Their matted black hair was tied off at the forehead, the locks bedight with turquoise feathers and incisors torn from some carnivore. Napoleon wore the fawn-coloured tail of a dog in his hair and old Wolgan the claws of a lizard and the jaw bones of some honoured fish.
The old man’s skin hung on his frame like a fiercely weathered parchment. He stepped to the fireplace and turned about and stood with the beautiful musket, Thyne’s musket, in the crook of his wounded arm. Much of the flesh on his shoulder had been shot away and what was left was part scabbed over and otherwise raw.
He stared at Joe Franks’ floury hands. He glanced at the knives racked on the rear wall and he looked at the bagged salt on the table. He waved his free hand through an arc from right to left. ‘Nula,’ he said.
Joe didn’t know the word, but he read the gesture as entirely proprietorial. ‘You have me at a disadvantage my friend, somewhat unmanned,’ he said, as he wiped the sticky dough from his fingers. He set the dough pats aside, that plan scuppered.
Wolgan handed the gun to Joe and Joe studied the silver trimmings on the walnut stock. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Caleb and the two boys pressed into the cabin, leaving Freddie and Bea to see what they could see from the cookfire.
Napoleon sat at the table and the others followed his lead, seating themselves on the stump stools. The ladder-back chair at the head of the table they left vacant, as if ceremonially, for Joe.
Joe took a loaf of maize bread from a sack and put it on the table. They cut open the salt sack. They shredded the bread, sucked on the pieces and dipped them into the salt, sucking and dipping, now and then a word.
Outside Freddie had ceased to stir the makings of the meal. He could see the savages, crowded in, their features almost lost in the dim light of the withering candle. He saw the coated one, moving about. He turned to Bea and whispered: ‘Some poor ol’ pale ol’ Saxon dead in a dell, coatless.’
Bea nodded.
Napoleon took a small book from an inner pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. He wiped flecks of shag tobacco from his fingers.
Joe leaned forward, squinting, trying to see the words embossed on the cover: Somerton’s Natural History of Birds. A Rambler’s Pocket Guide.
‘You may have this book,’ said Caleb.
‘Thank you,’ said Joe.
Freddie arrived with the skillet in hand. Put the skillet on the table.
Joe gathered up his tin plates and his spoons and he began to ladle the meat and the juices onto the plates. Napoleon took the ladle from his hand and served himself, being entirely familiar with the procedure. He shifted the skillet to the centre of the table and his companions shared the ladle around, dishing out the stew for themselves.
The meal was gone within a few minutes, save for the bones they sucked on. Joe helped himself to the leavings and did as they did with the bones.
When they finished, the old man directed Caleb to the chimney, a word, just a word, and Caleb obeyed, squatting on the hearthstone. He reached up the chimney and brought down the bagged pork belly. He removed the meat hook and the bag, the linen sticky with the fat, and he put the prize on the table. The meat hook he surrendered to Joe.
Freddie put his hand over his mouth and muttered something.
‘No matter,’ said Joe.
‘No matter?’
‘By long forbearing is a prince persuaded.’
‘I don’t see no prince.’
At the table they tore the linen off the pork. They peeled strips of the smoked meat from the slab and dipped them in the salt. As the feast proceeded Wolgan beckoned his grandsons and sent them from the cabin with instructions that neither Joe nor Freddie could fathom.
Joe went to the door and peered after the boys. He saw the girl by the fire, alone. He bid her stay with a motion of his hand, heard the commotion in the byre.
Before long the boys returned, each with a piglet by the hind legs, the skulls cracked open, their catches twitching and jerking, the blood sketching shapes in the dust.
Wolgan got up and the others followed, stood as one, readying to go. The old man spoke words that were kindly in tone. Caleb provided the meaning. ‘My grandfather is happy to see me returned.’
‘Tell your grandfather that I too rejoice upon your safe return, in rude health,’ said Joe.
Caleb paused. ‘You may have the gun, for goodwill.’
‘You tell your grandfather I will return his goodwill in kind, corn of an autumn, melons in summer; winter potatoes if you want.’
They left swiftly, loaded up with their weapons and a bag of bread and a sack of corn on the cob and the pork belly, what was left of it, and the meat on the hoof, the blood still dripping from the snouts.
