Chapter 8
The caprice of fate.
Disgruntled to discover Anne still had not returned to the hotel, King ate lunch in his rooms, reading a little more of his book before restlessness overtook him.
He was not a man used to sitting idle and usually had a good deal to occupy him.
He had left his legitimate business affairs in expert hands, however, and if Harold Lawson was making mischief with the less lawful ones in his absence, so much the better.
There was still some time until he was supposed to present himself at the vicarage, and with nothing better to do, King decided to take a walk about the town.
Such ghosts as there were here were already awake and lively in his mind so he may as well look about him and see how the old place had changed, if at all.
Though the rain that had threatened had still not made itself known, glum looking clouds clustered overhead, and a blustery wind attempted to snatch bonnets and hats that were not securely in place.
King walked slowly along the main high street, looking in shop windows and remembering days when he had done the same thing as a lad, his belly snarling with hunger as he looked upon displays of fat sausages in the butcher’s shop and huge rounds of cheese displayed by Mr Muddel.
Often had he salivated outside the baker’s, tormented by the delicious scents, until Mr Twort chased him away.
Twort was a bad-tempered old curmudgeon and would give him a thrashing just for breathing if he caught hold of him.
A canine yelp reached King, chasing the memory away, and he turned to see Mr Bagot, the butcher, throwing a bucket of cold water over two skinny dogs who’d been lingering outside the door, their noses lifted hopefully.
Grinning suddenly, he turned on his heel, walked into the butcher’s, and ordered two pounds of the best sausages.
Mr Bagot, who clearly recognised him and resented seeing the worthless little bastard he’d once known in his shop, and dressed so finely, said nothing, but made a good show of slamming his heavy cleaver into the butcher's block before he made up the order.
“Thank you, Mr Bagot,” King said politely, handing him the money.
He then went next door and bought a loaf of bread.
Rather to his dismay, Mr Twort was not in the shop, but a boy he did not recognise.
King knew the scene he was about to enact would find its way to the fellow’s ears in short order though, so was satisfied enough.
Walking outside, he stood in full view of the shop, unwrapped the parcel, and whistled at the two mangy dogs, who were still skulking about despite their soaking.
King crouched down, handing each a rope of sausages and laughing heartily as the dogs snatched them and began gobbling them down as fast as they could.
Having devoured several sausages in quick succession, they grabbed the remaining links and ran off to eat them in peace.
Next, King tore up the loaf of bread and threw it onto the beach where the seagulls shrieked and dived upon it, snatching up every crumb in a matter of minutes.
King stood, turning to see Mr Bagot glaring at him from the doorway of his shop and delighted as he saw Mr Twort, the miserable beggar, had joined him.
The old devil looked mad as fire. But King was not the skinny, malnourished boy he’d once been, and as he turned and walked towards them, an enquiring expression on his face, Mr Twort decided it was none of his affair and scurried back inside his shop.
Disgusted by the coward who would thrash a starving boy but not face a man, King waited until the bastard turned around to glance over his shoulder.
He said nothing, did nothing, but stared at the man.
It was a look that had turned many a hard man’s bowels to water and Mr Twort was only a miserable bully.
So, King felt certain it had the desired effect here too, not displeased to see the fellow turn the shop sign to closed, and to hear the slam of bolts sliding home.
Mr Bagot saw the man’s hurried departure too and shook his head in disgust.
King turned away, still grinning, but stiffened as he saw the ingratiating captain who seemed so enamoured of Anne, watching him.
“Something to say?” he asked politely, though there was a tone to his voice that unmistakably suggested the correct answer was ‘no.’
“I can only imagine there is no love lost between you and our local tradesmen, but it seems to me, if you are going to waste perfectly good bread and sausages, you might have given them to someone who was hungry,” the good captain replied mildly, proving he was not in the least craven, unlike Mr Twort.
“Have you ever been hungry, captain?” King asked.
