Part 4 (2/2)

'They are,' he agrees, and we fall back into step.

The evening is chilly: he is wrapped up in his coat like a boatman, breath standing before him, humming some tune I do not recognise. I try not to interrupt him. It is difficult. At last I speak.

'About today-' I start.

'It is of no consequence,' he snaps, picking up the pace again.

'But it was-'

'It was nothing!' he cries. 'It was a difficult day. That bullock! G.o.d, how it wouldn't die! Enough to make any man see things.'

'But, Alfred, at the slaughter-house-'

'I do not want to talk about it. In fact, I remember nothing.'

'Alfred-'

'I said, I do not want to talk about it. Get a move on,' he grunts. 'It is time to get some food inside us.'

'Oh.'

My mouth fills with water.

'That's the job. Think of that. Nothing else.'

'Yes. You are right.'

He breathes out heavily, clouding the air around his head.

'Of course I am. No more rambling. I'm freezing. Let's get back and get this lot cooked. Of a sudden I have a powerful hunger upon me. Think how good it'll taste. Any meat you've had a hand in is a clean and cheerful dish.'

He slaps my shoulder. I know that the events of today have brought me close to grasping something, but it is already beginning to slip away. If he would talk to me, maybe I could fix my understanding. But he will not.

We walk in silence to our lodging house, a narrow squeeze of a building caught between the muscular shoulders of the tenements to each side. Ours is little different, except the bricks are perhaps grimier, the steps to our cellar a little more slippery with spilt beer and bacon fat, the straw in our pallia.s.ses a little older. But there are just as many folk squeezed into the upper floors three families to a room as I hear it. Their babies squall as l.u.s.tily; their men and women argue just as cantankerously. It is our crowded ark, one of an armada of vessels crammed thick with humanity. I have no desire to move from my cellar, where everything is cosy and peaceful by comparison.

A woman from one of the upstairs rooms cooks the meat, and there is plenty to share. All the cellar-men fill up the kitchen, joining in the feast of my good fortune. One man brings beer, another, bread; for this is our way of a night. We eat until Alfred's bad humour is quite taken away, and we are friendly once again. When we have finished, we return to the cellar and Alfred finds our pallets as sure as a seagull finds its nest from the hundreds on a cliff. I stretch out, cradled in the comfort of my companions patting their stomachs, smacking their lips and wiping gravy off their chins.

Alfred lolls on his elbow, picking at his buckled teeth with a straw. His rough sandy hair stands up in surprised tufts. He s.h.i.+fts his thin hips, cracks out a fart and laughs at the sound. His mouth is soft, for all his endeavours to hide it beneath a broad moustache.

'You know what, Abel?' he muses. 'When we strike it rich, we'll be out of here. Get a nicer room.'

'Why would we want that? There are so many friends here.'

He scowls. 'So I'm just one of many, am I?'

'Not at all, Alfred. You are my dearest friend.'

'Ah, get away with you.'

He is pleased, and I do not know why he demurs. It is true: I would not find my way through each day without his guidance. The thought is alarming, so I push it away. He clears his throat.

'Time to reckon up, Abel.' He rubs his palms together in pleasure. 'Our little ritual.'

And I remember: every night before we turn in, I count out our wages.

'This is for lodging,' I say. 'This for breakfast. And midday food. This for drink. And this left over.'

'More drink?' says Alfred.

'Hmm. No. I need better boots.'

'That will not buy you boots.'

'Then I shall save each day until I have enough.' I hand the money to him. 'Will you keep it safe for me? I lose things, you know. I will forget where I have put it.'

Alfred laughs. 'You'd forget your head!'

'Yes, you're a wooden-head, and no mistake!' calls a man further down the row of sacks.

'Old dozy!' another man takes up the cry.

'It is true,' I say, for so it is.

'Come on, lads,' mutters Alfred.

'Oh, we like him, Alfred; even if he is tuppence missing.'

'You know there's no harm in it.'

One of them punches my upper arm. 'You're our lucky charm.'

'Not one of us has got hurt since you joined us.'

'So we're not going to chase you off, eh?'

'Not our Abel.'

'You're a bit of a miracle, as I hear it.'

'Fished you out of the mud, they did.'

'You were mostly mud yourself.'

'You should of been a goner. By all accounts.'

'No-one as goes in the river comes out. Save you.'

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