Chapter 4
By the time they returned, the street lights had started to cast patches of light in the blooming darkness. The cold had begun to creep through the gaps in their clothes.
The pub stood just as it had the day before. The same sign with the engraving of a falcon creaked faintly in the wind. The glow of the pub lights was like a lodestone for the weary. The same cluster of men gathered outside and spilling into the doorway, their voices carrying into the street.
For a second, Asha stopped in the shadows, drawing her mask of indifference on. She knew the evening's entertainment would begin the moment she stepped into the light.
Then, with no choice, she moved forward.
Inside, the air was thick like the day before—smoke, heat, the sour-sweet smell of beer. The room was crowded, alive with music and laughter.
And the same faces.
Some looked up in recognition. She recognized the large man with eyes like quicksilver from the night before.
It might have been her imagination but he seemed more intimidating today—or perhaps it was the way he carried himself, certain of his place among the others. His eyes found her immediately, a slow grin spreading across his broad face as though he had been expecting her.
“Well,” the man next to him drawled, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Told you she’d be back.”
A few men chuckled, but she did not look at them.
She kept her gaze forward with her hand tight around the boy’s, and walked past as though she had somewhere she needed to be.
Behind her, his voice followed.
“The bed is cold at night, innit?” he called.
More laughter. Through the corner of her eye, she noticed a woman sitting on a man's lap in a nearby booth. Her skirts were bunched up, exposing the smooth expanse of slender pale thighs. She quickly looked away as another man commented in her direction.
“Reckon we can still sort something out for you—”
With relief, she spotted Mavis behind the bar.
The woman was already watching her, waiting to see what she would do next. She had never felt more like an animal on display in the zoo.
There wasn't a pause in the rhythm of pouring and wiping as the she approached with trepidation.
Asha stopped at the counter, her fingers gripping around the edge of it as she searched for the right words through a throat gone dry.
“Can I… speak to you for a second?” she croaked in her accented English. She was conscious of her son watching everything.
Mavis's eyes seemed to soften a smidgen as she took in the exhaustion etched across the girl's face. She leaned forward a fraction. “Go on.”
The girl swallowed.
“Please… is there any work here for me?” she said, the words coming quick, tripping over each other in their urgency. “I will do anything. I can cook, clean… I will sweep the floors… wash dishes… anything. I can read and write also… I am good at maths.”
Her hands had begun to tremble, though she kept them pressed flat against the wood as if willing them still.
“I just… I need work. Any work will do.”
The woman took in the thinness of her wrists, the careful frayed neatness of her dress, the top of the boy's head visible over the counter. He was watching everything with solemn, dark eyes.
“Where are you from, girl?” she asked, finally, as if she had been weighing the pros and cons.
“I…” She hesitated, then steadied herself. “I was living in London. But I am from India.”
She was aware of movement in the corner of the room. The pub owner with a round belly and a towel thrown over his shoulder was powering his way towards them.
She winced, knowing he was likely to throw them out. He had now reached the end of the bar, broad and looming. His arms were folded, thick forearms sprinkled with hair, his expression already betraying his unhappiness as he bore down on his wife.
Asha tried not to look at him, but it was hard.
Mavis’s gaze flicked briefly in his direction, then back again.
“How old are you girl?”
“Twenty-three, mam.”
“This your lad?” she asked, nodding toward the child.
Asha nodded quickly. “Yes.”
“And his father?”
The answer came after a hesitant moment.
“He died four years ago.”
The word seemed to float between them, desperate to be believed.
The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You lying, girl?”
Asha's head jerked up. “No,” she said, a small sob slipping through the cracks before she could stop it. “No… I’m sorry… he died in India, before I came here.”
She pressed her lips together hard, as if ashamed of the sound.
Behind her, a chair scraped.
“We don’t like the likes of them here,” the pub owner was growling at his wife, his voice low but carrying easily. “She should go back where she came from. Back to London. Or India.”
There was an atmosphere—like the occupants of the room were pretending to carry on while eavesdropping on the drama.
The girl’s shoulders sagged.
For a moment she stood very still.
Then she came around the counter and before anyone could quite register what she was doing, she sank down onto her knees.
“Please,” she said.
Her voice was raw now, stripped of everything but need.
“Please… any job. I will do anything. You don’t have to pay me. Just… look at my son… Please.”
The boy clutched at her shoulder, startled and scared to see his mother like this, his eyes wide.
A ripple went through the room as everyone listened in. This was more excitement than the town had seen since the Mayor's daughter ran off with that bus driver from Newport.
A few men shifted where they stood. Someone muttered under their breath. Another took a long drink and watched with eager eyes.
The woman behind the bar let out a long-suffering breath.
“For God's sake, get up, girl,” she said sternly, not making eye contact. “Don't you go embarrassing me like that.”
Then she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Get up,” she said, not unkindly this time when Asha didn't obey immediately. The truth was, she was feeling dizzy from hunger and terror of what the future would bring.
Finally, the girl hesitated, then rose unsteadily to her feet. The boy clung to her leg, burying his little face in the folds of her coat.
The woman looked at her for a long second, then sighed.
“You do whatever needs doing,” she said. “And however long it takes. Got it?”
The girl nodded at once. “Yes.”
“You can use the room upstairs. Six pounds fifty a week. Come out your wages.”
Another nod, faster this time as she realized there was a possibility of a lifeline. “Yes… yes, thank you…”
“Don’t thank me yet. And for God's sake, stop the crying,” the woman said sharply, though there was no real bite in it. “You work hard, you keep your head down, and you don’t make trouble.”
“I won’t,” the girl blubbered. “I promise.”
The woman gave a short nod. “Alright, then.”
Behind them, the silence cracked with the impending fight.
The pub owner turned sharply and strode toward the back, his expression thunderous.
“Mavis,” he snapped and walked into the backroom, slamming the door behind him..
She didn’t answer him, just let out another sigh like the whole world was too much trouble and followed.
The back-room door swung behind them.
A moment later, the muffled shouting began.
“—out of your mind—”
“—we’ve got no call—”
“—she’ll have the place stripped bare, you watch—silver gone—”
“—and that kid—”
“—don’t know what he’s carrying—”
“—bloody bastard child—”
The words blurred together, rising and falling in angry waves.
Out in the bar, conversation resumed—but everyone was listening. A few men glanced toward the door. Others looked at the girl.
Asha stood where she was. Her hands still trembled slightly at her sides. The boy pressed close against her again while her arm moved soothingly over his back. All the while, she was aware of a pair of piercing eyes taking it all in. He was intimidating and she was afraid to look his way.
She simply stood there until Mavis came back and asked her to get some sleep because tomorrow, she needed to be up by five.