The fire beneath the tripod was a bed of dimming coals. The savages strode past the fire, past Bea, into the dark, and they were gone.
Joe watched them go. ‘That went well,’ he said, as Bea stepped into the cabin.
‘I’d hate to see what don’t go well,’ said Freddie.
‘I have seen what don’t go well,’ said Joe. He could feel a tremor in his legs and he felt as if he could barely stand. He was tired enough to fall over but he kept his tiredness to himself, unaware the girl could see it at a glance.
She took a rag and dabbed at the fat stain on the table, blotting up the pork grease. Then she folded the rag, twice over, and wiped the surface as clean as she could. The residue of the grease put a shine on the timber. ‘Vinegar would do better,’ she said.
‘We had some vinegar, once,’ said Freddie.
Joe studied the table. ‘Used to be,’ he said, ‘you got a leg of smoked pork upon a year of happy marriage.’
‘A custom long gone,’ she said.
‘Custom is a frail thing, frail as life itself.’
36
Doctor Woody saw no signs of mischief upon Gudgeon’s corpse. No markings on the sealer’s face or his throat or his upper body, just brain matter oozing from the crack in the dead man’s skull.
The Parsonage twins hovered, peering over Woody’s shoulder. Cuff took charge in the absence of the chief constable. ‘Move away,’ he said, and they did, shuffling back to the wall.
The doctor took hold of Gudgeon’s jaw and forced the mouth open and stared down the gullet. He pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He beckoned Sam and Sam moved close, adjusting his truss as he bent over the intimate scene. ‘There’s long tweezers there, find them will you Samuel.’
Sam rummaged in the doctor’s medicine bag until he found the tweezers. Woody took the tweezers and he searched deep in the sealer’s gullet and drew out a downy feather. ‘Gudgeon did not swallow this for his amusement,’ he said. He glanced at the twins, who said not a word.
‘You reckon they did it?’ said Sam.
‘We never did!’ said Crispin.
‘The cook did it, he brained him, everybody knows that,’ said Nimrod.
‘A vigorous interrogation might loosen your tongue,’ said Woody.
‘All we ever did was feed soup down his throat like a pair o’ mother terns, we never did him no harm.’
‘You are to reside in the gaol until further notice.’
‘We got the Magna Carta, we got rights!’
‘Not just now you don’t.’
‘Sling ’em on the hook!’ said Sam.
‘Do as required,’ said Woody. He took pleasure in the consternation of the twins, the shrill bleat of their protests. He felt himself fixed in a most uncharacteristic frame of mind.
‘You take ’em, Sam,’ said Cuff.
Sam stepped up to the twins and grabbed the two of them by the scruff and they both yowled as he led them away, bound for the gaol. ‘You boys know about the rectal pear?’ he said.
As Woody stepped into the corridor he almost collided with Alfie Shivers, Winifred close behind him. Winifred had Alfie by the ear, the bonded felon bent over in pain. She waved a menacing finger at the doctor. ‘If you don’t get answers from thi
s river rat, I fully intend to drown him this day; that will do nothing for my misery but it might just quell the fury in my kidneys.’
‘What answers?’ said Woody.
‘What answers?’
‘What answers, Winifred, that is what I said.’
‘Well you’re the magistrate!’ Winifred was staring at Dr Woody like he was a fool.
‘Winifred, what is the question?’ said Woody.
Cuff stepped into the frame. ‘Let him go, Winifred.’
‘Why am I talking to you? Where’s Mr Mackie?’ she said.
‘He’s seein’ to the wheat; sow early, beat the grub, et cetera,’ said Cuff.
‘I rest my case!’
‘What case?’
‘I esteem that man, an early bird, a man of ambition, someone like me!’ she said.
Alfie Shivers was still yowling as Winifred Peachey twisted his ear.
‘Let’s just sit Alfie down, shall we?’ said Cuff.
‘I am a free woman, a feme sole with not a blemish on my name so don’t tell me what to do. My Seamus is gone.’
