Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [108]
Inside was noisy with laughter, voices in excited and often bawdy conversation, and the clink of glasses and crockery. It smelled of ale, sweat, sawdust, vinegar and boiled vegetables.
Jack hesitated. This was not a suitable place for ladies, the thought was as plain on his face as if he had spoken it.
“Nonsense,” Emily said fiercely just behind him. “We are all extremely hungry. Are you going to refuse to get us luncheon?”
“Yes I am—in this place,” he said firmly. “We’ll find something better, even if it’s a pie stall. We can get Mr. Buffery when he returns to his office.”
“I’m staying here,” Emily retorted. “I want to see—it’s all part of what we are doing.”
“No it isn’t.” He took her arm. “We need Buffery to tell us who he manages the building for; we don’t need this place. I’m not going to argue about it, Emily. You are coming out.”
“But Jack—”
Before the altercation could proceed any further Gracie slid forward and grasped the bartender waiting on the next table, pulling his sleeve till he turned to see what was upsetting his balance.
“Please mister,” she appealed to him with wide eyes. “Is Mr. Buffery in ’ere? I can’t ’ear ’is voice, an’ I don’t see too well. E’s me uncle an’ I got a message fer ’im.”
“Give it ter me, girl, an’ I’ll give it ’im,” the bartender said not unkindly.
“Oh I carsn’t do that, mister, it’d be more ’n me life’s worf. Me pa’d tan me summink wicked.”
“ ’Ere, I’ll take yer. E’s over ’ere in the corner. Don’t you bovver ’im now, mind. I’ll not ’ave me customers bowered. You give yer message, then scarper, right?”
“Yes mister. Thank yer, mister.” And she allowed him to lead her over to the far corner, where a man with a red face and golden red hair was seated behind a small table and a plate generously spread with succulent pie and crisp pickles and a large slice of ripe cheese. Two tankards of ale stood a hand’s reach away.
“Uncle Fred?” she began, for the bartender’s benefit, hoping fervently at least Charlotte, if not all of them, were immediately behind her.
Buffery looked at her with irritation.
“I in’t yer uncle. Go and bother someone else. I in’t interested in your sort. If I want a woman I’ll find me own, a lot sassier than you—and I don’t give ter beggars.”
“ ’Ere!” the bartender said angrily. “You said as ’e were yer uncle.”
“So ’e is,” Gracie said desperately. “Me pa said as ter tell ’im me gramma’s took bad, an’ we need money fer ’elp for ’er. She’s that cold.”
“That right?” the bartender demanded, turning to Buffery. “You runnin’ out on yer own ma?”
By this time Charlotte, Emily and Jack were all behind Gracie. She felt the warmth of relief flood through her. She sniffed fiercely, half afraid, half determined to play this for all it was worth.
“Yer got all them ’ouses, Uncle Fred, all Lisbon Street mostly. You can find Gramma a nice place w’ere she can be warm. She’s real bad. Ma’ll look after ’er, if’n yer just find a better place. We got water on all the walls an’ it’s cold summink awful.”
“I in’t yer Uncle Fred,” Buffery said furiously. “I in’t never seen yer before. Git out of ’ere. ’Ere—take this!” He thrust a sixpence at her. “Now get out of ’ere.”
Gracie ignored the sixpence, with difficulty, and burst into tears—with ease.
“That won’t buy more’n one night. Then wot’ll we do? Yer got all the ’ouses on Lisbon Street. Why can’t yer get Ma and Pa a room in one of ’em, so we can keep dry? I’ll work, honest I will. We’ll pay yer.”
“They in’t my ’ouses, yer little fool!” Buffery was embarrassed now as other diners turned to look at the spectacle. “D’yer think I’d be ’ere eatin’ cold pie and drinkin’ ale if I got the rents fer that lot? I jus’ manages the bus’ness of ’em. Now get aht an’ leave me alone, yer little bleeder. I in’t never seen yer an’ I got no ma wot’s sick.”
Gracie was saved further dramatic effort by Jack stepping forward and pretending to be a lawyer’s clerk again, entirely