The Body at the Tower - By Y. S. Lee Page 0,13
thing: girls could hold grudges for ever and a day, but it seemed Jenkins really had forgotten the fight. He quizzed her as they walked around the perimeter of the site. “You go to Harky’s church?”
“No.”
“How’d you get the job, then?”
She shrugged. “Said I needed it.”
Jenkins examined her through slitted eyes. “Hmph.”
“How’d you get your job?” And why was simply asking for one so improbable?
“Most of us boys here is the same: got in through our old men.”
“How old are you?”
“How old d’you think?”
Mary looked at him carefully. He was a scrawny, freckly little thing – an eight-year-old with an old man’s eyes. “Thirteen.”
He looked gratified. “Thirteen next month. How old’s you?”
“Twelve.”
“This ain’t your first job, then.”
“First job on a building site,” said Mary, truthfully enough. She looked about. “Where’re we going?”
A sly look crossed Jenkins’s swollen face. “Sure you’s not churchy?”
“I’ve already said I’m not.”
“Not a teetotaller?”
“A teetotaller?” It was a large word for a boy like Jenkins.
“One of ’em what thinks a little beer is poison.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then how come you’s Harky’s pet?”
“How can I be his pet when I only started today?” This was exactly what she’d feared – but Jenkins’s answer surprised her.
“You’s on the tea round. Took me a year ’n a half to get on the tea round, and here you are on your first day taking it over.”
Mary was mystified. “I don’t know why that is. And what’s so special about the tea round, anyway?”
Jenkins looked at her suspiciously. “If I tell you, you got to share the take.”
Take? Mary had a sudden idea of what that might be: teetotalling plus tea-drinking could equal a nice little profit. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I don’t mind sharing. What is it?”
“We’ll go halves,” Jenkins persisted.
“Halves on what?”
Jenkins was becoming agitated again, and their pace accelerated. By this time, they’d done two full circuits of the building site. “You can’t tell Harky.”
“All right,” Mary said promptly.
“Promise!”
“Promise.”
“Swear on your mother’s life?”
“She’s dead.”
“Then swear on her grave!” he insisted.
“I swear. Now, what are you talking about?”
Jenkins grinned, then winced. His cheek was already bruising. “I’ll show you.”
They began with the joiners, who greeted Jenkins with sharp, plaintive relief. Why was he so late that morning? They’d all but given up hope. Who’s the other lad? New tea boy. Ah. They wanted how much? Why, the bleedin’ little highwaymen … and, to a man, they dug into their pockets, came up with a couple of coins and tossed them to Jenkins with grumpy satisfaction.
Jenkins and Mary made a full circuit of the building site, and Mary realized with excitement what an extraordinarily perfect task it was for her. In this way, she met nearly every artisan and labourer on site. They knew who she was; she would soon know their domains; and she would have a reason to visit them all on a regular basis, and have a quick chat besides. It was nothing short of miraculous – as though Harkness were aware of her true assignment.
“Does everybody give you some money?” she asked Jenkins. “Apart from Mr Harkness?”
Jenkins looked at her as though she was daft. “’Course they do! Who wouldn’t?”
After canvassing each worker on site, Jenkins had a heavy pocketful of coppers that clinked pleasantly as he led Mary to a nearby public house. Apart from its name, there was nothing fresh or lovely about the Blue Bell. It was dank and dark, and the fug of a thousand gin-sodden nights was visible in the air. It was also quite full, and Mary had the strong impression that most of its denizens had been there since the night before.
Jenkins swaggered up to the bar, one hand in his pocket, and leaned on it in a self-important fashion. The bar was as high as his shoulder, which spoiled the effect somewhat.
“Late today, Master Jenkins,” said the barman. He was fat and sweat-stained.
Jenkins shrugged elaborately. “Got me ’n associate. You won’t be seeing me no more, Mr Lamb.” His voice was still a thin treble, and it sounded doubly shrill in this cave-like pub.
Mr Lamb looked at Mary without much interest. “The usual?”
Mary glanced at Jenkins. “What’s the usual?”
“Pint o’ rum,” said Jenkins with authority. “Rum every day, and whisky on Saturdays.”
As Mr Lamb filled a dirty bottle under Jenkins’s supervision, Mary glanced around the pub. The unvarnished floorboards were sticky beneath her boots. Small, furtive movements in the corners of the room suggested the presence of rats. There was one small window in the far