by Simon Mayo
Then he added, more softly, ‘I imagine that was your Willoughby downstairs.’
The briefest of smiles. ‘Was it that obvious?’
‘Only to me. Who is he?’
‘He’s Joe Hill from Boston. From an English family. They moved to America when he was two.’
‘One for the recruiters?’
The question pulled her up short. Time was, she would without a second thought have marked Joe Hill for the Royal Navy. Her nation’s battle was her battle, her husband’s battle hers, too. But now she shivered.
‘I’ll not do their work again. This war is done.’ She fidgeted with an untucked blanket.
‘Well, if the war is done,’ said Magrath, ‘then that is good news for Willoughby, no?’
She nodded. ‘Of course. But … if the prison empties of prisoners, we’ll be moved on, too.’
He moved behind her, bent to inspect the patient. ‘Come,’ he murmured. ‘We need supplies.’
There was a small store cupboard for medical supplies between the two wards. With both doors open, they effectively disappeared from the view of anyone in wards A and B, orderlies and patients alike.
‘Elizabeth,’ he began, his manner earnest but his eyes smiling. Leaning against the shelves meant he didn’t need his cane. She felt his hands pull her close.
‘George,’ she said.
‘I am devoted to my patients. Devoted to getting as many of these men home as I can.’ His words were softly spoken but, as usual, steely with intent. ‘But you know I am devoted to you, too. So, as long as you and the Transport Office want me here, this is where I’ll be.’
She wrapped her arms around him. ‘Well, I have a feeling the Transport Office will need you here for the foreseeable future.’ She pulled her head back, looked straight at him. ‘I can’t go back, George, not to how it used to be. I couldn’t bear that listless existence again.’
His forehead wrinkled in sympathy.
‘Do you remember that first influenza outbreak?’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘When Thomas suggested I help you?’
‘My God, I was exhausted,’ said Magrath, shuddering at the memory. ‘I could hardly stand. You were a godsend.’
She sighed again. ‘And I had forgotten – somehow completely forgotten – how much I loved it as a girl. The medicines, the potions, the healing, the – the sheer magic of it all. My father used to let me itemize the contents of his medical bag. Over and over, I’d lay out his instruments, the bandages and the mysterious brown bottles. Then one day – I must have been about six – I told him I, too, wanted to be a doctor.’
‘Oh,’ said Magrath, frowning. ‘I can guess what happened next.’
‘He laughed,’ said Elizabeth, the resentment and embarrassment flooding back. ‘He actually laughed.’
‘Well, if I may,’ said Magrath, ‘he was a fool.’
‘Sometimes, yes. I see that now. But I don’t remember mentioning it again,’ she said.
Elizabeth was silent now, her head resting on his shoulder. She cherished these stolen moments, their secret dance while the hospital and the prison carried on without them.
‘When I married Thomas I had these grand ideas of foreign travel, Thomas’s swift promotion, an ambassadorial posting with me by his side. Exotic society. And I ended up here. How stupid I was. I wonder sometimes if I hate this place every bit as much as the prisoners do.’
‘Well, I am grateful you did come here,’ he whispered. ‘Looking back, I can see that I was lost.’
‘No, you were a brilliant physician with the respect of your patients. As you are now.’
‘And yet I was lost. You had to practically throw yourself at me before I realized what was happening.’
‘George, I did throw myself at you.’
He laughed at the memory. ‘I couldn’t for the life of me think why I had to put down my books.’
‘I think I explained well enough.’
‘You did indeed, Elizabeth. As I recall – and I do quite often – it was an excellent analysis.’
2.3
The Market Square
THE GUARD WITH the still-dirty fingernails had slammed the gate behind them, and the freshly uniformed men of the Eagle, having pushed their way through a densely packed crowd of unruly prisoners, were marvelling at the sensual splendour that the market had brought to Dartmoor. It was the same square, dominated by the same blocks, surrounded by the same two walls, but, for the moment, everything had changed.
First, the colours – reds, greens, yellows, purples, pinks and blues; then the smells – fish, fresh meat, milk, beer. The drabness, the soul-destroying drabness of prison life, had temporarily lifted. Monday through Saturday between nine and midday, some sort of external normality descended. It was the lifeblood of the sailors’ lives.
