Leaning on
the wall at the end of Grope Lane, watching the passageway intersecting the
frontage of Bella Dubois' property, Jesamiah wondered how in hell he was going
to tell Tiola what he had done. Drop a few hints? Wait, let her find out for
herself? Walk in, come straight out with it? "Tiola. You are not going to like
this; I have something to tell you."
A squeal of
Amber-Rose's high-pitched laughter swept through the open front door opposite,
followed by a man's deeper guffaw and Bella's barked
amusement.
Jesamiah smoothed his
moustache and fiddled with his earring. Gone were the ribbons, the shabby
seaman's clothes. He still wore a sash but it was of expensive silk not
rough-dyed cotton. His coat and the clothes beneath were new-made of fine
material, he had even taken to wearing cotton drawers beneath his breeches. The
only old, familiar, things were his pistol and cutlass. And the
earring.
With his money he and
Tiola could easily have afforded better lodgings but both were content to remain
above Bella's, although there had been concessions. Jesamiah had bought a larger
bed and a comfortable chair in which he could happily sprawl before the fire on
chill nights, with Tiola curled on his lap.
She had made him have a bath. At the time, seven months ago
in late December, he had not remembered when he had last had one. He shaved and
washed, usually daily - face, armpits, backside and balls - but for more, a
sluice with a bucket of sea-water had sufficed, or a swim if they were ashore
and careening, every two or three months or so.
That first morning together he had made leisurely love to
her again, she, awakening to the new pleasures and sensations he conjured from
her body with his hands and tongue, he, delighting in using his acquired skills.
And for the first time, ever, not having to pay someone to appreciate them. His
euphoria spoilt later in the day when she told him he stank.
Ignoring his
protests Tiola had appropriated Bella's copper-lined tub, Bella herself sailing
in and out to exchange various tattled gossip, calling him dear and not noticing
his nakedness. Although foolish it had disconcerted him slightly; Tiola had
giggled, unabashed had stripped to join him in the hot water. From then, the
novelty of bathing had taken a more regular and interesting
slant.
Leaning against the wall,
his hands tucked beneath his armpits for warmth he smiled at the sensuous
delight of sharing a bath with a beautiful young lady. Bella, coming in with
towels had said, "Never yet seen a man and a woman take a bath together without
more water ending up on the floor than in the tub."
Tiola. How did he tell her?
He had been ashore these many months and he was aching for the sea. He was trying
not to, desperately trying to enjoy this new life ashore. Tiola he loved, but
wherever he went in Cape Town he could hear the roll of the surf driven in by
the wind, smell it, see it. He missed the heave of a deck beneath his feet,
missed the familiar rumble of an anchor cable, the creak of timbers, the booming
crack of unfurling canvas. Awake or asleep a need of the sea was pulling at him
as strong as drink or laudanum whined at a dependent.
He hunched his coat tighter, the wind, hurtling northward
from the southern polar region of Antarctica sent icy gusts swirling along the
cobbles and shivered down his back. As a seaman he appreciated a lively wind, as
a man standing ten minutes before midnight in a wind-blown street trying to
decide what to do, he did not.
Tiola did not agree with his gambling. She did not like him
going into the taverns either, but he did so most evenings when she was out
delivering a child or nursing someone sick, or setting a broken arm, or whatever
she did when called hurriedly away. Usually, he would escort her to where she
had to go, ensure there was always someone to see her home again and pursue his
own entertainment. Trying to suppress the increasing boredom he drank rum,
played cards.
This July night had started out as nothing unusual, except
for the person he had played against. Jesamiah was not expert at cards, played
because he enjoyed it, because it did not matter if he won or lost. What he lost
one day he won the next; his strategy was to never go out with too much silver
in his pocket and never to bet more than what he carried.
This game had
been different; his opponent had been the Dutchman, Stefan van Overstratten and
the modest stakes had risen higher than either of them could afford to
lose.
Jesamiah sighed again, his thoughts returning to
what had happened. Hoping that perhaps something would inspire him with the
courage he needed to tell her…