Fear was as contagious as the plague, and it spread as the plague spread. The well expected to be sick; hope of escape was small. Death was everywhere now. You might inhale it with a breath; you might take it up with a bundle of food; you might pass it in the street and bring it walking home beside you. Death was democratic. It made no choice between the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the ugly, the young and the old.


One morning in mid-August Bruce told her that he thought they would be able to leave London within another fortnight. She was spreading up his bed, and though she answered him as casually as she could she had been worrying about it for some time.

“No one is allowed to leave the city now, whether they have a certificate-of-health or not.”

“We’ll go anyway. I’ve been thinking about it and I believe I know a way we can get out.”

“There’s nothing I’d like more. This city—God, it’s a nightmare!” She changed the subject quickly, smiling at him. “How would you like a shave? I’m a mighty good barber—”

Bruce ran his hand across the five-weeks growth of beard on his chin. “I’d like it. I feel like a fishmonger.”

She went out to the kitchen for a basin of warm water and found Spong sitting morosely, a half-eaten bowl of soup in her lap. “Well!” said Amber merrily. “Don’t tell me that you’ve got enough to eat at last!” She swung the crane out from the fire and poured some water into the pewter basin, testing it with her finger.

Spong gave a heavy discouraged sigh. “Lord, mam. Seems like I’m off the hooks today. Don’t feel so good.”

Amber straightened, looking at her sharply. If that old bawd’s going to be sick now, she thought, I’ll put her out in a trice and the parish clerk be damned!

But she was eager to get back to Bruce and returned to the bedroom where she laid her implements on a table, wrapped a great white linen towel about his chest, and sat down beside him. Both of them enjoyed the operation, and were much amused by it. Amber felt a deep current of joy running through her and once, as she leaned close to him, she saw his eyes on her breasts. Her heart gave a beat and she was aware of a slow creeping warmth.

“You must be feeling much better,” she said softly.

“Well enough,” he agreed, “to wish I felt much better than I do.”

When at last his face was clean again, but for the mustache he had always worn and which she left, it was easy to see how sick he had been, and how sick he still was. The smooth brown colour of his skin, habitually tanned before, had faded to a light pallor, his cheeks were lean and drawn and new faint lines showed at his eyes and mouth; all his body was much thinner. But to Amber he seemed as handsome as ever.

She began to pick up after herself, dumping the water out the window, gathering towels and scissors and razor. “In a few days,” she said, “I think you can have a bath.”

“God, I hope so! I must stink like Bedlam!”

He lay down then and presently fell asleep, for he was still so weak that a very small exertion was fatiguing. Amber took up her hood, locked the bedroom door so that Spong could not go in during her absence, and went out through the kitchen. The old woman was wandering aimlessly, a stupid staring look in her eyes. She reminded Amber of the long-snouted rats which sometimes came out of their holes and stood dazedly, or squeaked with distraction when she went after them with a broom, sick creatures with patches of fur fallen out of their blue-black coats.

“Are you feeling worse?” Amber was tying on her hood, watching the nurse in the mirror.

Spong answered her with a whine. “Not much, mam. But don’t it seem cold in here to you?”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s hot. But go sit by the fire in the kitchen.’

Amber was annoyed, thinking that if Spong was sick she would have to throw away all the food she had in the house and fumigate the rooms. And she felt, as she had not when Bruce was sick, resentful on her own behalf, afraid that she would be exposed herself. When I get back, she thought, if she’s worse I’ll tell her to leave.

Spong met Amber at the door as she came in. She was winding her hands in her skirt and her expression was worried and depressed, almost comically self-pitying. “Lud, mam,” she began immediately, whining again, “I’m feelin’ mighty bad.”

Amber looked at her, her eyes narrowed. Spong’s face was red, her eyes blood-shot, and as she talked it was possible to see that her tongue was heavily coated with a white fuzz, the tip and edges bright red. It’s plague, right enough, thought Amber, and turned away so as not to get the woman’s breath in her face. She put the basket onto a table and began to unpack the food, transferring it immediately to the food-hutch so that Spong could not touch it.

“If you want to leave,” said Amber, as casually as she could, “I’ll give you five pound.”