Dr Woody took hold of Alfie Shivers’ unfettered ear and turned it somewhat fiercely and Alfie squealed some more. The manoeuvre surprised both Cuff and Mrs Peachey.
‘Your Seamus is gone, Sparrow’s gone, my boy’s gone, and they did not go fishing,’ said Woody.
‘Where did they go?’ said Winifred.
‘I believe they’ve bolted, and took my boy.’
‘I knew it, I knew it!’
‘Knew what?’ said Cuff.
Winifred smacked her chest and cleared her throat. ‘His comportment was most strange some days prior; I should have known there was mischief afoot.’
The doctor twisted Alfie’s ear a little more. ‘Did they take my boy?’ he said through grinding teeth.
‘I don’t know,’ said Alfie.
‘We’ll know what you know soon enough,’ said Cuff. ‘Get him out the back.’
They sat Alfie down in front of the cookfire in the kitchen and Cuff took hold of the fire tongs and waved them in Alfie’s face. Atilio watched on, wiping his palms on his apron.
‘You have a choice,’ said Cuff.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Alfie, like he’d just been offered a prize.
‘I can crush your pizzle in these grips or twist the nose off your face . . . which one, you choose.’
‘You won’t do that, not you, I know that.’
‘Rumour of my gentle disposition precedes me,’ said Cuff. He handed the tongs to Atilio. ‘He’ll twist the nose off any living thing you care to name, any livin’ appendage that takes his fancy.’
Alfie looked at the tongs, held firm in that big dark hand. Atilio lifted the tongs. He rested the grips on Alfie’s shoulder.
‘I’ll tell you what I know, which ain’t much,’ said Alfie.
‘That’s a lie first up,’ said Winifred. ‘He’s party to all their whisperin’ I know that for a unvarnished certitude.’
The doctor came up close to Alfie Shivers and bent low and whipsered: ‘There’s no need for Atilio, is there?’
‘No?’
‘Because I will twist the nose off your face myself if I don’t hear something true about my boy in the space of this unfinished minute.’
Alfie was breathing loud through the nose in question, his jaw set, his lips pressed hard together. He had never in all his time at the river heard the doctor speak like that. ‘All I know is Griffin said Sparrow was going to bolt; he said they ought pair up, Sparrow and Seamus . . . to get across.’
‘They spun my boy some lie about fishing.’
‘I swear I don’t know about that I just know Griffin . . .’
‘What?’ said Winifred.
‘Griffin what?’ said the doctor.
‘Nothing,’ said Alfie.
‘Do not doubt my resolve in this for in this I am the fourth horseman, the pale rider with hell on my heels,’ said Woody.
‘I cannot help you,’ said Alfie.
Woody took the tongs from Atilio: ‘I’ll see you wheeled out with Gudgeon, I will crack your skull and spill your brains and I’ll feed ’em to the government pigs, I swear.’
Alfie liked Thomas Woody, as did almost everyone on the river. He knew this was most uncharacteristic behaviour. He felt pity for the father’s anguish. ‘Griffin says it’s a paradise over there . . . that’s all . . . no governors, no chains, no gaols, no soldiers, no . . . tongs. He says it’s a refuge for the plain folk, a haven . . . he says they want for nothing . . . over there . . . but I don’t know nothin’ about your boy I swear to that.’
Winifred threw her hands in the air. ‘He’s gone, bolted, my Seamus!’
‘He said the legal document was the last straw, aver this, aver that,’ said Alfie.
‘That weasel!’
‘They’ve took my boy,’ said the doctor. ‘They’ve bolted and they’ve took him.’ Woody turned to Cuff. ‘You have to get after them, you and Alister, someone has to go. If you don’t go I’ll go.’
‘You can hardly shuffle across the damn square. We’ll go.’
‘I would not trust the military. Conjure some tale for my assuagement, whatever suits.’
‘Thomas, we will go, Alister and me.’
Cuff turned to Alfie. ‘Where’s Griffin Pinney right now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He’s gunna waltz them two fools into that devil-ridden wilderness ain’t he?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Not first up.’
‘What then?’
Alfie did not reply.
Cuff bent low. He rested a hand on Alfie’s shoulder. ‘You esteem the doctor, his good works?’
‘I do, most certainly, yes.’
