“There’s nothing I’d like more. This city—God, it’s a nightmare!” She changed the subject quickly, smiling at him. “How would you like a shave? I’m a mighty good barber—”
Bruce ran his hand across the five-weeks growth of beard on his chin. “I’d like it. I feel like a fishmonger.”
She went out to the kitchen for a basin of warm water and found Spong sitting morosely, a half-eaten bowl of soup in her lap. “Well!” said Amber merrily. “Don’t tell me that you’ve got enough to eat at last!” She swung the crane out from the fire and poured some water into the pewter basin, testing it with her finger.
Spong gave a heavy discouraged sigh. “Lord, mam. Seems like I’m off the hooks today. Don’t feel so good.”
Amber straightened, looking at her sharply. If that old bawd’s going to be sick now, she thought, I’ll put her out in a trice and the parish clerk be damned!
But she was eager to get back to Bruce and returned to the bedroom where she laid her implements on a table, wrapped a great white linen towel about his chest, and sat down beside him. Both of them enjoyed the operation, and were much amused by it. Amber felt a deep current of joy running through her and once, as she leaned close to him, she saw his eyes on her breasts. Her heart gave a beat and she was aware of a slow creeping warmth.
“You must be feeling
“Well enough,” he agreed, “to wish I felt much better than I do.”
When at last his face was clean again, but for the mustache he had always worn and which she left, it was easy to see how sick he had been, and how sick he still was. The smooth brown colour of his skin, habitually tanned before, had faded to a light pallor, his cheeks were lean and drawn and new faint lines showed at his eyes and mouth; all his body was much thinner. But to Amber he seemed as handsome as ever.
She began to pick up after herself, dumping the water out the window, gathering towels and scissors and razor. “In a few days,” she said, “I think you can have a bath.”
“God, I hope so! I must stink like Bedlam!”
He lay down then and presently fell asleep, for he was still so weak that a very small exertion was fatiguing. Amber took up her hood, locked the bedroom door so that Spong could not go in during her absence, and went out through the kitchen. The old woman was wandering aimlessly, a stupid staring look in her eyes. She reminded Amber of the long-snouted rats which sometimes came out of their holes and stood dazedly, or squeaked with distraction when she went after them with a broom, sick creatures with patches of fur fallen out of their blue-black coats.
“Are you feeling worse?” Amber was tying on her hood, watching the nurse in the mirror.
Spong answered her with a whine. “Not much, mam. But don’t it seem cold in here to you?”
“No, it doesn’t. It’s hot. But go sit by the fire in the kitchen.’
Amber was annoyed, thinking that if Spong was sick she would have to throw away all the food she had in the house and fumigate the rooms. And she felt, as she had not when Bruce was sick, resentful on her own behalf, afraid that she would be exposed herself. When I get back, she thought, if she’s worse I’ll tell her to leave.
Spong met Amber at the door as she came in. She was winding her hands in her skirt and her expression was worried and depressed, almost comically self-pitying. “Lud, mam,” she began immediately, whining again, “I’m feelin’ mighty bad.”
Amber looked at her, her eyes narrowed. Spong’s face was red, her eyes blood-shot, and as she talked it was possible to see that her tongue was heavily coated with a white fuzz, the tip and edges bright red. It’s plague, right enough, thought Amber, and turned away so as not to get the woman’s breath in her face. She put the basket onto a table and began to unpack the food, transferring it immediately to the food-hutch so that Spong could not touch it.
“If you want to leave,” said Amber, as casually as she could, “I’ll give you five pound.”
“Leave, mam? Where could I go? I got no place to go, mam. And how can I leave? I’m the nurse.” She leaned heavily against the wall. “Oh, Lord! I never felt like this before.”
Amber swung around. “Of course you haven’t! And you know why—you’ve got the plague! Oh, there’s no use pretending you haven’t it, is there? It won’t make you well again. Look here, Mrs. Spong, if you’ll leave and go to a pest-house I’ll give you ten pound. You’ll be taken care of there. But I warn you, if you stay here.I won’t raise a hand to help you. I’ll get the money now—wait here.”
She started out of the room, but Spong stopped her.
“It’s no use, mam. I won’t go to a pest-house. Lord, I’ve got no mind to die if I can help it. A body might as well go to a burial-pit as the pest-house. You’re a cruel-hearted woman, to want to turn a poor sick old lady out of your house after she helped you nurse his Lordship back to life. You ain’t a Christian, mam—” She shook her head wearily.
