Turning the Stones Read Online Free PDF

have had a stroke of luck. I encountered on the road an old skinner, who was taking hides to market, and he gave me a lift in his cart. It was drawn by sluggardly mules, but I was glad to be off my feet and thankful, also, for his blighted eye. I uttered a silent hurrah when he turned his afflicted gaze to me and I saw that he would make a very poor witness.
    That’s how I am now, heartened by another’s ill fortune if it should turn to my convenience. The skinner offered to drive me all the way into Reading, but I excused myself on the outskirts before we passed through the turnpike. I diverted through trees on a rise that gave me a view of the road and the town – Reading seems to be built on a low ridge between two rivers – and settled down to wait for the night to unfold. I found a dew pond nearby and scooped handfuls of water into my parched mouth and slept again. On waking I saw that the moon had passed to its downward journey and I judged it an apposite hour to depart. My intention now is to locate the George Inn and try to connect with the early-morning coach to Bristol.
    I made my way to the highway on a chalk path glowing in the moonlight. It brought me out at a curve in the road, just as a herd drove past a gaggle of geese. I joined their train and followed them across a bridge, then leftwards on to an unpaved, unlit thoroughfare lined with burly buildings. Now up ahead I sense light and movement.
    A complicated black-and-white frontage turns out indeed to be the George, its yard already bristling with business. But my exultation at this discovery is short-lived. The book-keeper here has informed me, after allowing himself a pause to brush the front of his waistcoat, which is spoiled with snuff, thatthe day coach to Bristol is full inside and out. Can this be true? Does my tattered appearance tell against me? Or am I simply riddled with suspicion and mistrust?
    I have dragged myself to a seat in the inn’s vestibule and sit staring in a glazed manner at the foxes’ brushes fastened on either side of the entrance. Above the lintel hangs an arrangement of horns and crossed swords. My recent assertion that I would stride to the coast if I must is nothing but empty bluster, of course. I am so weak I could barely cross the yard.
    A boy pushes past bearing a tray of hot, sliced ham and disappears through curtains that must lead to the dining room.
    Am I really capable of living like this from now on? Scrambling along muddy fields under cover of night, endlessly on the move, edging around the perimeters of civilised places to the constant drone of fear and hunger, with every fibre painfully alert to exposure?
    Oh, Lord, how shall I proceed? The only certainties are that I cannot sit on this bench for ever; and that I was right to dread the loss of Sedge Court, for without it I have nothing and I am nothing. The waiter reappears with his empty tray. I am tantalised to the point of giddiness by the savoury aroma that lingers in the vestibule. I have money to pay for scrapings of ham, but it seems foolish to squander even a farthing of it while I do not know how far my limited funds must stretch.
    But so unbearable is my hunger, it drives me to seek the dining room. It is a low-ceilinged place tarnished by tobacco smoke where busy lads pass to and fro with trays of tankards and pipes. Breakfast has been set up on a long table that is already under assault by ravening travellers and their clashing forks. In my frantic condition of body and mind, I struggleto stay on my feet, but somehow, in one swift movement, I abscond with several slices of ham clutched in my hand and flee into the vestibule.
    I blunder up a flight of stairs, jostling travellers descending from their chambers, and press into the dimness of the landing’s return. I expect to be apprehended by servants of the inn, but nothing will deter me from gobbling the greasy ham. The meat tastes heavenly. Were my mouth not stuffed I would laugh out loud in