Waiting for Time (24 page)

She could see Tina still lived there. Quilts and clothing lay in a great soiled heap on the shelf along with a clutter of stolen objects, a rum bottle filled with cold tea and a tin of ship's biscuits. She felt around and discovered Tim's money knotted in a corner of the grey wool blanket—that meant he would be back. She left the money where it was, laid the baby down and spread her own belongings out beside the infant. She still had the flint her mother had taken from the hut in Shepton, she had the fine bone hairpins and the purple brooch that had been Tessa's, the clothes on her back, the three coins pinned inside her dress—and the baby.

What could she do? Considering the question, Mary concluded, as she had months before, that the only trade she knew was thieving. The baby was certainly a problem. Mary folded back the blanket and studied the dark little face. She wondered if she might feel more affection for the child had it been pretty like Tessa instead of looking like a small monkey.

“What's the sense of wonderin' how you'd feel if things was different. They isn't different and wishes don't make ringlets,” she'd unbuttoned her dress and was just putting the tiny mouth to her breast when Tim's head appeared in the doorway.

“Sweet Jesus!” His face registered such dismay that Mary laughed out loud.

Before he could say another word she told him her plan for them to work together again.

“Yer out of yer friggin' mind, woman! What's wrong with ya? What about—that?” He pointed at the sucking child. “Anyways you'd be seen an' tossed in the clink.”

“We'll work nights same as we done before. She'll be no trouble, she never cries—we could just leave her here in the blankets and she'd be alright!”

Tim only shook his head but Mary persisted. “Look ahere—stands to reason I can't carry her about whatever I does to earn a livin'. Nobody's gonna let me be a housemaid with a youngster strapped to me back! I was a big help to ya before—we done good between us and I don't see why we can't do the same now.”

He would not consider it and when she kept arguing, told her callously that he wasn't responsible for her. “I took ya in for a night and here ya still is two years later—I'm not havin' it! I wouldn'ta kept ya around this long but I was sorry for ya. I got ta get on—don't want ta be running around coves floppin' off sailors all me life—no future in it!”

Nothing would move him, not her pleading or her angry reminder, “Was your cock made the friggin' baby!”

Tim had changed—not just grown taller, there was no fun in him, he'd gotten hard in the months she'd been away. “I'm not stayin' forever in this rat trap!” he said, looking in disgust at the room he had once been so proud of.

Mary knew it was useless but she kept on fighting: “You're only sayin' that, Tim Toop! Just try in' to be rid of me. What can you do any more'n me to earn a livin'? You don't know nothin' but thievin' same as me!”

“That's what you thinks—I got lots of ways—lots. I knows some important men in this place. Got me eye on an old store further along the harbour, been empty ever since I come here, got half a mind to just move in and see what happens. Maybe I'll start buyin' damaged goods from the ships, and second-hand stuff, too.”

“Stolen stuff ya mean,” Mary snarled.

Tim didn't even blink, “Talk sense, woman—'tis no good for ya here—what's the use livin' in a place where ya can't go out in daylight? If I can get ya passage out will ya take it?”

Defeated, she nodded.

He went off and was back within an hour saying he'd gotten a place for her as cook on one of Caleb Gosse's vessels going up to the Labrador.

“Labrador! I thought ya was gettin' me passage back to England!”

“And who ya think would pay for that?”

“But I don't know nothin' about cookin' and I certainly don't want to spend the summer on a smelly old boat—I gets seasick—ya knows how seasick I gets,” Mary wailed.

Tim ignored her protests, assured her that the
Tern
was so big that she would not be sick: “Sure I heartell there's hardly any seas up Labrador way, the ocean up there's smooth as silk. Ya'll get bed and board all summer and be back in time to sail to England—and with enough money in yer pocket for a nice start.”

Everything was arranged with Captain Brennan, the
Tern's
master: “Told him I didn't know ya well—yer name was Mary somethin', ya'd just come from England and was lookin' for a summer's work on the Labrador. All he wanted ta know was could ya boil potatoes—glad enough to get a cook on short notice.” Tim looked proud as punch, all she had to do was smuggle the baby on board, he told her. Once out of the narrows there was nothing they could do about the child, she could make up a second name and she'd be safe from anyone looking for Mary Sprig.

