Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [287]
‘Aye, bejabbers,’ he said, ‘you are right, Billy, an’ to think of it, I would niver have come here at all, if it hadn’t been for you walkin’ in that night, full of boastin’ an’ vainglory. You haven’t changed neether, Billy, all these years in the wilderness, an’ still full of yourself.’
‘Lucky for you, bonny lad, that I come in that neet,’ Billy said. ‘You was on a downhill path. I saved you from yourself.’
‘Oh aye, very lucky,’ Sullivan said with deep sarcasm. ‘I might have been livin’ in a grand house by now, with silver buckles to me shoes an’ lace to me cuffs an’ drinkin’ brandy from a crystal glass stead of beer from a ship’s cannikin.’
‘You would ha’ been dead o’ drink or clap or both by this time,’ Billy said. ‘You didna’ look set on a prosperous career when I sighted you hove short in that poxy tavern.’
‘The trouble with you, Billy,’ Sullivan said, ‘an’ it is the same trouble as affected you in them days, I remember makin’ a mental note of it at the time, you are not a truly travelled man, in the best sense of that word, you are not acquainted with the usages of society. If you was, you would know without needin’ to be told that all doors are open to the artist.’ He caught Koudi’s eye and smiled at her and raised his cannikin. ‘Never mind, shipmate, you cannot help it,’ he said, ‘I drink your health in spite of shortcomin’s.’
Billy returned the health and drank, but the blood had come with a rush to his head at this condescension. Like practically everyone else he had heard by now of Sullivan’s failed attempt on Dinka. He had thought to say nothing of it, as taking advantage of a man who was down; but the other’s unabashed and unrepentant air destroyed his resolution in a moment. ‘All doors open to the artist, are they?’ he said. ‘They wasn’t open to you last night, was they, doors nor legs?’
‘You have lost me, Billy. What legs is that?’ They had turned back now towards the fire and Sullivan was making to where he had left his fiddle.
‘Dinka’s door wasn’t open to you, by what I hear. While you was exercisin’ yor elber outside, Sefadu was exercisin’ sommat else indoors.’
Sullivan opened his eyes wide. ‘What?’ he said. ‘You’ll niver believe I was tryin’ to intrude meself? Is that what they are sayin’? Holy Mary! I was givin’ the young couple a love-song.’ Suddenly he noticed the majestic bulk of Sallian close by and realized she could hear them. ‘You got de story all foul up,’ he said, raising his voice a little. ‘I give de couple love-song, give dem music make de fust night sweet for dem. I music man dis place. You no tink man ken give something, ask nottin’ back? I real sorry for you, Billy. Look what Sallian do for you, she ask nottin’ back. Dat one good woman. All dese year she cook for you an’ Inchebe, she niver shut you out.’
Billy too had now realized the proximity of Sallian. ‘Dat trut’,’ he said hastily. ‘She good woman pas’ anyone. Inchebe an’ me, we sabee dat good.’
‘You sabee dat good?’ Sallian broke in, her broad, good-humoured face as severe as it could ever possibly be. ‘You sabee dat so good, mebbe you sabee dat dere no nyam in de house for eat tomorrow cept dry corn an’ koonti, no meat, no fish. You drink plenty beer, talk plenty fine. Inchebe altagedder same-same. You tink I feed two man six pikin koonti mush an’ squirrel-tail?’
This public complaint stung Billy’s pride. ‘Why you say dis now, middle de bleddy neet? Dat jus’ like a woman, she wait de time man happy drink some beer den she say hum-hum, go find nyam in de dark.’
‘Fish in de creek, dey no die when dark come,’ Tabakali said, joining in on Sallian’s behalf. The slighting reference to women had not pleased her.
Faced with this formidable combination, Billy glanced round for Inchebe, but he was too far away to be of any help.