The Dandelion Seed (23 page)

Chalky was genuinely sorry for Betsy, and was most sympathetic and kind. ‘Poor cow,’ he would say as he helped her on and off the commode. Betsy had really become very fat during her illness. The rich food she ate and the sweet wine she was so fond of, all helped to increase her weight. Under her tousled mass of blonde hair, her face was as white as death. She reminded Chalky of a big white cabbage slug when she tried with desperate slowness to get around her room on her two very stiff legs.

Occasionally, Betsy lifted her stained nightdress, smelling of wine and body odour, and said, ‘Come and cuddle me like you used to, Chalky.’

Chalky would look at her horrified but then he would say in a kind voice: ‘All right, won’t be a tick. Just got a job to do first.’ Then he would dart, like a rabbit to its burrow, downstairs to mix up a drink of poppy seeds and wine which would put Betsy out like a light.

It certainly was not much of an existence for poor Betsy, but what could he do about it? After all, he thought, she would have done the dirty on him if he had allowed it and besides, they did knock off his old man, she and that daft brother of hers. So Chalky went on his busy way consoling his conscience and planning his wedding which, according to Katy, was to be a rather big affair.

‘Can’t we just pop over to the parson and get signed up, Katy?’ Chalky pleaded.

‘Not on your sweet life,’ replied Katy. ‘We always have a big do. I’ve got a big family, I have.’

‘Gor blimey!’ exclaimed Chalky, but then shrugged his shoulders. It was not worth arguing about, and anything for a quiet life. Besides, she was a smashing bit of goods, was his Katy.

The days passed and soon it was springtime. The evenings got longer and Betsy managed to pull herself to the window and disconsolately look down the road. The first time Betsy saw Katy at the stall she was so incensed that she nearly toppled out of the window. ‘Chalky!’ she screamed and banged on the floor with a stick.

Chalky came running from the cellar, red faced and perspiring. ‘Gawd, what’s up, Betsy? I thought you’d done it in the bed.’

Betsy pointed out of the window at Katy down at the stall. ‘Who’s that?’ she demanded.

‘It’s the new barmaid. I got to have a girl about, you know. The gentlemen come in when they see a pretty girl; it’s good for business.’

Betsy stared out of the window suspiciously. ‘I don’t like the look of her. She looks like a whore to me.’

Chalky breathed a sigh and looked sorry for himself. ‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll send her away. Here I am, slaving me fingers to the bone to keep this bloody place running and what thanks do I get?’

Betsy looked affectionately at him and then relented. ‘Let her alone, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll watch her and see what she gets up to.’

So it was that part of Betsy’s day was spent sitting at the window keeping an eye on Katy and occasionally shouting out at her. Sometimes Katy and Betsy would hiss and spit at each other much to the amusement of the gentlemen customers who loved to see two women fighting.

It was on one of these afternoons when Betsy was stationed in her usual spot at the window that she saw Marcelle. She spied the little figure walking slowly towards the inn, her head bent, a black shawl about her shoulders, and she could hear the clip-clop of the little wooden clogs as she walked. The sight of Marcelle’s tired-looking figure, brought back memories of the day she and Rolly had walked out of London to avoid the plague. The little figure drew near the inn and just stood looking so forlorn and bewildered at the window from where Betsy watched. The nut-brown hair shone in the sun, the head hung a little to one side. But Betsy recognised her. ‘Marci! It’s little Marci!’ Her shrill voice rang out. ‘Marci, look up! It’s me, Betsy!’

But the sound of Betsy’s voice had terrified the little figure so much that she turned and trotted off in the direction of London.

Betsy was astounded. She yelled and rattled at the window, shouting for Chalky, to come up as she watched Marcelle disappear into the distance.

Exhausted, Betsy plonked herself into a chair. ‘Damn me, if that wasn’t little Marcelle,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m sure of it, and she looked so sad. Blast these bloody legs of mine. Why could I not go down to her?’ Then she started to cry, blubbering like a child and all the while pouring herself drinks until she dropped into a befuddled sleep.

Returning from a visit to his future father-in-law that evening, Chalky helped Betsy into bed. ‘There’s a bloke down in the bar asked for you, Betsy,’ he said. ‘He won’t tell me his business and it’s the second time he’s been here.’