‘That boy of his is gone, Alfie, that good boy is gone.’
‘I don’t know nothin’ about that.’
‘Well where’s Griffin Pinney, you tell me.’
Alfie stared down at his shoes and shook his head. ‘I swear the man gives me the squirts.’
‘You are pathetic,’ said Winifred. She whacked the back of Alfie’s head. Cuff held up a quieting hand, waved her away. ‘Where is he, Alfie?’
Alfie took a deep breath. ‘He’s gone for the woman, the Romany girl, the one Mackie bought for Joe.’
‘What!’
‘Griffin don’t like to lose out.’
‘Did he go alone?’
‘Just him and that dog I’d reckon.’
Cuff pulled a chair close and looked hard at Alfie Shivers, weighing the truth or otherwise of what he’d just heard. He took it to be true, not least because the tale fitted the man – he would expect no less of Griffin Pinney.
37
Bea Faa worked in the vegetable garden for most of the morning, some of it with Joe. They had risen early, for the warmth of the previous evening and a thin veil of low cloud promised a hot and sticky day. They had not slept much, the savages vivid in their drowsing reflections and their fitful dreams.
They worked alongside one another for an hour or so but once the sun was up, the sweat dripping from their foreheads, Joe could work no more. His limbs gave out. He tried to work on but spasms wracked his arms and legs and he had to sit down in the shade. ‘The heat, does me in,’ he said.
Bea worked on, readying the ground, and when it was right Freddie wheeled in barrows of good rotten dung from the henhouse and the pigs and this she spread in uniform thickness all over. She dug it in as best she could and then she dug out the furrows, row after row, one blade deep said Joe, and she sowed the onion and Freddie sowed the cabbage.
Around midday Joe Franks slumped into his chair at the table. ‘I must be a horse, I could sleep on my feet.’ The chair warped a little, sideways. ‘Salvaged this from the flood before last,’ he said, patting the seat.
‘It needs a brace,’ she said.
‘Like me.’
She nodded, and he smiled.
She took the cork lid off the gre
en glass demijohn and filled a mug full of peach cyder and passed it to Joe and he took it with shaky hands and drank like a man who had just crawled out of a desert. ‘Good work this morning,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I like the garden.’ In fact she liked the work and she liked Joe, the way he was, better than anything she might have hoped for. She now knew something of his time in India, a tale unadorned, or so it seemed; and he knew certain details about her conception and her birth, her youth, her schooling at her stepmother’s knee and her fate at the hands of the widowed butcher, and more. A brief exchange, fragments of their lives.
Joe wanted to know if she’d heard of Mackie before she came up the river with Jonas Wick and the sealers.
‘I grew up with that story, never let forget it,’ she said.
‘What story?’
So she told him about the waste barn, how the young Mackie, besotted, had traded wares from his own mother’s loom in exchange for the charms of Jeannie Faa, and how the pious folk from the Kirk had taken the poor girl for a ducking in the ducking chair and near drowned her; and how the boy’s own family had taken him and bewailed him before the congregation with talk of his wickedness; of his dying father, your own dying father, and how they gave him up to the severe hand of the law and disowned him forthwith; and how he did suffer it, craven, only to spite them, famously, as the sheriff took him down.
Joe drained his mug and reached for more and the girl took the demijohn and poured him some more, and he drank it down. ‘He was want, was Mackie, to see you safe,’ he said.
‘For that I am grateful.’ She smiled at him, a smile she knew would not deliver her into peril, as a smile might otherwise do.
She helped him to the bed. ‘Are you sure you won’t eat?’
‘I’m sure, go ahead,’ he said, as Freddie arrived, ravenous.
They mashed some boiled potato onto their bread, cold, and talked farm as they ate, the bread coming apart in their fingers. Freddie declared the peach orchard in need of trimming before it was too late in the season. Joe advised against it, knowing he could not help. ‘Too hot,’ he said. But Freddie was untroubled by the heat. He departed, with the goat at his heels.
Bea sat with Joe.
‘Freddie has the constitution of a bull elephant,’ he said. ‘I’d trade my left foot for a measure of that.’
The Making of Martin Sparrow Page 21