Mary studied Tim's face. “Some flick with his tongue,” she thought. Aloud she said, “Why? Is anyone still lookin' for me?”

“Well not lookin' so much as keepin' an eye out—there was rumours goin' around last winter that Mary Sprig was a witch. People said she'd been seen peepin' into the windows of the Armstrongs' new house—'twas said she put a hex on Mrs. Armstrong.”

“Too bad someone don't put a hex on her!”

“'Tis said somebody did—anyway she's on the verge of dyin' and if they ever get ahold of ya it'd not go good, not with talk of your bein' a witch goin' around.” Tim sat back on his heels knowing by her face that he had won.

“I'm not goin' to Labrador unless you gives me somethin' when I comes back—I wants something to get started back in England—what become of them candlesticks you took off the Armstrongs?”

The candlesticks were long gone, traded to a cobbler in exchange for a good pair of boots, Tim told her. “I don't owe ya nothin', Mary Sprig—look how I sove ya the day Tessa died—I say 'tis you owes me.”

They argued for an hour, Mary insisting she would not budge until he promised her something that would set her up as a respectable widow in some English town.

“Awright! I'll find somethin' for ya—somethin' good, by the time you comes back,” he said at last.

But even this would not satisfy her. Finally, afraid the boat would sail without her, he pulled out a small leather bag he kept on a cord around his neck and showed her the watch inside.

He refused to let her hold it, but turned it over in his hand, showing her a circle of leaves with swords crossed over: “See there, that's what they calls a crest and them letters on each side is for old bugger Armstrong's name.

“Tis all I kept from the stuff we took from their house. I couldn't part with this—leastways not in this town—people would ha knowed where it come from, see? Tell you what—I'll give this watch to ya next fall.”

Mary made a grab but he was too fast for her. “No, ya don't! You'll get it when ya comes back, not before!”

Knowing he had won, Tim's good humour returned, “I can see ya now, Blackie! A respectable widow, like Mrs. Brockwell I s'pose, in charge of the workhouse.”

She gave him a long, hard look. “I got rid of the workhouse stink once, I'll not likely go back to it—but I'll be back here, so remember! Take good care of me watch or—” she searched for some threat to hang over him, “or I'll hex you just like I done Mrs. Armstrong.” For an instant, just before he tucked the watch away, Mary had the satisfaction of seeing a flicker of fear in Tim's eyes.

Taking what comfort she could from the small ripple of power the threat had given her, she gathered her belongings together and followed Tim down to the
Tern
where he handed her over to the mate, dropped something into her pocket, turned and jumped down onto the wharf.

“'Tis a wonderful bad feeling bein' set down among strangers—all alone—not a face ya know anywhere. Tha's what the frigger done to me. Put me aboard the
Tern
like I was a piece of lumber or a dog. He knowed how I hated the sea—always hated it. There's no reason to the sea, no gettin' around it, no place to hide on it.”

Mary might have added but would not, even to Rachel, that she was afraid of the sea, that she put no faith in boats—rotting, poorly built hulks, most of them—or in the seamen who skidded across decks and crawled up ratlines—half-grown boys pretending to know what they were about.

She had been very afraid that day Tim passed her over to the
Tern's
mate, a man named Sam Ryan. Following him across the deck and down a steep ladder to the galley, Mary held her chin high and bit her bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

“We got no spare room aboard—fact is you'll have to dishup our meals topside—the men eats wherever they can. The regular cook sleeps with the rest of the hands, but,” the mate looked doubtfully around the space between the bins and barrels, a narrow path from the ladder to the iron brazier, “I expects you'll be able to bunk down here somehow.”

Clearly relieved at the young woman's silence Sam Ryan smiled and tapped one of the bins, “Everything you needs is right to hand. Matt Escott takes care of ship's stores—he'll have keys to them bunkers. I'll send him down so you can get started on supper.” With that he muttered something about being ready to cast off and disappeared up the ladder.

Mary was weak with relief, the man had hardly looked at her, had not even realized that the bundle around her shoulders held a baby. “Supposin' buddy never comes with them keys, I'm not stirrin' above deck 'til we're out to sea,” she decided as she unknotted the blanket, stowed Fanny and her few belongings in by the wall on top of the largest bin, and leaned back to size-up her surroundings.

