If, at the other end of the scale, you wished to be sprawled out upon the Berkley Horse and scourged like our Saviour, then Francine the Frenchwoman would lay it on with cold intent and no little artistry.
If, however, you were a flagellomaniac, this was not the house for you.
Pain supplied but not accepted; that was the motto.
This was the Just Land. Run like a ship of state.
But now, everything was sliding. This was Hannah’s observation as she looked down at her mistress. There was a man somewhere, gumming up the works. A sticky-fingered man, she could smell him on the breeze.
Jean had taken to leaving of an evening, coming back late into the night, leaving for destinations unknown to Hannah and returning from same, driven in her coach by the giant Angus Dalrymple who was as close-mouthed as a healthy oyster.
No use asking him and even less use asking Jean who regarded her personal life as a private affair. But in Hannah’s view there was no such thing as privacy. To be a bawdy-hoose keeper was to accept the twin requisitions of supply and demand.
And the girls were getting restless in their commander’s continued absence. Lippy. Discipline was slipping. Hannah hated to admit a limitation of her iron hand but the place needed the calm authority of Jean Brash, and without that stillness at the centre, things began to drop from the periphery like pots off a tinker’s cart.
‘Are ye going out tonight, mistress?’ she asked.
Jean’s mind had a picture from the previous night of her lover, waving goodbye then turning to stride off down the street. She had craned her neck out of the carriage to see if he looked back.
Not even once. But nothing in the rules said you had to look back.
‘I don’t yet know,’ she answered Hannah.
‘The girls would appreciate your presence.’
‘Surely you can keep them in line?’
‘It’s not the same,’ answered Hannah.
And so they left it there.
11
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Henry VIII
Leith, 1836
The big boy had plenty of time. His opponent was doubled up in pain, nose bloody, crouched over, unable to move any further. The other boys behind yelped and howled like a pack of wild dogs that could sense the kill.
‘Say it.’ The big boy licked his lips. This was the best bit, the moment before he put his hard Protestant fist into the wee porker’s belly, the silence that invited the blow, the pure release of a long hatred. ‘Say it. I kiss the Pope’s arse, on my knees, his big fat arse. Say it!’
No response came from the crumpled form. The big boy had been hammering with his fist and boots for near the length of the narrow passage that led to the wee porker’s wynd. If he’d got through there he’d be safe but they’d bottled up both ends and let the big boy loose. The porker had made no attempt to fight just taken the blows one after the other, hunched over like a dumb animal
‘I’ll give ye one more chance. Say it. I piss in Holy Water and drink it every day. Say it!’
Nothing. Ah well. Work to be done.
‘Scour him good, Herkie. Break his bones!’
This shout from the pack brought his head round to glare them all to silence. It was his show.
He swaggered forward and savoured the moment. Not a sound except for the laboured breathing of his blood-anointed target.
Where to begin? The other had covered up, crouched, body bent, arms over his head, turned to the wall, protecting all the vital parts.
Of course he could start with the kidneys. Always a safe bet, some hard punches there would bring the quarry round but his hands were sore, plus he wasn’t in a kidney mood. And he had a secret weapon.
He flexed his feet inside the heavy boots. Each leather toe was capped with a lead plate. His father worked in a foundry and had fitted them himself.
Taking aim carefully, he launched a kick at the other’s leg, just above the ankle, crunching into the bone. A cry of pain. Another kick, then one more for luck.
In agony, the small boy turned round to clutch at his legs and Herkie grabbed his hair, pulling him upright so that he could look into the white face, contorted in pain but the eyes curiously blank, slate-grey, staring into his.
He put four punches into the belly. That was what he liked best. Other folk preferred the face but he was a belly man. One, two, three, four. The grey eyes did not change but suddenly a jet of bile shot out of the boy’s mouth all over his assailant.
Herkie reeled back.
‘That’s no’ fair. Aw, look at this, my Mammy’ll kill me!’
His clothes were spattered with the yellow discharge and the sight provoked some hastily suppressed giggles from the watching pack.
He turned back and aimed a wild kick at the other who had by this time fallen on his hands and knees. The kick missed by a mile.
‘Ye dirty wee Pape. Dirty wee swine. Yer mother cut her own throat and bled all over her knickers. A’body knows that. Catholic bitch. C’mon boys!’
In righteous indignation, he led the pack way towards the other exit of the passage but as they reached it, a voice stopped them.
‘I’m no’ done yet.’
They turned to see the fallen boy had somehow pulled himself upright and was standing with his small hands held in front of him in the parody of a pugilist’s stance.
‘No’ done,’ he said.
For a moment there was a flash of primitive fear on Herkie’s face, then, realising that the eyes of the pack were upon him, his anger rose and he prepared to move back towards the swaying figure.
‘Jamie? Jamie, is that you?’ called a voice and they all took to their heels as a female figure approached from the wynd.
Jean Scott took the scene in at a glance, scooped the boy protectively into her ample stomach and shouted after the disappearing pack.
‘If I catch ye, I’ll leather your backsides ye spawn o’ Satan!’
She held the boy tight and sighed. This had happened before and would happen again. He was an outcast.
Jean pulled him away from her and tutted to herself.
‘Look at the mess of your face,’ she scolded as if it was all his fault, whipped out a hankie, spat in it, and began to wipe the blood from his skin. His slate-grey eyes gazed at her and it broke her heart, but she had to be practical, tears got you nowhere.
‘I never win a fight,’ he said.
