Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [34]
‘Sure, it is not often you find a open-handed feller in these parts,’ Eve said.
‘What about these parts?’ Blair leered and pointed down at himself.
Eve uttered some high mirthless laughter. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ she said. ‘What parts you hail from, Billy boy?’
‘He’s a wee cockalorum from Scotland.’
Blair turned to meet the dark, close-set eyes and thin smile. The man was still sitting sprawled there. He had taken off his hat, revealing a mop of black ringlets glistening with oil. He was strong-looking, with broad shoulders and thick legs. ‘You again,’ Blair said. His hand strayed a little towards his right hip. ‘Been curlin’ yor hair, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Bleddy scut-head.’
‘Take no notice, darlin’ Billy,’ Eve said, pressing close against him.
‘I will mince him up,’ Blair said with extreme ferocity. ‘I told him once I an’t a Scotchman.’
‘Have another drink,’ the landlord said. ‘I will stand it. It is not often I take to a man. We got meat pies in the kitchen. Prime beef. You,’ he said to the seated man, ‘you hold your gab or you will go out on your arse.’
The place was more crowded now. The woman called Bessie had gone off to join some others round the table. Billy allowed himself to be pacified. He had more rum and a plateful of pies. He was having some difficulty now in seeing clear across the room and was tending increasingly to reduce the range of his focus. Standing up close against him, Eve gave him a gentle squeeze of his balls.
‘Full o’ grape-shot, them,’ Billy said boastfully, through a mouthful of meat pie. ‘England’s finest.’ He had taken a definite fancy to Eve, with her blue eyes and delicate pallor of underfeeding. ‘Some bastid been cloutin’ you?’ he said, looking at the disfiguring bruise on her cheek.
She laughed on the same high, careless note. ‘I was runnin’ round in circles an’ I bumped into meself.’
‘Have you somewhere we can gan together, just the two of us?’
‘I have got a love-nest all me own, darlin’ Billy. But let’s have a dance first, let’s have a bit of fun for God’s sake, we might all be dead tomorrer, Jemmy, mightn’t we?’
This had been addressed to the landlord who agreed with every appearance of fervour. ‘Where the devil is the fiddler?’ he said. ‘Where is Sullivan?’
The cry was taken up by others – several people wanted to dance, it seemed. The fiddler was found in a dark corner, sleeping with his head on the table. Roused, he came shambling out into the centre of the room, clutching fiddle and bow, a tall, ragged figure with glinting stubble on his cheeks, a dark shock of hair and dazed green eyes that seemed lately to have looked on wonders and to be glancing after them still.
‘Give us a reel!’ somebody shouted.
‘I’ll not play without a drink,’ Sullivan said. ‘Niver a note.’
‘Give him a drink.’
‘I seen you before,’ Billy said. He steadied himself against the counter, took a careful pace forward and looked closely at the long face and beautiful, bemused eyes of the fiddler. ‘We was on shipboard together somewhere,’ he said. ‘Michael Sullivan. Always arguin’.’ He paused for a moment, swaying slightly. Then he had it: ‘The Sarah, Captain McTavish, ’bout five, six years ago, cargo of hides fra Montevideo. Am I right or am I wrong?’
Sullivan paused a long moment as though gathering his wits. ‘I was on that ship,’ he said at last. ‘I will not say that I wasn’t. It was you done all the arguin’, not me. McTavish was for iver blasphemin’.’
‘Dead now. He overdone it on the bottle.’ Feet planted for balance, Billy looked proudly about him. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘there canna be many that has a memory like Billy Blair. Drunk or sober, Blair is razor sharp. You remember me? Come now, you canna have forgot Billy Blair?’
‘I do an’ I don’t,’ the fiddler said. Some change had come over his face. ‘Listen, Billy,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to be dancin’, ’tis a idle pursuit an’ the Pope has frequently spoke out agin it as leadin’ to all manner of sins.’
‘What’s wrong