The Monster's Wife(89)

Cattle stood in stalls, huffing steam into the air, the whites of their eyes rolling round in fright at a dog that sat on his haunches and yapped. On the steps of the kirk was a gang of kids who were passing a paper full of tobacco between them, each one pinching up a dab of it and pushing it into his nose, snorting and spitting like an old fisherman in the smokehouse, though the oldest was no more than ten. Seeing them reminded her of Jamie and Roy smoking their clay pipe at the beach and throwing stones.

She struck out towards the harbour, May’s heart knuckling her ribs. Two women with trays blocked her way. She pushed past them and a man herding sheep with a pipe clamped between his brown teeth. Their angry cries followed her as she jostled forward, but she didn’t care as long as she wasn’t stopped, pointed at, laughed at. She kept her eyes down and her arms pressed to her sides avoiding the eyes of strangers coming from the other direction. Stalls and the striped thatches of shops spilled by in a patchwork blur. She knew she should be looking for something – the Inn, a job. But she’d already forgotten Mrs Mackie’s words. She broke into a half-run, treading deep in horse and cow and sheep dung, broken pies and running sewage, sweat breaking out on her forehead.

A man’s chest slammed into her. She stumbled back. The man towering above her had a heavy face with a red scar running across it. One eye was covered with a patch. He smiled down with one corner of his mouth, making her look down shyly. One of his legs stopped at the knee and he rested heavily on a crutch. What if he was another creature like her, sewed out of dead flesh? She looked up at the man’s face, saw Victor killing and digging, cutting and stitching.

“Aye, lass. Not bonny, I know. But take a good look if you fancy.”

“Sorry.”

The big man winked. “Everyone stares since I came back from France, as if they never saw a soldier before.”

Oona’s eyes raked the wreckage of his face.

“From the war, girl, where’ve you been? There’s thousands of us, come back cut up and stitched up, less an arm or leg.” He leaned in close. “Or head.” He grinned, peering down at the neck of her dress. “You’ve got a few scars too, by the look of it. Been scrapping have you?”

She shook her head, face burning. “I must get to the Inn.”

“That way.” He pointed over his shoulder at the burn. “You daft?” His laughter rang after her.

She went along, thinking about the men from the war, who were scarred and broken like her. Like Adam. She looked at the people hustling by. Many were broken, bandaged, limping. By the time she reached the riverbank, it seemed that the place was full of people like her - the walking dead. Her heart trilled loud notes like someone singing. These days, the more she listened to it, the more it sounded like May humming a tune or gossiping or praying or scolding Oona.

The Inn was closed. A woman leaning against a pile of potatoes saw Oona gazing wistfully at the door and beckoned her over.

“Looking for someone?”

“Jenny.”

“Oh aye, well Jenny’s left to get her dinner. She’ll be back to open up soon.”

Oona thanked her and slunk back to the doorway, biting her nails, flicking the occasional hungry glance at the fat potatoes piled next to the woman’s stall. She had other things Oona didn’t recognise – shrivelled brown things that looked sticky - she could smell their sweet scent from the doorway - and gleaming round globes that seemed to be carved from wood and varnished.

The woman saw her staring and smiled. “Those are the sweetest fruit you’ll ever taste. Apples, we call ‘em, six for a farthing.” She chuckled.

Oona smiled back, shyly.

“You look half starved, hen.”

“I’ve bread for later.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the apples though.

“My apples are only a farthing.” The woman put out a hand to her produce as if she was stroking a baby’s head. “Come look.”

Oona ambled over, rubbing her thumb over the coin Mrs Mackie had given her. She looked at the brown, shrivelled things - figs, said the woman - and the apples piled high, like something from a picture book. As she stooped, rapt, a breeze caught her shawl and it flapped up. She scrabbled to catch the edges and tied it back, but she saw the woman staring at her bare throat, the neck of her dress.

“My son’s come back from the war with a scar on his face. Worse to see it on a lass.” The stallholder smiled sadly. She took an apple from the top of the pile.

“Here.”

“Thank you.” Oona smiled at the woman and carried on down the road towards the sea. The throngs of the town dwindled on that stretch of dry road that ran along the side of the great river. Crow’s nests thrust from tall ships. They drew her to them, big boats she’d only ever glimpsed sailing by in the distance before. Their sails puffed out with far-away winds. The men that clambered up and down the rigging looked like ants. She took a bite of the apple. A sharp taste filled her mouth.

Each day the ships sailed until they reached the world. Maybe she’d climb on one and buy passage to a country she heard of but couldn’t imagine - France or Germany, India or China. There, in some great city she’d find a place that felt like home. Or maybe she’d just keep travelling. She gnawed the apple down to its core and threw it into the dark torrent below.

The current swept it off between the sharp prows of boats and out to sea. She pressed her hand into the half-healed space between her breasts. May’s heart beat calm and steady against her ribs, not singing or scolding Oona this time, just asking her where they were.