Jackdaw (11 page)

It was raining the following morning, with one of the abrupt changes of climate that Mrs. Linney assured them were quite usual in Cornwall. She had asked for Ben’s help in the huge old kitchen, tackling a problem with the pump handle. It was a two-person job on an ancient bit of machinery with which Ben wasn’t familiar. Mrs. Linney was evidently all too accustomed to it.

“Blasted thing,” she muttered, wrenching at a nut. Ben put out a hand for the spanner, which she relinquished without protest, sitting back on her heels while he applied his strength. “Makes a change, this. Must be ten year since I had help wi’ the brute.”

“Mr. Linney’s been dead ten years?” Ben asked, and could have kicked himself, because Agnes was very obviously not ten.

Mrs. Linney gave him a look that suggested she was unimpressed with his mathematics. “Four. It’s ten years since old Linney, my pa-in-law, passed. Loosen that one, now.”

“Right. Mr. Linney didn’t deal with this thing, then?”

“Didn’t deal wi’ much.” Mrs. Linney peered at the worn iron. “Arm’s slipped, there.” They worked in silence for a moment, Ben responding to nods and grunts, till she said, quite abruptly, “It’s why we stayed.”

“Uh…”

“Here, when Linney passed. He was no good—I’ve no truck wi’ nonsense about speaking ill of the dead. You deserve ill and I’ll speak it.” She gave Ben a challenging look. He nodded, in full agreement, and she went on, “No good, and my ma told me so, but I was nigh on my Bethy’s age and he was handsome before the drink took him. Well.” She handed Ben a hammer with an abstracted air. “Ma and I fell out over it, and I married him and moved here. I’m foreign here, see.”

“Where are you from?”

“Plymouth,” Mrs. Linney said, as one might say, “Far Cathay.” Ben, for whom it was all so much Cornwall, nodded wisely. She shot him a sharp glance. “Didn’t seem like I could go back wi’ tail between my legs. So I stayed here. And you?”

“Me?”

“Aye, you. Where are you from, Ben Spenser?”

“Uh, Hertfordshire. North of London.”

“Family?”

That hurt. “Parents,” Ben grunted, fixing his attention on the greasy metal shaft he was holding in place. “Brother in the army, in India. Sister married a Scot, moved to Edinburgh.” Did they know of his disgrace? His parents would surely not have written to tell them, but if their infrequent letters went unanswered, they would ask…

Mrs. Linney was watching his face. “Travelling folk, eh? Wandering legs?”

“Not me,” Ben said, heedless in the grip of regret. “I like being settled.” She raised a brow, reasonably enough, since he was here, and Ben managed an unconcerned shrug. “In the long term, I mean. Travelling’s not what I’d want for the rest of my life, that’s all. Lawrence, my brother, always wanted to cross the seas, see the world, but I’m as happy at home.”

“And yon Jonah? He doesn’t strike me as the settled sort.”

Ben had no idea how to answer that. He had no idea where Jonah’s wanderings had taken him before Berkhamsted. More, Jonah had never spoken about his family. Ben had asked once or twice, but Jonah’s answers had not been the kind that invited more questions.
We fell out
, he’d said, and since he’d said it with his hand on Ben’s cock, it had seemed obvious why.

Ben very much didn’t want a conversation about where they were going, or why he and Jonah were travelling together. Apart from anything else, he was sure that Jonah’s ready tongue had answered questions already, and that his answers wouldn’t match. “Show me how this arm fixes, now?”

They were hard at work in silence punctuated with Mrs. Linney’s brusque instructions when Bethany poked her head round the door.

“Ma…”

“Deal with it yourself,” Mrs. Linney said without looking up. “Busy.”

“But,
Ma
.”

A metal arm fell out of place, banging Mrs. Linney’s thumb. “Blast it!
Later
, Bethy.”

Bethany retreated with an irritated swish of skirts, shutting the heavy oak door with a thump that was close to a slam. Ben thought no more of it. The pump machinery was heavy and intricate but it made satisfactory sense, and he liked Mrs. Linney’s definite, unhesitant way of working.

“Good,” she said at last. “That’ll hold now. Thank you.”

“Pleasure. What’s next?”

“You’ve an appetite for work, ain’t you?”

“Seems fair. You’re feeding us well and it’s a comfortable”—
don’t say bed, don’t say bed
—“room. It’s the least we can do.”

