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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

As Jesus withdrew, her flights towards him grew longer; she found a house where leprous women lived. The need to be heard at any cost became a horror of life. One had an ulcer on her breast that ate the surrounding flesh—it fermented and stank like decaying blood. This woman was amazed when Margery pressed her mouth and nose on the festering mess and drank water used to clean it in which flesh had come away.

•

John was over sixty years old; his hair was silver. He was so drunk that deep in darkness it was bright around him. He leaned against a wall, experiencing its flatness, then the surprising curve of his spine, how he could no longer straighten it. John never asked for much, but to be deprived of his posture seemed like the last straw. He stumbled and laughed, desolate and amused. “I guess it’s for the best.”

He left his room barefoot and barelegged and his feet coiled in the stairs. John had the sensation of rolling down grassy knolls, slow concussions. He tumbled to the first floor, twisting his head beneath him. Neighbors heard the crash and found him lying alone half dead and streaked with blood.

They said it was Margery’s fault because she had moved away to a boarding house. Some said she howled like a dog and ruined her husband. They said if he died she deserved to be hanged. But when Margery and John lived together, people said they broke their vows of chastity; when they went on a pilgrimage, people said they had sex in the forests, groves, and valleys.

John was sewn up and five linen plugs were inserted in the wounds to help them drain. Margery nursed him but after he fell on his head he became self-absorbed, hard to distract; he grew impatient and protested “I’m thinking,” as though Margery never used her brain. Should she humor him, demand a reply? He invented memories to lend substance to a mind that sabotaged itself: gifts he had given her, luxurious trips.

A few months later she saw an old man in a shabby black mantle sitting by the road. It was John. He had fainted. She asked if he was sick. “No, no, nothing a doctor can do.” He looked downwards, still dazed. “The only healthy people are in the graveyard.” Finally he became senile and shit in his linen underwear as he sat by the hearth. The wood was green—water sizzled and steamed out of it. Once she’d had inordinate lust for his body. She worked hard, washing and wringing; it was expensive to keep the fire going all day.

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