Drinkwater's Daughter by William Stafford

Author:William Stafford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: highwayman, highwaymen, humour, historical fantasy, crime, robbery, adventure, romance, 18th Century, England, Staffordshire, Lichfield, folk ballads, mystery, robbers, Gamaliel Ratsey, Dick Turpin, bandits, masked, horse, high toby, footpad, comic, police, constable
ISBN: 9781783333615
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2013
Published: 2013-10-23T00:00:00+00:00

Nine

“I don’t know as I should be doing this, Mrs Groat.”

Virginia Groat, wet nurse of the parish, gave her associate a shove towards the entrance of the Ragged Rascal. “Now, don’t you go telling me you’ve gone and got yourself some scruples, Irene Malkintrash, ’cause I won’t believe a word of it.”

Irene dug her heels into the gravel and crossed her arms in defiance. “Only you haven’t paid me for last night. You’d still be at your mother-in-law’s cottage right now if’n I hadn’t helped you out. Out of the kindness of my heart, might I add.”

“You’ll get paid.” Mrs Groat tugged at Irene’s shawl. “Now get in there and do what I told you.”

Irene braced her hand against a doorpost. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then you waits for him.”

“He could be ages!”

“You can borrow my knitting.” Mrs Groat thrust a shapeless workbag at her reluctant assistant. Irene eyed it with the disgust previously reserved for one of their charge’s filled nappies.

“I mean I’m going to need drinking money, ain’t I? Can’t sit in no inn and not have nothing to drink, can I?”

Mrs Groat navigated the choppy waters of Irene’s multiple negatives. “Blimey,” she concluded and handed over a few coins. Reconsidering, she snatched one back. “Only don’t go getting too merry, my girl. You need your wits about you.”

“Merry?” Irene sneered at the contents of her palm. “On this pittance I’ll be lucky to raise a smile.”

“Get. In. There,” said Mrs Groat in unconscious imitation of her husband. “And get that bloody key!”

“All right, all right! Miserable old fussock!” Irene held up her hands as though surrendering to one of those highwaymen you hear so much about. She went in, leaving a fretful Mrs Groat on the doorstep.

You send a girl to do a woman’s job...And by the look of him, that wisp of a boy soldier probably didn’t even like girls. That was that London for you.

***

Irene was disappointed because Proudfoot, and indeed the innkeeper’s daughter were not present. They were at that time still investigating the well in Mrs Groat’s mother-in-law’s back garden. Cherry had already reached the bottom and was calling up encouragement to Proudfoot as he gingerly lowered himself down the shaft, with the end of the old woman’s washing line wrapped around his waist.

“Do you know,” Cherry said, “I thought it was a bit thick for a washing line. Good length on it, right enough, but the girth...That’s the way! Inch at a time. Nice and steady...”

“Don’t rush me!” Proudfoot wailed. Nothing in his training had prepared him for such a manoeuvre. Come to think of it, his training didn’t seem to have prepared him for anything, consisting as it did of running errands for his uncle, to and from the coffee house. Proudfoot was beginning to suspect he had not been subjected to the complete programme.

“I’m not rushing you.”

“Well, don’t!”

“You take your time.”

“Quiet!”

Cherry tried not to giggle but it escaped her and was amplified by the brick-lined cylinder above her. To either side, the walls gave way to darkness and cold, musty air.

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