Vixen. Rosie Garland

I say uncertainly.

      ‘It’s hard work, and do not mistake me. If he’s not what you hoped for, then make the most of it. You’re not starved, you’re not badly treated, and you’re surrounded by more gewgaws than I could shake a stick at.’

      ‘I have tried sweetness; I have tried meekness, cheerfulness, hard work, speaking, silence. He is wood. There is no pleasing him.’

      ‘There is a way, daughter. There is always a way and if anyone can find it, it is my pretty Anne.’

      I pause, so that she thinks I am meditating upon her words. ‘Mother, can I come home?’

      She gives me a long cold stare. ‘You are home. And I am busy.’

      ‘I mean, come home to stay.’

      ‘You most certainly cannot,’ she snorts. ‘The very idea! That would be a fine business. First you’re his woman, then you are not. The shame of it.’

      ‘I want a proper husband.’

      ‘You are spoiled, my girl. If I ever sinned, it was in being too soft with you. You wanted him; you have him.’

      ‘It’s not that simple.’

      ‘It is. You shall stay where you are.’

      ‘I don’t want him any more.’

      ‘A man is not a brass pot, to be tossed aside when tired of.’

      ‘I am not tired. I—’

      ‘Hold your tongue and listen, for once. What man will take the leavings of another?’

      Never before did my mother speak to me so harshly. I feel tears rise in my eyes and am determined not to let them spill over.

      ‘Thomas has never touched me!’

      ‘So you say.’

      ‘Don’t you believe me?’

      ‘I believe you want to be away from a house that half a year ago you begged to be in. You cannot change your man in the same way that you change the ribbons in your hair. I asked you if you were sure, and you swore you were. Heed me now. You will stay, and there’s an end to it. I have done with this conversation.’

      I do not know what shocks me more: the force of her words or that it is my mother who speaks them. She wipes her hands and wraps her kerchief around her head.

      ‘I’m going to fetch your father from the alehouse,’ she announces.

      ‘But can we not talk some more?’

      ‘You do not want to talk. You want to twist me to your way of thinking. It will not work any more. By the Saint, Anne, I thought you would have stopped hanging on to my skirts by now.’

      ‘Mumma!’

      ‘That is a child’s word. You are not a child.’

      I follow after her, for the last place I wish to go is Thomas’s house. My house. She looks down her nose at me.

      ‘Have you nothing better to do?’ she says.

      ‘Clearly not,’ I growl.

      She sniffs, but does not shoo me away. As we walk, she takes my arm.

      ‘Come on, lass,’ she says with greater warmth. ‘If any woman can bring him round, it will be you. A man is an instrument and can be played. All he wants is to hear a sweet song, and a woman with her wits about her can sing it afresh every day. Even your father is this way, although I declare I am blessed with my Stephen, for he is the most agreeable of melodies. All you need do is find the tune to make this man dance.’

      She pats my hand. I know she means to fortify me.

      Stepping through the alehouse door is to enter a dream filled with delightful scents and sounds, and I am stabbed by a sensation that feels a lot like happiness. A cloak of laughed-out air lays itself soft around my shoulders, and I taste the moist kiss of Aline’s brew on the halloas that greet us as we step under the lintel. Mother goes straightway to my father. They embrace each other and he clears a space for her on the bench next to him.

      I sigh, imagining Thomas’s sour expression when I return late to the house. It is hardly a sin for me to dawdle awhile and be merry for this one night. I resolve to stay.

      The men are engaged in playing a game with a pig’s bladder, which is already the cause of much mirth. Joseph the drover puts his lips to the hole and blows, then lays it upon the bench with a great deal of ceremony. He strolls about with his thumbs hooked behind his back, whistling, inviting us to sit.

      ‘Come now, Mistress Aline,’ Joseph cackles. ‘Take the weight off your feet! You must be tired after a day making such a fine brew.’

      He is interrupted by drinkers raising their cups and shouting huzzah. Aline nods her thanks and laughs.

      ‘Oh no, not me. All these thirsts to quench and rushed off my feet already!’

      She winks at us: we cheer at her clever answer. He scours the room for a suitable fool and this time points at me.

      ‘You! Little Anne!’

      ‘Me?’ I squeak, and the folk roar at how tiny my voice is become. I clear my throat and repeat the word more resonantly, which, it appears, is even funnier.

      ‘Yes, you, my chick. A pretty bird like you should have a comfy nest on which to fluff up her feathers. Look! Here’s the very place,’ he cries, and points to the bench.

      I search for a smart retort or I shall have to sit down and lose the game. I find nothing, shake my head and shrivel into the wall. I wait for him to coax me out of my shyness, but when I raise my head he is gone to the other side of the room and is chattering to Alice.

      I am more disappointed than I expect. I wanted him to cozen me, so that I could make a big show of saying how I was too busy to play his foolish game. I have been denied the opportunity and it irks me. Alice bats her eyelashes and preens her hair with dainty gestures. Every gaze is upon her and she fair wriggles with the pleasure of it.

      ‘Oh la, sir!’ she pipes. ‘There are wolves in this very room.’ She looks about, stretching her eyes wide. One old fellow starts to howl, to the amusement of those gathered. ‘If I roost,’ she smirks, ‘one of them is sure to gobble me up.’

      There is a thumping of cups and more huzzahs at her quick rebuff. My Da slaps me on the back.

      ‘Why didn’t you think of that?’ he chuckles.

      Alice is casting coy glances at Geoffrey the cheese-man. He returns the look with a grin that lifts first one side of his mouth then the other; a smile that cannot believe its luck. I remember how he once set his cap at me; a short while only, for I looked down my nose at him and made no secret of it. I set my eye way above the head of a man who smelled of curds.

      ‘We should have Father Thomas here,’ declares Joseph. ‘He’s a man on his feet all day, wouldn’t you say so, Anne?’

      At the sound of his name my heart drops.

      ‘He is not a man who takes much rest from his labours,’ I say as respectfully as I can manage.

      This answer makes them roar lustily and I wish it did not.

      ‘I’ll bet our little Anne keeps him busy!’

      ‘Now now, he’s a man of God. Let’s keep it clean,’ chides Aline, to a volley of sniggers. ‘Haven’t you told him how good my ale is?’ she continues. ‘Father Hugo was always front of the queue.’ She gives me a look that has an edge of hurt.

      ‘Eager to get a bellyful, so he was.’

      ‘Father Thomas is not like Father Hugo,’ I say.

      I look at her, raising my eyebrows and praying that she can hear what is behind my words, for I dare say no more. But Aline was