face whatever it was he had to do?
He would have liked to remember. It was niggling away in the back of his mind – not like the steam gallopers and the swing boats, but small and insidious, like a worm in the core of an apple. If only he could just reach out and grasp it.
He was sure it wasn’t just his usual problems rearing and bucking in his brain. He’d done something. Something other than drinking a whole bottle of rum and the Lord alone knew how many porter chasers to keep it company. And he was sure it was important.
He groaned and screwed his eyes shut.
Not for the first time in the last few weeks Jack Fisher wondered why he had ever thought he was different from any other lad back home. Why he hadn’t stayed in his place, where he belonged, and settled down with a nice lass from the village. And there were plenty of those after him, not to mention sturdy, sensible Tess and their ‘understanding’. Then he would have gone down the mine like his dad and worked himself to the bone for a rich bastard who couldn’t give a shit about anything but profit. And that was why he’d had these ‘ideas above his station’ as his mother had called them.
No matter how she’d begged him to stay, as she’d wrung her sacking apron between her gnarled, arthritic fingers and had wept when he had refused her, Jack had tried to explain that he’d rather die than go down that place. That he had a dream and was going off to the bright lights to make it come true. And that was that. She hadn’t understood, but he’d still left her. Just as he’d left his father’s grave, the girl he’d made promises toand the village, the only home he’d ever known, far behind him.
Uncomfortable with his memories, he shifted in his bed, as though he could move away from the pain of the image of seeing his mother for what she was: an old woman standing at the door of their mean little cottage, weeping for the son who was leaving her, to finish up who knew where, doing who knew what. Weeping for only the second time he could ever recall.
Compared with that pain, the one in his head now seemed of far less consequence. But there was still the aggravating feeling, that would not leave him, that he had done something – planned something? – last night.
What
was
it? It was definitely connected with this morning in some way or other. He was sure of that. But how? If only he could concentrate.
As he rolled himself cautiously on to his side, keeping his throbbing brain as still and undisturbed as possible, the sudden, head-rattling, teeth-jangling squeal of furniture being dragged heavily across wooden floor-boards came screeching at him from the auditorium next door.
Archie, clearing up from the night before.
Jack Fisher groaned in self-pity, closed his eyes tight and pulled the thin blanket up over his head. He’d worry about everything later. After he’d had a little sleep.
‘See, I knew you’d eat something.’ Tibs was triumphant as she wiped her greasy chops with the rough woollen sleeve of her jacket and reached across for another spoon of sugar for her big mug of tea. Why stint yourself when it was there for the taking on the counter? Even if the stall holder was giving you a slit-eyed stare, just daring you to pick up the spoon one more time.‘Hard to resist a bacon sandwich, eh, girl?’
Kitty nodded sheepishly. When Tibs had simply refused to let her say goodbye without at least having a cup of tea with her, Kitty had finally surrendered and had allowed herself to be dragged along to one of the dockside coffee stalls. The moment she’d caught the whiff of freshly baked bread and of salt bacon frying to a crisp in piping-hot fat, she’d been done for. But knowing that she was soon never going to be hungry again made Kitty feel so guilty about letting Tibs spend her money – and about taking advantage of her kindness – that she felt she had to explain herself.
‘Hunger’s a strange thing, Tibs,’ she said in her
He would have liked to remember. It was niggling away in the back of his mind – not like the steam gallopers and the swing boats, but small and insidious, like a worm in the core of an apple. If only he could just reach out and grasp it.
He was sure it wasn’t just his usual problems rearing and bucking in his brain. He’d done something. Something other than drinking a whole bottle of rum and the Lord alone knew how many porter chasers to keep it company. And he was sure it was important.
He groaned and screwed his eyes shut.
Not for the first time in the last few weeks Jack Fisher wondered why he had ever thought he was different from any other lad back home. Why he hadn’t stayed in his place, where he belonged, and settled down with a nice lass from the village. And there were plenty of those after him, not to mention sturdy, sensible Tess and their ‘understanding’. Then he would have gone down the mine like his dad and worked himself to the bone for a rich bastard who couldn’t give a shit about anything but profit. And that was why he’d had these ‘ideas above his station’ as his mother had called them.
No matter how she’d begged him to stay, as she’d wrung her sacking apron between her gnarled, arthritic fingers and had wept when he had refused her, Jack had tried to explain that he’d rather die than go down that place. That he had a dream and was going off to the bright lights to make it come true. And that was that. She hadn’t understood, but he’d still left her. Just as he’d left his father’s grave, the girl he’d made promises toand the village, the only home he’d ever known, far behind him.
Uncomfortable with his memories, he shifted in his bed, as though he could move away from the pain of the image of seeing his mother for what she was: an old woman standing at the door of their mean little cottage, weeping for the son who was leaving her, to finish up who knew where, doing who knew what. Weeping for only the second time he could ever recall.
Compared with that pain, the one in his head now seemed of far less consequence. But there was still the aggravating feeling, that would not leave him, that he had done something – planned something? – last night.
What
was
it? It was definitely connected with this morning in some way or other. He was sure of that. But how? If only he could concentrate.
As he rolled himself cautiously on to his side, keeping his throbbing brain as still and undisturbed as possible, the sudden, head-rattling, teeth-jangling squeal of furniture being dragged heavily across wooden floor-boards came screeching at him from the auditorium next door.
Archie, clearing up from the night before.
Jack Fisher groaned in self-pity, closed his eyes tight and pulled the thin blanket up over his head. He’d worry about everything later. After he’d had a little sleep.
‘See, I knew you’d eat something.’ Tibs was triumphant as she wiped her greasy chops with the rough woollen sleeve of her jacket and reached across for another spoon of sugar for her big mug of tea. Why stint yourself when it was there for the taking on the counter? Even if the stall holder was giving you a slit-eyed stare, just daring you to pick up the spoon one more time.‘Hard to resist a bacon sandwich, eh, girl?’
Kitty nodded sheepishly. When Tibs had simply refused to let her say goodbye without at least having a cup of tea with her, Kitty had finally surrendered and had allowed herself to be dragged along to one of the dockside coffee stalls. The moment she’d caught the whiff of freshly baked bread and of salt bacon frying to a crisp in piping-hot fat, she’d been done for. But knowing that she was soon never going to be hungry again made Kitty feel so guilty about letting Tibs spend her money – and about taking advantage of her kindness – that she felt she had to explain herself.
‘Hunger’s a strange thing, Tibs,’ she said in her
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