A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [58]
She had told him she was going to marry Jay Jamisson, and he had bitten his tongue instead of telling her she was a damn fool. It was none of his business and he did not want to offend her.
Dermot’s wife, Bridget, made a breakfast of salt porridge and Mack ate it with the children. Bridget was a woman of about thirty who had once been beautiful but now just looked tired. When the food was all gone Mack and Dermot went out to look for work. “Bring home some money,” Bridget called as they left.
It was not a lucky day. They toured the food markets of London, offering themselves as porters for the baskets of wet fish, barrels of wine, and bloody sides of beef the hungry city needed every day; but there were too many men and not enough work. At midday they gave up and walked to the West End to try the coffeehouses. By the end of the afternoon they were as weary as if they had worked all day, but they had nothing to show for it.
As they turned into the Strand a small figure shot out of an alley, like a bolting rabbit, and crashed into Dermot. It was a girl of about thirteen, ragged and thin and scared. Dermot made a noise like a punctured bladder. The child squealed in fright, stumbled, and regained her balance.
After her came a brawny young man in expensive but disheveled clothes. He came within an inch of grabbing her as she bounced off Dermot, but she ducked and dodged and ran on. Then she slipped and fell, and he was on her.
She screamed in terror. The man was mad with rage. He picked up the slight body and punched the side of her head, knocking her down again, then he kicked her puny chest with his booted foot.
Mack had become hardened to the violence on the streets of London. Men, women and children fought constantly, punching and scratching one another, their battles usually fueled by the cheap gin that was sold at every corner shop. But he had never seen a strong man beat a small child so mercilessly. It looked as if he might kill her. Mack was still in pain from his encounter with the Welsh Mountain, and the last thing he wanted was another fight, but he could not stand still and watch this. As the man was about to kick her again Mack grabbed him roughly and jerked him back.
He turned around. He was several inches taller than Mack. He put his hand in the center of Mack’s chest and shoved him powerfully away. Mack staggered backward. The man turned again to the child. She was scrambling to her feet. He hit her a mighty slap to her face that sent her flying.
Mack saw red. He grabbed the man by the collar and the seat of the breeches and lifted him bodily off the ground. The man roared with surprise and anger, and began to writhe violently, but Mack held him and lifted him up over his head.
Dermot stared in surprise at the ease with which Mack held him up. “You’re a strong boy, Mack, by gob,” he said.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” the man shouted.
Mack set him on the ground but kept hold of one wrist. “Just leave the child alone.”
Dermot helped the girl stand up and held her gently but firmly.
“She’s a damned thief!” said the man aggressively; then he noticed Mack’s ravaged face and decided not to make a fight of it.
“Is that all?” Mack said. “By the way you were kicking her I thought she’d murdered the king.”
“What business of yours is it what she’s done?” The man was calming down and catching his breath.
Mack let him go. “Whatever it was, I think you’ve punished her enough.”
The man looked at him. “You’re obviously just off the boat,” he said. “You’re a strong lad but, even so, you won’t last long in London if you put your trust in the likes of her.” With that he walked off.
The girl said: “Thanks, Jock—you saved my life.”
People knew Mack was Scottish as soon as he spoke. He had not realized that he had an accent until he came to London. In Heugh everyone spoke the same: even the Jamissons had a softened version of the Scots dialect. Here it was like a badge.
Mack looked at the girl. She had dark hair roughly cropped and a pretty face already swelling with bruises from the