Free Silver by Andrew Motion

to Treasure Island she passed over, except to say it was ‘a cruise’ that left her alone for longer than she expected, but had allowed her to take on the management of the Spyglass. Since her husband’s return, she wanted me to believe, they had worked quietly and happily together,
blessed by the arrival of our angel
(here our shoulders were given a terrific squeeze) – although now their existence was overshadowed by her husband’s ill health.
    As this sad subject came into view, Mrs Silver redoubled her efforts to be cheerful. ‘Thanks to Jesus,’ she declared, or I should say
sang
, for she drew out the name of her Saviour into a long steady note. ‘Thanks to Jesus we are still able to count our blessings, and look forward to greater ones in the time that remains to us.’
    This speech had taken several minutes to complete, and for most of this time I kept my gaze fixed on the altar in front of me. I could see now that it had been cleverly made to create a wholly irregular surface, which reflected the candlelight at unpredictable angles. Because thick curtains blinded every window in the room, and theother walls were hung with dark shawls and drapes of various kinds, she had created an impression of unusually concentrated devotion – and also of considerable danger, since the slightest gust of wind would certainly fan one of the many flames and set everything on fire.
    This possibility meant I kept very still. Mrs Silver, by contrast, quivered and shook and fluttered while she spoke, and gradually convinced me that she resembled everything around her, and the altar especially, in blending rapture with recklessness. The longer I reflected on this, the more uncomfortable I became. My original response to her had been a kind of relief after the strangeness of her husband. Then I had felt puzzled that two such different people might actually be man and wife. This in turn had led me to speculate that her amiability was in fact a sort of tyranny: her story was designed to entertain us, but also to assert her control. The possibility had become more and more convincing as she continued talking, with the weight of her arms across our shoulders steadily increasing, and her grip steadily tightening, so that by the end we were more nearly her prisoners than her audience.
    For Natty, who must have heard her mother’s speeches countless times before, the detention would have been especially tedious. So I supposed, at any rate – and as her mother began another long paragraph of thanks to Jesus for blessings past, present and to come, I decided that I must bring our captivity to an end.
    ‘Mrs Silver,’ I said loudly, wriggling away from her and jumping to my feet. ‘Natty and I have something to do, which we must begin immediately.’
    The effect of my announcement was instantaneous, and much more powerful than I had expected. All the buoyancy that had filled Mrs Silver, all the bounce and assertion, escaped like air from a balloon.
    ‘Something to do?’ she said weakly, as if flabbergasted.
    ‘It is a task,’ I told her. ‘A task your husband has given us.’
    A second change now took place in Mrs Silver, which was like a hardening after the recent deflation. She folded her arms across her bosom, and disappointment stiffened her face. My first thought was: I have annoyed her by interrupting her. But as she began speaking again, I realised at least some of her irritation was directed towards her husband, either because she did not understand his mind, or because she disliked what it contained.
    ‘I know your task, Master Jim; I know your task,’ she said, with the sing-song note in her voice now distinctly sinister. ‘Whether it is God’s will or the devil’s is another matter. Ye are the children of light, and the children of the day: we are not of the night, not of darkness.’ Mrs Silver unfolded her arms and placed her hands upon her knees, before adding with a defiant emphasis and a glare at both of us,