‘I think I can smell turnips,’ said Joe, sounding shocked. ‘I didn’t know they even had a smell.’
‘And …’ began Goffe dreamily, ‘other people.’
‘You mean women,’ said Roche, staring at the traders.
‘Yes, I mean women. I had forgotten how beautiful they are.’
‘Mrs Shortland sure looked like a woman to me,’ said Roche.
‘But these’ – Goffe pointed at the market-stall holders – ‘these’re women like us. These’re women who might take a fancy to us …’
‘Not when we’re dressed in yellow,’ said Joe, ‘and with the Transport Office’s mark stamped all over us.’
‘But these’re women who wish to sell their wares,’ said Roche.
‘To anyone who has money,’ cried Joe, ‘and we have none.’
‘Well, we’ll jus’ stare, then,’ said Goffe, staring.
Joe walked around the rows of traders’ stalls; covered crates, trestle tables and slabs of granite had been pressed into service. He stopped at a display of small cakes and pastries, drooling, his mouth flooding with saliva. He groaned with longing. The man behind the table, swathed in scarves, appraised this new customer with old clothes over his arm.
‘New uniform, new arrival,’ he said. ‘Another poor Yankee bastard. I got queen cakes, currant cakes and carrot cakes. And pumpkin bread. Threepence each.’
Joe shrugged. ‘I have no money,’ he said. ‘Not yet, anyways.’
‘I could trade for your hat,’ said the man. ‘I like a tricorn I do. Any two cakes you fancy.’
Joe tugged it firmly to his head. ‘It’s not for sale.’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are new,’ he said. ‘You’ll soon find everything’s for sale in here.’
‘Maybe,’ said Joe, ‘but not the hat.’
‘Well, bugger off, then,’ said the trader, waving him aside.
Reluctantly, Joe peeled himself away. He forced his way down the aisles, past mounds of coats, old boots, vegetables and fish. Behind each one stood a man or woman hailing prisoners as they passed, calling their names and shouting out prices. In front of the top gates, a large number of the long-bearded Rough Allies had gathered around beer tables.
Then came a voice Joe recognized.
‘Well, the grey-eyed mornin’ smiles indeed!’ called Habs, from behind a baker’s tray. ‘I thought the sun come out but it was just the burnin’ bright yellow men of the Eagle, now weighed, measured and recorded, I bet.’
Joe twisted and squeezed his way over. ‘Grey is right,’ he said, ‘but those clouds are thinning, the barometer rising.’
‘And how do you like your new outfit?’
Joe grimaced. ‘They’re the first clean clothes I’ve worn for three months. They’ve been warmed by the fire. And I hate them with all my heart.’
Habs laughed, head tilted skywards and hoop earrings swinging against his neck. ‘’Course you do. Everyone does. But we can trade, swap, borrow. You’d be amazed what comes your way.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Joe. ‘Really. It seems like the whole of Dartmoor is here.’
‘It’s the peace,’ said Habs. ‘Everyone is spendin’ like they’ll b
e home in the mornin’. The beer will be soon sold and then we should all look out. Too much wild talk, too many sore heads.’ He tailed off and Joe followed his eyeline.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Habs nodded at two black sailors twenty yards away, leaning casually against the market square’s lower wall. ‘When’s the last time you saw your piece of French scenery?’
‘Can’t recall,’ said Joe. ‘I just left it behind, I think. Why?’
‘Well, somehow,’ said Habs, ‘it’s now in the care of two of our young boxers.’
Joe looked again. The pale blue and white of the painted wood showed clearly behind one of the men. ‘Friends of the poor bugger who lost the fight on Saturday?’
‘Friends of the poor bugger who got felled by a piece of wood, yes,’ said Habs. ‘They musta smuggled it out and back in again.’
‘So they know what they’re doing.’
The two boxers had eyes everywhere and were speaking constantly.
‘You wanna reclaim your wood?’ asked Habs.
‘No, I think it’s yours,’ said Joe.
‘Too late,’ said Habs. ‘Look who’s comin’ past.’
A Rough Ally tottered in front of Joe, hands holding a tarp hat firmly to his head. The boxers had seen him too, guessed his trajectory, knew he was within range.
‘If he manages to walk straight,’ said Habs, ‘he’ll walk right into ’em.’
‘And take it in the face,’ said Joe.
