We Two Are Coffins

My loved one went ahead of me, in the plague. I could not stop loving him, even though he grew black boils and sweated and called for his mother, long dead. I nursed him all I could, with the sweet water and the herbs and singing hymns softly. There was no other comfort. Here in Crail, east Fife, so many are taken in the storms. Death has a banquet in the rough weather, licking his lips with the huge waves that come and strike the houses on the seafront. We live two streets away from the harbour, glad to survive on a trade that does not depend so much on the weather, and its wickedness. It’s not just coffins he builds, of course; he works with the architects and the learned people, they make use of him. I am sure his work has been the means of bringing comfort to many when this outbreak started. Death walks the cobbles outside: we hear him coming with the squeak of the barrow morning and night, coming to pile up the dead for burial. That is an affront, in a way: an affront to my husband’s trade, to his way of being. He would never have stood for it. Those people should be buried properly. I like to think we can go with more dignity than drunks taken home from the tavern. My husband’s last work stands here in the parlour, the good room facing the street. I wanted something better for him, so I put him in it. It was quite a struggle. I read the Bible over him, and nailed down the lid. It was meant for someone else, but he never came for it. I do not think he ever will, now. There is the question of where my husband should be buried. It is not a very pressing question to me. I felt the boils grow under my arms when I sweated to shove him into a decent resting place, like the child we will never have. I roll my sleeves up and watch them, calmly. Oh they are ugly, like mould, but they will bring me to him soon and for that I bless them. The wind howls outside. I cough more often. I hold a napkin to my mouth, see the blood on it and smile. Again, I hear the barrow outside. Squeak, squeak.