The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,75
he could not leave the tent without returning his mug: there would be men posted to watch out for any move of that kind, the mug being worth more than the ale contained in it. So he made his way to a far corner of the tent, where the lamps did not reach with full strength and there was a twilight zone.
However, he was no more than halfway through his drink when a woman came up close to him, bade him good evening and, finding he did not draw away, rubbed the front of her thigh against him. “You could give us a swaller o’ that, you could, mister fiddler,” she said.
This rubbing, and the thinness of the material of the woman’s skirt, worked an immediate effect on Sullivan. He had not been with a woman for a long time now, not since the days of the Florida settlement. There had been the long return to England, during which he had been kept in irons; there had been the weeks he had spent, still fettered, in prison; there had been the miracle of his escape, the sacredness of his vow, the urgent need to get away from London and escape pursuit …
“Here,” he said, handing her the mug. “I am not the man to deny a sup of ale to a lady.”
He watched her drink, saw the movement of her throat.
“I knowed you was a gen’leman soon as I set eyes on you,” she said, and paused, and drank again.
“I will go and get you a pint for yourself,” Sullivan said, but she laid a hand on his arm. “No,” she said, “don’t go away, you might forget me.”
She was not very pretty and not very young, but she had bold eyes and a painted mouth, and when her hand slipped from his arm and came gently to rest on his abdomen, he felt very constricted in his trousers, and began to lose all thought of consequences.
“S’ppose you an’ me was to go for a stroll outside,” she said. “It’s a nice night, ain’t it?” She handed him back the mug. “You better finish this.”
A final, feeble impulse of caution came to Sullivan. “How much?” he said.
“I asks two shillin’ in the usual way of things.”
“I have not got two shillin’.”
“How much have you got?”
“One shillin’ an’ eightpence halfpenny.”
“Well, I have took a fancy to you. That was a lovely song you sang, that one about Eileen. I will take a bit less this time.”
Sullivan, too much in haste to return the mug to the counter, let it fall, empty now, into the dark grass at his feet. The sense that he was getting a special price destroyed the last of his reserve, and they stepped out of the tent together.
They walked away from the lights, went through a gate into the next field, found a place near the hedge. “First we pays, then we has our fun,” the woman said, and Sullivan handed over the money. “I would spread me coat for you, if I had one,” he said. “I had a fine coat once.” The echo of an old obsession came to him, even in this moment of high excitement. “I had a fine coat once, but it was took off me back, twice I have had me buttons stole—”
“Well, I ain’t goin’ to steal ’em now,” she said. “You better unbutton them what you have got left.”
No time was wasted on further speech. The woman went down on her back, lifted up her skirt and spread her legs. There was no impediment of undergarments. Sullivan found his way and was very soon in the throes of delight. But these had barely subsided when his peace was disturbed by a light on his face, and he saw two men standing above him, both armed with heavy sticks.
“Aye, aye,” one of the men said. “What ’ave we got ’ere? A pair o’ nightbirds, ain’t we?”
Sullivan scrambled to his feet and with a gallantry he felt to be commendable at such a time held out his hand to help the woman up. “Who might you be?” he said.
“It is the constables,” the woman said.
“That is right, my pretty. You’ve ’ad to do with us before, ain’t you?”
“Don’t know you from Adam, I don’t.”
“She don’t look at the faces,” the other man said.
“I have seen somethin’ of the world an’ you do not have the look of constables to me,” Sullivan said. “You must have watched us and follered after.”