all, Alfred. You are my dearest friend.’
‘Ah, get away with you.’
He is pleased, and I do not know why he demurs. It is true: I would not find my way through each day without his guidance. The thought is alarming, so I push it away. He clears his throat.
‘Time to reckon up, Abel.’ He rubs his palms together in pleasure. ‘Our little ritual.’
And I remember: every night before we turn in, I count out our wages.
‘This is for lodging,’ I say. ‘This for breakfast. And midday food. This for drink. And this left over.’
‘More drink?’ says Alfred.
‘Hmm. No. I need better boots.’
‘That will not buy you boots.’
‘Then I shall save each day until I have enough.’ I hand the money to him. ‘Will you keep it safe for me? I lose things, you know. I will forget where I have put it.’
Alfred laughs. ‘You’d forget your head!’
‘Yes, you’re a wooden-head, and no mistake!’ calls a man further down the row of sacks.
‘Old dozy!’ another man takes up the cry.
‘It is true,’ I say, for so it is.
‘Come on, lads,’ mutters Alfred.
‘Oh, we like him, Alfred; even if he is tuppence missing.’
‘You know there’s no harm in it.’
One of them punches my upper arm. ‘You’re our lucky charm.’
‘Not one of us has got hurt since you joined us.’
‘So we’re not going to chase you off, eh?’
‘Not our Abel.’
‘You’re a bit of a miracle, as I hear it.’
‘Fished you out of the mud, they did.’
‘You were mostly mud yourself.’
‘You should of been a goner. By all accounts.’
‘No-one as goes in the river comes out. Save you.’
‘Got a bit of luck you’d like to rub off on me?’
‘Come on, Abel, how about a good rub-down!’
They roar with laughter and I decide it is best to join in. I ache for them to say more. To paint in the blank picture of my forgetting.
‘You were in the papers and everything. Come on, Alf, show us.’
Alfred unbuttons the neck of his shirt to a scatter of playful whistles and draws out a much-folded sheet of newspaper. He lays it across his knee, smoothing out the folds carefully.
‘There you are,’ says one, leaning over Alfred’s shoulder and jabbing at the page.
‘Watch it, Pete. You’ll tear a bloody hole in it.’
‘Look, Abel. That’s you, that is.’
I squint at the small engraving: a man’s head; nose prominent, eyes dark and deep-set, a shadow of hair on the chin. Below, a cluster of uniformed men around a prone figure. They look very pleased with themselves. Mysterious Gentleman Rescued, reads the headline. Startling Discovery, of Particular Interest.
‘You can read it?’
I realise I have been speaking out loud.
‘Didn’t know you were educated.’
‘Neither did I,’ I say.
They laugh, and are easy with me again.
‘You can see why they thought you were that Italian.’
‘Go on, say something wop. You know you can.’
I do not have to think: the words fly easily to my tongue. ‘Piacere di conoscerla.’
‘He’s a living marvel!’
‘Yes, but not that posh one, as went missing.’
‘They found him with his throat cut.’
‘And his trousers down!’
‘So you’re common as muck, like the rest of us.’
‘Better off with us lot, eh, Abel?’
‘I am,’ I agree, and it pleases them greatly.
‘Why did you jump?’ says one, more thoughtfully.
‘I do not remember,’ I say. ‘Maybe I fell in.’
‘Lot of drunks fall in. No offence.’
‘I am not offended.’
‘You don’t seem like a drunk.’
‘Well, you weren’t in the pudding club. That’s why the ladies tend to take a late swim.’
They chuckle again, and after a while Alfred shoos them away.
‘Don’t chase them off.’
‘Only trying to help out a pal.’ He sulks. ‘Give you a bit of peace.’
‘I know. But I like to hear them talk. Truly, I don’t remember.’
‘Remember what?’
‘Any of it. Falling in the river. Being pulled out. Anything before this cellar.’
‘Now you’re pulling my leg.’
‘Alfred, I am not.’
‘Abel, I know you’re a wooden-head at the best of times …’ He stops. ‘You mean it?’
‘I want to remember. I can’t. I look into myself and find nothing. Each morning I wake up …’
He looks worried. I decide to stop. The look changes to thoughtful, and then he smiles.
‘It’ll come back,’ he declares, with a certainty I do not share. ‘Big shock, that’s what it is. Thing like that’d scare any man out of his wits. Make him imagine all kinds of nonsense.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Course I am. Wouldn’t lie to you, would I?’
‘No. You are my friend.’
‘You keep me straight,
