Maria McCann - As Meat Loves Salt

Izzy ran off. Zeb and I continued flogging the hangings. I looked down at his lady and her unicorn. She was as tawdry a female as I have seen; only a beast disordered in its wits would yield to her its magic power. My tapestry showed the same woman strolling in a knot garden, one unlikely-looking flower held to her nose. A young man watched her from a tree. I had always thought him a lover, but now I saw he could as easily be a spy set on by her husband. I brought the beater down upon his stupid face until my arm ached.

‘There is worse,’ Zeb said.

This was a novelty. As a rule he avoided reposing any confidences in me, preferring to talk to Izzy. Observing him, I thought he looked sickly. Perhaps the thing could not wait, but had to come out, like the secret of King Midas’s ears.

There was a woman waiting in the corridor where Cornish was.’ Zeb’s voice shook. ‘I saw her through the open door as he came in. She was very like Patience.’

I concealed my shock. ‘Why would she go there?’ Zeb shrugged. ‘I never denied the child was mine, how could I? She had a promise of marriage, and she loved me, why, she could scarce—’ He recollected himself. ‘That is, I thought she loved me. Suppose she was there to give evidence against us? I am afraid she was.’ He rubbed at his brow with the back of his hand.

‘What evidence? Peter and Caro have burnt the papers by now. But this woman’s not Patience. You will see.’

‘I am afraid,’ he said again. ‘Nothing is as I thought.’

‘So it seems.’ The news struck me like a chill wind. Was it possible that my beguiling brother had been beguiled? Yet it seemed more likely he was mistaken; what woman would desert Zebedee for a greybeard with purple cheeks? As for myself, I had killed not a simpleton but a practised, treacherous wolf cub. We were well rid of him. I turned to Izzy’s hanging and drove the dust from it in clouds.

Cornish did not show himself, with or without Patience, the following day. Nor did Mister Biggin. A farmworker we had never seen before drove the cart, bearing a plain deal coffin, round to the laundry door. Caro had washed the boy’s shirt and done what she could with his other garments. Izzy folded them neatly next to the deal box and I lowered the lad in my arms until he was lying snug within it.

‘It’s him for sure?’ asked the cart driver.

For answer, I drew back the linen shielding the corpse’s face. The boy’s freckles showed greenish against the dull white skin.

The man took off his hat. ‘That’s him. God ha’ mercy.’

I pulled the shroud across again, seeing in my mind the wound with its clean folds lying one against the other. The man led the horse about, mounted to the front of the cart and cracked his whip. Our false friend jogged away over the cobbles, lapped in borrowed linen and in a silence all his own.

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