Sixpenny Girl Page 3

  ‘’S beautiful!’

  Saran woke to the sound, not sure she had not dreamed it.

  ‘Sho beautiful!’

  It was no dream. She lifted her head warily. Had someone come across them on the canalside?

  ‘It’sh lovely, they be danshing.’

  It was no stranger had wakened her. Saran watched the figure of Enoch Jacobs swaying unsteadily on his feet. He did not usually wake halfway through the night nor had she known him to sleepwalk, no matter how drunk.

  But he was sleepwalking now, acting out the dreams flitting through his brain. Should she call to him? Or had her mother not told her once that sleepwalkers should not be roused but led gently back to their bed? Fastened as she was to a clump of gorse that would be impossible.

  ‘Enoch wantsh to dansh . . .’

  Caught between wanting to call out, yet afraid of the harm a sudden waking might cause, Saran stared at the figure silhouetted against the night.

  ‘. . . Enoch wantsh to dansh . . .’

  Repeating the slurred words he lifted his hands, holding them half raised to the shoulder as he cavorted. Saran clenched her teeth on the disgust the scene aroused in her. He looked like a devil; black against the glittering moonlight he looked what he was, a devil from hell.

  As suddenly as he had begun to shamble about, Enoch Jacobs was still, his hands lowering to his sides. Saran felt a swift surge of relief. He would return to his spot now, lie down and sleep to near midday. That was many blessed hours from now. She glanced to where the moon, full and golden, gleamed serenely from a blue-black sky, and drank in its beauty, feeling her heart respond to its lustrous radiance. It had aroused such feelings in her for as long as she could remember; in childhood she had pretended it was a land of fairies, a wonderful magic world where dreams came true. The fancies had gone, passed with childhood, but the admiration of the luminous orb, of its incandescent perfection had never left her. Gazing at it now as it spilled sparkling streams of brilliant gold that reached to the water and reflected off its dark surface, glittering like jewels on the stillness, she hoped she would never lose her appreciation of such beauty.

  Across the sky a small cloud moved floating into the gilded nimbus, touching the great lambent circle teasing the light with its own diaphanous grey veil until the beams shimmered on the water, twisting, reaching downward and then twirling upward twining sinuously with and around each other like some beautiful gold-clad dancers.

  ‘You be sho lovely . . .’

  Lost in the vision of loveliness Saran had not seen Enoch Jacobs move. Glancing at him now she saw him standing on the very edge of that dark glassy ribbon, his arms reaching out over it.

  ‘. . . Enoch wantsh to dansh.’

  Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to shout, to call out a warning, wake him from the dream that had him in such danger, but the words were no more than a whisper.

  ‘Enoch wantsh to dansh wi’ you, he—’

  But the remainder was lost in the splash as he stepped into the water.

  3

  He had walked into the water, arms stretched out before him as though reaching for something. Enoch Jacobs had stepped straight into the canal! Saran stared into the paling dawn. She had tried calling to him but after so many hours without a drink her throat had been hoarse and dry, so her call sounded little more than a croak; but had it been the roar of a bull it was doubtful it would have turned him from his purpose for Enoch Jacobs had seemed like a man deep in a trance, mesmerised by something only he heard and saw.

  She had wanted to help, despite his cruelty she had wanted to save him pulling against the rope yoking her to the bushes until it had rubbed her flesh raw, but it had been hopeless, he had knotted the rope too well. She had heard the thresh of the water. Closing her eyes Saran tried to free her mind of the picture that had played there over and over through the remaining night hours and now was repeating again, but it was no use, the horror just went on and she saw again the stocky figure etched black in the moonlight, arms straight out in front of him . . . and the voice . . . she had not realised last night but, though the slur of a drunken man, it had held a note almost of ecstasy, as if he were watching something beautiful; then, drawn by a desire that echoed in his last call, he had deliberately stepped from the towpath!

  ‘Cripes, missis, yer frightened the life outta me!’

  Her eyes springing open, her heart drumming like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse, Saran instinctively drew back against the bush.