‘Just like Saturday night, then.’
Both boxers were off the wall, the wood held lightly between them, eyes darting between the gates and the staggering Ally. Briefly, his balance went and he stepped away from the trap, only to veer straight back again. He didn’t look up, didn’t see the swinging timber.
Most in the square heard the crack of wood on skull; very few saw what happened. The boxers had timed their attack well; as the Rough Ally hit the ground, both men were already through the gates.
‘They’ll be inside Four in seconds,’ said Habs. ‘Safe.’
‘Until they come out again,’ muttered Joe, but didn’t force the point.
The Allies swarmed to their man, pushing and yelling as they went. A few ran from the square, only to return, shaking their heads. The square buzzed, then, slowly, the trade resumed.
‘A grand morning so far,’ said Habs. ‘The Eagle crew are dressed and a bastard with a beard has had a beatin’. Let’s get some food. You’re lookin’ hungry again.’
‘Hungry and poor,’ said Joe. ‘None of us has a cent.’
‘Well, let me introduce you to Betsy Wade, watcher of the square and one of Tavistock’s most beautiful bakers.’
Joe hadn’t noticed that Habs was standing next to a woman. Enveloped in a brown shawl with a dark green bonnet that tied under her chin, she smiled, then curtsied.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘Tavistock’s only beautiful baker. How do you do, Mr Hill.’ She offered her hand and Joe shook it clumsily.
‘Joe. Please call me Joe.’
‘If you’re hungry, Joe, we’re always here, same spot. High in the top-right corner by the storehouse – best position. We see all the fights. And this is my friend, Martha Slater. She helps me with the ovens.’ Another muffled-up woman appeared, long strands of red hair framing a face that was even younger than Betsy’s. Another curtsey.
‘Betsy. Martha,’ said Joe. ‘How far is Tavistock?’ He was talking to Betsy, but he was looking at the tray of loaves in front of her.
Habs laughed and tossed a coin to him. ‘Here. Till tomorrow. You’ll get your allowance then, but eat now.’
Joe’s eyes sparkled. ‘Really?’ He passed the penny to the baker.
‘Help yourself,’ said Betsy, and Joe snatched the nearest loaf, tearing it roughly as he forced handfuls into his mouth.
Betsy and Habs laughed. ‘No breakfast in Seven today?’ he asked.
Joe took it in turns to shake then nod his head, unable to speak.
‘What’s your bread ration again, Habs?’ asked Martha, her voice a gentle, even whispery Devonian burr.
‘Most days it’s one and a half loaves,’ said Habs, still watching Joe devour his penny’s worth. ‘And it’s gone by noon.’
‘So how can he be this hungry?’ wondered Martha. ‘Most folk round here could feed a family for three days on that. Is that all you get?’
Betsy folded her arms tightly across her chest. ‘No, they’re just getting started,’ she said. ‘Then there’s a pound of beef, half a pound of cabbage, turnips and onions.’
Martha whistled her amazement. ‘A day? If most men round here heard that, there’d be a queue outside wanting to stay here.’
‘Maybe there would,’ said Habs, ‘and while they’re enjoyin’ the King’s food, they can catch his smallpox, measles, rubella and pneumonia, and die in his graveyard, too.’
‘Sorry, Habs,’ she whispered.
At last, Joe swallowed. ‘Prison bread is like eating tar and sawdust. This’ – he waved what remained of his loaf – ‘this is heaven itself.’
Betsy kissed Joe’s cheek. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is what happens when you say lovely things about my bread.’
Joe offered a chunk to Habs, but he wasn’t looking or listening.
‘Habs?’
‘It’s Lane,’ he said, his voice changed in an instant, all levity gone. ‘Comin’ this way. Cobb, too. I knew that fight would bring ’em out.’
Through the square’s lower gates, two Rough Allies were approaching. They both wore extravagant, forked beards elaborately worked; small black ribbons and string had been deployed to separate and shape each half. The taller man had the more fulsome beard, each prong twisted into a spiral. The shorter sported a battered black stovepipe hat and clenched a cigarillo between his teeth. Their advance was all poise and swagger, and heads turned as they passed then stayed turned to see what the two were doing.
‘I recognize them,’ said Joe. ‘They obviously believe themselves to be some kind of pirate.’
