Caryl Phillips - The Lost Child

He lowers himself down on his heels, knees jutting out on either side like awkward wings, and again he disturbs the sleeping beck by plunging his cupped hands beneath the surface and hoisting icy water across his broad shoulders. He kneads the cascading ribbons into the leathery skin on his chest and back with quick circular gestures that suggest thoroughness as opposed to haste. Tonight he will sleep at the familiar rooming house, which for many years has accommodated this gentleman’s eccentricity, without demanding any explanation of why he chooses to promenade on foot across country instead of taking to the roads and riding in a carriage in a manner more becoming for one of his status. The fact is, walking affords him the gift of exercise and an opportunity to refresh his mind and achieve a clearer understanding of deeds past and tasks present, but he has never shared this intelligence with anyone. The anxious commerce of Liverpool, conducted in crowded, dusty rooms choked with tobacco smoke, will offer him scant recourse to luxuriate in reflection, and this being the case, he has discovered that time invested in the ruminative quality of his excursion generally pays dividend once his mind begins to be assaulted by the discordant cacophony of the blustering world of business.

He worries about his children, for the radiant yet desperate light in the eyes of the passionate girl suggests a troubling delicacy, while the son’s wilful behaviour hints at an obstinate temperament that neither his wife’s line nor his own has ever accommodated. The young man always affects to listen, but with a slither of icy dissent lodged in his bosom, and he behaves churlishly towards both parents as though life has somehow been unfair to him. His angry and despondent wife finds it increasingly arduous to cope with the most trifling details of daily survival, and last night, after she had taken to her bed, he reclined in his chair and wondered if they would ever again enjoy the pleasant tenderness of time shared as man and wife. His children squabbled noisily next to the hearth, but then his daughter broke free, and the poor girl stood trembling before him as though ill clad in a hard frost. (Please, must you go, Father? Your ship is in Antigua, isn’t it? Are there problems at your sugarworks?) Old Joseph tended the roaring fire and said nothing, but neither son nor daughter could disguise their great frustration at the prospect of their father’s impending absence. Of course, the children had often been told that their father had little choice but to conduct dealings in Liverpool with men whose hearts were hard like stone, and whose Christian charity went no further than the looking glass: these men of commerce were his colleagues, the gentlemen for whom the children were continually being deserted, but last night both daughter and son found it difficult to mask their disappointment. Joseph looked on, and when he recognized an appropriate moment to speak, he rescued the situation and reminded his tongue-tied Master to be wary of petty thieves and vagabonds during the sixty-mile walk, men who, spying a gentleman, would undoubtedly demand both pocket watch and money.

He stands rooted in the water and observes the distant hills, and the newly formed bank of ashen clouds lurking dismally above them. It will rain again, of this he is sure. He remains still and vigilant; a passing native would see a stout bird silently waiting for a languid fish or a drifting insect. However, he is perplexed. A whole life built upon swift decisions, and now, marooned in this beck, he is crippled by a lack of certitude that tastes bitter in his mouth. Some years ago his acquiescent wife had accepted the notion that the distractions of Liverpool had most likely captured her husband’s mind, but of late she has been unable to prevent her tolerant acceptance from curdling into peevish bitterness. And now the children are also judging him harshly; he sees it in their defiant scrutiny, and yet he can find no comforting words for them. Half naked, he carefully picks his way across slippery stones until he reaches the safety of land. The forsaken water ripples and purrs as though lamenting his absence, and midway through the day his heart beats with a dread with which he is unacquainted. He listens to the rumble of distant thunder and understands he is truly alone.

* * *

The challenges of climbing up a steep ravine or scrambling down the hurried slope of a hill have provided him with welcome relief from the ubiquity of the moorland. Now, as the last streaks of daylight fade from the blackening sky, he can finally see the warm glow from the half-dozen oil lamps that decorate the windows of the rudimentary rooming house, and he is relieved to think that soon he will rest. As he approaches the shabby establishment, he is reminded that the place has long since passed its infancy, but he relishes the prospect of a plate of hot food and a freshly aired bed. Less pleasant to contemplate is the thought that this arrival marks the end of his precious solitude, for he will now have to reenter the company of his fellowman. Some ten miles ago he endured his sole encounter of the day: a savage-looking individual with both fists clapped on the head of a staff, who loitered at a crossroads and verbally accosted him, impatient to ascertain if he knew of a slab of stone that might serve a penniless wayfarer as a resting place after a hard day scampering on the moors. He answered the menacing man in the negative and, without breaking stride, increased his pace, feeling no stirrings of compassion towards the ruffian. Standing now outside of his moonlit lodgings, he is somewhat alarmed by the muted babble of human conversation that disturbs the tranquillity of the evening, but he knows he must prepare himself.

She wears a tight-fitting bodice and black frock that he is certain must surely impede the boldness of her movement. However, as she serves him, she maintains a magnificently upright yet relaxed posture, and he notices that as ever, much care has been exercised to season everything to his taste. His customary small oak table and chair have been discreetly set in place in the farthest corner by the window, presumably while he briefly repaired to his room. Once there, he washed his hands and face, and the overly solicitous servant boy praised his excellent wardrobe although it was unmistakably blotched and bog spattered. Nevertheless, he offered up a small coin to the scrawny youth, who seemed resolved to please regardless of remuneration. The servingwoman steps back from his table and he looks up at her. Despite her solemn countenance and irregular features, it would be unfair to label this statuesque woman ill favoured or without grace. He knows that later she will charm the guests and play refined melodies on the harp, but she will do so as though skating on a pond of thin ice, circling daintily, careful not to crash through to any depth. (Have you a ship come in, sir?) A furious fire roars and bellows beneath the wide brick flue; it lights up the room and casts outlandish shadows in every direction. There is a playful shyness to the woman, who bestows the merest inkling of a smile upon him before she quits the room. No ship. The recent letter said nothing about a ship.

Dear Sir,

I can no longer maintain the expense of housing your friend, its being past six months since I last received payment of rent. She fails rapidly, and appears to be making haste to leave us, for she possesses neither the strength nor the inclination to beg nature to refrain from tormenting her. I summoned, and paid for, the doctor, who informed me that she cannot sustain much more of this feverish agony, for winter has extended itself and made circumstances unfavourable for all, but especially treacherous for one in her condition. She periodically rallies and lingers, before once more resuming her difficult journey down a steep path of degradation, a descent made all the more hazardous, for she is unable to comfort herself with powders or draughts. I am fearful that the dread contagion, which is clearly visiting misery upon her, may spread rapidly among my properties and encumber me with sick and dying tenants who shall find themselves without means to pay monies owing to me. Sir, I require your assistance, for while it is evident that Providence has treated her brutally, I must insist that she meet her obligations or accept the consequences …