Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [40]
‘You done some runnin’ in yer time,’ she said bitterly. She paused, looking at Deakin’s composed, fair-browed face, the remote blue eyes that always seemed to look beyond people. The intention to sell him had come to her like sudden hope and blossomed with her rage. Without rage to keep it fresh she was afraid it would wither. ‘Never bring a penny in!’ she shouted. ‘Catch a few bloody fish in the river. I’m killin’ myself at this mangle. They are callin’ me a whore in the court because I have got two men in here. An’ you spent it all, didn’t you? Call yerselves men?’
Britto moved towards her. The voice of the little girl on the bed rose in remonstrance or fear. The woman moved back sharply, felt round behind her for the long-handled pan on the stove. ‘Keep off,’ she said.
‘The bebby’s sick,’ she said. ‘It can’t hardly cry any more.’ A storm of weeping shook her suddenly, even while she felt for a weapon. ‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I dunno. You could of brought a drop o’ gin back.’
Britto went to the crib in the corner, looked down at the bloodless, crumpled face, with its inflamed lids, the glaze of vomit on its chin. The baby looked up at him with an impersonal solemnity, its hands curled against its breast like tiny, shell-less crabs. After a moment Britto turned away, raising his own hands in a clumsy gesture of helplessness, and he was again the man she knew, dogged and ashamed.
She felt something like pity for him then: he had tried for work all day and come back to this. ‘It has got somethin’ wrong with its stomick,’ she said. ‘It can’t keep anythin’ down.’ She could not tell him what she was going to do. Not then, because she knew he would prevent her; and perhaps never – not only because of the thrashing, but because such a hurt to his pride would make him unpredictable and she was afraid he might leave her. She could conceal the money, she could say it came from somewhere else, she would think of something. ‘You goin’ out again?’ she said, looking at both men.
‘Not me,’ Deakin said. ‘I’ll get my gear together. I want to get an early start. Not that I have got much,’ he added with a faint smile.
‘There is cockfightin’ over behind the Pickerel,’ Britto said. ‘I had a hand in trainin’ two of them. The owner might put somethin’ on for me.’
She knew this indirectness meant he wanted to go but would stay if she liked – the look of the baby had softened him. ‘When’s that then?’
‘Ten o’clock. They’re fightin’ our birds first.’
‘You go,’ she said. ‘You might win somethin’.’
Britto grinned, relieved at her change of tone. ‘That would make a change.’
‘I’m goin’ out to see about some washin’. There is a bit of bacon an’ some ’taters in the stove. You could hot ’em up.’
She put on bonnet and shawl and went out quickly without looking any more at Deakin. The Bell was the inn named on the poster. It was a mile off but the rain had stopped now and the moon rose clear in the sky. At the inn she was directed upstairs, where she found two men at a table.
‘You the ones takin’ on crew for a slaver?’
‘That’s right, my pretty. Hunnerd per cent.’ The man who answered her was sharp-faced and smiling and had an alert, peering sort of way with his eyes. ‘Liverpool Merchant,’ he said, ‘a spanking new ship that anyone would be proud to sail with, only we ain’t takin’ any ladies on, not this partikkler voyage.’
‘Mr Barton, you go too fast,’ the other said in a hoarse monotone. He was in a grey wig and a stiff blue coat with brass buttons and his cocked hat lay on the table before him.
‘You the skipper?’ she said. ‘I know where there is a man for you. I can tell you where you can find him. Once you get a hold of him, he can’t choose but go. He’s run from the navy.’
‘Has he so? Been treating you badly, has he? You tell us where he has put into, my dear, we will take him off your hands.’
‘I can take you,’ she said. ‘I can show you the place. If we was to go now we would find him on his own. How