Boats on the River

23 December, in the year of our Lord 2022

In the morning, consulted with a physical Therapist in the localitie, against the pain in my back, which has been the longest such that I ever experienced, though thanks be to God, in these two days I have dispenced [with] my arm crutch. In a half hour Joe from Portugall did put my lumber area through various contortions, nead the tense and tender areas, and give me exercises to be done severall times each day. My father I found again to be sat out, though very tired and still requiring a special masque to breath fortified air, and he engaged in some discourse with me and inquired after my mother. Then I spoke with his Physician for this week, Gareth, who told me that in 10 days my father’s scores had changed very little (though I did not know what that did mean), but did reassure me that he continues to treat him vigorosely, and with great hope. Thence to the Exchange for victuals and, after, to the Coffee-house at the wharf, purposing a little time to watch the boats to and forth on the River, this being my father’s profession when he worked. And there by a window, gazing in abstraction toward the docks outside, sat an elegant figure clad in red, her scarlet coat fur-lined and her fur pillbox hat set upon the table beside her.
  ‘Why, Mr. Pepys,’ says she, noticing my presence and turning towards me; and I found that my mind returned immediately to our first encounter a year ago, the familiar tone once again working its seductive spell and causing my mouth to dry as I babbled an inane acknowledgement.
  ‘Why, Mrs. Cadwaddler!’ say I, almost allowing my coffee cup to slip from its saucer.
  ‘Pray, do be seated, if you are able to spare the time. The Coffee-house is very busy at this hour and I fear you will find no other table free.’ Flustered and red of cheek, I accept.
  ‘Might I inquire what brings you here?’ continues she.
  ‘I am between my parents’ home and St. Thomas’s, where my father ails. I sought a quiet spot to observe the ships. My father being a pilot upon the river, I have memorys of this view from my childhood.’ Then, emboldened: ‘And you, what brings you here?’
  She turns back, so I am privy to her perfect profile as she once more stares, lost in thought, out of the window.
  ‘A sentiment very much like yours, Mr. Pepys. We have that in common. This scene reminds me of my youth. A captain’s mayde.’ Yet her focus seems no longer on the teeming berths and jettys, but on some memory that hangs just beyond the window pane, as if reflected in it. ‘I travelled,’ she murmurs. ‘Travelled for many years by sea. Before the Crimea. Long before all this. And now I think that perhaps that may be my destiny again.’
  ‘Again?’ venture I. ‘But surely the Crymea gave you your Vocation: caring for the sick?’
  ‘Caring for the sick, indeed,’ she says, wistfully, and with a slender, scarlet-gloved hand lifts the cup to her shiny, vermilion lips and takes a sip of coffee, before turning again to face me. ‘But my Vocation hath been called into question. I am accused of fraud, Mr. Pepys. By the Secretary of State, no less, in His Majestie’s Gouvernement. Imagine! I, who have devoted my life to caring for the sick, am slandered, my reputation traduced.’
  ‘Well, my father’s care is unparalleled,’ say I, by way of reassurance. ‘Hardly a day passes that I do not receive notice as to his condition.’
  ‘I am gratified to hear that, Mr. Pepys. But I cannot take credit for it, for St. Thomas’s is south of the River, and not a part of my jurisdiction. And whilst most of my operatives and hirelings in the medical fraternity strive with a passion to deliver of their best, the Physician and his associates on your lane amongst them, there are accusations. Accusations that rumble on to do with Bedlam; accusations to do with the Management by Chirurgerie of Conditions of the Circulatory Vessels. And now allegations of financial impropriety. And so people abroad begin to ask if they should trust their health to my Board. And I begin to ask myselfe if any answer I can give will assuage the charges; if it might not be better to relinquish my role, and if I might better serve my Vocation by returning to the sea. I am versed in seacraft and in caring for the sick on board ship. I could help that cadet there, for instance, the one with the bandaged skull, or that scurvied China boatswain, whose crew is having problems mooring their Oriental ship in our Occidental port.’
  ‘Well,’ say I, following her gaze to a ship with strange, square sails and bamboo battens, ‘if I were having trouble heaving to, I would gladly place my Junk in your hands.’
  Then struck the clock the hour, and up went a great roar from a carrousing office party behind us, all at odds with the mood of our little corner. And I was woken out of my revery, and stood abruptly and began to button my coat.
  ‘It hath been a pleasure renewing our acquaintance,’ say I. ‘But I must attend my mother, for my father fears her to be left alone so long, and I must respect his wishes.’
  ‘You are a good son, Samuel,’ says she, and I flush to the limit my skin will redden, for I did not know she knew my name. ‘You must pass my best wishes for Christmas to your mother and father.’
  ‘And I wish you well in your trials and deliberacions,’ say I. And then, with my throat constricted almost to the point of closure, add hesitantly, ‘May I call you Bets— ?’
  But she raises a gloved hand.
  ‘No, you may not.’
  ‘Of course,’ say I, ashamed of my audacity, and place my hat upon my head and make to leave.
  ‘But you may call me Elizabeth.’
  Whereupon I turn in amazement, but the low December sun is in my eyes and all I see is a silheoutte staring out into the distance, a little cup poised between the delicate fingers of both hands, like an officiant with a chalice before her.
  After supper, my mother come back down from her bedchamber till ten a-clock, and shared a little wine, and then I to my day’s exercises, and my mind turned to what might be the consequence of my father’s scores being unchanged. And so to bed.