the last one from the tin. It was soft and only fit for the birds, but he chomped it as she ran him a cup of water. ‘ What should she know? I don’t want her getting married either,’ she added.
‘Married!’ The word barged out of him on a spray of crumbs.
‘There’s been no talk of it,’ she soothed. ‘Just me wondering where it will all end.’
Mr Burgess sat down at the table, putting his bowler in its usual place. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, for one thing, did you know he was a shirker?’ He left a pause for her reaction, which was none. ‘A shirker , a slacker . Meaning he never fought. He left it to others to do his dirty work and most of ’em never came back.’ He looked down at his mangled hand, and his voice mangled along with it. ‘Lost both my brothers in France.’
‘Oh dear,’ Isis said. His moustache flopped lifelessly over his lips and his eyes filled up. She left a decent interval before she said. ‘Mary does know he didn’t go to war.’
‘Nay, but I don’t reckon she can know the whole story.’
‘What is the whole story then?’
‘He worked at the pits.’
‘I know. He was a miner before he was a coalman.’ It seemed to her a perfectly logical progression.
Mr Burgess sent out his big wet tongue to fish a crumb from his moustache. ‘He didn’t have to go, mining being what they called a reserved profession, but he could of gone. Most of his fellows went. He’s a coward, that’s what he is.’ He leant forward, ‘ A nd worse.’
‘What’s worse?’ Despite herself, Isis was intrigued. ‘Did you know Mary’s husband died at the Marne?’ she added.
‘Aye.’ He shook his head. ‘And now she’s consorting with a coward.’
‘But what did Mr Patey do that was worse?’ she urged, fascinated.
‘He had to get married , if you catch my drift.’
She didn’t but nodded sagely.
‘Though there’s those that say she tricked him into it. Lost the babe and her looks with it. Then,’ Mr Burgess leant towards her, a repellent gleam in his eyes, ‘he started carrying on with Mrs Burke, widow of the coal merchant. Well, his missus goes and dies, doesn’t she, terribly convenient that, and before she was cold in her grave, he ups and marries Mrs Burke, though she had a good ten years on him. More.’
‘So he’s married?’
Mr Burgess sat back, swollen with significance. ‘That’s the best of it. No sooner are they wed than she pops her clogs too. What do you say to that?’
‘How terribly, terribly sad,’ Isis said. ‘Poor Mr Patey.’
‘It’s blasted fishy, that’s what it is.’
Isis stared at him. Surely he couldn’t mean that Mr Patey killed both his wives?
‘I’ve said nowt,’ Mr Burgess said. ‘And you never heard nowt from me neither. But . . .’ he let the word hang significantly, ‘if Mary should happen to find out . . .?’
‘She probably does know. She knows him quite well, after all.’
He exhaled noisily. ‘She can’t know the ins and outs. I can’t think that of her. And she should be careful, don’t you think?’
‘He’s a Quaker,’ Isis said. ‘That’s partly why he didn’t go. She told me. He was brave enough, standing up to all the insults, if he got one white feather shoved at him, he must have had a hundred, that’s what Mary said.’
‘Brave!’ Mr Burgess stood up abruptly and seized his hat. ‘Brave! Quaker! Exactly. Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He wobbled his hand. ‘Quaker, shaker, trembler, coward.’ His cheeks had gone dark as beetroot. He buttoned his jacket with fumbling fingers. ‘Well, time I got on. Tell Mary there’s a gift in there.’ He nodded at the box. ‘Lemons. Only a bit spoiled.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Isis.
‘You think on what Mary should know for her own good,’ he added, picking up his hat.
‘But it’s gossip,’ Isis said uncertainly. She began taking groceries from the box – a huge bag of salt, a string of onions, a slab of lard and six or
‘Married!’ The word barged out of him on a spray of crumbs.
‘There’s been no talk of it,’ she soothed. ‘Just me wondering where it will all end.’
Mr Burgess sat down at the table, putting his bowler in its usual place. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, for one thing, did you know he was a shirker?’ He left a pause for her reaction, which was none. ‘A shirker , a slacker . Meaning he never fought. He left it to others to do his dirty work and most of ’em never came back.’ He looked down at his mangled hand, and his voice mangled along with it. ‘Lost both my brothers in France.’
‘Oh dear,’ Isis said. His moustache flopped lifelessly over his lips and his eyes filled up. She left a decent interval before she said. ‘Mary does know he didn’t go to war.’
‘Nay, but I don’t reckon she can know the whole story.’
‘What is the whole story then?’
‘He worked at the pits.’
‘I know. He was a miner before he was a coalman.’ It seemed to her a perfectly logical progression.
Mr Burgess sent out his big wet tongue to fish a crumb from his moustache. ‘He didn’t have to go, mining being what they called a reserved profession, but he could of gone. Most of his fellows went. He’s a coward, that’s what he is.’ He leant forward, ‘ A nd worse.’
‘What’s worse?’ Despite herself, Isis was intrigued. ‘Did you know Mary’s husband died at the Marne?’ she added.
‘Aye.’ He shook his head. ‘And now she’s consorting with a coward.’
‘But what did Mr Patey do that was worse?’ she urged, fascinated.
‘He had to get married , if you catch my drift.’
She didn’t but nodded sagely.
‘Though there’s those that say she tricked him into it. Lost the babe and her looks with it. Then,’ Mr Burgess leant towards her, a repellent gleam in his eyes, ‘he started carrying on with Mrs Burke, widow of the coal merchant. Well, his missus goes and dies, doesn’t she, terribly convenient that, and before she was cold in her grave, he ups and marries Mrs Burke, though she had a good ten years on him. More.’
‘So he’s married?’
Mr Burgess sat back, swollen with significance. ‘That’s the best of it. No sooner are they wed than she pops her clogs too. What do you say to that?’
‘How terribly, terribly sad,’ Isis said. ‘Poor Mr Patey.’
‘It’s blasted fishy, that’s what it is.’
Isis stared at him. Surely he couldn’t mean that Mr Patey killed both his wives?
‘I’ve said nowt,’ Mr Burgess said. ‘And you never heard nowt from me neither. But . . .’ he let the word hang significantly, ‘if Mary should happen to find out . . .?’
‘She probably does know. She knows him quite well, after all.’
He exhaled noisily. ‘She can’t know the ins and outs. I can’t think that of her. And she should be careful, don’t you think?’
‘He’s a Quaker,’ Isis said. ‘That’s partly why he didn’t go. She told me. He was brave enough, standing up to all the insults, if he got one white feather shoved at him, he must have had a hundred, that’s what Mary said.’
‘Brave!’ Mr Burgess stood up abruptly and seized his hat. ‘Brave! Quaker! Exactly. Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ He wobbled his hand. ‘Quaker, shaker, trembler, coward.’ His cheeks had gone dark as beetroot. He buttoned his jacket with fumbling fingers. ‘Well, time I got on. Tell Mary there’s a gift in there.’ He nodded at the box. ‘Lemons. Only a bit spoiled.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ said Isis.
‘You think on what Mary should know for her own good,’ he added, picking up his hat.
‘But it’s gossip,’ Isis said uncertainly. She began taking groceries from the box – a huge bag of salt, a string of onions, a slab of lard and six or
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