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Sinclair and PL 1846 |
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Written February - April 1998 PART 1 It had been a fulsome dinner that evening, Sinclair found Dana and PL convivial company added to the traditional Irish hospitality in the local hostelry, and it was not surprising that he tumbled into the deep embrace of the flock mattress and quilt as a dead man. What was it that he had said to PL about Limericks … Book of Nonsense 1846…. 1846….1846…..the body was weak but the brain active …1846 ….1846…. "I think we got another deaden here." A large brown boot made contact, leaving a dark stain on the side of the long nightshirt. "Dunno, why they ain’t left him with the others." The rough hand reached out to grasp the shoulder. "Here give me a hand." The unseen man lifted the legs, and the body was half dragged along the ground before being hoisted into a small hand cart. "Another one for the Pastor." A voice floated past. The cart lurched and the man grunted with the effort, sagging and stumbling along the pathway between the houses. "From the Inn this one." It was the smell, the pungent sweet sickly smell of putrefaction that wound it’s way through nostril sensors to the brain. Sinclair lurched forward and vomited in the mud. ------ He wiped across the back of his mouth with his sleeve. His sleeve. Sinclair pulled at the coarse linen, then tugged the voluminous cloth away from his body. Somehow these garments were not familiar. The shirt seemed so long. He looked for buttons but found only four at the neck. The smell that has assailed his senses attacked again. Holding this sleeve to his face Sinclair fought the nausea as he struggled to his feet. Feet. He looked down in astonishment to see the liquid mud squeeze through his toes and lap at the heel. It was a substantial grave-yard, and most of the graves and the stones indicated times long since past, but in one corner there was a large area of freshly-turned earth. White shrouds and coffins lay on the small mounds next to shallow trenches. My God he thought, these are wretched times. But he really must find some suitable clothes and something for his feet. ----- 1946 .. Irish Potato famine Sinclair tossed in his sleep….1846….1846… Though splattered with mud underneath the boots shone burnished black gold, soft leather wrinkling at the ankle hugging the calves to just below the knees. Uncreased his breeches ran to the waist, diving under the stone coloured waistcoat. There was no hiding under the rough tweed coat, that Sinclair Bryant was a gentleman. He shuffled forward in the line, an oddity amongst the ragged and gaunt clutching their penny tickets. The League of Friends kitchen dished out the quarts of soup from a huge swirling vat and the half loaf of bread was placed in grateful hands. At last faces he recognised, Claire, Dana ... he continued his place in the line until he reached makeshift wooden counter. "Thank goodness I’ve found you two." "Do you know this forward gentleman Dana?" the taller of the girls spoke. There was a whispering behind hands as the two giggled. The line behind Sinclair stuttered to a halt. "It’s me Sinclair" He searched his pockets to hide his embarrassment. Why he was having to explain this at all? 10.2.98 ------ Behind the rustling of skirts the conversation continued in hushes tones. "Ah yes I recollect ... he is Mr Bryant the Bailiffs deputy attached to the Estate." Dana continued "I remember the boots!" "You mean a younger son learning the business?" Claire turned her head slightly to gain a better view. "Why is it the good-looking ones never inherit the money?" "Tush he will hear you" Dana stifled a laugh in a discreet cough. Turning to address Sinclair she continued loud enough for him to hear. "Mr Bryant, I do not think you should be here for food. Have you come to assist?" Sinclair nodded the affirmative. Yes, Yes he though. That was the answer. The stout last night must have been too strong; it had given that peculiar feeling of being detached from the mainstream of the world. "Goodness it has been a strange sort of morning ladies." He said placing his hands firmly on the counter, and vaulting to the other side. 10.2.98 ----- "Mr Bryant are you knowledgeable regarding the mechanics of a Steam Engine?" Claire led the way to the back of the Soup House. "I what respect?