Jim Crace - The Pesthouse

The Boses would have preferred it if Margaret had walked a little slower that day and for less time and with more rest breaks, however. Bella had turned out to be a heavy, struggling bundle who would rather be on the ground, learning how to bend her knees and crawl, than strapped to an irritated grandparent and not allowed to move. The effort of taking care of her and of themselves, after the undemanding luxury of riding in a carriage, had come as a shock. Perhaps, if they could persuade themselves to overcome their anxiety just a little more and convince Margaret to cover her mouth, then she could take her turn with the baby. Yes, it would be in their interests to talk to her, to broker a period of peace. They’d not find Acton on their own. Even if they did, they’d not know what to do. Whereas Margaret…well, Margaret was “knotted from strong twine,” the highest praise from net makers.

So it happened that when they set off the next morning, after a night in which the baby would not hush or sleep and the adults could not stop shivering, the gap between Margaret and the Boses was reduced to a few steps. A workable peace had been made at sunup, with apologies spoken if not entirely felt, explanations offered, comfort and sympathy finally exchanged. Margaret was being sensible. The Boses had dried peas and a good supply of oats, as well as several bags of salt fish. They might not be the finest company, but they were preferable to traveling alone. Six eyes would make better lookouts than two poor ones. Three adults, even if two of them were frail, could defend themselves better than one. Besides, it was Margaret’s duty to support her elders. She might not like the Boses much. Certainly she could not admire them, ever. But the little girl was lovable.

Margaret had compromised for prudent and selfish reasons. She wore the blue scarf around her face and head, as she was asked, with just her eyes on show; she made an effort to defer to her elders and to be more outwardly patient; and she was content that in return, they let her carry Bella on her chest. The child was unexpectedly warm and consoling. Her head had hardly any more hair than Margaret’s. Her body smelled of stewed apples — sweet piss and bloom. The child was also less difficult in the younger woman’s care because she was less bored. They played tug with an edge of cloth. Margaret sang to her, everything from nursery rhymes to laments. She invented new noises by trumpeting farts on the girl’s neck or blowing in her ear, a sensation that Bella evidently loved. She gurgled her appreciation, but when she grew tired of that and even of sucking her own thumb, she accepted Margaret’s little finger as a pacifier, determined to find nourishment for her small, empty stomach. The baby had not eaten properly since leaving home, and she had not fed truly properly since her mother died and her umbilical was cut. Bella Bose needed milky food. Margaret whispered promises that somehow, and within a day or two, she’d get hold of some for her.

By afternoon the Boses had decided that they could walk with Margaret, shoulder to shoulder, and tell her what a fine life they had had back home before the migrations began, how respected Andrew had been, and wealthy. His creels would last for years — and they were beaver-proof. His nets were the best. You could snag them on rocks and it would be the rock that lifted and not the net that tore. Fishermen from the far bank of the river would risk the rapids just to get across and purchase a Bose net. He owned a good part of the riverbank. He owned a carriage and had a dozen boats for rent as well as the canoe that Acton used for fishing. He had more land than any farmer in the neighborhood, which he rented out for one fifth of the crop. “Now look at me,” he said, handing over Bella for the umpteenth time that day. “A bag of oats, that’s all we’ve got worth anything.”

The road degraded. With every step of their journey the highway became more damaged and disordered, its top shell cracked and coming apart. The route was losing its clarity. A watercourse that had once flowed along a man-made culvert had broken through its false banks years before and flooded, every time it rained, onto the road, tearing out the surfacing and, with the undramatic patience of water, shifting blocks of curbstone and rubble scree. It became easier to walk along the berms and margins than to scramble through the detritus. This was no longer a route for vehicles or even for horses. If there’d been no rustlers and the Boses had made it to this place intact, they would have had to find another route or abandon their carriage and their animals.

Margaret was glad to leave the highway at last when what was left of it turned to the right in a great arc, heading for the south. She had found no traces of the band of rustlers since midday. No fresh horse dung, no scuffs consistent with a line of men or a string of mules, no more bodies sticky with blood. So she did not feel that she had abandoned her duties toward Franklin when she finally led the Boses away from the old straight road and through the debris fields surrounding it, with rainclouds at their backs, and onto a narrower, less exposed pathway that was more truly pointing to the east but that was also virtually unused and therefore likely to be safe.

Before long they found the ideal place to spend the night, replenish their drinking bags, and revive their spirits: a disused cow barn backing onto a creek in which minnows and darters evidenced how sweet and safe the water was. Even better, the cow barn still had half a roof, so not only could they be certain of a rain-protected stay and a warmer one than on the previous night, sheltered from both the wind and the sky, but also they were blessed with kindling wood, the splintered, hollowed-out remains of roof beams that were featherlight and dry and would produce hardly any telltale smoke.

Soon they had a decent fire as their companion and were making the best of their pooled food. Bella refused most of her meal again. The salt fish was too strong and the oatmeal was too weighty for her stomach. She was distressed, as well, and colorless. Her olive skin seemed metallic.

Margaret was happy to share her blanket and the tarp with the child, though surprised that the Boses seemed to have abandoned their health precautions so thoroughly in the space of just a day. They had, indeed, said, “Let little Bella spend the night with you. She’s better off with you. You’re young.” But their thorough change of heart was soon explained. They were whispering again at their end of the cow barn, and Melody was sounding oddly sweet and childish for a change. They did not seem able to settle and were constantly arranging and rearranging their bedding. Margaret might have called out to them to keep quiet, that there was a testing day of walking ahead of them, and that she for one would welcome a good night’s sleep. But when she heard the rasping notes in Andrew’s throat, she knew that the Boses were making love. She’d heard the sound of it before, from her father, and from her younger sister’s husband, Glendon Fields. She’d heard it from her neighbors’ windows at all times of the day, the selfsame loss of breath and pigsty squeals, high-pitched and not quite male, the shushing sounds, attempts at secrecy, the creaking timbers of the bed, and sometimes panting from the woman, too. But she’d never seen anybody making love, and so her sense of it was constructed only out of sounds, which seemed both distressed and joyful at one time. It was a mystery that, because Franklin had been taken, she felt would never be solved for her. She’d live a maid, not touched by anyone, a listener to lovers.

Margaret hadn’t thought the Boses could be lovers. Lovers as well as partners. Lovers as well as grandparents. It wasn’t just their age and frailty or (when it suited them) their stiff good manners that made their passion so unlikely, it was also the current shape of their life. Their son was missing, all their wealth had been taken from them, their lives were draped with fear, anxiety, and grief, their bodies were exhausted by the walk, they had not truly eaten well for a month — yet still they had the will to kiss.