Kit Read Free

and was gone.
    Without him, she was suddenly ashamed of their game. Her cheeks flamed. Little fool to have her head turned by a red coat, like any camp-follower. Like her mother. She did not want a soldier, didn’t want to keen and cry every night wondering where her man was. She wanted Richard – safe, sweet Richard. She forced a smile and followed her husband upstairs.
    Then the smile died. A snatch of song floated down the stair, wreathed her ribs and stopped her heart.
    Oh, me and my cousin, one Arthur McBride,
    As we went a-walkin’ down by the seaside,
    Mark now what followed and what did betide …
    She had to lean on the wall. She had to listen.
    ‘Arthur McBride’. It was a Jacobite song, and she had heard it at her father’s knee every night of his leave. She had not heard the song for eleven years, had not known that she even remembered it. But she felt her lips moving as she mouthed every word.
    ‘Good morning, good morning,’ the Sergeant he cried.
    ‘And the same to you, gentlemen,’ we did reply,
    Intending no harm but meant to pass by,
    For it bein’ on Christmas mornin’
    ‘But,’ says he, ‘My fine fellows, if you will enlist,
    Ten guineas in gold I’ll stick to your fist,
    And a crown in the bargain for to kick up the dust,
    And drink the king’s health in the morning.’
    She was ten years old again, watching her father leaving their farm on a frosty Christmas morning, his boots making perfect footprints in the rimed grass. Her father turning once to wave, the sunrise igniting his red hair, her father smiling at her with dimples like her own. She’d followed in his footsteps, as her mother had screamed at her in French to come back, that she’d catch an ague. Unheeding, she’d fitted her little footprints into his huge ones, until he’d outpaced her, and left her behind.
    Kit mounted the cellar steps and faced the crowded bar and the song. Every mouth bawled the words of the song from every direction, with drink-fuelled enthusiasm.
    For a soldier, he leads a very fine life,
    And he always is blessed with a charming young wife,
    And he pays all his debts without sorrow or strife,
    And he always lives pleasant and charmin’,
    And a soldier, he always is decent and clean,
    In the finest of clothing he’s constantly seen.
    While other poor fellows go dirty and mean,
    And sup on thin gruel in the morning.
    Kit’s ears were ringing, and she had to lean on the bar. Just as she thought she must fall, the song ended and another began. A faster song, one she knew, but one that did not have the power to chill her blood.
    She looked for Richard. Suddenly exhausted, she longed to lie down – it was gone midnight, and some of the soldiers were melting away. Richard could close up, Richard and Aunt Maura. But, just for the moment, she could not see her husband. She went on serving, by rote, and answered the soldiers’ bidding with the ghost of her former smile.
    Another hour passed, and the soldiers became increasingly rowdy. One of them shot at a wine barrel, making a neat hole – the wine sprang forth like blood and each redcoat held the great cask above his head in turn, gulping at the scarlet gore. Kit looked round for Richard once more – the regiment had to be curbed, before Kavanagh’s lost all their stock. She crossed the red lake to Aunt Maura at the bar. ‘Make sure you charge them,’ she mouthed, nodding to the wrecked barrel. ‘And where in the world is Richard?’ Maura, pipe in mouth, shrugged.
    Kit bit her lip with irritation. Richard liked a drink, and had the gift of mixing easily with their customers, but she could not believe he had gone carousing with the regiment when there was so much work to do. It was another hour before the last redcoat had finally gone; the doors were locked, the shutters were put up and Kit began to collect the tankards to wash. ‘Where can Richard be , Aunt?’ she asked. ‘Drinking with the regiment somewhere,’ she snorted.
    Aunt Maura eyed