said the clerk. ”Or Bess for short.”

”I thought she was Alice,” said the tailor.

”Maude, for sure . . .”

”No, Ellen-”

”I'm sure she said Mary-”

”Katherine!”

”Sukey . . .”

I stared at them in bewilderment. It didn't seem as though they were talking about her at all: how could she possibly be ten different people? Then, like an echo, came my mother's voice: ”In my position I have to be all things to all men, daughter. . . .”

The mayor turned to me. ”What was your mother's real name?”

I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. ”I never asked her. To me she was just- just Mama.” I would not cry. . . .

”Well,” said the priest snappily, ”you will have to decide on something if I am to bury her tomorrow morning. At first light, you said?”

They had obviously been discussing it on the way here.

”It would be . . . more discreet,” said the mayor, lamely. ”Less fuss the better, I say.”

”Aye,” said the butcher. ”What's over, is over.”

”What I want to know is,” said the priest, ”who's paying?”

They all looked at me. I shook my head. I knew there were a few coins for essentials in Mama's box, but not near enough to pay for a burial and Ma.s.s.

”I don't think she ever thought about dying,” I said. This was true. Death had never been part of our conversations. She had been so full of life and living there had been no room for death. I thought about it for a moment more, then I knew what she would have said. ”I believe she would have trusted you, all of you, to share her dying as you shared her living.”

I could see they didn't like it, but there were grudging nods of a.s.sent.

”What about a sin-eater?” said the priest suddenly. ”She died unshriven.

Ma.s.ses for a year and a day might do it, but . . .”

More money. ”There isn't one hereabouts,” said the mayor worriedly. ”I suppose if we could find someone willing we should have to find a few more coins, but-”