Chapter 4: The Awakening

I awoke to the sound of singing—actually it was more like young voices chanting —and it took me a moment before realising the ‘singing ‘was children reciting their multiplication tables.

I chanted along with them, and was pleased to remember all my tables correctly. A thought came to my mind. The French have that cursed decimal system —will their children only learn their times table up to ten?
I heard the children saying their goodbyes, and laughter, and doors closing, followed by the sound of someone coming up the stairs.
“Good morning, Jack. Did you sleep well?” My sister Ruth stood in the doorway, holding a tray and looking at me with a loving smile on her face.

Ruth was always over shadowed, in looks, intellect, and personality, by her younger sister Rebekah – Becky. However, Ruth possesses the calmness and sweetness of our mother, and does not have a bad bone in her body, something I could not now say with certainty about Rebekah. Ruth was happily married to the local doctor, John Watson, and I assumed I was in their house in Great Gonersby, a mile from Greenaway’s Farm and two miles from Grantham.
“Bridey Murphy in Marlow!” I suddenly exclaimed, and Ruth looked at me in alarm before placing the tray she was carrying on a bedside table.
I noted the worried look on her face and laughed.
“No, Ruth, I am not out of my mind, but have just now remembered something Rob Crawshay said when we were last in Marlow.” She was still looking at me, bewilderment, concern, and unease, in equal measure showing on her face as I continued to speak. “I will need to write to Zinnia Slade—Zinnia Teazle as was —to obtain a particular piece of information from her housemaid.”

Ruth relaxed. “I saw as soon as I came into the bedroom you appeared to have recovered your senses, but your last outburst had me thinking it was but a flash in the pan. You have been flitting between one state and another for the past six weeks.”
“I have been unconscious for six weeks? The last I remember is sitting in a chair at Greenaway’s Farm, and then nothing.”
“You have slept a great deal of the time, but you have also been up and about walking, and eating. Sometimes you were quite rational, but then would relapse into muttering to yourself, and talking about Woody as if he were alive...” She paused, “and of Caroline, as if she too was still alive. Zinnia wrote to mother and told us the tragic news.” Ruth came to the bed and hugged me tightly. “We are all heartbroken at your loss, Jack. Mother cried for a week, and had to be given laudanum to calm her.”
“I know what has happened to my family, Ruth. I must have tried to deny the facts, which became too much for my mind to accept.”
She plumped my pillow — why do women always do that? “John believes your body and brain went into hibernation while they healed themselves. But now you really appear to be back with us.” She kissed me warmly. “Welcome home, Jack. Now eat your breakfast.” She indicated the bowl of calves foot jelly on the bedside table.
“Calves foot jelly! That is no fit breakfast for a man. Take it away at once and bring me meat, and bread, and cheese.”
Ruth giggled. “I said to John we would know for sure when Jack is better. He always hated calves foot jelly, and when he refuses to eat it will show him to be fully recovered.”
To think I had been eating calves foot jelly for six weeks — amazing.

John Watson was out on his rounds, but he always returned home for lunch prior to holding a surgery in his front room in the afternoon. Like most country doctors he was paid mostly in kind for his services, and returned from his morning visits with a plump capon, which became our dinner that evening.
Ruth taught the young children of the village their letters and simple arithmetic, charging a penny a week per pupil, but even then was seldom given her proper due.
I felt I should contribute towards their household expenses, and thought to seek work as a ploughman, the only skill I possessed of use in a rural community.
John was aghast. “Nonsense, Jack. You must first build up your strength before considering any sort of work, especially manual labour. You have suffered a great deterioration of your mental and physical health, and I recommend you take long walks; the exercise will assist your physical recovery and the solitude and calmness of the countryside will reinforce your mental health.”

