Alms for Oblivion by Philip Gooden Read Free Book Online Page A

church
of St Dunstan which stood nearby, and that an old inn-sign had once depicted that saint pulling the devil by the nose (what the devil had done to deserve this, I don’t know). Now the painted
sign was duller and vaguely legalish, showing a scroll and a seal and a quill. Even so I considered that the devil’s name was a fitting one for a tract of London where so many lawyers and
would-be lawyers congregated.
    Peter got on famously with those of my fellows he chatted with in the Devil. We were in that high-spirited mood that comes after a successful practice or performance and we welcomed a newcomer
to our ranks. I was split between pleasure that my friend was being so graciously received by the Company and anxiety in case he thought it was always like this. And of course there was a little
touch of resentment too. No patron likes to see his client go too far too fast.
    We didn’t get free of the Devil until late evening. Peter was reluctant to leave and we reeled out with the other unwived, unloved, un-bed-warmed members of the Chamberlain’s, mostly
the younger ones. The fog had cleared and permitted a few stars to gaze drowsily down on the two of us as we reached the river, caught a ferry and, on the far side, retraced our steps to Dead
Man’s Place. No Charons or chalk-faced old ranters in sight.
    It was generally assumed that Peter would share my lodgings for the next few days until he could find his own. Assumed by him, that is, and acquiesced in by me. I didn’t think Samuel
Benwell would make any difficulty. More likely he would be drooling to imagine two members of his favourite profession sharing a bed. So it proved. My landlord was still in the little lobby,
leaning into a corner – I wondered if he’d been hanging around there all day waiting for some surprise visitor. He was holding a candle of stinking tallow whose waste oozed into a
grease-pan. For a moment I thought of a mother, or perhaps a wife, waiting for two naughty boys to come back home after a night on the town.
    I shut Peter up just after he’d started burbling and slurring on about his fren’ship with Willum Shakeshpeare and his discovery that the Chamberlain’s were wunnerful men.
Revill, relatively sober, swiftly negotiated with Benwell the provision of a spare mattress rather than a new room. The landlord simultaneously looked disappointed and raised his eyebrows in
surprise – insofar as one could read all this expressiveness by a single smoky candle – but he must have known that my bed was small and mean, not really comfortable enough to share
with anyone, even with a woman. He must have known, I say, because I think he was in the habit of spying on me.
    We settled on one and a half pennies a night extra. I already knew that Peter was in funds, having seen his largesse in the Devil. The bargain struck, Benwell graciously handed over his odorous
candle, now more grease than illumination, so that we might see ourselves to bed. Then we went single file up to my room, I almost pushing Peter up the stairs with one hand and holding on to the
light with the other. I retrieved a leaking straw mattress from some unregarded corner, tugged it into my little room, laid it out beside my own bed (there was no space for it to go anywhere else),
and felt simultaneously virtuous and resentful, as if I’d done everything and more that could be expected of me in relation to my old friend.
    Peter had bashed his forehead somewhere in his progress to my room, probably at the entrance. The lintel was low but I was used to it. I should have warned him but the blow seemed to do him a
favour and clear his head a little, even as the blood leaked slowly from his noddle. He was disposed to go on talking. He was still the worse for drink although the slurring disappeared.
    I didn’t much want to talk. For one thing, I had to work the next day, not on
Troilus and Cressida
, which would henceforth be rehearsed in Middle Temple, but on an