… and please stop calling me Mr Bryant, it’s most disconcerting." He caught her arm. "Just Sinclair, is fine." She dropped her eyes to his hand on her arm and he hastily withdrew it. But caught the flush of her cheeks as she turned away. "The Steam Engine is housed in the next building, it works the vats." As they moved into an area of two giant caldrons, the heat increased. Sinclair pulled out a handkerchief to mop the perspiration he was sure had appeared at his brow. " We use them alternately so they can be properly cleaned." Sinclair listened as Claire explained, interested more in hearing her speak than details about vats. "I’m not really that good with …hmm … these mechanical things. But they are fascinating beasts." Sinclair admitted. "Do you know how they work?" He stared at the black and silver monster belching the occasional steam hiss. "Heavens no. ….Sinclair" she looked at him conspiratorially with the use of his first name. "Who would teach a mere girl of such things." She stopped, made a decision then continued "Mr O’Hara’s an expert, perhaps he could explain it to us. Can you wait until he returns?" "My time ….. is yours Claire." 10.2.98 ------ Sinclair had the feeling he was being brushed off. The child would surely end up in the Workhouse, and the survival rate there … well it was low. He had read in the Cork Examiner that "One hundred and forty have died in the Skibbereen Workhouse in one month." But he supposed all women had a protective instinct towards the young, and Dana and Claire seemed no exception. He ran his finger along the burnished metal plate. Swivelling his hand so that the palm could feel the waves of heat that shimmered from the metal. Daring himself to hold firm against the burning sensation eating into his skin. The bravado interrupted by scrapping sounds at the open doorway. Sinclair stepped towards the daylight. At the doorway a sack landed at his feet. He bent to look round and a second bag hit him full in the midriff knocking him to the floor. " Ooofff " he gasped winded. Yet another sack landed on his outstretched legs. "Here watch out." Sinclair kicking it away, quickly stood up brushing the dust from his clothes. A tousled blonde head peered round the entrance. "Roped you in too have they?" he heaved another sack round onto the floor. "Mind those fine breeches." He looked Sinclair up and down. "You didn’t come dressed for the part did you?" "PL what are you doing here?" Sinclair coughed from the dust, adjusted his waistcoat checking the pocket watch was undamaged. "Transportation" O’Hara grinned "I’m charged with the market deliveries." "Come on help me with these vegetables." With that he disappeared leaving Sinclair mouth agape. 14.2.97 ------ "Sinclair I thought that you were here to help" PL wiped his brow and manoeuvred another sack from the cart. "I am.. I am." Sinclair stood in the yard reading the account book. Checking the figures and daily tallies. "Well I wouldn't stand there if I were you." O'Hara leaned back to shoulder the next load. "Why not .. I'm just reading this shopping list it's fascinating." He read the list: "120 pounds of beef, 27 pounds of rice, 27 pounds of oatmeal, 27 pounds of split peas, and 14 ounces of spices, with a quantity of vegetables. That all makes 180 gallons of soup for just one day." "Well they won't make any unless … Sinclair it's not a good idea to…" PL paused as the inevitable occurred. The donkey tired of waiting lashed out. Too late. The hoof was planted squarely into the stone waistcoat. "PL you could have warned me." Sinclair spluttered. "That hurt .. my ribs …" He bent double. O'Hara sighed, Sinclair never changed. "Come on Old Man .. you're winded again that’s all." Dropping the sack he gave Sinclair his arm. "Not your morning is it?" 15.2.98 -----
O'Hara deposited the deathly pale Sinclair on a wickerwork chair. The kitchen was full of people, steam, hustle and bustle. Claire stood untying the knot to Dana's pinafore. "Ladies." O'Hara called amid the confusion. "If you can spare a moment, Mr Bryant here has met with an accident." Gratifyingly the response was instant. The wicker chair and Sinclair disappeared from sight in the folds of linen, flounces and aprons. "I thought he was winded." PL spoke to the ensemble. He heard the word "physician" and "Estate" several times. "But what do I know?" He muttered to himself, unaware that Dana was at his side outside the throng … still cradling the young child. "I'm sure you know a great deal Mr O'Hara." PL jumped, surprised at a reply to his spoken thoughts. "Umm. Thank you." PL couldn't stop himself colouring. He had seen this little lady several times before at the Society of Friends Soup Establishment, but never considered it his place to speak with her. "What happened to Mr Bryant?" At the sound of whimpering, Dana shifted the child towards her shoulder, stroking hair and the tiny thin neck. Motions that quietened the child and mesmerised O'Hara. "Not an accident with the Steam Engine I do hope." "No. No with a Donkey." PL reached out to pat the child, fleetingly caught the lace at her cuff, and withdrew as if scalded. "Will this little fellow …" He stopped. The blaze of determination he watched cross her face smothered the question. He could see that child would live if Dana had any say in the matter. "With a Donkey?" She echoed. "Yes " PL confirmed "I don't think he knows that much about animals." 