questions of motive.
He had reckoned that a woman employed in one of the inns and hostelries of Hull would be used to long hours and drudgery; she should be young, but not so young that he’d have to teach her the facts of life. Mature, but no more than twenty-five, and presentable and attractive; not a whore, although he had no problem with previous experience, providing she was clean; and she should have no commitments. No children, no parents, no ties, and no one with claims on her. She should be looking for a chance to better herself and be prepared to leave the town and become a countrywoman.
On the first visit, he had become almost drunk in his search. He hadn’t realized just how many inns and beer houses the town held. He’d gone to those that were slightly run down, the kind of place where a woman without family might apply for a job and be prepared to work for a pittance.
Some of the places he tried employed women who in his opinion were nothing more than sluts. Some of them leered at him, giving him toothless grins as they asked if he was new to the area.
‘Passing through,’ he would mutter, drinking his ale and moving on.
Other hostelries, crowded with seamen, were attended mainly by a landlord and occasionally by a landlord’s wife, as tough and mean as they appeared to be, and he would leave swiftly without ordering a drink. The meandering High Street with its courts and alleys, the lanes running off towards the Market Place and narrow staithes leading to the River Hull, was a hotchpotch of ramshackle buildings, fine houses, barbers’ shops, workshops and law offices as well as many ancient, crumbling inns. The only way he could retain a sense of direction was by keeping the tower of the Guildhall or the medieval church of St Mary’s within his sight.
He had been about to give up his search and go home when he came to the stable yard of an alehouse with a sign of the George and Dragon swinging over the door. A narrow alley with the nameplate George Yard led through from the High Street into Lowgate and he decided to try his luck once more.
It was a cold night but there was a good fire burning in the grate with customers gathered round it; the bar counter was clean, as was the long table in the middle of the room. A woman in her twenties was serving ale from a jug and he saw her skilfully swerve away from a man’s hand reaching beneath her skirt.
Mmm, he’d thought. Not a whore then, unless she’s playing hard to get. She’d smiled at the man, but not provocatively; no doubt she’d be under orders from the landlord to be nice to the customers.
She might do, he’d thought, providing she wasn’t spoken for, and he leaned on the counter and ordered a pint of their best ale. She’d spoken pleasantly, with a trace of the local accent.
‘Haven’t seen you before, sir,’ she said. ‘Are you visiting ’town?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘A bit o’ business here. Went on a bit late. I’ll be on my way home after this. Have you got owt I can eat? I missed my supper.’
She hadn’t asked him where home was, but said she could rustle up a plate of beef or ham with bread.
‘Bread was fresh this morning,’ she said. ‘It’s not stale.’
‘Aye, that’ll do. I’ll not eat stale bread. I like my grub. Did you mek it?’
‘No.’ She laughed. ‘Landlord’s wife buys it from ’baker.’
‘Bet you know how to mek it though, don’t you?’ He’d pushed his hat back and watched her as she took bread out of a crock under the counter, sliced it, placed it on a plate and took two thick slices of beef and ham from beneath a covered dish. He noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
‘Course I do,’ she said. ‘My ma showed me how when I was a bairn. I don’t mek it now, though. I don’t have a good enough oven, and besides, ’baker’s cheap enough. Mustard?’ she asked.
‘Aye, and plenty of it.’
He ate quickly. It would take at least two hours to get home; he’d left a
He had reckoned that a woman employed in one of the inns and hostelries of Hull would be used to long hours and drudgery; she should be young, but not so young that he’d have to teach her the facts of life. Mature, but no more than twenty-five, and presentable and attractive; not a whore, although he had no problem with previous experience, providing she was clean; and she should have no commitments. No children, no parents, no ties, and no one with claims on her. She should be looking for a chance to better herself and be prepared to leave the town and become a countrywoman.
On the first visit, he had become almost drunk in his search. He hadn’t realized just how many inns and beer houses the town held. He’d gone to those that were slightly run down, the kind of place where a woman without family might apply for a job and be prepared to work for a pittance.
Some of the places he tried employed women who in his opinion were nothing more than sluts. Some of them leered at him, giving him toothless grins as they asked if he was new to the area.
‘Passing through,’ he would mutter, drinking his ale and moving on.
Other hostelries, crowded with seamen, were attended mainly by a landlord and occasionally by a landlord’s wife, as tough and mean as they appeared to be, and he would leave swiftly without ordering a drink. The meandering High Street with its courts and alleys, the lanes running off towards the Market Place and narrow staithes leading to the River Hull, was a hotchpotch of ramshackle buildings, fine houses, barbers’ shops, workshops and law offices as well as many ancient, crumbling inns. The only way he could retain a sense of direction was by keeping the tower of the Guildhall or the medieval church of St Mary’s within his sight.
He had been about to give up his search and go home when he came to the stable yard of an alehouse with a sign of the George and Dragon swinging over the door. A narrow alley with the nameplate George Yard led through from the High Street into Lowgate and he decided to try his luck once more.
It was a cold night but there was a good fire burning in the grate with customers gathered round it; the bar counter was clean, as was the long table in the middle of the room. A woman in her twenties was serving ale from a jug and he saw her skilfully swerve away from a man’s hand reaching beneath her skirt.
Mmm, he’d thought. Not a whore then, unless she’s playing hard to get. She’d smiled at the man, but not provocatively; no doubt she’d be under orders from the landlord to be nice to the customers.
She might do, he’d thought, providing she wasn’t spoken for, and he leaned on the counter and ordered a pint of their best ale. She’d spoken pleasantly, with a trace of the local accent.
‘Haven’t seen you before, sir,’ she said. ‘Are you visiting ’town?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘A bit o’ business here. Went on a bit late. I’ll be on my way home after this. Have you got owt I can eat? I missed my supper.’
She hadn’t asked him where home was, but said she could rustle up a plate of beef or ham with bread.
‘Bread was fresh this morning,’ she said. ‘It’s not stale.’
‘Aye, that’ll do. I’ll not eat stale bread. I like my grub. Did you mek it?’
‘No.’ She laughed. ‘Landlord’s wife buys it from ’baker.’
‘Bet you know how to mek it though, don’t you?’ He’d pushed his hat back and watched her as she took bread out of a crock under the counter, sliced it, placed it on a plate and took two thick slices of beef and ham from beneath a covered dish. He noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
‘Course I do,’ she said. ‘My ma showed me how when I was a bairn. I don’t mek it now, though. I don’t have a good enough oven, and besides, ’baker’s cheap enough. Mustard?’ she asked.
‘Aye, and plenty of it.’
He ate quickly. It would take at least two hours to get home; he’d left a
Similar Books
