‘What is that boy doing?’ Clovis asks.
‘He said he needed the air, mistress.’
‘The air – by the river? Idiot.’
Clovis is in a particularly amiable mood, otherwise Willa would not like to think of what her mistress might do to Jonesy.
He does not see them at first, and is therefore unaware that he is being observed in this particular way, out of his element. He stands amongst the flotsam and jetsam that the tide has washed up. The wind and the currents have delivered dead dogs, bits of coal, bottles and human bones. A battered boat is beached and another is raised on logs for repair. Beside Jonesy, a flaxen-haired sailor stands so closely that a sheet of paper would struggle to fit between them. Jonesy shyly raises his eyes to the young man’s face.
Willa thinks Jonesy looks somehow more present and attentive than usual. He is ugly, she has always thought so, but here in the light of a waning day, beside the sailor who seems to be torn from a piece of the sun, he looks hideous. With his golden hair and skin, the sailor is an image of everything bright; piercing, shiny eyes and teeth so white that when he smiles at Jonesy she can see them sparkling from where she stands. Now she is caught up in the design of the sailor’s uniform not having noticed it on the streets before now. Not in this way. It is a new cut. How revealing it is. The sailor seems entirely comfortable, if not quite the cockerel in his short jacket. The shape of his buttocks is defined, the muscles perfectly formed as he stands in the dusk. All these wondrous aspects are usually hidden from view under a man’s long coat. The sailor turns now. The flap of his horizontal crotch is tightly buttoned against him, exposing a distinct bulge. A blush rises to Willa’s face and something in her stirs.
Jonesy notices Willa now, and Mistress, too. His expression changes. Willa expects a friendly wave, but he wears that ill look again. He turns away and says something to the sailor, who laughs, but Jonesy does not. He quickly runs towards his mistress, his long, layered tunics billowing, his sandals flapping against the uneven shore. The sailor laughs again. Jonesy must have said something amusing, which is not like him at all, or perhaps the sailor is laughing at Jonesy’s bad English? she thinks.
This is not at all what Clovis mulls over. She nurtures her own thoughts and they are quite different. Well, this evening has taken a turn. Her head tilts slightly as Jonesy runs even faster towards them. He has not far to run, but he breathes heavily and bows low and asks for forgiveness for not remaining in the Fitzgerald’s kitchen with Willa.
‘Look at me,’ Clovis commands.
When he rises from his deep bow, his head remains lowered.
‘I will not tell you again.’
He raises his head and looks into her scrutinizing eyes.
What he beholds is so subtle, but so powerful that he feels his thudding pulse and blood coursing through him. He cannot control the lantern rattling in his hand. Clovis has a dangerous look about her that conveys to him what she has deduced. Her lips form the slightest of knowing smiles.
Her gaze remains locked on Jonesy as she says to Willa, ‘Here, take it. It smells.’ She hands over the baby as if it is diseased. ‘Home now,’ she orders. ‘The wind becomes angry.’
In their short walk back to Three Colt Street the changeover from day industry to evening is everywhere apparent. Here on the fringe of the city they pass the ropery where much of the work is done outdoors. During the day the scene is rich with hearty men hand-dressing and spinning, twisting and walking backwards and forwards over the ground until they cover miles in the same stretch of land – their ropewalk. Wrapped around the men’s waists like skirts, the fibre bundles are pulled and drawn around a twisting wheel. Tonight the rope-makers scurry against the force of the thrashing wind to secure the long strands of yarn into the sheds. The sharp stink of tar carries into the streets. Willa covers the baby’s face as they hurry past.
A black-clothed, slender figure of a man skirts the edges of the ropewalk. A beaver low topper, also black, protects his head and he tilts its worn rim forward keeping his eyes trained on the three who round the corner to Three Colt Street. Every detail of his grooming suggests his place in society. His suit of clothing is worn but not yet shiny or frayed. A clean shirt sits stiffly under his waistcoat. His moustache is neat and tidy. He has achieved his wish to appear as ‘any man’, and therefore has the ability to fade from view in the crowded streets and dark alleys of Sailortown. He follows Clovis and her wards, barely a shadow behind them. When the fog thickens and almost extinguishes the light of the man’s lantern, the baby’s cries guide him. The shadow man, Benedikt, picks up his pace. The cries are louder and hint at distress. He edges too close, for the young man with the long plait stops, turns and raises the lantern higher, seeking to discover who follows. The man falls back and flattens his body against the brick wall of a jutting house. When they reach their doorstep, Benedikt strides past them, taking the curve of the street and disappears from view.
The baby has not stopped crying since they left the Fitzgeralds. He still cries when they open the door on Three Colt Street. Clovis speaks above the racket.
‘See to him right away, Willa. And Jonesy, bring up hot water, I … Why are you sitting there like that?’ she says to her husband.
‘Why have you been gone so long?’
