Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [12]
They were in the room on the first floor of the house which Kemp regarded as his sanctum and sometimes called his study, though nothing much but ledgers were studied there. Pipe in mouth, he looked through curls of smoke at the young man sitting opposite, hunched forward in the easy-chair as if set on maintaining a notion of sufferance, his large hands loosely clasped between his knees. ‘You must regard my house as your own for as long as you choose,’ he said.
‘It is indeed kind of you. But I have things to see to at home, as I told you, and must take the stage for Norwich the day after tomorrow at latest.’
‘It is as you choose. All I am intending to say is that the past is the past and you must set it behind you. Nothing that has happened places a term to your welcome here.’
The sound of his own words animated Kemp with a renewed sense of the excellence of his motives. His spirits rose. He was behaving generously towards his nephew and at the same time gaining the services of a qualified medical man. A less qualified medical man would have done, he knew that: most of the slavers that sailed out of Liverpool would have some sawbones apprentice or drunken quack aboard, or no one; but that was not good enough for the Liverpool Merchant. Moreover, he was killing other pigeons with the same shot: by this kindness to a bankrupt he was dressing his ship in the colours of charity and compassion.
Kemp held a moral view of the universe. God balanced the ledgers. Nothing went unrecognized. A good deed was an entry on the credit side, a bill drawn on destiny which could not fail to be met one day. He saw his ship home in port again, riding at anchor in the Pool, laden with goods high in demand, saw his creditors satisfied, temporarily at least, with the interest on their loans, till the cotton trade took a turn for the better, as it soon must. The vision glowed in his cheeks and eyes as he leaned forward. ‘Africa,’ he said, ‘you will be going to Africa, Matthew. Think of it.’
‘I have thought much of it.’ Paris sat up a little, straightening his shoulders in polite response. He did not know what to say to his uncle, whom he thought looked rather hectic and high-coloured this afternoon, feverish almost; he would have liked to take his pulse.
Not feeling able to suggest this, he looked away towards the window. Sunshine had come to the day after a misty start and there was a breeze outside, stirring the new leaves on the elms round the little square. Some pigeons flew up as he watched. The movement of the trees and the flight of the pigeons sent quick shoals of shadows across the room, over the ceiling and walls. For some moments he watched this without speaking. Despite the inertness of his body, he felt light, without substance. Misty mornings bring fine weather when the season is turning, he thought vaguely, almost sleepily. First songs of warblers through the mist, the sycamores in first leaf. By the river. Ruth and I hand in hand, light raining down on leaf and bud, shadows moving on the water. Light of love in her face. We sat together on the bank. By then she was carrying the child. A day to be remembered, because we knew – and told each other – that we need do nothing but wait. We only had to be as we were. Everything was calm and satisfactory. The house not very grand but with room enough, and the income from shop and practice sufficient. We only had to wait, with our love, for the child to come. Now Ruth is nowhere in the world any more and I am going to Africa. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘well, it is very far away. It is a place I had never thought to visit. But it might as well be there as anywhere.’ Lest this should sound ungrateful, he added quickly, ‘I thank you once again for your letter, uncle, and for wishing to do