He had thoroughly examined me when he returned from his rounds, after which I recounted what had happened since the fire at Hungerford Hall, right up until the time I fell asleep in a chair at Greenaway’s Farm.
He agreed with Rob Crawshay that the fumes from the burning of freshly varnished, and French polished furniture would have rendered my family unconscious before the smoke asphyxiated them. He then asked me what I remembered from the time I fell asleep in my mother’s kitchen until waking this morning, which was absolutely nothing.
“Actually, you did not fall asleep, Jack, but rather went into an unconsciousness, which persisted for several hours. You then appeared to be normal, except for periods when you behaved as if unmindful of past events.”
The last six weeks were if I had slept through them, like Rip Van Winkle, although I remembered, with undiminished sorrow, all that had occurred before my incognizant phase.

“I have not come across a similar type of memory loss before,” John admitted. “However, as you have recalled accurately the past prior to your illness I am certain you will in time regain the memory of the last six weeks. So you will have no recollection of attending the funeral of Sir Frederick Bywaters? I admit you seemed to be in another place during the service.”
I had no idea Black Fred was no more, although his health was never the same after the bout of camp fever he suffered before the battle of Waterloo.
“Fred Bywaters was a good man, and the last of his line,” I said. “What will become of Syston Grange now there are no males to inherit the baronetcy, or the estate?”
“The estate is already sold; lock stock and barrel, to a gentleman by the name of Barford. He is an engineer from Nottingham, and owns a factory which constructs water pumps for coalmines.”
“What of my Uncle Caleb, has he been kept on as steward and bailiff?”
John shook his head, smiling. “No, but your uncle has moved into a different occupation, that of a publican.”

Uncle Caleb had bought a half share in the Beehive Tavern, situated on Castle Gate in Grantham. The tavern’s sign was a working beehive, and honey from the bees was used to make mead. The Beehive was owned by Dobie and Abigail Lines; Dobie Lines was a great bear of a man, with little patience and large appetites, especially for ale, rum, food and women. Abigail Lines was a handsome woman, who to my eyes resembled Jenny Makepeace of the Anchor Inn in Wiltshire.
Sadley Dobie had died a few years back, and Abby Lines was struggling to keep the tavern open. The tavern bought their ale from William Foster, Grantham’s only brewer, consequently his ale was cheaper than that carted in from Sleaford or Stamford. Unfortunately, although cheaper it was also thin, tasteless, and frequently thrown away in disgust by those who bought it. Not surprisingly the customers of the Beehive were few and far between.
“Your Uncle Caleb has made a huge difference to the tavern.” John said. “He contracted the Windmill brewery in Sleaford to take their entire output each week. He then engaged half a dozen comely tavern wenches from Lincoln, and now, with the excellent ale, friendly and agreeably formed serving maids, and the tasty food cooked by Abby Lines, the place is bursting at the seams of an evening.” John winked. “It is rumoured Caleb and Abigail are more than merely business partners.”

I was pleased to find my uncle in a successful enterprise, and having such a handsome female as Abigail Lines as a ‘business’ partner. Caleb always had a knowledgeable head on his shoulders, and it appeared a good eye for the ladies. I wondered from where in Lincoln he had recruited the serving maids, but when I paid a visit to the Beehive later that week I soon recognised girls who been serving in the Temple when I had enlisted in the 69th Foot. They would now be in their early thirties, as was I, and I supposed they had their fill of earning a living on their backs, and were now looking for husbands, far from where they had conducted their former profession.
Caleb had a huge grin on his face, and an arm around the waist of a satisfied looking Abigail Lines, when I paid my visit the Beehive. I downed a flagon, and wished the pair good fortune — the ale was exceptional.

I had written to Zinnia informing her Rob Crawshay had seen Bridey Murphy out and about in Marlow when we had visited the Shelleys back in March of 1818. I reminded her that according to Mary Shelley there would be no whisper of impropriety when Becky and Shelley discussed the problem of the plagiarism together in Albion House because ‘the housemaid would act as chaperone.’ I asked Zinnia to speak to Rob and Bridey, and unravel the conflicting stories between what Mary Shelley had said and what Rob Crawshay had seen.