Read Online Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diane Setterfield
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I’ll be off. Nothing worse than watching men drink when you’ve got a thirst on, eh?”
“Let me get you something.” Will stumbled up, swaying.
“No need.” He opened his jacket and Will saw a bottle. Something noxious and cheap.
“It’ll kill you, you know.”
A farewell salute, another flash of the black stubs. “And if not that then something else!”
Poll refilled the cider. Laughter. An arm thrown across his shoulder. Singing. Poll patted him and refilled the cider. Someone vaguely familiar said, “Ee’s all right now, an’t yer, me old mate?” Singing. Poll refilled the cider and stroked his shoulder. Singing. Someone put a hand on his two shoulders and gave him a slight shake, to see if he fell to pieces. He didn’t. Laughter. Singing. Poll refilled the cider . . .
· · ·
All was silent. Will opened his eyes. No one. He was lying on the settle under the window of the Red Lion; the gray blanket draped over him had slipped to the floor, and he was chilly. Outside the sky was growing pale. He put his feet to the floor and stood up with a groan.
A door opened. Poll’s head appeared, strands of crinkled hair sticking out from her nightcap. “All right?”
He nodded.
“You off?”
Another nod.
“I’ll have that blanket back, then.”
He crossed the room to give the blanket to her, kissed her. In her little bed she pulled her nightdress up. The next moment he was inside her and with a few thrusts it was done.
“There,” she said. “Take a bit of bread to eat on the way. There’s some on the shelf over the big barrel, out the back.”
Will followed the hedgerow home. He broke off a piece of bread,mashed it in his mouth, swallowed. Hungry, he ate another piece, and another, then vomited wetly into a ditch. Good, he thought. He expected something vile to emerge in the cascade of fermented apple, something rank and bloody, a clot of something decomposing, darkly foul and liverish. But there was only this golden stream of pippin juice, and a gob of sweet froth to spit out.
Then he felt something else in his gut. Hard and painful. This will be it. He opened his mouth again, but it was only a sharp-cornered belch— CRAA! —that emerged.
A rook in the branches of the elm looked down askance.
· · ·
After an hour’s sleep William went to the mill. He sweated the rest of the alcohol out with heavy work. Against the clamor and the shouting, there was no room for thought. The next day he sat for thirteen hours in the office, motionless except for his fingers tapping ceaselessly at the abacus, and caught up a backlog of number work for the ledgers.
The mill had its own energy, its own rhythm, and a man could give himself up to it. As the wool was drawn by the shuttle, so he was drawn by the demand of the work itself. Like a piece of the machinery, a wheel turned by the force of the river, he did what was necessary. He never tired, he rarely faltered, he moved from one task to the next without a break. Sleep was easy: he never remembered putting his head on the pillow, and the moment the sun was up he was up and on his feet.
Between the mill and his bed he made sure there were as few hours as possible. Sometimes he played cards. He won a bit; he lost a bit. Sometimes he went to the Red Lion. Once or twice he stayed on when everyone else had gone home. “Don’t go thinking you can make a habit of this,” Poll warned him. On Sundays he sang in the choir—his voice clear and effortless—and in the afternoon he went fishing a few times with Paul.
“Are the Misses Young still cooking and cleaning for you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
He knew what Paul meant. The Misses Young had hopes. Hopes had a habit of growing into expectations.
“I’ll get a woman to come and clean for me. Someone to leave me a dinner ready.”
“Good idea,” Paul said.
· · ·
In early advent, William broke a teapot. He wasn’t even using it, had barely touched it in fact, yet it
“Let me get you something.” Will stumbled up, swaying.
“No need.” He opened his jacket and Will saw a bottle. Something noxious and cheap.
“It’ll kill you, you know.”
A farewell salute, another flash of the black stubs. “And if not that then something else!”
Poll refilled the cider. Laughter. An arm thrown across his shoulder. Singing. Poll patted him and refilled the cider. Someone vaguely familiar said, “Ee’s all right now, an’t yer, me old mate?” Singing. Poll refilled the cider and stroked his shoulder. Singing. Someone put a hand on his two shoulders and gave him a slight shake, to see if he fell to pieces. He didn’t. Laughter. Singing. Poll refilled the cider . . .
· · ·
All was silent. Will opened his eyes. No one. He was lying on the settle under the window of the Red Lion; the gray blanket draped over him had slipped to the floor, and he was chilly. Outside the sky was growing pale. He put his feet to the floor and stood up with a groan.
A door opened. Poll’s head appeared, strands of crinkled hair sticking out from her nightcap. “All right?”
He nodded.
“You off?”
Another nod.
“I’ll have that blanket back, then.”
He crossed the room to give the blanket to her, kissed her. In her little bed she pulled her nightdress up. The next moment he was inside her and with a few thrusts it was done.
“There,” she said. “Take a bit of bread to eat on the way. There’s some on the shelf over the big barrel, out the back.”
Will followed the hedgerow home. He broke off a piece of bread,mashed it in his mouth, swallowed. Hungry, he ate another piece, and another, then vomited wetly into a ditch. Good, he thought. He expected something vile to emerge in the cascade of fermented apple, something rank and bloody, a clot of something decomposing, darkly foul and liverish. But there was only this golden stream of pippin juice, and a gob of sweet froth to spit out.
Then he felt something else in his gut. Hard and painful. This will be it. He opened his mouth again, but it was only a sharp-cornered belch— CRAA! —that emerged.
A rook in the branches of the elm looked down askance.
· · ·
After an hour’s sleep William went to the mill. He sweated the rest of the alcohol out with heavy work. Against the clamor and the shouting, there was no room for thought. The next day he sat for thirteen hours in the office, motionless except for his fingers tapping ceaselessly at the abacus, and caught up a backlog of number work for the ledgers.
The mill had its own energy, its own rhythm, and a man could give himself up to it. As the wool was drawn by the shuttle, so he was drawn by the demand of the work itself. Like a piece of the machinery, a wheel turned by the force of the river, he did what was necessary. He never tired, he rarely faltered, he moved from one task to the next without a break. Sleep was easy: he never remembered putting his head on the pillow, and the moment the sun was up he was up and on his feet.
Between the mill and his bed he made sure there were as few hours as possible. Sometimes he played cards. He won a bit; he lost a bit. Sometimes he went to the Red Lion. Once or twice he stayed on when everyone else had gone home. “Don’t go thinking you can make a habit of this,” Poll warned him. On Sundays he sang in the choir—his voice clear and effortless—and in the afternoon he went fishing a few times with Paul.
“Are the Misses Young still cooking and cleaning for you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
He knew what Paul meant. The Misses Young had hopes. Hopes had a habit of growing into expectations.
“I’ll get a woman to come and clean for me. Someone to leave me a dinner ready.”
“Good idea,” Paul said.
· · ·
In early advent, William broke a teapot. He wasn’t even using it, had barely touched it in fact, yet it
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