Things I Did for Money by Meg Mundell Page A

the sound of men traded in darkness for sums I don’t care to disclose.
    â€˜Get in close,’ he ordered, and I cursed the man’s impatience. Of my three brokers, this Monday man has won the least of my favour — expecting events to unfold exactly as he wishes, haggling bitter as they come, and never missing a chance to hint in slippery words at the lowness of my character. The world takes on a malignant note in his presence: gleaming teeth, the slap of greasy water, that hissing voice: ‘Got me a fit one there,woman?’
    â€˜Luck of the lost,’ I replied. ‘You get what you gamble on.’ I looked down at my young cargo, tucked asleep in the Belladonna ’s bow. That’s when I felt it: a dizzy spell, a queasiness that swelled and slipped away in cadence with the heaving sea. Sickness, that’s what I felt, as the boat bumped against the pier and Monday whispered from above: ‘Fresh as a daisy. Pull in by the ladder and help me drag him up.’
    The boy’s body was lighter than most. This task is always a partnership of heave and tug, moving as fast and as quiet as we can, half a mind on the job and the other listening closely to the dark. We always use a rope to guard against slips, for a drowned man has no value. I have become skilled at shoving a sleeping body upward and the brokers are experts in lifting. Monday is a bastard, but he can lift; Wednesday is tolerable, but somewhat weedy in build, which has often tested my patience with him. And Friday, a sad-faced bear of a man born for heavy loads, never lets a skull crack against the ladder on the way up. Not like some.
    Those three men, my uneasy partners. Together we set our sleepers on their journeys, from rowdy bar to silent ship, then out beyond the headlands to a life that might bloom, or dwindle, or be snuffed out violently. To a fate that plays out in some other realm, over the horizon. ‘Hard work and sea air never harmed a man,’ Wednesday said once, but neither of us laughed.
    I can’t say for sure when the idea came upon me. Perhaps halfway up the ladder, between push and pull, when I smelled Monday’s hair oil and the nausea rose again in my throat. The boy hung between us, limp and trusting. Before we’d reached the top my decision was made. Or so I told myself.
    Slow boil the ingredients in two gallons of clean water for three hours, or until liquid comes to measure one half-pint. Cool and strain.
    One night, it was months ago now, I fought with my Friday broker, who until that evening had seemed built to withstand whatever the world might fling at him. The quarrel began as we wrestled a sleeper up the ladder. Friday was irrational, I became reckless and by the time we reached the top we were screaming at each other on the dark wharf, not caring who heard. This was a grave mistake. It could have cost us our lives, but it seemed we had gone beyond caring.
    Our spat began over my lateness, but its seeds lay far deeper — in whispers and glances, our own private nightmares, that constant undertow of exhaustion and fear, night after night. It seized us both at once: a madness born of looking over your shoulder every waking moment, of navigating through a darkness that hides you well at times, but never quite makes you invisible.
    Drink was in us both that night and I believe a knife was mentioned. But then in one motion Friday crumpled and began to sob, to pour out hopeless words. Such a terrible sound — swallowed quick enough, but hard to forget. Our fight fell away and we sat close to each other, looking into the dark while our man slept in his ropes beside us. From that night on, though he said almost nothing, Friday spoke to me softly and became my favourite.
    Yes, money’s at the root of all this. But isn’t life made up of the search for tolerable bargains? We’ve all drawn breath on one side or the other of these deals. Women give up certain dignities for