Free His Last Fire by Alix Nathan Page B

guards slink away unused.
    She is inspired. Carries home the day compact in mind and body, kept alive for ever in layers of memory. He’s writing up his notes when she arrives home. Puts a long finger to his lips pursed with determination.
    At other times bread riots; anti-crimping riots against press-gang cruelty; someone throws a stone at the King’s coach. Habeas Corpus is suspended; new acts against seditious activities and treasonable practices drawn up.
    A man asks after James one evening. She knows spies sit in every coffee house and inn. He’d warned her to be careful what she said, but she isn’t garrulous. Does she know where James Wintrige had been that afternoon?
    â€˜I have been here since six o’clock this morning.’ She’d heard a thrush sing from a roof ridge on the way. ‘He was surely at the customs office today.’
    â€˜He was expected at a meeting. Never came.’
    She pays no attention; is determined to close by nine. Staying open late causes suspicion nowadays.
    Two weeks later he comes again. She wouldn’t recognise him if he hadn’t spoken, for he’s undistinguished in the press of men.
    â€˜Thomas Cranch, Mrs Wintrige. Enquiring about your husband again. I’m from the Society.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜He is ill, I hear. He sent us a letter today. He’s too ill to attend the meeting. Coughing blood.’
    Leaning towards him to hear, their foreheads touch. She draws back hastily, sees amusement, pleasure hop across his face. He drinks porter in rapid sips. He is a little man, stout, dark hair cropped, movements energetic. A bookseller and printer.
    â€˜Strand. Number 444. Opposite Buckingham Street.’
    Or so he says. She warms to him despite herself.
    James gets into bed about midnight, undershirt smelling of anxiety.
    Half-asleep she asks: ‘Are you unwell?’
    â€˜No. Been at a meeting.’
    â€˜Have you coughed up blood?’
    â€˜No. Why do you ask?’
    She turns over. Shifts away. He has another woman she realises with indignation. Falls asleep.
    She’s in Battle’s at six, her father grumbling, a waiter late. Fires are laid and lit under the coffee cauldron; in the fireplace where men toast their backsides, pat the dog, read aloud from the newspaper. Floors swept, meat prepared, onions fried.
    Another woman. The phrase embeds. Before their marriage there’d been a common law wife. He’d left her. She finds relief in pattern.
    Later she remembers a conversation. She knew the men. Radicals, drank at the Red Lion, dropped into Battle’s once a month to test the mood.
    â€˜Wintrige,’ she’d overheard.
    â€˜Our old friend Wintrige,’ the man called Baldwyn said and laughed. They all laughed: Pyke, Hadfield with the scars over his eye, down his cheek, Harley, the young one. Slapped their thighs.
    â€˜Is he honest?’ asked Coke.
    â€˜Yes, if you can trust a man that foolish, that silly.’ They laughed again. Left when the spy Nodder appeared.
    It wasn’t the Wintrige she knew. The day takes over; she can puzzle no more about it.
    He’s out when she returns. Dripping wax on his papers she rummages. Books of minutes. Once he’d been president. Endless names, dates, sums, meeting places. Precise reports: harrassed by Blackheath Hundreds; justices terrified the landlord, moved to Angel, High Street; adjourned at three o’clock in the morning; appoint as delegates Jas. Wintrige, Joseph Young. Hydra of Despotism, Strong Arm of Aristocracy, yours with Civic Affection.
    Sealed letter addressed to R. Ford. Which has gone the next day.
    That night in Ossulston Street they coincide, unusually.
    â€˜Who is R. Ford?’
    â€˜Ho, ho! Been spying on me, have you?’
    â€˜I saw a letter, yes. Is it a man or a woman?’
    â€˜A woman? Why should you think that? You, with your apple cheeks!’ He pinches them with both hands. ‘It’s for