A dark hole, smelling of smoke and grease and overhung with that fetid mustiness Mary recognized as rats—but it was warm and dry and she had it to herself. She fingered the hard round orange Tim had dropped into her pocket and tried to cheer herself up. The orange smelled clean and spicy, if she held it to her nose she might not get seasick. “If only I can keep ahold of me guts,” she thought, “we might come through safe and sound.”

But when she set eyes on Escott, Mary knew the
Tern
would not be a safe place.

“What's this we got 'ere then? A little bit of fluff—somethin' special for the men this trip,” the seaman leaned back against the ladder holding out a key ring, swinging the keys back and forth, smiling, waiting for her to come within reach. One hand, with two fingers missing, hung by his side ready to grab.

He was tall but scrawny, Mary wondered if she was able for him. Resting against the charcoal burner was a pair of iron tongs, a long-handled thing with two sharp edges. Without taking her eyes off Matt Escott, she bent and picked up the tongs—they would serve nicely if she could get in one good swing.

“Gonna be like that, are ya?” the man's smile vanished and he lunged towards her, slamming the key chain down across her wrist. Pain shot up her arm and the tongs clattered to the floor.

“Don't think I don't know who you are—saw Tim Toop sneakin' around, askin' if the Skipper'd take ya on. Screws for him I daresay—and helps hum roll sailors too, I don't doubt!” He grabbed a handful of Mary's hair wrenching her back against the wooden edge of the bunkers.

He pawed at her and she fought back, silently kicking and scratching. He was strong, his knee was between her legs, his terrible breath in her face. He pulled at the neck of her dress, there was a ripping sound and small pearl-like buttons rattled across the floor. Mary clamped her teeth down on the man's bare arm.

A boot kicked at the trap door, “You down there, Escott? The old man's lookin' for ya.”

“I'm comin',” he shouted, gave a final jerk to her hair and whispered “Cunt!” spitting the word at her.

Holding a hand against her mouth to keep back the sobs, Mary backed into a corner. She could feel the pain in her wrist and her scalp was bleeding where he'd pulled hair out. But suddenly she was more angry than afraid.

“You god-damned fucker!” she hissed. “If ya so much as comes down here again I'll kill ya—by hook or by crook I'll kill ya!”

Matt Escott picked the ring of keys up from the floor. “Don't think I'm scared of a little whore been with half the sailors in St. John's!”

Mary thought he was about to hit her with the keys, but just then Sam Ryan swung down the ladder. “Pass over them keys and get up above, Escott—that lumber's not been checked or lashed down!” the mate watched as Mary took the keys and Matt Escott clambered up the ladder.

“There's a good strong hook on that hatch if ya needs it,” the mate said mildly before explaining again how she was expected to carry the cooking pot topside.

“Long as we gets fed regular we're not too particular—just bang on the side of the pot and all hands'll come runnin' with their plates. When it gets stormy you'd best dout the fire and we'll make do with hard tack and cold tea.”

Mary listened quietly, searching the man's face, wondering how much he had heard.

“Captain Brennan's a decent sort, let me or him know if you haves any trouble,” Sam Ryan told her before returning to the deck.

As the hatch dropped, Mary's courage drained away and she slid down, crouching against the bins of potatoes. The baby was crying, had been crying for some time. Mary ignored the child. She sat dabbing at her bleeding scalp, sobbing, staring down at the six small holes in her dress, wondering how she would keep the buttonless thing together. “I'da done better at fightin' the bugger if I'd worn Tim's old breeches,” she bitterly regretted having let Tim get rid of her so easily.

She stayed on the floor until creaking sounds shivered through the planks and she knew they were moving. Then she wiped her face in the hem of the dress, picked the baby up and began to nurse. It seemed to Mary that days and days had passed since she walked down the street from Fan and Lol's place. She felt very tired. Lulled by the sucking of the baby and the gentle rocking of the ship she dozed and dreamt.

In her dream she and Tessa and were sitting in a wooden cart that rumbled along between mustard coloured fields. They were laughing and all around them pearl buttons fell from the sky, each button was a small, perfect moon. Tiny, glittering moons filled the wagon, touched the girls' arms and faces, caught in their hair—then the wagon lurched and Mary was awake.