The Book of Fires. Jane Borodale

walnut tree growing up through the paving slabs before it. I am surprised and glad to see a tree and I put my hand on the smooth cracked bark of the trunk to lean and catch my breath.

      Over the front door of the house behind the walnut tree, I see that a curious sign is squeaking from an iron bracket; a painted picture of a squat man covered in leaves holding a bright star. It shines, wet with rain and catching the light. The faint squeak it makes is regular and soothing, like a bird. When my eye lights upon a small board with handwriting upon it, pinned to the door, my heart skips a beat. I come away from the tree and tread up on to the stone steps to be sure of what it says in the gloomy light.

       J. Blacklock. Required–housekeeper for small household.

      An anxious hope expands rapidly inside me, though I can just see how faded the letters are, as if they were chalked some time ago. I try to decide through the sickness if I might be suitable. Am I sufficiently old for such a position? What experience is needed? I can keep house well enough, I think, and after all I have lost the directions to Lettice Talbot’s lodging house.

      The sign of the wild man creaks louder as a breath of cold air blows down the street and pushes the rain sideways for a moment. I pull my wet cloak closer about my shoulders. To walk further seems impossible, and it is effort enough to lift my hand and rap as hard as I can on the door, with my knuckles all white as they grip at the knocker. The door is wide, with large iron studs holding it together. The sound of my knock is like the thump of an axe on wood a great distance away. Surely no one will hear it.

      And yet I hear someone coming; drawing the bolts back.

      I swallow in readiness. Somehow I expect a maidservant to answer, and so am startled to find the door is opened by a tall man in working boots and jerkin. His shirtsleeves are pushed up on his broad forearms as though I have interrupted him at work. Spread out on the side of his face is a raw, red mark where his skin has been burnt. He is wearing a dark wig, or perhaps his own hair, tied in a dishevelled tail, and he has a long, alarming face with high cheekbones. He glares at me, then past me into the street. He is perhaps as much as forty years. I swallow again.

      ‘I’m looking for work, sir.’ I point in the direction of the notice. ‘I am quite used to housework and I think, sir…’ It is hard not to be short of breath. ‘I’ve had the smallpox,’ I add, as Lettice Talbot told me to. I have told so many lies these past few days, a lifetime’s worth.

      ‘You think you’ve had the smallpox,’ he replies, sarcastically. His voice is deep and has a rough, strange flavour to it.

      ‘I mean I have, sir.’ My voice dries up into a tight swallow. ‘I mean, I’ve been with cows, sir, and couldn’t catch it if I tried.’ I have a sense someone is watching me and turn quickly round. A rat skitters along a drainpipe and disappears into the shadows behind some barrels, and outside on the street I hear someone shouting angrily. I realise how close it is to nightfall. The tall man in the doorway reaches out and unhooks the notice.

      ‘The work is gone now,’ he says curtly. ‘Yesterday a new housekeeper was engaged.’

      My insides tighten up with disappointment. I can see that he is irritated to be disturbed. He has already begun to close the door, but fear and thirst give an edge to my voice.

      ‘Are you Mr Blacklock?’ I call swiftly at the narrowing crack. ‘I am a good worker, sir. I’m used to working hard at weaving, and I can turn my hand efficiently to most things you could conceive of.’

      The crack in the door opens again and he takes a step forward to lean out into the rain towards me. His face is older than I thought, or is made so by the lines and shadows round his eyes.

      ‘But what qualities do you possess?’ he asks. His voice is dark and the words come out abruptly from him. I don’t know what he means, and hear myself say anything that comes into my head.

      ‘Firm fingers and quick fingers, sir,’ I say. I hold them out dizzily as evidence before me in the rain. My plain cuffs are dirty, and limp with water. His eyes inch over my hands and back to my face.

      ‘Today I could have made use of some spare quick fingers,’ he says, gruffly. ‘God knows they are hard enough to come by. I was pressed to finish what I’d planned.’

      I try to return his gaze steadily and to stand with my back straight, though the bundle drags at my shoulder like a dead weight. Still he says nothing. I want to turn around and walk the whole way back to Sussex, but I cannot.

      Where will I go? I am tired. The rain that drips down from the sign above is seeping into the nape of my cloak, and suddenly a boy is rushing towards us holding a flickering light ahead for two men in coats, their voices strained and angry. A smell of burning tar comes away from the torch, and their shouts echo in the empty street. They are going to fight, I think, trying to step out of the way as one of the men starts to shove at the other, but I am roughly jolted as they pass. We hear the boy’s voice saying thinly, ‘It’s this way, sirs,’ and they duck down an alleyway. When the brightness of his light has gone it leaves the beginning of a thick and terrifying dusk.

      And then Mr Blacklock moves his head once.

      ‘I will decide,’ he says bluntly, ‘how much you shall be paid, after one week of working.’ I am amazed. He holds the door open a little wider and stands back to let me pass.

       Dead Fire

       Eight

      THERE IS A STRANGE SMELL INSIDE THE HOUSE. The place becomes dingy as Mr Blacklock closes the door on the noise of the street and goes ahead of me along the corridor. He has broad shoulders that tilt slightly to one side, as if carrying a weight. Another door is standing ajar, on our left, and the smell seems stronger as we pass; a disturbing odour of many notes.

      ‘You will bring me items I need from traders and shopkeepers,’ Mr Blacklock says, coughing heavily. ‘You will prepare the equipment and observe closely what I do, in order to be of use to me.’ There is something about the way he says the words that makes me think that perhaps he is from another country, but it is hard to be sure. I can make out that the corridor is dark with panelling and tapestries. It is an old house, perhaps as old as the manor house at Steyning. We go into a kitchen, which is dirty and cluttered.

      Standing beside him, he seems even bigger than before. His tallness is stark, like a tree in winter.

      ‘Sit down,’ he says, jerking a finger at a chair, and as I do so a sleepy cluster of flies rises from a pot upon the table. An oil lamp casts a circle of light upon the pages of a large book lying open. A low, unkept fire is dying in the grate. Along one wall there is a high dresser with plates and pots upon its shelves. I blink in the lamplight and look about.

      ‘I cook but plainly, sir,’ I say in haste, on seeing the hob grate which is huge and complicated. ‘I can stew a good wet soup and make pies, and cook an egg in the wood-ash of the hearth.’ I look doubtfully at the reddish cinders as I say this, but continue, ‘I can churn butter, press and salt it; I can bake a tasty loaf of quality, and prepare a pot of porridge as you like.’ But Mr Blacklock interrupts me with a raised, impatient hand. The burn is an open wound on his face, I see it glisten in the light, and his shadow is huge on the wall behind him.

      ‘Well, that is something, but we do not need a list of virtues at the moment! I cannot abide chatter,’ he stresses curtly. ‘I do not need the debris of your mind to furnish mine. Excessive vocal activity within the throat causes the stomach to bloat with air and nonsense. And hearing such causes unnecessary discomfort in the ear of the listener.’ He leans towards me and stabs at the air between us with a blackened