  ‘I d’ain’t see you sittin’ there . . . Lord, you give me a fair shock.’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry.’ She swallowed hard, trying to still the shaking of her voice as she looked at the boy who had spoken to her.

  ‘T’ain’t your fault.’ He grinned, showing strong teeth. ‘It was just I weren’t prepared, like . . . I’d expected to see yer gone.’

  Gone? Saran was confused. The lad spoke as if he knew her but they had never met before this moment.

  ‘How come your old man d’ain’t tek you as bargained? Or mebbe ’e did then come back to this place for a second sale. I ’ave to say there was more than one with ’is coppers in ’is ’and. Where is the old bas— your father? Can’t say I be in a monkey’s wrostle to meet ’im.’

  She had been in no hurry to meet with Enoch Jacobs either. Saran got to her feet as the lad turned to go.

  ‘Wait . . . please . . . what did you mean when you said you did not expect to see me here?’

  Glancing both ways along the towpath the boy hesitated. It was obvious he was nervous, that he wanted to be off, but when Saran repeated her question he moved a step closer into the shelter of the clump of bushes that hid them from view of the tavern.

  ‘I ’eard ’em talkin’.’ Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket he squatted beside her. ‘I’d done a job for the landlord and in return ’e let me sleep the night in a cubby ’ole next to the chimney. It was from there I ’eard ’em, two men talkin’ of a sale of some sort . . . one were sayin’ that six shillin’ were too much even for one which hadn’t bin tried. I wondered what it were they were on about so I listened some more. “Never had a man astride ’er,” so the first voice said but the second were quick wi’ an’ answer: “If that be the case,” ’e said, “how do I know her will come up to scratch?” I took a peek then, seen the red-faced ’un laughing. He took a swig from his tankard then said her’d go the same way as her mother and sister; if the wench d’ain’t prove as he’d promised then he’d sell ’er for half a crown. That were when it were agreed; for five shillin’ the second one had ’imself a vir—’ The boy paused, his sharp-boned face blushing deep pink. ‘Had a wench he could keep forra whole night.’

  It was her! The boy was talking about her! Saran felt the blood slow in her veins. Enoch Jacobs had intended to trade her for a few shillings. But he had come from that tavern alone . . . why had the other man not come with him?

  Unaware she had whispered the words aloud she only half heard the quickly spoken reply.

  ‘That was what I thought meself when they went on drinkin’, he’s paid his five bob so why not collect the goods, so to speak. But they both went on swillin’ ale like there’d never be another drop; the red-faced ’un spendin’ the five bob quick as he’d come by it, payin’ one round after the t’other wi’out a thought to keepin’ a penny of it for the next day.’

  Why would he? Saran sank to the ground, staring again at that spot on the water. Why would Enoch Jacobs have had a thought for money when he could make more by using his stepdaughter as a prostitute?

  ‘I reckon them goods bein’ hired out were you.’ Beside her the boy talked on. ‘That ’eavy-jowled one, the one free an’ easy in his spendin’ said ’e had the wench fastened up good and tight close by and that rope around your neck and ’ands tells me I ain’t no mile off the mark.’

  He was bang on the mark. Hot tears scalding behind her lids Saran stared helplessly at the bonds that had bitten deeply into her w
rists as she had struggled to reach the figure on the towpath. She had been hired out . . .

  ‘Look,’ the lad twisted to look at her, ‘t’ain’t none o’ my business, that I knows, but it don’t seem right for a wench to be trussed like a sow for market . . . I could ’ave that rope off and chucked in the cut afore old beer guts gets back from wherever it be he’s gone to.’

  ‘He . . . he won’t be back,’ Saran murmured, ‘he won’t ever be back.’

  ‘Left you, ’as ’e?’ Nimble fingers busy with the cord that held her wrists, the boy talked hurriedly as though every second he stayed with her placed him in danger. ‘No loss to my way of reckonin’ but the other one still be in that tavern; he passed out dead drunk an’ the landlord said to put ’im to bed and set the cost to his bill, but ’e won’t sleep the ’ole day so unless you feels like honourin’ a bargain you d’ain’t ’ave the mekin’ of I suggest you hop it sharpish.’

