Page 85 of The Armor of Light
She seemed very pleased, although he could not imagine why.
He was fascinated by Shylock and annoyed by the lovers in Belmont, but he had never seen anything like this, and at the endhe wanted to go to more Shakespeare plays. ‘I may need you to explain things to me,’ he said to Elsie, and once again she looked pleased.
As they were leaving he said: ‘Could Jane marry Northwood? Isn’t she too low on the social scale? He’s going to be the earl of Shiring when his father dies, and she’s the daughter of a mere clergyman, and a Methodist at that. The countess of Shiring has to meet the king sometimes, doesn’t she? You know more about that sort of thing than I do.’
It was true. As daughter of the bishop, Elsie was closer to the nobility than to the clothiers. She probably could have married Northwood herself, though Amos felt sure she had no wish to. And she picked up all the gossip from visitors to the bishop’s palace. ‘It would be difficult, but not impossible,’ she said. ‘Noblemen do sometimes marry unsuitable girls. But for years now it’s been understood that Henry will marry his second cousin Miranda, the only child of Lord Combe, and thereby amalgamate two estates.’
‘But an understanding can be annulled,’ Amos said. ‘Love conquers all.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Elsie.
*
Three children from the same family were buried in St Luke’s graveyard on a cold, wet morning in September. All three had been regular pupils at Elsie’s Sunday school, and she had watched them become more pale and scrawny each week. One thick slice of cake had not been enough to save them.
Their father had operated a fulling engine in Kingsbridge until, one day, a loose hammer head had become detached, flown off its shaft, and hit him on the head, killing him. After that his wife and children had moved into a cheap cellar room in a crumbling house, and the mother had tried to make a living as a seamstress, leavingthe children alone in the cellar while she went out looking for people who needed some sewing done quickly and cheaply. The children had fallen ill with the kind of coughing and wheezing ailment that afflicted people in damp cellars and, having so little strength, they had all succumbed in a single day. Now their mother sobbed at the graveside, her head covered with a cotton rag because she did not have a hat. The hymn was ‘The Lord’s my Shepherd’, and Elsie had the sinful thought that the shepherd had failed to take care of these three lambs.
St Luke’s was a small brick church in a poor neighbourhood, and the vicar had roughly darned black stockings on his skinny legs. A surprising number of people stood around the grave, most of them shabbily dressed. They sang without enthusiasm, perhaps thinking that the shepherd had not done much for them either.
Elsie wondered whether their grief would one day turn to anger and, if so, how soon?
She herself felt anguished and at the same time helpless. She thought how she might have taken those three children home and fed them in the palace kitchen every day, and in the next moment she realized this was a hopeless fantasy. But she had to do something.
As the pitifully small coffins were lowered into the grave, Amos Barrowfield came and stood beside Elsie. He wore a long black coat and sang the hymn in a strong baritone. His face was wet, with tears or rain, or both.
His presence calmed and consoled Elsie. She forgot that she was cold and wet and miserable. He did not make problems go away, he just made them seem smaller and more manageable. She slipped her arm through his and he squeezed her hand against his chest in a sympathetic gesture.
When the burial was over they walked away from the grave together, still arm in arm. ‘This will happen again,’ she said to him in a low voice. ‘More of our children will die.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Cake isn’t enough.’
‘Surely we could give them something more...’ She was thinking aloud. ‘Like broth. Why not?’
‘Let’s consider how we could do that.’
She loved this about him. He acted as if anything was possible. Perhaps this was because he had overcome such difficulties after his father died. The experience had left him with a positive attitude that matched her own.
She said: ‘Instead of baking pound cakes, our supporters could make broth with peas and turnips.’
‘Yes, and cheap cuts of meat like mutton neck.’ Amos pulled the end of his nose, a sign that he was thinking. ‘Will they do it?’
‘It depends who asks them. Would Pastor Charles approach the Methodists?’
‘I’ll ask him.’
‘And I’ll work on the Anglicans.’
‘We could go ar0und the bakers on Sunday mornings and ask for the stale bread they haven’t sold on Saturday.’
‘They sell their surplus cheaply last thing on Saturday – but they probably still have some left.’
‘Anyway, we can ask them.’
They were now outside the bishop’s palace, and they halted. Elsie said eagerly: ‘Shall we try it?’
Amos nodded solemnly. ‘I think we must.’
She wanted to kiss him, but instead she detached her arm. ‘Next Sunday?’
