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“Yes. I know that. Thank you for telling me.”
Scuff said nothing.
But that evening, when Hester was in the kitchen, Scuff steeled his courage, stomach knotted, fingers digging into his palms, and went in to see her, hoping intensely that he would find the words before Monk should come, either to speak to Hester himself, or to see what he was doing there.
Hester was bending over the sink, washing the supper dishes. He took a deep, shivering breath and plunged in. “Miss ‘Ester. Can I say summink?”
She straightened her back slowly, hands dripping soapy water, but she did not turn to face him. He knew she was listening by the way she stood so still. He liked the smell in this room: warm food and cleanness. There were times when he did not want to ever leave it.
“Yes, of course,” she answered. “What is it?”
He pushed his hands into his pockets so that if she turned she would not see his white knuckles. “I did summink today that … that ‘urt Mr. Monk, but I dint mean ter.”
Now she did look at him. “What did you do?”
There was no help but to tell her the truth. “I asked some boys I knew about Mr. Durban, an’ I ‘eard some things that was pretty bad.” He stopped, afraid to tell her the rest. Would she know anyway? She often seemed to know what he was thinking, even when he did not say it. Sometimes that was very comfortable, and sometimes it wasn't.
“I see. Did you tell him the truth as to what you heard?”
“Yeah.” He gulped. She was going to say he shouldn't have. He knew it.
She smiled, but her eyes were dark with worry, he could see that. He knew fear and recognized it with instant familiarity. He felt sick.
“That was the right thing,” she told him. She moved her hand to touch him, then changed her mind. He wished she hadn't; it would be nice to be touched. But why should she? He did not really belong here.
“They said Mr. Durban let kids off wot should ‘a gone ter prison fer stealin’,” he said quickly. “Little kids, like Phillips takes. They said Mr. Durban weren't no better. They're wrong, int they?”
Now she hesitated, then seemed to make her mind up. “I don't know. I hope so. But if they're right, we've got to face that. Mr. Monk will be all right, because we'll be here.”
He stared at her, searching her face to know if she meant it, or if she was just being nice to him, thinking he was a child, and could not take anything worse. Gradually he became sure that she did mean it. She did not have children, and she was not treating him like one. He smiled at her.
She smiled back, and, reaching out, touched him quickly and very gently on the cheek. He felt the warmth of it run right through him. He turned away and went back upstairs, before Monk could catch him and somehow take the moment away. It was private, just between him and Hester.
He reached the top of the stairs and touched his cheek experimentally, to see if it was still warm.
In the morning Hester went to see Oliver Rathbone at his office. She did not go to Portpool Lane first; she did not want to have to speak to Margaret. She felt guilty about that. They had been close friends, perhaps the closest woman friend Hester had known—at least in normal circumstances, away from the horror
s of war. To avoid her now, because of Rathbone's part in the trial, and the fear and confusion she felt, added to her unhappiness.
Yet she could no longer put off facing Rathbone. She rode the bus along as far as London Bridge, then alighted and took a cab across the river to Rathbone's office near the Inns of Court. His clerk recognized her immediately and invited her in with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. She wondered what his own opinion was of the Phillips case, and Rathbone's part in it. Of course, it would be completely improper to ask him, and he could not possibly answer her.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Monk, but Sir Oliver has a gentleman in to see him,” the clerk apologized. “I can't say how long it will be before he is free.” He remained standing where he was. It was intended as a polite discouragement.
“If I may, I will wait,” she replied, meeting his eyes squarely and not moving a step.
“Of course, ma'am,” he conceded, reading her correctly that she intended to wait whatever he said, in the office, or even outside in the street, if that were forced upon her. “May I bring you a cup of tea, and perhaps a biscuit or two?”
She beamed at him. “Thank you. That would be most kind of you.”
He retreated, knowing well when he was beaten, and in this case not minding at all. She did wonder fleetingly if she might be about to fight this battle for him, as well as for herself.
She had rather more than three-quarters of an hour to wait, because as soon as the first client left another arrived, and she had to wait for his departure also before being shown into Rathbone's office.
“Good morning, Hester,” he said somewhat warily.
“Good morning, Oliver,” she replied as the clerk closed the door behind her. She accepted the seat opposite his desk. “I am sure you are busy—in fact, I have already seen two clients come and go—so I shall not waste your time with polite conversation. You may take it for granted that I am interested in your health and happiness, and that I have assumed all the usual polite inquiries from you about mine.”
He sighed very slightly and sat down behind his desk.
