shoulder.
“Abby me luv, where yer off to?”
“’ome.”
“Yer need company, donna yer?”
“Yer spent all the company me needs, Tom Reed. Yer pockets are at low tide, are they not?”
“Not so flat as that.”
At that somewhat wavering reassurance, Abigail Christie acquiesced to his company. When they arrived at her rooms a little ritual was enacted. She motioned to her boy to away and he disappeared behind a curtain with an armful of dirty babies. With great economy of movement, she found a bottle in a cupboard, and set it unceremoniously upon the table. She produced two handleless cups, clunked them down and poured the drinks without looking.
“Yer lay yer whiskey down better’n yer do yer men,” Reed laughed.
Abigail appeared either uncomprehending of, or unamused by the joke. They emptied a few, thereupon Reed followed her to bed.
Reed had more or less taken up residence in the shabby lodgings, but he was never moved to ask about the father of her children. He surmised her husband was at sea. Fair enough. So long as she would let him in her bed for the price of a pint, he was in want of knowing nothing more.
* * *
By the time the sun made its appearance upon the narrow streets the next morning, it was nearly noon. The yellowed newsprint over the window kept out most of the light but none of the cold, and Reed awoke disgruntled and particular to his bearish inclinations. Scowling and scratching himself without looking about, he reached for his breeches left dangling upon the bedpost. He shook them out to put them on, then stopped before he had put a foot down one leg. He shook them again. He reached down and impatiently searched for the purse that had been pinned to his trousers, but to no avail. They were quite empty.
“Woman!” he bellowed.
If his menace was compromised by a costume consisting of ragged homespun and gaskins, he was quite unaware of it. He began to barrel about the room for someone, anyone, upon whom to vent his displeasure. No one came into sight but the same boy he had seen the night before.
“Yer there! Boy! Where’s yer mother?”
The boy feigned ignorance, angering Reed further. Grabbing him by the neck of his shirt, he shook the gangly youth.
“Where’s yer mother?”
“Donno, sir!” the boy answered.
Reed jangled the boy until he was certain he could hear his teeth rattle. Before the lad stopped vibrating, Reed struck him backhanded. A ribbon of blood trickled from one nostril, but the boy neither yelped nor cried.
At the commotion, Abigail intervened, attempting to calm Reed.
“Leave the boy!” Abigail called out angrily, thought better of it and said calmly, “Leave the boy.”
Reed’s interrogation was then aided with his fist full of her hair. Hence, its brevity.
“Was gonna buy us some tea and buns fer breakfast s’all,” she explained sourly.
“Aye donno want no tea and buns and Aye ain’t payin’ fer none fer yer brats.”
This, clearly, was of no extraordinary surprise. Abigail tugged a dress on over her chemise and gave up her sad attempt at coaxing a coiffure by dejectedly pulling the rags she used in place of curl-papers from her hair. Only about half had withstood Reed’s fit of pique.
“Collector’ll be ’round for the rent, too,” she added.
As Reed’s reaction to that bit of news was no more than a bit of hacking and snorting, relieving his nasal passages of the remnants of his hangover, Abigail announced an alternative plan.
“Yer don’t help with payin’ for the lodgin’s, we’re leavin’.”
“’ud’s naggers if Aye give a damn.”
Contrary to his profession of lack of interest in her domicile arrangements, Reed glared at her and began to pick his teeth with a fierce-looking dagger. Initially, his undisguised threat was unseen, for Abigail was trying to arrange her stockings to hide the holes, a diligent but ultimately unsuccessful endeavour. He kept picking until she finally saw the blade. The intimidation
“Abby me luv, where yer off to?”
“’ome.”
“Yer need company, donna yer?”
“Yer spent all the company me needs, Tom Reed. Yer pockets are at low tide, are they not?”
“Not so flat as that.”
At that somewhat wavering reassurance, Abigail Christie acquiesced to his company. When they arrived at her rooms a little ritual was enacted. She motioned to her boy to away and he disappeared behind a curtain with an armful of dirty babies. With great economy of movement, she found a bottle in a cupboard, and set it unceremoniously upon the table. She produced two handleless cups, clunked them down and poured the drinks without looking.
“Yer lay yer whiskey down better’n yer do yer men,” Reed laughed.
Abigail appeared either uncomprehending of, or unamused by the joke. They emptied a few, thereupon Reed followed her to bed.
Reed had more or less taken up residence in the shabby lodgings, but he was never moved to ask about the father of her children. He surmised her husband was at sea. Fair enough. So long as she would let him in her bed for the price of a pint, he was in want of knowing nothing more.
* * *
By the time the sun made its appearance upon the narrow streets the next morning, it was nearly noon. The yellowed newsprint over the window kept out most of the light but none of the cold, and Reed awoke disgruntled and particular to his bearish inclinations. Scowling and scratching himself without looking about, he reached for his breeches left dangling upon the bedpost. He shook them out to put them on, then stopped before he had put a foot down one leg. He shook them again. He reached down and impatiently searched for the purse that had been pinned to his trousers, but to no avail. They were quite empty.
“Woman!” he bellowed.
If his menace was compromised by a costume consisting of ragged homespun and gaskins, he was quite unaware of it. He began to barrel about the room for someone, anyone, upon whom to vent his displeasure. No one came into sight but the same boy he had seen the night before.
“Yer there! Boy! Where’s yer mother?”
The boy feigned ignorance, angering Reed further. Grabbing him by the neck of his shirt, he shook the gangly youth.
“Where’s yer mother?”
“Donno, sir!” the boy answered.
Reed jangled the boy until he was certain he could hear his teeth rattle. Before the lad stopped vibrating, Reed struck him backhanded. A ribbon of blood trickled from one nostril, but the boy neither yelped nor cried.
At the commotion, Abigail intervened, attempting to calm Reed.
“Leave the boy!” Abigail called out angrily, thought better of it and said calmly, “Leave the boy.”
Reed’s interrogation was then aided with his fist full of her hair. Hence, its brevity.
“Was gonna buy us some tea and buns fer breakfast s’all,” she explained sourly.
“Aye donno want no tea and buns and Aye ain’t payin’ fer none fer yer brats.”
This, clearly, was of no extraordinary surprise. Abigail tugged a dress on over her chemise and gave up her sad attempt at coaxing a coiffure by dejectedly pulling the rags she used in place of curl-papers from her hair. Only about half had withstood Reed’s fit of pique.
“Collector’ll be ’round for the rent, too,” she added.
As Reed’s reaction to that bit of news was no more than a bit of hacking and snorting, relieving his nasal passages of the remnants of his hangover, Abigail announced an alternative plan.
“Yer don’t help with payin’ for the lodgin’s, we’re leavin’.”
“’ud’s naggers if Aye give a damn.”
Contrary to his profession of lack of interest in her domicile arrangements, Reed glared at her and began to pick his teeth with a fierce-looking dagger. Initially, his undisguised threat was unseen, for Abigail was trying to arrange her stockings to hide the holes, a diligent but ultimately unsuccessful endeavour. He kept picking until she finally saw the blade. The intimidation
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