“Well, there’s always more work here,” Mrs. Linney said. “Though what I want to know—”

Bethany pushed the door wide. A wave of chatter and laughter rolled into the kitchen with her.

“Just to tell you, Ma,” she remarked airily, planting a tray of tankards on the table. “We’ve had customers in the bar for a good half hour now.”

Mrs. Linney shot up from the floor with more haste than grace and headed through to the bar at something close to a run. Ben was close on her heels, cursing himself. They should not have left the place untended, with only a young woman in charge. He hoped the cashbox was still there.

They both stopped at the door, because Jonah was tending the bar.

A group of men filled the seats, unfamiliar faces, travellers escaping the driving rain. Bethany moved among them, serving drinks, face aglow. Jonah leaned on the heavy oak bar as if he owned it, eyes bright, reaching the climax of what was all too obviously an off-colour story.

“…like a rabbit, and
she
said, ‘Well, that’s what the stick was for.’”

There was an explosion of laughter, ringing off the walls. Hands lifted for more ale. Jonah looked round, still smiling, and caught Mrs. Linney’s stunned gaze. He lifted a finger to hold the customers off, strolled over and said, quietly, “They’ll all stay for a meal if you can feed them. I’ll swear to it.”

Mrs. Linney blinked twice and whisked back to the kitchen without a word. Jonah glanced after her, then at Ben. “Well, make yourself useful. How are you at pulling ale?”

Ben didn’t know how to do that, nor could he keep up a stream of cheerful banter and ribald stories that persuaded the crowd to stay for just one more, but he could carry trays as well as Bethany could, and his square-shouldered presence was useful when a young man’s third mug of strong home-brewed proved too much for him. He had barely got his arm around Bethany’s waist when Ben was tapping him on the shoulder with a kind but firm, “None of that, sir.” The young man started a protest, took in Ben’s uncompromising expression, flushed and let go. Ben moved away, point made, as Jonah chimed in with “Did you hear the one…” to make sure the atmosphere didn’t drop off.

“Highest takings in months,” Mrs. Linney said that evening, with immense satisfaction. Apparently some of the passing trade had been passing down to Pellore, because there had been a few more faces than usual in the bar that evening, looking with curiosity at the new barman. Ben had to give her credit: once it was apparent that Jonah could pull a pint and count money, and do both with an irresistible cheerfulness that brought responsive smiles even to the leathery faces of the fishermen, she had been quite ready to let him get on. He was, Ben thought with an absurd glow of pride, a natural at it. “Well. I owe you thanks, Jonah Pastern.”

“Not at all. I enjoyed it. Better than all that hard work Ben likes.”

“The pair of you have more than earned your stay,” Mrs. Linney said. “I’m grateful, and I’m shamed not to pay you for all you’ve done, but—”

“No need.” Jonah gave her a boyishly wheedling look. “Although if you could spare me a little time tomorrow…”

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Ben asked as they retired to the room that night.

“A few things.” Jonah must have read his face at the evasion. “I need to go to a shop, for heaven’s sake. That’s all. I want a razor and some drawers that didn’t belong to a dead man, don’t you?”

“We don’t have any money.”

“I’ve got a bit left. Don’t fret.”

Easy to say. Ben undressed, carefully not looking at Jonah, and climbed into bed. He was vividly aware of Jonah moving on the other side of the bed. His skin seemed to tingle at the closeness.

“You did well today,” he remarked, knowing it sounded abrupt. “Have you done that before?”

“No, but it’s not hard.”

“I couldn’t do it,” Ben said. “You’re good at it. At people. At charming them.”

“I don’t think I am,” Jonah said. “I don’t seem to have much luck charming you.”

Ben’s eyes snapped wide in the darkness. He had to clear his throat to say, “We both know that’s not true.”

“It wasn’t.” Jonah sounded defeated, none of the sparking gaiety there.
I do that to him
, Ben thought.
I make him sad.
“But you see through me now, don’t you? All the way to what’s inside.”

I really don’t.
“What is inside?” Ben asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Ben didn’t even think. He simply found himself rolling over, pulling Jonah close, inhaling the warm scent of his skin. “That’s not true.”

