Jim Crace - Signals of Distress

‘Are you sleeping?’ Aymer said. Evidently not. The man’s reply was a fusillade of words. Aymer couldn’t recognize the language but he knew the tone. Here was a man who, had he got the strength, would have taken Aymer by the throat. The shouting brought the dog to Aymer’s heels. She spread her legs and growled into the vociferous darkness of the room.

Aymer put the bolts back in place. He went into the warm breath of the stables where he could hear George at work. ‘Is there a good physician in Wherrytown?’ he asked.

‘There’s not,’ said George. ‘Are you unwell? That shoulder’s giving trouble, is it, sir?’

‘It is, indeed. But I was thinking of that poor man who is locked up.’

‘The African?’

‘He has a wounded leg and should be seen.’

‘There’s no one here to see him, except the horse doctor, but I suppose the fellow won’t want shoeing or getting his tail docked. I hear, though, that those Negro men have tails …’

‘You are a provocation, George. No doubt, in time, I will learn to treat your banter as comedy. But for the moment I would be glad to hear you talking plainly. Tell me, to whom do you resort if you are ill?’

‘I resort to bed and hope that Mrs Yapp will tend to me.’

‘Is Mrs Yapp a healer, then?’

‘No, she in’t.’

‘What must I do to get an answer out of you?’

‘It seems to me you’re getting answers by the score.’

‘But not the one answer that I seek.’

‘What answer do you seek? You say, and I’ll repeat it for you, word for word, so long as it is short.’

‘I do not know the answer that I seek and that is why … Dear Lord, I need someone to treat a wounded man. Is that not plain enough?’

‘It’s plain you want a healer, then. There’s only one, and that is Mr Phipps, the preacher. He pulls the Christian teeth round here, and sets the bones for those that are contrite.’

‘Then kindly fetch him.’

‘I’ve my work to do.’

‘I’ll see to it that you are recompensed.’

‘With something shinier than soap, I hope.’

‘A shilling, George. Produce the healer here at once. Be my man while I am lodging at your Inn-that-has-no-name, and the shilling will be yours. Can I count on you?’

‘You can count on a shilling’s worth.’

Aymer went back to his room to find some gift to pacify the African. He took a cake of soap, but wondered if the man might take offence. And so he added his dry rations, the food he’d brought from home in case the catering in Wherrytown was bad: the great bar of black bread, the Bologna sausage, the chocolate, the anchovy paste. He took, too, the jug of sweetened drinking water from his bedside. He could have called on Mrs Yapp for provisions, but Aymer felt that in some way the African was placed in his safekeeping. Once more he drew the bolts on the tackle room and opened the door. The little dog accompanied him and didn’t bark. There was no fusillade.

‘What is your name?’ asked Aymer. No reply except a sigh. ‘I’ve brought you food to eat.’ He mimed the cramming of his mouth, then put his gifts in the shaft of light on the bricked floor between the man’s good ankle and his bad. There was no hesitation. Otto drank the water from the jug. He ate the sausage and most of the bread. He smelled the soap and anchovy and put them to one side. He smelled the chocolate and rubbed it on his lips before dispatching it. He didn’t mind the dog sniffing at his ankle and then licking the dried blood. He stroked her neck and chin. It seemed they were old friends, the least regarded creatures on the Belle .

‘I’ve sent for a physician. A Man to Make You Well,’ Aymer explained, thinking that emphatic language would be understood. The African stayed in the shadows. He made no sign of gratitude. He turned the dog’s ears in his hand, the double-sided velvet skin. He tugged and stroked the long, dung-crusted hair beneath her chin. At last he seemed to speak. But if this was speech then it was meant for the dog and not for Aymer: ‘Uwip. Uwip. Uwip.’

Aymer didn’t like his philanthropy to be less heeded than a dog. He wanted Otto to himself. So he repeated what he heard, ‘Uwip’. The dog’s ears straightened and her head turned. ‘Uwip, Uwip,’ said Aymer, with more force. The dog came to him and pushed her nose into the crotch of his trousers — expecting what? Some treat perhaps. Again, Otto called to the dog. He didn’t like to lose the animal. ‘Uwip, Uwip.’ The dog returned and for her trouble was rewarded with the anchovy paste.

‘Her name is Whip!’ Aymer said, delighted at his deduction. ‘So now we have a word in common. And I will teach you more. My own name …’ He pointed at his chest. ‘Aymer Smith of Hector Smith & Sons. Can you say Smith? Smith. Sm.Ith. Smi.Th.’ He wasn’t listened to. He had no audience. A cold and wounded man abducted from his home has no appetite for lessons.

It wasn’t long before George returned with Mr Phipps. The preacher first examined Aymer’s shoulder in the courtyard, asking him to hold his arm above his head and then to exercise his fingers.

‘The bone is bruised,’ he said. ‘I cannot find a fracture, but your shoulder is inflamed. You should rest the arm. It would be wise to strap it to your chest. Sleep on your side. Are you in pain? Then purchase laudanum, and ask Mrs Yapp to prepare a poultice of witch hazel and cicely. That will thin the bruise, with God’s good offices.’

‘Is there an apothecary where I can purchase laudanum?’

‘No, there is not. You see the kind of town we are. But Walter Howells who is a trader here has some supplies. Our Mr Howells has some of everything, excepting virtue. Now let me see this other injured man.’

They brought a lantern from the stable and hung it from a rafter in the tackle room. The preacher didn’t speak. Nor did he touch the patient. He peered into his face and examined the damage to his forehead and eye. He looked for several seconds at the weeping ankle.

‘My knowledge does not stretch to Africans,’ he said. ‘I do not know their constitutions. I would not wish to interfere. More harm will come of that than good. Our remedies are not for him. A medicine that makes us well might make him feverish.’

‘You cannot tend his wounds?’

‘I cannot stand between this man and God.’

‘You will not save him, then?’ Aymer was perplexed.

‘I can and will if there is water left inside that jug. For water is the Almighty’s medicine. The greatest service I can render this man or any man is baptism, the wet cross on the forehead. If he devoutly wishes it.’

‘He cannot understand a word you say.’

‘Then he is an Innocent and we should pray for him. That is the balm and poultice I prescribe. His wounds will heal in God’s good time.’

‘Or he will die.’

‘We all will die in God’s good time, but not, I think, of bruises. The man will be mending by tomorrow. It will be the Sabbath. Come to my chapel for evensong and we can offer prayers for him. You are baptized yourself, I trust?’

‘I am a Sceptic, Mr Phipps.’

‘Then we shall pray for you as well.’

Aymer would make do without the laudanum. He didn’t want to trade with Walter Howells. The pain didn’t merit it. But he persuaded Mrs Yapp to make a warm compress and find the linen for a sling. He walked down to the quay in search of the Norrises and to deliver a newly written letter for his brother, Matthias. If he encountered Walter Howells then it could do no harm to have his arm strapped up. It made him unassailable, he felt, and just a little dignified. The Tar was being loaded with its homeward cargo: fresh and salted fish. Its decks were being scrubbed in preparation for the passengers. Aymer would not be aboard. He had decided he would stay in Wherrytown.