clothes she wore were downright ordinary. He'd seen just as good on women near the docks when they went out on Sundays. But there was something extra in her face, especially in her eyes, and when she smiled, as if she could see things other people didn't even think of.
He always used to think that women were nice, and certainly useful in the house, the best of them. But most of them had to be told what to do, and they were weak, and scared, when it came to fighting. Looking after important things was men's work; protecting, fighting, seeing that nobody stepped out of line had to be done by a man. And for clever things, it was always men, of course. That went without anybody needing to say it.
Hester was smiling at him, but there were tears in her eyes, and she blinked quickly when she talked about the soldiers dying, the ones she couldn't help. He knew what that felt like, the ache in your throat so big you couldn't swallow, the way you kept gulping breath, but it didn't get any better, nor did the tightness go out of your chest.
But she didn't cry. He hoped to goodness Mr. Monk looked after her properly. She was a bit thin. Usually real ladies had a bit more... softness... about them. Somebody should take care of her.
"Yer gonna 'ave another piece o' toast?" he asked.
"Would you like one?" She misunderstood him. He was not asking for himself.
"Will yer 'ave one?" he changed his approach. "I'll make it fer yer. I know 'ow ter make toast."
"Thank you," she accepted. "That would be very nice. Perhaps I should boil the kettle again?" She began to rise.
"I'll do it!" He stepped in her way so she had to sit down. "All I gotta do is move it over on ter the 'eat."
"Thank you," she said again, slightly puzzled, but willing to accept.
Very carefully indeed he cut two more slices of bread, a little thick, a trifle crooked, but good enough. He put them on the toasting fork and held them to the open door of the stove. This was not going to be easy, but he could look after her. It needed doing, and it was his new job. He would see to it from now on.
The toast started to smoke. He turned it round just before it burnt. He had better concentrate.
Hester had debated whether to take Scuff with her or not when she went back to look further into Durban 's history and whether the charges against him were in any part true. The matter was taken out of her hands by Scuff himself. He simply came.
"I'm not sure..." she began.
He smiled at her, continuing to look oddly important. "You need me," he said simply, then fell in step beside her as if that settled the matter.
She drew in her breath to argue, and found that she had no idea how to tell him that she did not really need him. The silence grew until it became impossible, and by default she had accepted that she did.
As it transpired, he helped her find most of the people she eventually wished to speak to. It was long and tiring walking from one narrow, crowded street to another, arguing, asking, pleading for information and then trying to sort out the lies and the mistakes and find the elements of truth. Scuff was better at that than she was. He had a sharp instinct for evasion and manipulation. He was also more prepared than she to threaten or call a bluff.
"Don't let 'em get away with nothin'!" he said to her urgently as they left one smooth-tongued man with a wispy black mustache. "That's a load o'..." He bit his tongue to avoid the word he had been going to use. "I reckon as it were Mr. Durban 'as pulled 'im out o' the muck, an' 'e's too... mean ter say it. That's wot that is." He stood in the middle of the narrow pavement looking up at her seriously.
A costermonger wheeled his barrow past them, knowing at a glance that she would not buy.
"Yer din't ought ter b'lieve every stupid sod as tells yer," Scuff continued. "Well, yer din't," he granted generously. "I'll tell yer if it's true or not. We better go and find this Willie the Dip, if 'e's real."
Two washerwomen barged past them, sheets tied around dirty laundry bouncing on their ample hips.
"You don't think he is?" Hester