Confessional - Jack Higgins [83]
Cussane slept well, deep, dreamless sleep that was totally refreshing, and awakened to find the girl, Morag, sitting on the opposite bunk watching him.
Cussane smiled. 'Hello there.'
'That's funny,' she said. 'One minute you were asleep, the next your eyes were open and you were wide awake. How did you learn to do that?'
'The habit of a lifetime.' He glanced at his watch. 'Only six-thirty.'
'We rise early.' She nodded outside the wagon. He could hear voices and smell bacon frying.
'I've dried your clothes,' she said 'Would you like some tea?'
There was an eagerness to her as if she desperately wanted to please, something infinitely touching. He reached to pull the Tam O'Shanter down more over one ear. 'I like that.'
'My mother knitted it for me.' She pulled it off and looked at it, her face sad.
'That's nice. Is she here?'
'No.' Morag put the Tam O'Shanter back on. 'She ran away with a man called McTavish last year. They went to Australia.'
'And your father?'
'He left her when I was a baby.' She shrugged. 'But I don't care.'
'Is young Donal your brother?'
'No. His father is my cousin, Murray. You saw him earlier.'
'Ah, yes. You don't like him, I think.'
She shivered. 'He makes me feel funny.'
Cussane was conscious of the anger again, but controlled it. 'That tea would be welcome, plus the chance to get dressed.'
Her reply, cynical and far too adult for her age, surprised him. 'Frightened I might corrupt you, Father?' She grinned. 'I'll fetch your tea.' And she darted out.
His suit had been thoroughly brushed and dried. He dressed quickly, omitting the vest and clerical collar and pulling a thin black polo neck sweater over his head instead. He pulled on his raincoat because it was still raining and went out.
Murray Finlay leaned against the side of a wagon smoking a clay pipe, Donal crouched at his feet.
Cussane said, 'Good morning,' but Murray could only manage a scowl.
Morag turned from the fire to offer Cussane tea in a chipped enamel mug and Murray called, 'Don't I get one?'
She ignored him and Cussane asked, 'Where's your grandfather?'
'Fishing by the loch. I'll show you. Bring your tea.'
There was something immensely appealing, a gamine quality that was somehow accentuated by the Tam O'Shanter. It was as if she was putting out her tongue at the whole world in spite of her ragged clothes. It was not pleasant to think of such a girl brutalized by contact with the likes of Murray and the squalor of the years to come.
They went over the rise and came to a small loch, a pleasant place where heather flowed down to the shore-line. Old Hamish Finlay stood thigh deep, rod in hand, making one extremely expert cast after another. A wind stirred the water, small black fins appeared and suddenly, a trout came out of the deep water beyond the sandbar, leapt in the air and vanished.
The old man glanced at Cussane and chuckled. 'Would you look at that now? Have you noticed how often the good things in life tend to pop up in the wrong places?'
'Frequently.'
Finlay gave Morag his rod. 'You'll find three fat ones in the basket. Off with you and get the breakfast going.'
She turned back to the camp and Cussane offered the old man a cigarette. 'A nice child.'
'Aye, you could say that.'
Cussane gave him a light. 'This life you lead is a strange one and yet you aren't gypsies, I think?'
'People of the road. Tinkers. People have many names for us and some of them none too kind. The last remnants of a proud dam broken at Culloden. Mind, we have links with other road people on occasion. Morag's mother was an English gypsy.'
'No resting place?' Cussane said.
'None. No man will have us for long enough. There's a village constable at Whitechapel who'll be up here no later than tomorrow. Three days - that's all we get and he'll move us on. But what about you?'
'I'll be on my