“Really?” Jonah didn’t sound convinced. “I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anything there for you. I’ve lied and stolen and run all my life. I’ve done more honest work in the last couple of days than in the ten years before. I never thought I could. And I wish I had tried, Ben. I wish I had.”

“Sssh.” Ben tightened his arm. He wanted to say it was all right, even if it would be a lie. “This isn’t bad. We can be here a while longer.”

“With you angry with me.”

“I’m not.” Ben rested his face on Jonah’s shoulder blade. “I’m not finding this easy either. I don’t know what we do, or how we go on, or if we should. But I’m glad we’ve had this.” He permitted his lips to brush Jonah’s skin, very lightly. “It’s made things better.”

“But it hasn’t made them good.”

“No.” Ben couldn’t—shouldn’t—argue with that. He rolled onto his back, releasing Jonah. “This isn’t the kind of tangle that gets unpicked overnight.”

“Are we untangling it?” Jonah sounded urgent. “I need to know, Ben. I’m trying to be what you want, and to make things different, and to live with you not liking me very much, but I don’t know how long I can
do
this—”

“I did ten weeks.” The words came out without planning, and Ben cursed himself as soon as they were uttered. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The shift of skin against linen suggested Jonah was hunching up into a ball, a mass of ruffled feathers. “You’ve every right.”

He probably did. That didn’t stop him feeling like a swine.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.”

“But you did,” Jonah said wearily. “Did the time, I mean. And nothing’s going to make that go away, is it?”

“I don’t know. But I know you’re trying and that matters. Come here.” He rolled onto his side, tugged at Jonah’s tense form, and pulled him closer. Jonah’s muscles were rigid, but Ben kept his arm there anyway, not promising anything or offering, just touching him, and they fell asleep like that, in silence, and together.

Chapter Eleven

The next morning, a Saturday, brought a request from Mrs. Linney that Ben should take a look at one of the parlour chairs. He walked into the room and was instantly caught by the sight that met his eyes: Jonah, by the shelves, and the younger daughter, Agnes, standing on a stool by him. Agnes had been only a flitting presence with a tendency to giggle and run away when she saw Ben, though she’d been out for hours in the garden with Jonah. She was aged about eight, with a mop of blonde curls topping a round face, and right now she and Jonah were looking at the little shelf of cheaply bound books.

“
The
Old Curiosity Shop
,” Agnes announced, pointing at the volume.

“I know that one too,” Jonah said. “Is there
Our Mutual Friend
?”

Agnes peered at the shelves, taking her task with the utmost seriousness. At last she shook her head. “No. That’s
The Pickwick Papers
, Ma promised me we’d read that together but she hasn’t. And that’s
The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit
.” She sounded out the last word with care. “Why can’t you read?
I
can read and I’m eight. I go to school.”

“I don’t know. I can’t learn.”

“So how did you read those other books?”

“I didn’t, silly.” Jonah mock-cuffed her across the head. She giggled. “Ben read them to me.”

“Ben’s got a frowny face,” Agnes observed dispassionately. “Like this.” She pulled a scowl.

“He does not,” Jonah said, with some indignation. “He never looked like that in his life.”

“Yerr, he does so. Like this.” She scrunched her nose until she looked like a maddened rabbit.

“More like this,” Ben put in from the door. Agnes swung round with her hands to her mouth, saw the terrifying grimace Ben was straining his facial muscles to produce, and shrieked with delighted terror.

“Monster! Monster!”

“Takes one to know one,” Jonah told her. “Your mother’s calling.”

Agnes cocked her head, hearing her name bellowed. She contemplated Ben for a moment, pulled another horrible face with startling suddenness, and fled.

“Frowny.” Jonah grinned at him. “Look, Ben, they’ve Dickens here. I don’t suppose… I know we’re busy, but maybe on Sunday?”

It was so tempting, and so foolish. Another stone in the reconstruction of what they’d shared. Another link reforged in the chain that bound them.

“We won’t be here long enough to finish one,” Ben said. He meant it, too. It would be agonising to bring back those blissful days, and dangerous to their fragile peace, and he didn’t want his memories tainted any further.

Jonah swallowed, and nodded. “Of course. Sorry.”

