Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

I reassured her that my quest was entirely different, and that I did not wish to consult her mother on any such business. I was beginning to explain when the door opened and the woman returned. Sarah rushed to assist, as her mother collapsed on a trestle stool opposite, wiped her face and got her breath back before she peered at me. She was poorly but cleanly dressed, with gnarled hands strong from years of labor, and a red, round open face. Although age was beginning to gain its inevitable triumph, in her manner she was far from the desolate, broken bird of a woman she later became, and moved with a sprightliness that many others more favored in life do not have at her age.

“Nothing wrong with you,” she said forthrightly after gazing at me in a way which seemed to see me entire. Her daughter had the habit as well, I later learned. I think it was that which made people frightened of them, and consider them insolent. “What are you here for?”

“This is Mr. Wood, Mother,” Sarah said as she came back from the tiny room next door. “He is an historian, so he has been telling me, and wishes to consult you.”

“And what ailments afflict historians, pray?” she said with little interest. “Loss of memory? Crabbed writing hand?”

I smiled. “Both of those, but not in my case, I am pleased to say. No; I am writing a history of the siege, and as you were here during that period…”

“So were several thousand other people. Are you going to talk to them all? A strange way of writing history, that.”

“I model myself on Thucydides…” I began ponderously.

“And he died before he could finish,” she interrupted, a comment which surprised me so much I almost fell off my stool. Quite apart from the speed of her riposte, she had evidently not only heard of that greatest of historians, she even knew something about him. I looked at her more curiously, but evidently failed to disguise my astonishment.

“My husband is a great book man, sir, and takes pleasure in reading to me, and getting me to read to him of an evening.”

“He is here?”

“No; he is still with the army. I believe he is in London.”

I was disappointed, of course, but resolved to make do with what I could discover from the wife until such time as Blundy himself might return.

“Your husband,” I began, “was of some significance in the history of the town…”

“He tried to combat injustice here.”

“Indeed. The trouble is that no one I have come across seems to agree on what he did and said. This is what I want to know.”

“And you will believe what I tell you?”

“I will set what you tell me against what other people tell me. From that the truth will emerge. I am convinced of it.”

“In that case you are a foolish young man, Mr. Wood.”

“I think not,” I said stiffly.

“What axe your religious persuasions, sir? Your loyalties?”

“In religion, I am an historian. In politics, an historian as well.”

“Much too slippery for an old woman like me,” she said with a slightly mocking tone in her voice. “Are you loyal to the Protector?”

“I took an oath to the government in power.”

“And what church do you attend?”

“Several. I have attended services in many places. At present, I attend at Merton, as I am bound to do since it is my college. I must tell you, I suppose, lest you accuse me again of being slippery, that I am of an Episcopal instinct.”

Her head bowed in thought as she considered this, her eyes closed, almost as though asleep. I feared very much that she would refuse, thinking that I would twist what she said. Certainly she had no reason to think that I would be in any way sympathetic to a man like her husband; I knew enough of him already to be sure of that. But there was nothing more I could do to persuade her of my honorable intentions. Fortunately, I was not stupid enough to offer her money, as that would inevitably have been my downfall, however much she needed it. I must say here that never once did I discern in her, or her daughter, any of the greed which others claim to have seen so easily, although her poor situation would have been ample cause for it.

“Sarah?’’ she said after a while, her head lifting from her chest. “What do you think of this angular young man? What is he? A spy? A fool? A knave? Someone come to disinter the past and torment us with it?”

“Perhaps he is what he says, mother. I think you might talk to him. Why not? The Lord knows what happened, and even an historian from the university cannot hide the truth from Him.”

“Clever, child—a pity our friend here did not think of it himself. Very well,” she said. “We must talk again. But I have a customer soon who has lost the deeds of his house and I must divine their whereabouts. You must come back another day. Tomorrow, if you wish.”

I thanked her for her kindness, and promised that I would be there the next day, without fail. I was conscious that I was treating her with unnecessary deference, but something prompted me to act so—her person demanded courtesy, though her station did not. As I was picking my way through the debris and puddles in the street outside, I was stopped by a whistle behind me, and, as I looked around, I saw Sarah running after me.

“A word, Mr. Wood.”

“By all means,” I said, half noticing my pleasure at the prospect. “Do you object to taverns?” This was a normal enquiry in those days, as many of the more obscure dissenters did so object, and very strongly. It was best to find out who you were dealing with early on, for fear of bringing down a heap of abuse.

“Oh no,” she said. “Taverns I like.” I would have led her to the Fleur-de-Lys, that belonging to my family and a place where I could have drink cheaply, but I was concerned for my reputation so instead we went to another place, a low hovel scarcely better than her own dwelling. I noticed that she was not treated with friendliness when we entered. Indeed, I had the feeling sharp words might have been exchanged had I not been there. Instead, all the woman gave me, along with the two tankards, was a sneering smile. The words were polite, the sentiment they hid was not, although I could not make it out. Though I had nothing to be ashamed of, I found myself blushing. The girl, alas, noticed and wryly commented on my discomfort.

“Not at all,” I said hastily.

“It’s all right. I’ve had worse.” She even had the tact to lead the way to the quietest corner of the place, so that no one would see us. I was grateful for this consideration, and warmed to her for it.

“Now, Mr. Historian,” the girl said when she had drunk a quarter of her pot, “you must tell me frankly. Do you mean well by us? Because I will not have you causing us more trouble. My mother needs no more. She is tired and has found some peace in the last few years, and I do not want that disturbed.”

I tried to reassure her on this point—my object was to describe the long siege, and the effect that the quartering of troops on the city had had on learning. Her father’s role in the mutiny, and in stirring up the passions of the parliamentary troops, was of significance, whatever it was, but not critical—all I wanted to know was why the troops had refused their orders then, and what had happened. I hoped to set all that down before it was forgotten.

“But you were here yourself, weren’t you?”

“I was, but I was only fourteen at the time and too busy at my studies to notice anything untoward. I remember being mightily displeased when New College school was turned out of its room by the cloister, and I remember thinking that I had never seen a soldier before. I remember standing near the outworks, hoping I could pour boiling oil on someone, hoping to perform deeds of valor and be knighted by a grateful monarch. And I remember how frightened everybody was at the surrender. But all the important facts, I do not know. You cannot write a book based on such paltry material.”