At First Light

III.

The man on the floor slept, occasionally emitting a soft snore, while Hannah ate three of her mince pies in the dark. They were very clammy, and rather squashed and sticky. Hunger might have made them appetizing, but as Hannah had eaten enough ham sandwiches and lemon cake at luncheon for her mother to rebuke her gluttony, and as before then she had her usual breakfast of hot rolls, cheese, and chocolate, her hunger was really only the sort of discontented wantingness common to small children, lazy kitchen cats, and spoiled young ladies. She ate resentfully, thinking of the dinner she was missing all the while, and jealous of those who would, not far away, shortly be sitting down to it. She was resentful enough to attempt the rum again, which took some of the jealousy off, particularly when she realized how nicely it went with the pies.

The man was still sleeping when she was done. Energized, and with a pleasant, dizzy fire in her belly and behind her ears, Hannah decided to take proper stock of her surroundings.

She shuffled about, feeling her way with her feet and hands. It seemed to be a sort of storage shed. Piled in one corner and along one wall were coarse-woven sacks, full with something that smelled heavily sweet and earthy. Hannah pushed a finger into one, and found whatever was inside was dense and fine-ground. Flour? Soil? More likely soil, or possibly – her nose wrinkled – horse manure.

She felt her way further around, stumbling over the drunken man, who, disturbed in his dream, shouted,

"No, no, Sir, I won't do it... she's barnacle all through!"

Immediately after that, Hannah ran into a wooden barrow, and was surprised enough to swear. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, in case the drunk man had woken and heard, but he seemed to be still sleeping, because he only said crossly,

"I'll be damned, but I won't be barnacled for you, Sir!"

Hannah gave a gurgle of laughter. The drunk man, turning over, gave a dramatic sigh, and fell silent once more.

There was something in the wheelbarrow. Some kind of stiffened, mud-caked cloth piled haphazardly into it. A carriage cover? A horse blanket?

Whatever it was, its folds scraped against each other as Hannah pulled it up, and flakes of mud and clouds of dust scattered in the damp air. Hannah sneezed.

She dropped it back in the barrow, and continued to feel her way along the wall of the hut. Her gloved hands touched some poles, leaning against the wall: farm tools. Near the door, she found a workman's cap hanging on a hook, and a quantity of rope. On the far wall, there was a series of shelves, holding a clutter of nothings. She picked up a glass jar and shook it slightly, to hear it clink: probably screws or nails. There were a large number of bottles and tins – presumably gardening supplies – and various bits and pieces: an abandoned pencil stub, the handle of an axe, a sprung mouse trap, coils of wire.

There was nothing else in the shed. Disappointed, Hannah felt her way back to the sacks of what she preferred to believe was dirt, and clambered on top of them for a seat. She was interrupted once by the drunk man, who mumbled suspiciously in his sleep,

"Don't think you can fob me off with a toad, Sir. I know warts when I see them."

But after that, falling into a deeper sleep, he became silent, and Hannah had no company but herself and her feelings. The sacks, though soft, became uncomfortable after a time, and now that she had no activity or chatter to distract her, she was becoming painfully aware of the depth the chill was sinking into her bones. She shifted this way and that, and pulled her feet up under her, but nothing could dislodge the chill. Now, too, she became aware of a draught she had not yet noticed, stealing into the barn, and creeping its way down the back of her neck.