The man was interested enough in the spectacle of rat-killing although it did not engross him as much as it did the other spectators. For one thing, he was not a betting man. For another, this was not an interesting fight between evenly matched opponents, each of them risking death or serious injury. The terrier would almost certainly come off quite unscathed after disposing of a dozen or more of the rodents. The real contest was between the dogs (and their owners) as to which of them could kill the most in an allotted period of time. So while this particular terrier was despatching fresh rats, the man cast his eyes over the company from the vantage point of the cart. There were no women in the crowd and the men were predominantly of the same type and class as those who filled the pub which stood a few dozen yards off.
The newcomer soon saw on the far side of the ring three individuals who were better dressed than the rest of the crowd. Gentlemen, perhaps, though more on account of their clothes than anything else about them. They too were absolutely absorbed by the contest, their faces tilted forward and etched by shadows, their extended arms braced on the rim of the pit.
The man waited until the match was declared over, which happened after someone called out ‘Time!’ as a signal to the boy who was acting as a second to catch up his dog by the scruff of the neck.
In the pause before the next bout, the man leaped down from the cart and circled round the barn. The trio of gentlemen, for want of a better word, were now standing a little away from the pit, exchanging sporadic comments among themselves but not talking to any of the others in the barn. The man tapped the shoulder of the individual he wanted to speak to.
This one spun round, instinctively raising the walking stick which he was carrying. Then, squinting through the hazier light beyond the perimeter of the ring, he relaxed and lowered his stick.
‘Ah, Adam, it’s you.’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ said the man.
‘What have you got to report?’
‘Here?’ said the man. ‘Now? In front of your friends?’
‘These aren’t my friends,’ said the gentleman, looking over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Never seen them before in my life.’
‘Funny, isn’t it,’ said the man who’d been addressed as Adam. ‘A funny thing, a queer thing. Birds of a feather and all that. Sticking together.’
‘I dare say,’ said the gentleman, perhaps irritated by Adam’s familiarity. ‘And here’s another funny, queer thing, Adam. Look in the pit there. Look at the rats.’
The boy and the terrier were still inside the ring, the boy holding the dog, which hadn’t yet taken its eyes off the surviving rats. The boy, meantime, was conferring with a heavy-set man leaning on the rim of the pit. Judging by the way he was looking at the terrier — with a touch of pride in his face — he was most likely its owner. For their part, the few rats which remained had started to clean themselves or to nibble the ends of their tails or even to sniff around the lad, who had prudently tied string round the bottom of his trousers to prevent them scrabbling up his legs. The rats got on with their existence despite the corpses and the fearsome face of the terrier looming only a couple of feet above them.
‘They are ignorant of their fate, Adam,’ said the man, gesturing at the rats with his walking stick. ‘See the way they play around the feet of their destroyer. See how quickly they get back to their normal business, as if there were nothing but unclouded blue sky above them.’
‘Very poetic,’ said Adam.
‘There’s a lesson for us here.’
‘Well, I am buggered if I know what that lesson is,’ said Adam.
‘I only say this sort of thing to you because I believe you can appreciate it,’ said the man.
At this point the two men had to move out of the way while the terrier was borne off from the pit, cradled in the arms of the heavy-set individual as lovingly as if he were carrying a baby. The boy was sweeping the corpses of the rats to one side but not troubling to remove them from the little arena. Another dog was being ushered towards the ring from some dark corner of the barn, a small white bulldog this time, walking in his stumpy fashion rather than being lifted. And the proprietor of the rat-killing forum (who was a cousin to Jerry Reynolds, landlord of The Nethers) was bringing up the rear, supporting a large wicker basket on his outstretched arms. Despite the dimness of the lamplight it was possible to make out, through the hinged metal grid which formed the lid of the basket, mounds of close-packed rats. They looked like so many sweetmeats being brought to market. Moving sweetmeats.
The man called Adam said, ‘I’m not staying to see more. I don’t bet.’
‘You don’t bet?’ said the other, with genuine surprise.
‘It’s a mug’s game.’
‘There is the sport too.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Then tell me quickly, Adam, what you found in The Side of Beef,’ said the well-dressed man, glancing round to see that no one was within earshot. He was obviously eager to turn his attention back to the wooden pit, but not so eager that he didn’t take time to bring out a hip flask and have a swallow from it before asking, ‘What have you got to report?’
‘I found nothing.’
‘You were recommended to me as a man who could find things. I paid you on that understanding.’
‘Can’t find nothing if there’s nothing to find. I turned over the room and there was nothing there, I say. Nothing we would be interested in, leastways.’
‘Then why in God’s name did you come to disturb me here if you had nothing to say?’ said the man, letting the irritation back into his voice. Perhaps he’d picked up on the shared ‘we’ in Adam’s answer and did not care for the implied equality.
If Adam felt rebuked by the man’s tone, he didn’t show it. In fact he took pleasure in saying, ‘I knew I’d find you here, mister, out behind The Nethers. I wanted to track you down, that’s all. I can nail you, see, as sure as any of those dogs can nail a rat.’
And with that Adam turned about and weaved his way through the men in the barn and so out of the door. Apart from Jack outside the door, no one noticed him leave for all their attention was again focused on the imminent match. The white bulldog was being held poised above the arena while the rats, whether old ones or fresh, continued to go about their oblivious business. But even if the eyes of the spectators hadn’t been directed elsewhere, it is unlikely that they would have paid much attention to Adam. He had the knack of passing unseen.
Off the Dardanelles
‘I knew your father,’ said Henry Cathcart. ‘He was a friend. We served together. He was a Thomas like you. You are very like him in looks too. I thought you seemed familiar last night. It gave me quite a start and I took the liberty of asking the landlord about you. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ said Tom, ‘but why did you not make yourself known last night, Mr Cathcart?’
‘I. . I was uncertain what to do. I did not know how welcome such an intrusion would be. Besides, seeing you was quite a shock to the system. I needed time to recover. It is twenty years or more since I last saw your father. I never thought to see him again in this life and of course I will not see him. Yet last night at supper, there he was. . or rather, there you were. You do not mind me saying all this, Mr Ansell? Thomas?’
Cathcart leaned across and made to grasp Tom’s hand. He was visibly affected by the meeting. The two men were sitting in an empty snug off the supper room in The Side of Beef from which there came the subdued noise of diners and the clinking of cutlery and glass. A bottle of red wine was on the table between them. Tom felt almost dizzy although he had taken no more than a couple of sips from his glass.
He said, ‘I am Tom. But my mother tells me that my father was always called Thomas. I was called Tom to distinguish me from him if my mother wanted my attention. . but of course by the time it would have regularly mattered to distinguish between us. . he was gone.’