“I mean, not a novel.” Ben couldn’t stop himself. He was so tired of pushing away Jonah’s efforts, tired of being ungracious, tired of the load of resentment that had come to feel like a burden he wanted nothing more than to put down and abandon forever. It surely could do no harm, he told himself, though he was aware that his resolve had wilted like wet paper at the expression in Jonah’s eyes. “But,
Pickwick
’s all bits and pieces as I remember, short stories and episodes. I suppose we could start…”

“On Sunday?” Jonah’s eyes lit—he did adore stories—and Ben couldn’t stop himself smiling as he nodded.

Jonah vanished shortly afterwards to shop. Mrs. Linney muttered an awful warning about the difficulty of finding a carter to take him to Looe. “He’ll walk,” Ben assured her, since it was a half-truth, hoping Jonah had the sense to be discreet in his movements.

Ben spent a satisfactory day on repairs, tightening loose hinges and mending joints. He was sweaty and hot by the time he retired to the bedroom with a pitcher of water to scrub off the sawdust, and he was stripped to the waist and rubbing himself down when Jonah came in.

“There’s a sight for sore eyes,” Jonah remarked.

“If you mean you want a wash…”

“I didn’t, no.” Jonah flashed him a smile and put a large brown-paper parcel on the bed. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

Ben took that at face value, running the washcloth over himself, relishing the feel of the water, and the awareness of Jonah’s gaze on him as he sat on the bed, opening the parcel in a rustle of paper. Ben took longer than he might have done, ensuring that the back of his neck, where Jonah had loved to run his tongue and make Ben shudder with pleasure, was very clean. At last he turned to reach for a shirt.

“What the…”

Jonah was watching him with a glazed expression, suggesting that he also remembered his attention to the back of Ben’s neck, but Ben was caught by the pile of goods on the bed. There was a lot there. Two horn-handled straight razors, two small piles of clothing—drawers, socks, a shirt. What looked like a couple of papers of sweetmeats. A battered copy of
Our Mutual Friend
.

“I thought we could take it with us,” Jonah said. “So if we wanted to read it… What is it?”

Do not raise your voice
, Ben told himself.
Do not accuse
.
Everything he’s said, everything he’s done. Give him a chance to show it wasn’t lies
.

It was all lies, always
, said another part of him.
He was handling the money. All that temptation. You let him.
The bands tightened round his heart with the thought.

“Where did you get the money?” he asked as neutrally as possible.

Jonah took a deep breath. “You mean, did I steal it?”

“No. I mean, where did you get it? That’s all I mean.” He read disbelief and wariness on Jonah’s face and went on, forcefully, before any more could be said, “If we can’t trust each other, we have to end this now. And I mean that both ways. I have to know you won’t steal, or anything else, and you have to know that I believe you won’t. If we can’t do that, we’ll tear each other apart. So tell me, where did you get it?”

“What if I told you I stole it?” Jonah asked, voice thin and tense.

“I don’t know. But…” Ben shut his eyes for a second. It felt like stepping off the windowsill once more. “But I’ll believe you, whatever you tell me, because you’ll tell me the truth.”
I will believe. Don’t betray me this time. Please.

Jonah looked down at the bed, at the pile of gifts, and up again, with a tight grin. “I pawned a watch.”

“A watch?”

“Which”—Jonah pulled a face and spoke swiftly—“which I
did
steal, granted, but it was
months
ago, back in December. I’ve been keeping it for a rainy day, but…well, we needed some things, and it doesn’t bring back happy memories for me, and I just wanted to get rid of it, to be honest. To
be
honest.” He offered Ben a wry smile, and after a moment, Ben returned it.

“I just wanted you to be comfortable,” Jonah said.

“I am now.” Ben moved over and leaned down, and his mouth found Jonah’s for a soft, sweet moment. “Thank you.”

Jonah’s hand clutched his hair, drawing him closer, just as footsteps clattered along the stone passageway. Ben pulled away, leaving Jonah sitting on the bed, as Agnes burst in without knocking.

“Ma says company’s here and where’s Jonah?” she announced shrilly.

“I’m here.” Jonah rose gracefully. “And this is for you.” He handed Agnes one of the bags of sweetmeats. Her eyes opened wide, and she flung herself at Jonah in a hug that caught him off balance and sent him staggering back onto the bed, laughing helplessly.

