Hamnet(58)

He is talking about a cousin he will visit in London, how the cousin has secured a room for him.

‘Is it by the river?’ she hears herself say, even though she knows the answer: he has told her all this before. It seems important that they keep talking, about nothing of great significance. The people of Stratford are all around them. Watching, observing, listening. It is important, for him, for her, for the family, for the business, that they appear harmonious, in step, in accord. That their very bearing refute the rumours going around: they cannot live together; John’s business is failing; he is leaving for London because of some kind of disgrace.

Agnes lifts her chin a little higher. There is no disgrace, says the straightness of her back. There is no problem in our marriage, says the proud, outward curve of her middle. There is no failing in the business, say her husband’s shining boots.

‘It is,’ he says. ‘And not far from the tanneries, I believe. So I shall be able to view them, for Father, and establish which is the best.’

‘I see,’ she says, even though she has a distinct feeling that he shall not be in the gloving business for long.

‘The river,’ he continues, ‘is said to have dangerous tides.’

‘Oh?’ she says, even though she has heard him telling this to his mother.

‘It is crucial, my cousin says, each time you cross to secure an experienced boatman.’

‘Indeed.’

He talks on, about the different shores of the river, the landing stages, how certain times of day are safer than others. She pictures a thick, wide river, twisted with lethal currents, studded with tiny vessels, like a garment sewn with beads. She pictures one of these vessels, containing her husband, swept downstream, his dark head uncovered, his clothes filled with river-drink, streaked with mud, his boots brimming with silt. She has to shake her head, grip her fingers to the solidity of his arm, to rid herself of this. It is not true, it will not be true; it is just her mind playing tricks on her.

She walks with him as far as the posting inn, him talking now about lodgings, about how he will be back before she knows it, how he will think of her, of Susanna, every day. He will secure a dwelling for all of them there, in London, as soon as he can and they may all live together again, by and by. There, by the milestone with one arrow towards ‘London’ (she knows this word, the large, confident stroke of the L, the rounded os, like a pair of eyes, the repeated arch of the n), they stop.

‘You will write?’ he says, his face creasing. ‘When the time comes?’ Both his hands reach towards her and cup the lower curve of her stomach.

‘Of course,’ she says.

‘My father,’ he gives a rueful smile, ‘is hoping for a boy.’

‘I know.’

‘But I do not mind. Boy or girl. Maid or lad. It is all one to me. As soon as I get word, I shall make arrangements to come and fetch you all. And then we shall be together, in London.’

He holds her close, as close as he can, with the swell of the child between them, his arms around her. ‘Do you have no feeling?’ he whispers into her ear. ‘No sense this time? Of what it will be?’

She leans her head into him, close to the opening of his shirt. ‘No,’ she says, and she is aware of the puzzlement in her voice. It has come as a surprise to her that she has been unable to picture or divine the child she is carrying: girl or boy, she cannot tell. She is receiving no definite signs. She dropped a knife from the table the other day and it fell pointing towards the fire. A girl, then, she thought. But later the same day she found herself spooning the pap of an apple, sharp, pleasingly crisp, into her mouth and she thought: A boy. It is altogether confusing. Her hair is dry and crackles when she brushes it, which means a girl, but her skin is soft, her nails strong, which means a boy. A male peewit flew into her path the other day but then a female pheasant came squawking out of the bushes.

‘I cannot tell,’ she says. ‘And I don’t know why. It—’

‘You must not worry,’ he says, putting a hand on either side of her face and lifting it up so that they are looking into each other’s eyes. ‘All shall be well.’

She nods, dropping her gaze.

‘Have you not always said you will have two children?’

‘I have,’ she says.

‘Well, then. Here,’ he rests a palm against her, ‘is the second. Ready and waiting. All shall be well,’ he says again. ‘I know it.’

He kisses her, full on the mouth, then draws back to regard her. She pulls her face into a smile, catching herself hoping that some of the town may be watching. There, she thinks, as she cups her hand against his cheek, and there, as she touches her fingers to his hair. He kisses her again, for longer this time. Then he sighs, cradling the back of her head, his face buried in her neck.

‘I shan’t go,’ he mutters, but she feels the pull and stretch of the words, how he says them, but at the same time they peel away from his real feelings.

‘You shall,’ she says.

‘I shan’t.’

‘You must.’

He sighs again, his breath rustling in the starch of her coif. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be leaving you now, while you are . . . I think perhaps—’

‘It must be,’ she says, and touches her fingers to the canvas of his pack from which, she knows, he has removed some of the glove samples his father has given him, and replaced them with books and papers. She gives him a wry half-smile. Perhaps he catches her knowledge of this act, perhaps not.