Open Writing

The song of a bird awoke him. He opened his eyes and realised he was wrong. The delicate voice was that of a young woman. He sat up in bed and the singing stopped. A girl, who was vaguely familiar, put her head around the door and grinned.

"Good morning," she said. "You slept well."

He masticated for moisture. His mouth was very dry and he remembered he had drunk far too much the previous night, but with good cause.

"Good morning," he said, trying to work out exactly what he wore beneath the covers.

The girl went to a window and pulled open a curtain and sunshine burst in. She looked extremely young and he was glad he still wore his combinations as well as his shirt.

"Who put me to bed?"

A foolish question as soon as he asked it.

"I did." Her grin widened. "You were in no state."

Memories returned and he glanced sideways at a dressing table. His wallet lay upon it alongside the Samuel Colt revolver. For a moment, he wondered if the wallet contained all that it should and he felt her reading his thoughts and sensed they were unworthy.

At the same time, he wondered where she had slept for he guessed from the way the bed was rumpled that she hadn’t shared it with him. He was both glad and embarrassed. When a gentleman propositioned a young lady, he should at least be capable of seeing the proposition through to its conclusion.

That is if he had propositioned her. He couldn’t remember.

"I'm staying at the Pack Horse," he said.

"That's as maybe. Last night you stayed here. By your snores, it sounded like you enjoyed it. I'll get some tea."

She went through the door and he looked around more carefully. The room was clean and tidy but furnished frugally, with multi-coloured rag rugs covering the floorboards. An alcove, across which a curtain was half draped, served as a wardrobe, a water jug stood in a bowl on a table by the window, his trousers and jacket were draped over a chair by a plain wooden table, and a blanket was folded at the end of a chaise longue. That, he surmised, was where she had slept.

"How's your head?" she said, as she came back into the room, bringing him a mug of tea.

“My head is fine." He never suffered from hangovers but he did have a thirst. He sipped the tea. "Tell me. Did I hit someone last night?"

"You did indeed, in defence of my honour, I might add." She curtsied and gave him a lopsided grin, as if she was mocking him. "At which point in the proceedings, I brought you here, you being in no fit state for further merriment, violence or," she coughed delicately, "anything else."

"Thank you, mmm ..." His head might not hurt but his embarrassment was clouding his mind. "It's Jenny, isn't it?"

"How gallant of you to remember."

His embarrassment and her continuing attitude of amusement at his situation began to annoy him. The pain of yesterday's discovery was ready to overwhelm him again.

"I'm in no mood," he warned, with a frown.

Jenny shrugged, as if it was of no concern to her.

"Are you hungry?" she said.

"Yes."

After a night's drinking, he was always hungry, despite the heartache.

"Pork chop?" she said.

He nodded and she went back into the next room and he heard the clatter of cooking and the sizzle of a frying pan. He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers and used the water in the jug to wash his face and brushed his teeth with his finger. His long hair was unruly and he splashed water upon his head and ran his fingers through it to plaster it down.

By the time she returned, he had put on his jacket, his wallet was in his pocket, and the gun was back in its holster at his waist. He felt much more comfortable.

Jenny put a plate on the table.

"Smells good," he said, and sat down to eat.

The plate contained a thick pork chop, two eggs and a chunk of bread. She took his empty mug and brought it back filled with more tea and then sat on the chaise longue and watched him devour the food.

After a while, she said, "You've been in America."

Between chewing, he said, "How do you know?"

"The label in your coat. The gun. I haven't seen one like that before. Besides, not many men carry a gun at their belt in England."

"Yes. I've been in America."

"Why did you go?"

He bit a piece of bread and stared at her.

"To make my fortune."

"Why did you come back?"

"Because I had." He chewed and added, "Made my fortune."

"If you make a habit of getting into the state you were in last night, you won't last long enough to enjoy it."

"I can look after myself."

"Not falling down drunk, you can't."

He didn’t reply but used a piece of bread to wipe up the last of the grease on the plate.

"You cook well." He licked his lips appreciatively. "As I recall, you sing well, too." She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at the praise. He glanced around and added, "Do you bring many men back here?"

She bridled and he was sorry he’d angered her.

"No," she said. "In your case, I made an exception. You needed help."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you." He had no doubt that this young woman was an entertainer whose performances were not restricted to the stage, but he had no wish to take a moral standpoint. "Forgive me. My return from America was not all I expected. Yesterday I was the recipient of news that dashed a lot of hopes." He shrugged. "Yesterday, I lost my future."

"Do you still have your fortune?"

"Yes."

"Then fiddle," said Jenny.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said fiddle and I meant fiddle. Your future does not end with bad news. What world have you been living in? Most folk in this country live lives that are nothing but bad news."

He stiffened and gathered the dark mood clouds around him.

"Forgive me again, miss, but I don’t think you’re in any position to comment upon my misfortune."

"As far as your misfortune caused you to drink enough spirits upon which to sail back to America and delivered you to my bed in no fit state for anything save my protection, I think I do. I know all about bad news. Bad news is not something singular to yourself. Bad news is something to be digested and got over. If you wallow too much in bad news you might as well top yourself."

He was angry at this slip of a girl who was giving him a lecture.

"That might not be a bad idea. At least if I topped myself I wouldn’t have to listen to your rantings."

"There's a window. There's a drop," she said, unconcerned. "I'll lend you a sheet for the noose and brace the end round the bedstead. Not my best sheet, mind."

They glared at each other and his anger drained away.

"I'm sorry," he said. He looked down at the table. "Yesterday, the girl I was going to marry, married someone else."

The silence lasted long enough for him to become aware of the sounds outside in the street. A milk boy with a creaking barrow was shouting his wares.

Jenny said, in a soft voice, "Would you like to tell me about it?"

He shrugged, and said, "Why not?"

**

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