18.2.98 ------- "I think Mr Bryant would be better with some air." Claire stood back from cluster of women. "Soup distribution must continue .. there are people nearer death than this man here." She was aware of a murmur of dissension but the authority and reason of her address cleared the immediate area around the wicker chair. Sinclair's pale skin had taken on a waxen pallor, a sheen of moisture evident across the temple. "Thank you" he smiled weakly "I'm fine." "You are nothing of the sort." She snorted, looking him over. "Mr O'Hara will fetch the physician .. but I think it better he see you at the House." Claire continued. "Can you stand?" Sinclair placed his hands either side of the chair, pressed into the wickerwork and levered himself upright. "I can stand well enough." He was evidently discomforted but equally determined not to reveal the extent. The mud smeared waistcoat testament to his folly. Claire turned to her companion. "Dana .. Can you stop Mr O'Hara." "It would be better if Mr Bryant was transported to the House. He is not in a suitable condition to walk." Much as he wished, Sinclair did not feel in a position to contradict. He gradually lowered himself back into the chair. A tightening of the mouth and whitening of his knuckles the only indication Claire could read of his true state. Exasperated, she wondered why men thought it a sign of weakness to admit to pain. 19.2.98 ----- There would have a sense of equity if the author of Sinclair misfortune had drawn the wagon. But O'Hara had in hand a roan mare well used to the ways of the cumbersome carriage. A flick of the wrist kept the pace steady. A touch of the reins threaded an even path between the rain filled craters that pockmarked the track. Claire could see by O'Hara horsemanship that he cared for the animal as much as the quality of the ride. They passed through the agricultural desert, uneven, unplanted fields. Brown swathes of nothing that drifted as far as the eye could see, broken only by scattered stone dwellings. This was not the Ireland in which she had grown from a child. Turning her back on the depressing vista Claire could see the small brown head bobbing half in, half out of the folds of the greatcoat. Raising her eyes she caught Sinclair adjusting his protective arm round the boy. Although she knew she shouldn't, for an instant, she wished that it was hers, not Thomas', face against the stone waistcoat. Banishing such thoughts as quickly as they occurred, she turned her attention to the problem ahead. She could imagine the words "No more lame ducks girls --- it is not our place to choose who should live, that is in the hands of God." Well the boy would stay, she determined. They would talk Father round. 20.2.98 ------- A yellow haze drew her like a moth to candlelight. The House in darkness and tranquillity had always been her preserve. As a child servants had lifted her still sleeping from the kitchen hearth, or out of the depths of the great leather chair in the library, and returned her to bed. Now a gentle tap on the shoulder in the hours of daybreak as the House stirred, signalled Claire's return to the confines of her room. These nocturnal journeys were known but never acknowledged by the family. Taken as further evidence that she was somehow different from them, not simply headstrong. Around the door the pale glow, from the keyhole a yellow shaft of light, both invited her curiosity. The physician had called in the early evening and the matter had not been discussed at Dinner beyond a reference to "Our Guest" being indisposed for the meal. Sinclair would be sleeping now, there could be no harm in one look. The moth danced ever closer to the flame, inexplicably lured towards danger. 22.2.98 -------------- Although the room appeared bathed in the iridescence of candlelight, shadows from the long drapes obscured the far end of the bed. One step into the room. His form contoured the length of the sheets, indicating he was taller than she recollected from their afternoon meeting. She brushed against a neat pile of clothes folded on the chair. Two steps into the room. Reaching out she laid her hand across the top garment. The warm brush of felt and the slippery smoothness of silk -- the stone waistcoat slipped to the floor. Three steps into the room. Bending to retrieve the garment, she steadied against the chair. The rest of the pile cascaded to the floor. Out of the darkness a voice curled towards her, smooth as the owner's silk waistcoat. "Do you need my shirt for anything, Claire?" "It's strange time of night to be collecting the laundry." "Let me see you properly … come and talk with me." He watched her reaction. "I have been awake hours and time passes so slowly."
