blue ledger. He glanced up, as though he could feel her gaze upon him, and flashed her a lightning grin. It was difficult to keep a straight face, but somehow she managed to say a plausibly Mark Quinn goodbye to Harkness before, like the other labourers, stuffing the envelope in her jacket pocket and going to the pub.
Much to her satisfaction, the Hare and Hounds was nothing like the Blue Bell. It was far from elegant, but its general atmosphere was of raucous merriment rather than sodden despair. Looking about, she could understand why working men and women enjoyed the institution of the public house. The Hare had wide, well-worn benches and tables, adequate lighting, plenty of conversation and, most importantly, good beer. This last was evident from the number of pints of ale she saw on tables, as opposed to measures of gin. It was a much more comfortable place, Mary reckoned, than a lot of labourers’ homes, and it offered company as well.
Her workmates – strange to think of them that way – were already established at a corner table, deep into their first round. It was a tightly packed scrum and few of the men noticed her approach. Those who did merely stared at her, their gazes somehow both challenging and uninterested. The stonemason who’d invited her was in the corner. Perhaps it was logical that she was shyer of the men here than she was on site – in her place, doing her job, trying to remain focused. But she was still at work here, too, she reminded herself. The thought gave her courage.
“What are you drinking?” she asked the men nearest to her.
The chap on the end turned at that. He’d been facing away, cradling his face in the hand nearer Mary, and she now realized, as their eyes met, that it was Reid. An arrow of panic shot through her but it was much too late to back down. She forced herself to look diffident.
He was visibly startled to see her but after a moment, said, “Mine’s a Landlord’s Finest.”
Apparently, what was good enough for Reid was good enough for the rest. Mary made several trips to and from the bar and on her last, the men on one bench scooted down to make room for her. Apparently, buying a round was the quickest way to acceptance. She only wished she’d thought of this five days ago.
Sticking her nose in a pint pot was an ideal way to observe people, and from where Mary sat she found herself learning in ten minutes as much about labour relations as she had all the rest of the week. Although the men tended to sit in the same corner of the pub, they still held very much to their trades. The masons sat together, beside the joiners, who passed the occasional remark with the neighbouring glaziers. The brickies were the exception, being represented only by Reid, Smith and Stubbs, but that was certainly for the best – Keenan’s presence would have destroyed everyone’s enjoyment. Together, the men were friendly enough, and the beer did the rest. The joiners, as Mary had expected, were the boisterous core of the gathering, trading gossip and shouting ever ruder jokes down the table with a view to making the new lad blush.
As the afternoon wore on, Mary found it difficult to imagine a time she’d felt uncomfortable around these men. It was almost as unlikely as their being suspicious of her. Here in the pub, they were all mates. Good mates. They’d been mates for absolutely ages. They joked about the teetotal tea break, complained about Harkness, about the slow progress of work on site, even about the new engineer.
“Now you,” said Reid, leaning across the table and fixing her with an intent, if slightly glazed, look. “You knows all about the new gent. Posh fella, ain’t he?”
Mary’s most recent pint of ale churned slowly in her stomach. “Not so posh,” she said slowly, her beer-fuddled brain scrambling to chart the conversation ahead. “Only like Harky, I’ll bet.”
Reid shook his head with slow conviction. “Swanker than old Harky, that one. I know.”
“What do you know?” demanded the man next to Mary.
“He called to Wick’s house one night after work. Gave Janey Wick a right fright – she thought Wick was in trouble again, for all he’s well dead.”
“If a bloke could get into trouble when dead, John Wick’s the one!” snorted a third. A few men rumbled with polite amusement, but