“Leave, mam? Where could I go? I got no place to go, mam. And how can I leave? I’m the nurse.” She leaned heavily against the wall. “Oh, Lord! I never felt like this before.”

Amber swung around. “Of course you haven’t! And you know why—you’ve got the plague! Oh, there’s no use pretending you haven’t it, is there? It won’t make you well again. Look here, Mrs. Spong, if you’ll leave and go to a pest-house I’ll give you ten pound. You’ll be taken care of there. But I warn you, if you stay here.I won’t raise a hand to help you. I’ll get the money now—wait here.”

She started out of the room, but Spong stopped her.

“It’s no use, mam. I won’t go to a pest-house. Lord, I’ve got no mind to die if I can help it. A body might as well go to a burial-pit as the pest-house. You’re a cruel-hearted woman, to want to turn a poor sick old lady out of your house after she helped you nurse his Lordship back to life. You ain’t a Christian, mam—” She shook her head wearily.

Amber gave her a glare, full of disgust and hatred. But she had already decided that when night came she would force the old woman out if she had to do it at the point of a knife. Now, it was only two o’clock, and time to prepare another light meal for Bruce. Spong wandered back into the parlour, uninterested in food for once, and Amber began to set his tray.

As she carried it into the bedroom she passed Spong who lay on a couch before the long range of windows, mumbling beneath her breath and shivering convulsively. She reached out a hand to her. “Mam—I’m sick. Please, mam—”

Amber went by her without a glance, her jaw muscles setting, and took the key from her apron to unlock the bedroom door. The old woman started to get up and in a sudden panic of terror Amber rattled the key, flung the door open and rushed inside, slamming it again and turning the lock swiftly. She heard Spong collapse back onto the couch, whining some unintelligible words.

Amber blew a sigh of relief, thoroughly scared, for she had heard the tales of those sick from plague who roamed the streets, grabbing others into their arms and kissing them. She looked over to find Bruce propped upon his elbow, watching her with a strange expression of puzzlement and suspicion.

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh. It’s nothing.” She gave him a quick smile and came forward with the tray. She did not want him to know that Spong was sick, for she was afraid that it would worry him, and he was not strong enough for worry or any other exhausting emotion. “Spong’s drunk again, and I thought she was going to come in here and trouble you.” She was setting down the dishes and now she gave a nervous little laugh. “Listen to her! She’s drunk as David’s sow!”

He did not say anything more, but Amber thought that he had guessed it was not drunkenness but the plague. She ate with him but neither of them talked very much or with any gaiety, and Amber was relieved when he fell asleep again. But she dared not go out and stayed there, occupied with changing his bandage and cleaning the room—her ears were constantly alert for sounds from the parlour, and again and again she tip-toed to the door to listen.

She could hear her moving restlessly about, groaning, calling for her, and at last, late in the afternoon, she heard a heavy thud and knew that she had fallen to the floor. By her cursing she was evidently struggling to get up again but could not do so. Amber felt discouraged and frightened and she watched Bruce constantly, but he was sleeping soundly.

What can I do? How can I get her out? she thought. Oh, damn her, the filthy old fustiluggs!

She stood looking out at a bright setting sun that lighted the trees with red and orange patches and struck a window-pane down the street so that it gave back a blinding reflection. Then, rather slowly, she began to be conscious of a strange new sound and for a few moments she listened curiously, wondering what it was and where it came from. She realized, finally, that it was coming from the other room. It was a sort of bubbling rattle. As she listened it stopped and then, just when she had begun to think her own imagination was playing tricks, it began again. It filled her with pure terror, for it was an evil eerie sound, but she was impelled almost against her will to cross the room and—very softly—turn the lock and open the door, just a crack, to look out.

Mrs. Spong lay on her back on the floor, arms and legs flung wide. Her mouth was open and a thick bloody mucus poured out of it, bubbling from her nose as she breathed, coming out in a gush with each collapsing rattle of her throat muscles. Amber stared, chill with horror, stiff and motionless. Then she closed the door again, more loudly than she had intended, and sank back against it. The sound evidently attracted Spong’s attention for Amber heard a choked, gurgling noise as though the old woman was trying to call her—and with a whimper of terror she rushed into the nursery, her hands over her ears, and banged the door.