‘A pirate’d have more honour,’ said Habs.
‘Which one is which?’ asked Joe.
‘Cobb’s in the hat, he’s in charge. We got no officers here, we got Horace Cobb instead. Spent his time back home counterfeitin’ and swindlin’, so they say. He don’t normally come out to the market. Lane’s the madman with the curly beard. The gaps are on account of the burnt face he got when a pistol blew up. Guaranteed he’ll have a weapon on him,’ said Habs. ‘And a shillin’ says it’s you they’ll be talkin’ to.’
‘Haven’t got a shilling,’ said Joe.
‘They’d steal it from you if you did, anyways,’ said Habs. ‘They just a band o’ thieves, Joe, that’s all. It’s like their church. It’s the one thing they all believe in – helpin’ themselves to everythin’. Clear your stalls, Betsy.’
From behind him came the sounds of scores of loaves being swept into a basket. Cobb and Lane strode to within a few yards of Joe and Habs, as though they were about to march straight through them, then stopped abruptly. The dozen Rough Allies who had appeared in their wake fanned out, protecting their leaders. Lane looked as if he was about to speak but deferred, with difficulty, to Cobb. As Habs predicted, it was Joe they were after.
‘Joe Hill, is it?’ said Cobb, ash from his cigarillo dropping into his beard as he spoke. He sounded as if he’d been smoking since dawn.
‘It is,’ said Joe. He felt his tattooed skin tighten.
‘Nice speech you gave yesterday,’ said Cobb.
Joe didn’t respond.
‘D’you see what happened just now? One of our men was assaulted. Viciously.’
Joe shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no, we were just eating our bread here. We missed whatever it was.’
Cobb nodded. ‘Of course. How is it in Seven?’ His words were clipped, he sounded foreign somehow, but Joe couldn’t place his accent.
Joe shrugged. ‘Same as in Six?’ Then, thinking that maybe he’d sounded too curt,
he added, ‘It’s a shit-hole, but I’ve seen worse.’
Cobb nodded again and it was Lane’s turn.
‘Mr Hill,’ he said, his voice strangely high-pitched. ‘We wanted to warn you. We’re concerned with the company you keep.’
Joe’s flesh crawled again.
‘And what business is that rightly of yours?’ he said.
The attendant Allies bristled. Lane cocked his head to one side, apparently surprised. ‘Mr Hill,’ he said, ‘you’re new here. You may not know how things work.’ His beard twitched and jumped with every word. ‘I am Edwin Lane, this is Horace Cobb, and we lead the Rough Allies.’
‘I know who you are.’
Lane seemed pleased with that. ‘Good, well, you’ll find us good friends to have on your side. If you want to work with us.’
‘You want to work with us, Joe Hill?’ asked Cobb, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Habs’s direction.
‘Seems unlikely,’ said Joe, his hands deep in his pockets and balled into fists.
One of the Allies spat.
Lane frowned. His voice crept higher. ‘You a nigger-lover, Mr Hill? Is that what you are?’
Joe felt every cut on his scalp throb. His voice came out louder than he intended. ‘I know Mr Snow here, if that’s what you mean.’
‘We are … separate here, Mr Hill. To avoid … contamination. You are Seven. They are Four. It’s for our mutual benefit.’
‘I have heard that said.’
‘’Course you have,’ acknowledged Lane. ‘The Negro always tends to violence and lawlessness. They can’t help it, it’s just their manner. The way they are. Best if we … keep out of their way. That’s the way the good Lord intended it to be, and that’s the way it should stay.’
‘I …’
‘Leave it, Joe,’ said Habs, ‘leave it. Don’t take no notice of ’em. They won’t be wantin’ trouble here when they got trouble with their own.’ He pointed to the lower gates.
The market had a surprise visitor.
2.4
The Market Square
UNLIKE EVERYONE ELSE, King Dick wasn’t shopping. He stood momentarily by the lower gates, surveying the square in front of him. Head high, club loosely resting in the crook of his neck, like a shouldered rifle, his eyes darting from stall to stall. Predator, thought Joe, the word flashing across his mind as the King spotted his prey. He moved with deadly purpose and precision, his eyes locked on his target. Where they saw him coming, the crowd moved aside. Where they didn’t, he used his club. Cobb and Lane disappeared.
