woman’s earshot. ‘Look, we’ll go and have our breakfast and …’
‘Thanks all the same, Tibs, but I’ve decided I can’t take anything else off you.’
‘You’re not taking it off me. It’s what’s left out of what we earned last night.’
‘Left out of what
you
earned last night,’ Kitty corrected her. ‘You did the singing.’
‘Ne’mind who did what, they was looking at both of us. Now come on, let’s go and get some food in that belly of yourn, and you’ll be seeing sense in no time.’
Kitty didn’t want to argue with her new friend but, hungry as she was, she had as much intention of having breakfast as she had of going on the stage. None whatsoever. But she had to admit it would have been nice to have something to eat, if only to kill the foul taste in her mouth from the rum she had drunk the night before. And as for that barley wine, she felt queasy just thinking about it.
But feeling hungry and sick were of little consequence to Kitty, especially when the price of filling her belly was not only taking money that, by rights, belonged to Tibs, but would also have meant getting involved with this new folly that Kitty had no intention of even considering.
She was going to slip away, find the Thames and finish off what she should have done yesterday. And this time she’d do it properly. She had decided exactly how when she’d been lying in her narrow cot last night, staring into the darkness, waiting for sleep to come.
She would hide under the bridge and wait for the dark, or the fog, to return, then she’d walk downstream, well away from madmen in blazing boats, fill her pockets with stones and throw herself in. There would be no one to see her, no one to stop her and, please God, no one to try and save her.
The feeling of relief at having made the decision, of knowing what was going to happen to her, almost made her forget her hunger. Her only regret was that she would have liked to have found a way to repay Tibs’s kindness in helping her – even if it was misplaced – before she said goodbye. But Kitty had nothing to give anyone.
Jack Fisher lay on his back, staring miserably at the cracked and damp-stained ceiling of his poky little bedroom. It was way past the time he should have been up and about, but he was worn out after a night of fitful, disturbed and drunken dreams, and there was little to tempt him from under his covers in the cold, unwelcoming room.
Maybe it would have been better if he’d left himself a bit more space rather than this pitiful cubby-hole that could barely take his mean single cot and the tatty, threadbare rug. But he’d been so enthusiastic when he’d been creating the little dressing-room that led on to the stage of his theatre that he’d not given a thought to his own comfort and had happily given up over half of his own living space for his artistes.
Artistes
! How could he have been so conceited as to expect that he, a lad from a pit village, could set up a theatre? What a fool he’d been even to think it. And what a fool he’d been to drink all that booze.
The hangover had first hit him when he’d tried, and failed, to raise his head from the pillow. Jack didn’t have much experience to go on – in fact, this was only the second hangover he’d ever had – but he was sure it wouldn’t have been possible to have one much worse than this. It was like a steam fairground had set up in his skull and all the rides and organs and side-shows were going full pelt. It was so bad that at this very moment the idea of going to sleep and never waking up again seemed a very reasonable option. If he just closed his eyes …
But no. He had to get up. There was something he had to do. What was it? For some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Not at the moment. But there was something.
Maybe he should have a bit of a nap and it would come back to him – whatever it was – and he would wake up refreshed and ready to start another day and
‘Thanks all the same, Tibs, but I’ve decided I can’t take anything else off you.’
‘You’re not taking it off me. It’s what’s left out of what we earned last night.’
‘Left out of what
you
earned last night,’ Kitty corrected her. ‘You did the singing.’
‘Ne’mind who did what, they was looking at both of us. Now come on, let’s go and get some food in that belly of yourn, and you’ll be seeing sense in no time.’
Kitty didn’t want to argue with her new friend but, hungry as she was, she had as much intention of having breakfast as she had of going on the stage. None whatsoever. But she had to admit it would have been nice to have something to eat, if only to kill the foul taste in her mouth from the rum she had drunk the night before. And as for that barley wine, she felt queasy just thinking about it.
But feeling hungry and sick were of little consequence to Kitty, especially when the price of filling her belly was not only taking money that, by rights, belonged to Tibs, but would also have meant getting involved with this new folly that Kitty had no intention of even considering.
She was going to slip away, find the Thames and finish off what she should have done yesterday. And this time she’d do it properly. She had decided exactly how when she’d been lying in her narrow cot last night, staring into the darkness, waiting for sleep to come.
She would hide under the bridge and wait for the dark, or the fog, to return, then she’d walk downstream, well away from madmen in blazing boats, fill her pockets with stones and throw herself in. There would be no one to see her, no one to stop her and, please God, no one to try and save her.
The feeling of relief at having made the decision, of knowing what was going to happen to her, almost made her forget her hunger. Her only regret was that she would have liked to have found a way to repay Tibs’s kindness in helping her – even if it was misplaced – before she said goodbye. But Kitty had nothing to give anyone.
Jack Fisher lay on his back, staring miserably at the cracked and damp-stained ceiling of his poky little bedroom. It was way past the time he should have been up and about, but he was worn out after a night of fitful, disturbed and drunken dreams, and there was little to tempt him from under his covers in the cold, unwelcoming room.
Maybe it would have been better if he’d left himself a bit more space rather than this pitiful cubby-hole that could barely take his mean single cot and the tatty, threadbare rug. But he’d been so enthusiastic when he’d been creating the little dressing-room that led on to the stage of his theatre that he’d not given a thought to his own comfort and had happily given up over half of his own living space for his artistes.
Artistes
! How could he have been so conceited as to expect that he, a lad from a pit village, could set up a theatre? What a fool he’d been even to think it. And what a fool he’d been to drink all that booze.
The hangover had first hit him when he’d tried, and failed, to raise his head from the pillow. Jack didn’t have much experience to go on – in fact, this was only the second hangover he’d ever had – but he was sure it wouldn’t have been possible to have one much worse than this. It was like a steam fairground had set up in his skull and all the rides and organs and side-shows were going full pelt. It was so bad that at this very moment the idea of going to sleep and never waking up again seemed a very reasonable option. If he just closed his eyes …
But no. He had to get up. There was something he had to do. What was it? For some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Not at the moment. But there was something.
Maybe he should have a bit of a nap and it would come back to him – whatever it was – and he would wake up refreshed and ready to start another day and
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