Free His Last Fire by Alix Nathan Page A

debt books, but from mid-morning on she must stand behind the curved bar, a reluctant beacon.
    Heat and steam from boiling coffee drove her naturally high colour to a perpetual blush. Her strong bare arms prickled. She’d grown to hate compliments; took scant notice of customers. Enjoyed only the exercise of efficiency.
    She was no longer Sarah Battle. Had married James Wintrige, clerk in the customs office. He was to be her revolution. Through him she would touch a world of intellect, ideas. He read books, wrote plays, hobnobbed with thinkers. Was always scribbling: when not his own work then letters, minutes for meetings of the London Corresponding Society (those earnest artisans who longed for equality without bloodshed, debated into the night, moved from inn to inn when threatened.) Through him she could surely abandon the tedium of flattery, the stink of tobacco and charred meat that hung about her like a garment, the pain of swollen feet. Learn about, enter a higher sphere.
    He’d wooed her with names, knowledge, superiority. A head above the others, she’d seen him watch her, his long fingers resting contemplatively by his frog-thin lips. He dealt her a hand of luminous phrases: Age of Reason; Tree of Liberty; Enlighten the Nation. How could she resist?
    They rented rooms in Ossulston Street. He set out his books, his writing table. Gave her pamphlets to read while he wrote. She asked about his meetings, what they discussed, what resolved by democratic vote. He couldn’t tell her much. Had to be cautious even with his own wife. She was startled at his severity; stopped asking. Opened a window to catch the early robin song in February.
    He said she reminded him of his mother and grandmother who’d brought him up. Their rosy colouring. Forgiving nature. She wondered what he meant. Nightly she carried back food for supper wrapped in several cloths to keep it hot. Flasks of wine. They ate well. Never quarrelled.
    Yet five years had barely changed her life. Still she supervised the grinding of beans, measuring of river water in which to boil them; mixing of egg, sugar, milk with chocolate grounds; roasting of venison, stewing of turtle; supply of glasses, clean cloths, coffee dishes. Chased the dog out of the kitchen. And stood not smiling, ever redder, an accidental siren.
    Exhausted at night, she returned to find James writing or out at a meeting till two a.m. His income was erratic. Once he gave up the customs office to pursue the performance of a play he’d written. Went to Margate. A satire on gaming, it closed after one act to howls of derision. She found him head in hands, shaking.
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜No matter,’ dry-eyed, resistant.
    No, she could not leave the coffee house. They couldn’t live without Battle money.

    *

    James stops going to Battle’s to drink. Life for radicals is becoming more difficult. As their numbers increase, government screws tighten. Last year someone was arrested in the coffee house for giving out handbills urging on rioters. This year immense crowds take their families to St George’s Fields. Listen to stirring speeches, behave with decorum. Sarah goes, her father’s permission drawn like a pulsing tooth.
    The June day shines. Sand martins swoop in and out of dirty pools. The great ground is walled between the Obelisk and King’s Head prison, surrounded by nervous military. James is there somewhere, making notes to transcribe late tonight. She shows her ticket, seeks a group, the space too huge else. Sits among dock and burdock with wives and children of bakers, shoemakers, cordwainers, a watch-face painter and is swept quite out of herself till she weeps and shouts with the rest, glorying in The Voice of Reason, like the Roaring of the Nemean Lion, issuing even from the Cavern’s Mouth! Universal Suffrage! Annual Parliaments! Truth shall be Eternal!
    Thousands of elated citizens. But peaceable. No violence. Horse and foot