Then it was a glorious night. The Green Man was full of company, more than Ben had seen there before, or Mrs. Linney had seen in a long time, judging by her reaction. Jonah shone as he drew the ale, that was the only word for it, with a glow of happiness that forced Ben to avoid making eye contact in case they gave themselves away altogether. Half the village seemed to be here, and Jonah was ready with a witty remark for anyone who wanted it, charming them all. Ben, in his shirtsleeves, acted as potboy, clearing the tables of tankards and keeping an eye on who was drinking too much. Mrs. Linney did the same, plus an eye on Bethany, who was mostly ignoring her duties to whisper in the corner with a well-built young man.

“Everything all right?” Ben asked, coming by with a tray of tankards for washing.

“That girl.” Mrs. Linney frowned. “Billing and cooing with young Aaron Tapley. A good boy, I dare say, but still a boy, and you know what that means.”

“I do,” Ben agreed. “But there’s no harm to be done while they’re in here under everyone’s eye.”

“Aye. So you make sure they stay there while I wash these, will you?”

That proved to be prescient, as Bethany and Aaron took immediate advantage of her mother’s absence to slip out. Ben gave them a couple of minutes, for the sake of youth, before he followed, coming through the door with a meaningful cough that made the young lovers spring apart.

“Just taking the air,” Bethany said defiantly.

“Very fresh it is, too,” Ben agreed. “Fresher than inside, and a lot darker.”

“Did Ma send you to get me in?” Bethany sounded mulish. “I shan’t. I’m a grown girl, I can take a turn with my young man if I please and you’ve no say in it.”

“Indeed I don’t,” Ben agreed. “Carry on.” He rested his shoulder blades on the damp wall, giving the impression of a man prepared to play gooseberry forever.

Bethany gave him a puzzled look. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“I’m a grown man,” Ben pointed out. “I can stand against a wall if I please and you’ve no say in it.”

Aaron gave a snort of laughter. “’E ’as tha thurr, Bethy.” His accent was almost impenetrably thick, unlike Mrs. Linney’s. Ben’s ear was still adapting to the Cornish speech. “Whyn’t ee go in an’ us follow drekkly?”

“Drekkly,” Ben said. “Does that mean in about twenty minutes, when you think Mrs. Linney is likely to be out of the kitchen?” Aaron’s grin suggested that was what he did mean. Ben sighed. “You can have precisely two minutes and then I’ll haul you both in by the ears because Jonah needs some help in there. How’s that?”

It sufficed. Bethany was not so lost in romance as to ignore the needs of business altogether, and after her two minutes’ grace, she set back to work with a will. Aaron looked after her with a fond, if not overbright grin, but it was Ben he came to some half an hour later.

“Bill Penrose there,” he whispered, with a clutch on Ben’s sleeve. “Bit fuddled, un.” He made a “watch out” sort of face. Ben looked in the direction indicated and saw a big man with a face like crumpled hide weaving his way to the bar. Jonah glanced at him, and over at Ben, who shook his head as he began to make his way through the chairs and tables. He noticed that people were edging away from Bill Penrose, holding their drinks protectively.

“Ale.” Penrose thumped the blackened oak bar with a hand that was scarcely less tanned with age than the ancient wood.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Ben suggested mildly, coming up behind him, and wasn’t surprised to see the big fist clench. He readied himself to dodge, grab and twist, but even as Penrose turned, Jonah’s hand had come out to touch his leathery skin.

“Listen to me, you’ve had enough.” Jonah spoke with sublime confidence. “You’re tired. It’s been a long day for us all, and you’ll feel better if you call it a night now and sleep it off.”

“Good advice,” Ben chimed in, hoping nobody had noticed anything peculiar in that. “You’ll feel much the best for a sleep.”

“Much better. You don’t want any more.”

Penrose blinked at Jonah, and sagged back. Ben took his weight in a friendly hold that secured the man’s arms. He supposed he should disapprove of Jonah using fluence, but he’d dealt with enough belligerent drunks in his time to take the pragmatic view. “Yes, you come on, sir. Any mate of Mr. Penrose ready to walk him home?”

“Nicely done,” said Mrs. Linney after Ben had seen the drunken man off the premises, arm round his more sober brother’s shoulders. “He’s trouble in his cups, Bill Penrose. Not more’n I can handle, but you and your Jonah did well. Thank’ee.”

“Our pleasure,” Ben assured her, and did not stop to wonder about “your Jonah” until much later.