‘What’d he look like?’ Betsy felt scared, for you never knew when your past might creep up on you.

‘He looks like a toff. He’s a sort of a parson in a dark grey suit with an old-fashioned ruff.’

‘Better let him come up,’ said Betsy. ‘It might be the bailiff from Brook House. They own all the land around here.’

‘No, it ain’t him. I knows him,’ argued Chalky.

‘Well, for Christ’s sake, send him up,’ retorted Betsy. ‘If I am going to see him at all, I’d rather get it over with.’

The neat tidy little man sniffed and coughed a bit as he entered Betsy’s bedroom. He was the rather fastidious Mr Spenser the Clerk from the Inns of Court. He had been to the inn many times to try and deliver this letter from his client, Thomas Mayhew, who was currently in the New Colony. ‘To Miss Betsy, surname unknown, who resides at the Duke’s Head Inn in Hackney.’ At last he had accomplished his task. The sight of this poor creature who was obviously bedridden and slightly drunk was very disturbing, but he was fairly used to handling these unhappy matters, and he just had to get it over quickly. The smell in the room was vile, but with a brisk little bow he handed the big parchment to Betsy.

She sat in bed looking at the misive, her eyes wide with astonishment. After a moment, she looked away. ‘I can’t read,’ she whispered in embarrassment.

‘In that case, madam, it will be my pleasure to read it for you,’ Mr Spenser said kindly. He closed the door so that Chalky, hiding in the corridor, had to move forward and press his ear to the key hole in order to hear.

Taking up a dramatic pose that might have done credit to Will Shakespeare’s players, Mr Spenser started to read aloud:

Dear Madam,

You will no doubt recall the night I called at the Duke’s Head more than two years ago, and took Marcelle away with me. She has since done me the honour to be my wife.

However, it is of more intimate things I write to you. I bring you good news of your brother Rolly whom, no doubt, you have given up for dead. He is alive and well and serves me in the most devoted manner, having been pressed to sea and being fortunate enough to end up on board my ship sailing for the New World. He sends his regards and tells me he will bring home rich presents.

When, and if, you get my letter it will be a long time ahead, as news is hard to transfer, but he will return safe, I do assure you.

Best wishes.

From Thomas Mayhew and

your loving brother, Rolly

Betsy’s pallid face glowed red for a minute and she was too overcome to speak. Out in the corridor Chalky was feeling shocked too, but felt better when he heard the bit about the New World. Not many returned from there, he thought.

Betsy called out to him: ‘Come in, Chalky, something wonderful has happened. Rolly is alive! Oh, thank God, my little Rolly’s coming home again.’

Chalky came in and made the appropriate delighted noises while he buzzed about getting a chair and a glass of ale for Mr Spenser.

Betsy stared at Thomas’ letter in wonder. All those lovely signs, strange signs which had brought her such happiness.

‘I can’t write back, but can I send a message . . .’ Betsy looked hopefully at Mr Spenser.

‘I will call tomorrow when you have had time to think what you want to say, and then write a return letter for you,’ Mr Spenser promised. He left hurriedly without finishing his drink. The smell in Betsy’s room had become too overpowering.

After he had gone, Betsy lay back and dreamed of Rolly as a swashbuckling hero coming home from the sea and bringing caskets of gold and jewels to lay at her feet. Poor Betsy was happier than she had been for a long time.

As she lay there, her thoughts settled on Marcelle. Did not Thomas say that she was his wife? If so, then it could not have been Marcelle she had seen, after all. She would not have been tramping the road if she were married to Thomas. He was a squire to royalty. No, it could not have been Marci, even though that woman had looked much like her. She would not bother to mention the incident in her return letter. But what could she mention? She lay turning over in her mind what she would say. It was an important event to send a letter, and Betsy had never done anything like that before.

When Mr Spenser came the next day, the whole afternoon disappeared while Betsy chopped and changed her mind about what news to send Rolly and Thomas. However, by the evening the letter had been written and a very fatigued Mr Spenser was eager to go home to his dinner. Betsy, however, wanted Chalky to see this important manuscript and asked if she could hold on to it for one night.

Anxious to get going, Mr Spenser suggested that he leave the letter behind and that Chalky bring it to his office the next day.

