Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

'Twaddle, brother. You were laughing Hke a horse last time James read.'

The Reverend says: 'Sterne was a doubtful man. No, you two go ahead. I am happy here. Make her go, Doctor. It is her who needs the exercise. Why don't you go and see the wrestHng Negro and his wife while you are about it, eh?' He chuckles, takes a ball of twine from his pocket. From the stable courtyard comes the sound of a saw. George Pace working something up. Dido goes into the house. James follows her. A cloud twists for a moment in front of the sun, then passes. The light seems stronger than ever.

The track to the road is muddy but the air under the young leaves is pleasantly green and cool. They walk on the bank, in single file, to save their shoes. Dido asks James how his leg is today. He replies over his shoulder that the weather agrees with it, that it is not near so achey as it was.

When they come to the bridge, they cross the road and go down the bank on the other side. There are flat stones here, shaded by trees and out of sight of the road. They have stopped here before, to read or talk or gaze at the river, though the river is little more than a stream here, the water flowing in shallow tresses over the stony bed.

Dido gives James the book. There is a ribbon marking the page. He rubs his eyes. He does not wear his gloves now. He clears his throat, looks up, meets Dido's smile. He wonders briefly, and for the hundredth time, if he is misleading her, if she expects him to talk love to her. Has she never heard or seen Mary coming from his room? Has she chosen to ignore it? But then, he himself could hardly begin to explain his relationship with Mary. It has so many aspects, and is in many ways quite innocent. It would be no betrayal of Mary to court Dido. It may even be what Mary intends.

Dido says: 'Can you not find the place?'

James says: 'I have found it now.' He begins to read.

'Upon looking back from the end of the last chapter, and surveying the texture of what has been wrote, it is necessary, that upon this page and the five following, a good deal of heterogeneous matter be inserted to keep up that balance of wisdom

and folly, without which a book would not hold together a single year . . .'

James reads to the end, closes the book and lays it on the stone. Dido says: 'It is not a very proper book, yet I cannot help liking it. I am sorry that we have finished it.'

James nods. 'Mr Askew was of the opinion that it was only the author's death that finished it. That he would have written more had he been able.'

'Well,' says Dido, 'if I were to write a novel I think it is the ending that should give me most trouble. Perhaps it was the same for Laurence Sterne.'

'You mean,' says James, 'it was easier for him to die than to finish the book?'

She laughs. 'I am sure I cannot mean that. That would be extreme.'

'No. But death is certainly an ending.'

Dido raises her eyebrows. 'You must not let my brother hear such heresy.'

James grins at her. 'You misunderstand me. Miss Lestrade.'

From the village comes the single note of a horn. Dido says: 'That must be the show. They must be beginning.'

After a moment of silence, James says: 'Should you care to have a look? I have seen them once before, last wintertime, but I have not seen their performance.'

Dido stands, pats her gown. She has a sweet, sad, patient smile. She says: 'We might just peep. I should not care to be much noticed.'

"We shall only look from the door. There is no harm in that.'

The horn sounds again, just as they reach the empty road.

The afternoon is growing hotter. The sun has almost dried the

puddles in the road. The booth is on a scrap of land near Caxton's place; the canvas, once red and white, is faded now to cream and rust. As they walk towards it there comes a burst of applause and cheering. They stand by the side entrance where the flaps of the booth have been tied back. The smells that come to James's nose are vividly familiar: crushed grass, sweat, canvas, beer. He would like to tell Dido how he once performed in a place like this, Marley Gummer sticking him with pins.

There are some forty people in the booth watching John Amazement bend a poker. He is stripped to the waist; his shoulders tremble, he narrows his eyes, then holds up the U-shaped poker. He passes it to his wife, who is smaller even than James has remembered her, and she takes it among the villagers, letting them handle it and nod their heads and muttet to their friends. In a shrill voice she calls on some strong lad to challenge 'the Moor'. The young men bay. Jack Hawkins is pushed forward. He tries to get back into the crowd but they push him out again. He shuffles into the ring and raises his arms awkwardly. The woman takes his waistcoat and his shirt. He is almost as tall as the Negro, and twenty years younger. A solid build, working on his father's land since he could walk. The crowd settle. A fat man just inside the door shouts: 'Kill 'im, Jacko!' John Amazement looks round. For an instant he sees James, and briefly gestures as if he has recognised him. Then he turns to face his opponent.

They grip up, their feet scuffing in the dirt, the muscles in their backs and arms gleaming and distended. Hawkins charges; the Negro staggers, goes down on one knee, though his face is still calm, as though he were thinking of something else, something serious