  Removing the cord as he finished speaking the lad coiled it, then, tucking one end between the loops so it would not undo, he hurled it into the centre of the canal glittering now as the newly risen sun dappled its surface.

  ‘I have nowhere to go.’ Watching the rippling circles spread and disappear, leaving the ribbon of water smooth and calm as before, Saran felt the strike of true emptiness. She had hated Enoch Jacobs and, yes, she had wanted him dead, but his presence had been a strange comfort, it had meant she was not entirely alone. But now that reassurance was gone and life was showing her a new fear.

  The lad was on his feet, his glance travelling the towpath. ‘Ain’t you got no relations . . . somebody who would tek you in?’

  ‘I . . . I have a mother and a sister . . .’

  ‘Well, theer you am then . . . all you need do is—’

  ‘I don’t know where they are.’ Saran went on like someone caught in a horrible dream, a nightmare that shut out reality. ‘Enoch, my stepfather . . . he . . . he . . .’

  Watching the tears break free coursing down Saran’s cheeks the lad seemed suddenly a man. ‘You don’t ’ave to tell me,’ he said quietly. ‘The old swine has them hired out as he intended doin’ with you.’

  If only that were true it would be better than it was now, for at least she would see them, know if they were well! With sobs thickening her throat, Saran shook her head. ‘He did not hire them out.’ She stared again at the glistening water, and when she spoke it was a trembling whisper. ‘Enoch Jacobs sold my family.’

  Following the narrow strip of ground worn bare of grass by the tramp of men leading barge horses, Saran glanced at the lad trudging beside her. Taller than Miriam and possibly a year or two older, he had taken command of the situation. Catching her by the hand he had pulled her to her feet, running with her until that tavern was not even a speck on the horizon. But she ought not to have left that place, she should have gone to the nearest town and explained to the constable there what had happened.

  ‘I reckons we should leave the cut.’ The lad glanced behind, clearly ill at ease. ‘We sticks out like a sore thumb walking this towpath, best mek for a town; we’ll be less likely to be taken note of among a crowd.’

  His eyes were blue as Miriam’s! Saran caught his quick glance then shook her head. ‘I have to go back,’ she said quietly, ‘my stepfather . . .’

  Quiet and assertive as he had been when pulling her to her feet outside of that tavern, the boy’s youth fell away from him once more. ‘Your stepfather be dead and there be nuthin’ you can do to alter that. You ’ave a life to lead and a family to search for; go back to that beerhouse, send for the constable and by the time you’ve told him what was done to you and your’n you’ll find yourself up afore the bench accused of murder.’

  ‘Murder!’ Saran gasped. ‘That’s ridiculous, I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .’

  Coming to a standstill the lad half laughed. ‘P’raps not but who do you think will believe that? And while we be on the subject, tek this into consideration: there were nobody to see what truly ’appened, nobody to swear on the book they seen your stepfather fall into the cut. The coppers and magistrate will want somebody to answer for a dead body found floatin’ and you’ll do very nicely. I say forget him!’

  Would it happen as he had said, would she be suspected of murder? Saran’s feet moved slowly behind the lad now moving on. An enquiry could take weeks, possibly months . . . she might be kept locked away in prison and in that time her family could be taken anywhere!

  ‘Luke!’ Calling the name the lad had told her was his, she caught up when he turned to wait. ‘Luke, I—’

  Luke Hipton pushed a welter of brown hair back from a broad forehead with a movement of exasperation. ‘Look,’ he said flatly, ‘I’ve told what it be I thinks you should do, whether you does it or not that be up to yourself; as for me I’m goin’ to ask at yonder cottage for a drink of water then I be mekin’ for a town, like I said.’

  Following the line of his finger, Saran saw the tiny house that, but for his sharp eye, would have gone unnoticed, set as it was in the curve of a low hill. Smoke curled thinly from its chimney and was immediately lost in cloud lowering in the sky. A drink of water would be welcome.