A beautiful smile crossed Betsy’s bloated features. ‘You don’t mind?’ she said gratefully. ‘I’d like him to read it; he can read, you know,’ she said proudly.

The busy clerk left at last, pleased to get out in the cool fresh air after the stench of Betsy’s bedroom.

The next morning Betsy seemed very subdued. Chalky noticed how quiet she was as he helped her wash and made up her bed for her. He never minded these little chores, for they eased his conscience slightly. Betsy’s face had not a trace of colour in it, and her eyelids drooped as though she were tired.

‘What’s up, love?’ Chalky asked kindly.

‘Oh, I’m all right,’ said Betsy. ‘In fact, I’ve not felt so happy for a long time, now I know that Rolly is safe.’

‘Good,’ said Chalky. ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

His cheerful countenance belied the furious thoughts that spun around his head. All I need is for that great oaf to come back, he thought, what with Katy screaming her head off to get married quick now that she is sure she is pregnant. Chalky sighed a deep sigh. ‘I’ll fill your bottle up, love,’ he said, as he tucked Betsy up in bed. ‘Stay there today, if you are not feeling so well.’

Betsy held her letter and looked at it wistfully. ‘I wish I could write,’ she murmured.

‘It’s only to be taken to the office. I’ll do that later,’ Chalky consoled her.

‘You can write, Chalky,’ Betsy said. ‘I wanted to say something else. You can write on the bottom of the letter for me.’

‘Later on, love, I got a lot to do.’ Chalky was trying hard to avoid this task, for he was not sure that he remembered how to write.

‘Oh, please, do it now,’ she pleaded.

‘All right,’ Chalky relented and went to get the ink and a long quill pen that was used by the more important of the customers. ‘What do you want to say?’

On the bottom of the parchment, in a funny unpractised scrawl of letters, she got Chalky to write: ‘I saw Marci. She was by the brook.’

‘What’s that mean?’ Chalky asked in surprise. ‘Who’s Marci?’

But Betsy seemed tired. ‘Thanks, Chalky,’ she said. ‘Get us a drink, mate.’

Chalky looked bothered but he sealed up the letter. ‘I’ll take it to the parson,’ he said. ‘He will be going up to London sometime this week.’

Taking Betsy’s precious letter, Chalky went over to the church and knocked at the manse door. The parson did not often see Chalky but he welcomed him in now and gave him a nice heavy jug of wine. Then Chalky gave the letter into the parson’s hands who then agreed he would deliver it to the Inns of Court.

That was quite a day, for Chalky, for he had been given constant threats from Katy as to what her brothers would do to him if he did not marry her before her father found out she was a month overdue.

‘All right, love,’ Chalky had replied nervously. He had given in to her pressure at last. ‘Tomorrow we can put up the banns.’

Katy’s eyes lit up at that but she added: ‘By the way, I ain’t living here with that old stepmother of yours up there.’

‘She ain’t so bad, old Betsy,’ replied Chalky. ‘It’s just that her legs got broke.’ Chalky loyally defended poor Betsy. ‘I’m getting her a little cottage to live in as soon as I see one,’ he consoled Katy.

Katy then put her arms cajolingly around him and made it obvious that she wanted to make love. So a passionate session on the day bed, before the inn opened, was just about the end of Chalky. Afterwards he trailed back and forth serving jugs of ale to his customers and feeling devoid of all sense and feeling.

The bar was very busy and lots of people were outside in the street, all staring up at a strange star in the sky. It made them quite thirsty as they popped in and out of the inn all talking and explaining his own theory as to what the omen was.

The night was hot and close, and there was a stillness in the air as just before a storm breaks. Wiping the sweat from his brow on his apron, Chalky was really beginning to face the strain. I’ve a good mind to scarper and leave the whole lot, he told himself repeatedly. Then he thought of the tiny baby inside Katy’s strong body. He had never been a father before. I’ll bet he’ll be a strong boy, thought Chalky, and good looking. He had always dreamed of having a son. That settled it. No, he could not go. He would stay. The evening was so busy Chalky never got a chance to see how Betsy was upstairs. At midnight, the inn closed and a noisy throng still hung about outside. The heat of the night had become worse. And when Katy came in, glowing with exertion of handing out bowls of fish to the attentive male customers who paid her many compliments, she was hot and eager for more love.