The man considered this. “Yes, actually. A few times whilst fighting abroad I knew what it was to feel my belly had stuck to my spine.”
King nodded, unsurprised, for he had never doubted the fellow was honourable, a fact that did not make him feel any warmer towards him. “And did anyone ever thrash you or despise you for being hungry?”
The captain looked surprised by this. “Why… no, why should they?”
“That was my question too, when I was a boy growing up in these parts. When a mite of kindness or a piece of stale bread would have seemed like manna from heaven, and when instead I got the skin taken off my back by Mr Twort for having the temerity to even look in the window of a shop I could not afford to enter.”
The fellow looked utterly appalled by this information and King cursed himself, wondering what on earth had induced him to speak of his past. He never did so, had never done so, and now he was explaining himself to a man he didn’t even like.
“I-I did not know,” the man stammered, shaking his head. “How…damn me. How wretched. I have not lived here for more than a few years, but I am aware Mr Twort is not a man with the sunniest of dispositions, but I did not realise he would treat anyone with such cruelty.”
King, thoroughly out of temper now, both because the captain had proven himself a decent fellow and because he had revealed something of his past he would rather have died than let the fellow know anything about, merely grunted.
“It’s of no matter,” he muttered gruffly, and strode away, but the captain followed him.
In normal circumstances, King would simply have ignored and outpaced him, but a glimpse out the corner of his eye showed him that the captain limped, leaning heavily on his cane.
No doubt the result of some heroic activity during his serving years.
Cursing inwardly, King moderated his stride so the fellow could keep up with him.
“So, you were born here?” the captain said.
“For my sins, or rather, my father’s,” he replied with a shrug. “He was a fisherman.”
The captain nodded. “Ah, yes, I believe I remember hearing that.”
King snorted. “I doubt very much that’s all you heard.”
To his credit, the fellow smiled. “No, but I’m not one to listen to gossip. This town is small, and the inhabitants have too much time to pick over their neighbour’s business, especially in the winter months. I make my own mind up before condemning anyone on hearsay.”
“Good of you,” King remarked dryly, wishing the fellow would leave him be.
“I’m Dearborn, by the by. Captain Dearborn as was, but Dearborn is good enough,” he added, holding out his hand.
King sighed inwardly but took the fellow’s hand and shook it. “King.”
“Your servant, sir,” the good captain replied politely.
King grunted, having used up all the polite small talk he was capable of for one day.
He was just racking his brain for an excuse why he must part ways with the captain when they passed the lane that led back down to the shore.
There was a row of small cottages on one side of the lane, where the more prosperous fishermen—those who didn’t spent all their blunt in The Dog and Duck—lived with their families.
These properties were newer and better built than the leaky shack that King and his father had inhabited when he was a boy.
Now a ruckus of some description was in progress, though, and both men turned, starting as they heard a feminine scream of distress.
Glancing at each other in concern, they looked back at the cottages in time to see a woman running from the front door in apparent terror. A moment later, the lumbering figure of a man followed her, bellowing and waving his fist as the neighbours came out to watch the debacle.
“Christ,” King muttered, immediately recognising Bill Jenner.
“Good Lord,” the captain exclaimed. “I do believe he means to—”
King was moving before the captain could finish his sentence, running towards the cottages.
Bill had caught hold of the woman’s hair and delivered a back-handed blow that sent her staggering, then sprawling on the ground.
Bill lurched forward, about to have another go when King stepped between them.
“Why don’t you try that on someone who can fight back?” he growled furiously.
“Stay out of it,” Bill shouted, though he made no move to strike King. “This is between a man and his wife.”
“I don’t think you’ll be speaking to the lady again until you’re sober,” King said steadily, glad to see the captain had the sense to run to the poor woman and take care of her.
“Says who?” Bill demanded, his colour rising to such a pitch King wondered hopefully if he might do the world, and his wife, a favour and have an apoplexy. Sadly, it was not to be.
“Who do you think?” King replied calmly. “Would you like to argue the point?”