Restoration

And so I come to "John", as I must now call my spindly friend, Pearce.

The joy and surprise with which he greeted me were soon enough superceded by a return to the severity with which he always feels obliged to treat me. As I expected, he was neither surprised by my fall from Royal grace nor sympathetic towards my distress.

"When I saw what your life was, in that terrible luxurious house of yours," he said, "I prayed you would be taken out of it."

"Yet I, Pearce, was uncommonly fond of it," I felt obliged to remind him.

"John," he said.

"What, Pearce?"

"Call me John, if you will."

"I am bound, after all this time, to find that difficult."

"You find difficult all that is simple and good, Robert. That is the trouble with you."

This conversation took place in Pearce's room late on the night of my arrival at Whittlesea, I resting my wind-buffeted body on his narrow bed, he lying on a pallet (such as is used by the occupants of George Fox and Margaret Fell) on the floor. I looked at him – my friend and my refuge! He is thi

Though Quakers are not fond of sermons, Pearce lying on a straw mattress and dribbling mithridate into his nostrils, earnestly delivered himself of a sermon upon the perfidy of the Stuart Kings. "None of them were," he said, "nor none will ever be worthy of the nation's trust. For the good of the nation is never first with them. What is first is their supposed Divinity that puts them outside or above the law, so that in all their actions they are accountable to no one, neither in their public nor their private life…"

While listening to this sermon, I found myself pondering not the truth or otherwise of Pearce's words, but my own absence of anger in the whole disastrous matter. Wounded, disappointed, afraid, melancholy: these I am. What I do not seem to be is angry. So, refraining from agreeing or disagreeing with Pearce's diatribe against the Stuarts, I simply burst out: "Why do I not feel angry, Pearce?"

"John."

"John. Why do I not feel angry, John?"

"Because you are a child."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A child, punished by selfish parents, does not feel anger. It goes to its little private corner to weep. Exactly as you have done. And if the parents should again hold out their arms, why then the child will come ru

"But Pearce – "

"Just as, if the King were to call you back, you would go ru

"He will not call me back. It is quite finished."

"No. But were he to do so, you would go. And this is how it is revealed to me that you are still a child, Robert. But, mercifully for you, your state of homelessness brought you to Whittlesea. Our task here is to cure you of childishness just as we are trying to cure the lunatics of their insanity. For the man in you could be most splendid, Robert. I saw the shaping of the man – before you reverted to being the child – and it is that man we shall restore to you."

I glanced down at Pearce. I noticed that by him on the floor, within reach of his cadaverous fingers, he had placed his precious soup ladle. And I smiled.

After that first night, I found that Pearce was not interested in discussing my past life or my loss of it. He wished me to put it out of my mind, as speedily as possible and so from the following day (during which I was given the drab clothes I have described for you) I was expected to join in the work of the Keepers exactly as if I were one of them and a born Quaker.

"Robert is well qualified to help us," Pearce a

There followed prayers of touching simplicity. "Lord, send a light to show Robert the way," said Ambrose. "Dear Jesus, be with Robert," said Eleanor. "God in Heaven, take Robert's hand and be at his side," said Ha

I look round at the little company. Alas, I think, they do not know me. I am John's friend, and he has vouched for me and so they have taken me in. But they do not know how afraid I am. They do not know that I have long been parted from God. They do not know there is a madness in me which renders grass and trees as lunatic lines and splodges. They have taken me in to Bedlam, but they do not know that my spirit rejoices in chaos. I am wrong for them and I will do them wrong, and they do not know it. I opened my mouth to begin upon telling them what kind of man I was, but no words came to me except mumbled words of thanks for their prayers, "for which," I told them, "I hope to make myself worthy." And I saw Pearce nod approvingly at my sudden humility.

And so my first day at Whittlesea began. In the company of Ambrose and Ha

As Ambrose unbolted the door of George Fox and it swung inwards, I, all unthinkingly, hurried in to be out of the wet and so drew suddenly upon myself the nervous glance of some forty men lying in two cluttered rows the length of the barn.

At once, a commotion began. Some of the men stood up. I saw one clutch the hand of another, as if in fear. Some laughed. Others moved forward and stared at me, as at a strange exhibit. One rolled up his filthy nightshirt and giggled and bared his buttocks that were covered in sores. The stench of the place was very bad, the night pails being full and all the "Decayed Friends" (as Ambrose termed the mad people) appearing lousy and unwashed. But none was shrieking or crying, as I has been told the mad of the London Bedlam did constantly. None was chained up, but could move freely about the big barn. And they were not in darkness. Four small, barred windows let sufficient light into the place for me to see that at the further end of it had been constructed a gallery, reached by two ladders and on this high gallery stood an enormous loom.

"I see there is a loom," I said to Ambrose. "Do these men weave things upon it?"

"Yes," said Ambrose, rubbing his large hands together. "The loom. Transported by cart from the workhouse shut down at Ly

My thoughts, which the man with the naked bottom still sought to preoccupy by jigging up and down in front of me, returned at once to Justice Hogg and my lost role as Overseer. Now, I would never succour the poor but serve the mad instead. But there appeared to be little difference between these two categories of people, many of the faces staring up at me having about them the same look of despair as I had perceived in the paupers gathering sticks near Bidnold.

"What is manufactured on the loom?" I enquired of Ambrose.

"Sail!" he said.

"Sailcloth? For Men-of-War?"

"No, Robert. For the fishing fleet at Ly

Ambrose then addressed the occupants of George Fox. He spoke to them kindly, as to a child, and they were mainly silent while he talked except for two at the further end who began to swear at each other in some of the foulest language I have ever heard. Ambrose instructed the men to roll up their pallets and take their slop pails to the cess pit and to put out the trestles for breakfast. I know now that this same routine is followed every morning, but Amrbose gave the instructions with great enthusiasm, as if he were a