22.2.98 -------- The silence screamed so loud she was sure the whole house could hear her heartbeat. Caught in such circumstances, her punishment would be too dire to contemplate. This was one step beyond forgiveness and two steps beyond rational action. She must withdraw. Sensing her dilemma, the voice called softly. "I cannot move … will you pour some water from the jug on the stand. Then leave if you wish." "You have my word. None shall know of this visit." What harm could there be in such a task? Relief of suffering was a noble gesture, even at so late an hour. She hesitated a fraction then replacing the clothes on the chair she went to the stand and removed the linen square from the jug. China chattered on glass. A combination of a nervous hand and the sheer weight of the full vessel. As she turned she felt rather than heard a tiny gasp. 22.2.98 -------- As she turned the flickering light silhouetted her body through the long linen shift. An involuntary intake of breath escaped his lips. Sinclair took the glass, slowly drained the contents not taking his eyes from her face, knowing she was frightened, not of him but of discovery. He had not lied, he wished to talk --- but to stay must be her decision. It was well understood for a women reputation could be lost only once, for a man it was as strong as his last conquest. Finishing the last droplet, he patted the corners of his mouth with the cuffs of his sleeve. "I can see you do not remember me at all." "Remember you? " Claire was stunned into speech by the question. "How could I forget in a few hours, what a strange thing to say?" "No. No .. before that." He handed back the glass, and reclined back on the bolstered pillow. "Are you sure the donkey kicked only your chest." She paused, looking at him closely. "Or are you sickening for the fever?" "I am not *sick*, and …" he reached out for her empty hand and placed it on his forehead, "I do not have a fever." "No." She conceded pulling her hand away quickly. "No fever…. No fever at all." Feeling at that moment the fever was upon her, such was the heat that flushed across her face. 23.2.98 ------- Too fast Sinclair, too fast. He thought. Aware the delicate balance necessary to keep her in his company had almost been destroyed in that brief gesture. "I recognised you both, as soon as I set eyes upon you and your sister --- although it must be all of 10 years since I was here last." He tried to return to a topic that had aroused her curiosity. Silence. "The physician has bound me tight, and I’m not supposed to move for a few days." Sinclair tried again. Silence. This time he could almost hear the ferocity of the inner battle that was keeping her immobile. "You girls have both --- umm --- grown. PL is still the same though." He remembered her as the wilful child, usually leading her sister into mischief, and always in the kitchens. "You knew Mr O’Hara before?" Relieved that the conversation had resumed, the "Yes " resembled a huge sigh. Misinterpreting the cause of Sinclair's answer, she assumed fatigue on his part. "I am sure you must be tired." So cleaning the glass with the linen cloth, she replaced the jug on the stand before moving towards the door. He could do nothing but wait. "Would you like me to read to you tomorrow?" she asked quietly, turning the handle. 23.2.98 --------- Claire could hardly believe her eyes. What was Dana doing? One toast for the plate, another slipped from sight below table level. One toast for … another one disappeared. Surely someone else would notice. There was a rustle of paper, a clearing the throat. Both girls froze. How much toast did Dana need. Surely she was not feeding the dog again. The paper shook, and finally folded down. "Claire … Please leave the table when you are finished. I will speak to you shortly in the Study." A thousand reasons flashed through her mind … all of them featured the previous evening and … Sinclair. "Yes Father." She replied meekly. A state of affairs so out of character that it was Dana's turn to stare. 25.2.98 ---------- Dana knocked softly at the door. She thought they shared everything, yet Claire had not sought her company since breakfast. It was now almost noon, they were expected at the Soup Kitchens. She knocked again. Straining to hear the slightest sound, certain she distinguished a muffled sob. "Claire?" Turning the handle brought no joy. Locked. From the inside or out she could not determine. "Claire" she tried again a little louder. Clearly the interview with Father had been a serious affair, but she was puzzled. In the last few months the charity work had given their lives an unexpected focus and she was unaware of anything but praise due to her sister. "Miss Dana" the call echoed up the stairwell. For the final time she rapped on the door. "Claire. It's almost time." "Miss Dana .. the young mistress is bound to the house. Best leave be." She turned to the speaker, but his countenance invited no further discussion. How was it servants knew the inner secrets of the house better than the occupants. 2.3.98 ------- She had said. "I cannot do this." Pleaded "Please, you cannot make me do this." As the details of that long ago bargain were laid before her, the weight of parental authority crushed all but the small voice crying out in fear. "I will not." She had trembled in horror, grasped the wings of the chair and thrown herself out of the Study, heedless of the following rebukes. The room in which she sort safety and comfort became a prison with the twist of a key. "I will not." She choked into the pillow. "Let me rather die." 3.3.98 ----------- |