The Mermaid's Child by Jo Baker Read Free Book Online Page A

now, he’d be leaning over the counter, a pint of table beer warming in his hand, listeningto the stranger’s stories. Or, more probably, I thought, not listening at all: probably talking long and loud and uninterruptably about the same old same old stuff. Delighted with himself and with his new audience.
    What a waste, I thought. What a godawful waste.
    The interior of the brewhouse was fading into blue, my sight becoming grainy in the dark, and there was still no sign of Uncle George come to tell me I could stop. It must have been seeping into my mind gradually for hours, the sound of gathering voices, but I only became conscious that something was happening when a shout of laughter stopped me dead in my tracks. I straightened up, caught a rising wave of talk. I listened, tried to catch a word or two, but couldn’t. From the pitch and weave of the voices, it was clear that a crowd had gathered in the bar, that the bar was far fuller than I had ever seen it, and that the crowd included, unusually, the village women. Obviously, the news had spread like cattlecough. Everyone (it certainly sounded like everyone) had turned out to get a look at, exchange a word with, the stranger. Everyone, of course, except me.
    Outside, the air was cooler. The pub’s back door was open. From where I stood I could see into the dark and empty kitchen, see dirty yellow oil-light spilling into it through the half-open bar room door, illuminating a corner of stone sink, an arc of flagstones. I leaned my broom against the wall, stretched cautiously. The muscles in my back and shoulders were sore, and a scab had cracked open and was weeping, the lymph sticking to my shirt. My head ached; a vein was throbbing in my temple. I had been entirely forgotten, I knew. Or, rather, no one cared enough to notice that I wasn’t there. And if no one noticed that I wasn’t there, then presumably no one would check up on me, so it wouldn’t matter if I stoppedwork. I left my broom leaning against the wall, made my way into the kitchen.
    Uncle George’s dirty dishes were still set out on the table. I moved into the shadows, outside the lamplight’s glow, and peered through the half-open door into the bar. The counter was thick with glasses, full, half-full, and empty, and the villagers were thick with drink. I’d never heard so much noise from them. There was a look of blurred relief about their faces, as though something grand had been achieved, as after haymaking. But all that had apparently been accomplished on this occasion was the consumption of a large quantity of strong beer which no one, I would have thought, in the current circumstances could really afford to pay for.
    In profile, I could see the bulge of Uncle George’s thick forearm upon the bar, the greasy curl of his rolled-up sleeve. His jaw was working vigorously as he talked, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his bristling throat. And across from him, one arm leaning on the bar, shirtsleeve turned back to reveal a curve of muscle, light soft hair and brown skin, was the stranger. His fingers were arched upon the counter beside a slightly-sipped pint. He was nodding, looking down at his arched hand, his head turned a little to listen to Uncle George. He gave every impression of being utterly absorbed in what was being said. Uncle George must have paused: the stranger shifted his balance, glanced up, and said something. I watched his lips, the changing lines of his face. I watched as, still speaking, his eyes turned towards the open kitchen door, and me. I didn’t look away in time. His eyes caught mine and held them. He smiled.
    It was an odd smile, brief: just a moment, then he looked away, glanced back down at his arched hand, his clean nails, then up again at Uncle George’s glistening face. Nonetheless,I knew that it had been intended to communicate something, though that something remained frustratingly unpindownable. Just a faint twitch