  There was no fence about the low-roofed cottage, no gate or path leading to its door, while an overgrown patch of wild flowers claiming to be a garden nestled beneath the minute window. Waiting some way off, Saran watched the lad knock at the door, then moments later turn and shrug his shoulders with a gesture that implied there was no one at home.

  ‘Come on,’ he called, smiling, ‘they won’t mind we tekin’ a drink from their well.’

  Luke should not be going to the rear of the house . . . they should not be here at all . . . taking that which was not offered was like stealing . . .

  ‘He be right, Harriet Dowen refuses no traveller a drink.’

  Startled by the quiet voice Saran swung round, catching her breath at the sight of a face of which half was blemished with the deep red stain of a birthmark. ‘I . . . I ask your pardon,’ she stammered. ‘Luke . . . we . . . we meant no harm.’

  ‘That I knows,’ the woman answered. ‘Yourself would have passed on by but the lad . . .’

  ‘Luke would not steal anything, he . . . he only wanted a drink of water.’

  Sharp eyes glittering beneath her cotton bonnet the woman nodded. ‘That also I knows and you both be welcome to it but there be a kettle boiling atop the fire and a slice of bread and a bite o’ roast fowl in the larder if you have a mind for it and I reckons it wouldn’t go amiss for there be a look of weariness about you.’

  ‘There be only a bucket so if you wants a drink you’ll ’ave to come round . . .’ Luke’s words died on his lips as he rounded the corner of the cottage.

  ‘I think the wench would manage better if ’n her drinks from a cup, and if you would prefer tea then we could find one for you an’ all.’

  If only he would look at her . . . if she could catch his eye, tell him with a look she would rather not stay, that she felt uncomfortable imposing on a woman she had never met before and would rather he took his drink of water and they could move on. But he had already decided otherwise; grabbing her wrist as he followed the dark-skirted figure, he drew her after him.

  Inside, the room was dim after the stronger light of day but the fire burning in the grate flickered over pretty chintz and cupboards gleaming from daily rubbing away of dust. Laying her basket on a table covered with a spotless cloth the woman removed her shawl, hanging it on a peg beside the door.

  ‘Sit you down at the fireside,’ she said, reaching for a teapot covered with brightly painted flowers.

  Twisting her fingers awkwardly with her skirt, Saran asked, ‘May I help . . . please, I’d rather.’

  ‘I understands.’ The blemished mouth gave the shadow of a smile. ‘Busy fingers helps lift a load from the mind. See you then to the mekin’ of a pot of tea, you’ll find all you needs in that cupboard and I’ll bring milk from the scullery.’

  Taking up h
er basket the woman drew aside a heavy chenille curtain draping a tiny square passage, which no doubt gave on to a scullery. Watching her go, Saran reached cups from the dresser, setting them on the table before reaching for a pottery jar painted with the same array of brilliant flowers as the teapot. Finding her guess correct that this served as a tea caddy, she spooned some of the dark leaves into the pot then scalded it with water from the kettle. Brewing tea would keep her fingers busy, she thought, putting the teapot on the hob to infuse, but nothing would lift the burden from her mind. Enoch Jacobs was dead, drowned, and evil as he had been to her and her family, she should have seen to the recovery of his body, seen to his burying, but instead she had run away. Guilt at the wrongness of her action making her hands shake, she took the jug with its beaded cover, avoiding the eyes of the woman handing it to her.

  If her trembling hands had been noticed they brought no comment. Placing the food on the table the woman waved Luke to a chair beside it then bowed her head, offering a prayer for the bounty of heaven and the grace of the Lord.

  ‘Amen.’ Saran added her own whisper to Luke’s enthusiastic reply.

  ‘The meal be sparse but the welcome be plentiful.’ The woman placed thick slices of meat on blue-rimmed plates, passing one to each of them.

  After the long days of hunger the meal was a banquet, but the kindness with which it was given filled her throat and Saran could not eat. Knowing it must appear gross ingratitude she tried to apologise, but the older woman dismissed it with a quick wave of the hand.