Emma laughed all the more. ‘How far on? Half an hour?’
Still laughing, they walked downstairs and into the bar. Another stranger stood there talking to Martin.
‘John!’
‘I can’t believe it! I thought we’d never see you again. We had a telegram saying you were lost. Why didn’t you write?’ demanded Emma.
He shrugged, looking sheepish. ‘I just got out of the habit. I’d no idea the daft buggers had sent you a telegram. I’ve been at death’s door, though; they put me ashore in Cape Town with typhoid, and I stayed in South Africa longer than I needed to, because I like it there, and I’ve got a bonny little Dutch lass waiting for me. I’m going back as soon as I can afford to. I think I’ll trek up to Kimberley, see if I can get a job in the gold mines. We licked old Kruger. I might as well see a bit of the benefit.’
‘Don’t talk about going again, you’ve only just got here. Have you seen me mam?’ demanded Emma.
‘That I’ve not. When I got home, she wasn’t living there any more. I just came to get a pint before walking on to Old Annsdale. By, the pub looks grand. You’re a lucky man, Martin. You’ve done all right for yourself.’
‘Ginny’s made my luck. She’s done all right for us all, and I intend to do the same for her before I’ve finished,’ said Martin, face serious, ‘but there’s plenty weren’t so lucky. There’s a few of your old marrers you’ll never see again.’
The Cock was going from strength to strength. They threw it open at minimal cost for weddings, christenings and any other excuse for a celebration. Ginny installed a piano in the best room, and persuaded Miss Carr to teach Jimmy to play. He hadn’t hewed long enough for his fingers to lose all sensitivity, and he was an enthusiastic learner.
As soon as the last of the black crêpe disappeared from village windows, Ginny started to give concerts on Pay Fridays. People came from Old Annsdale and all the surrounding villages to hear her and to pass good money over the bar. They agreed that a fifth of the profits should go to the distress fund. Most people in the village recognized her open-handed generosity, but there were a few who would never accept her, she knew that. Those upright people, whose greatest delight in life was holier-than-thou conversation along the lines of ‘I thank thee, Lord, that I am not as this Publican’, were unlikely ever to relinquish so rewarding a target as the landlady of the Cock Inn. Ginny laughed at them. She would live exactly as she wanted to live, and defy provincial prudery.
‘I’ve got the name, so I might as well have the game,’ she told Emma. ‘London’s got its faults, but at least the working class there are a bit more broad-minded. I’m soon going to give everybody something to talk about, friend and foe alike.’
When the swelling of her belly was barely visible, she sang a folk song it had amused George to adapt for her, in front of a packed house. She saw Emma and Martin busy behind the bar, and Maudie standing beside him, furiously washing glasses. John was sitting at a table in company with their mother, whose health and good looks had been improved beyond recognition by a little peace and prosperity, and the return of her adored firstborn. Mam Smith and her new lodger sat close together, seeming happy in each other’s company.
All looked expectantly towards Ginny. Feeling as nervous as she ever had in the grandest theatres in London, and knowing that fear would add spice to her performance, she gave the nod to the pianist and stood completely still, hands clasped demurely in front of her. After a few introductory bars, she began:
A traveller for many long years I have been,
But I never went over to France.
Most cities and all market towns I’ve been in,
From Berwick-on-Tweed to Penzance.
Many hotels and taverns I’ve been in in my time
And many good landlords have seen,
But of all the great heroes who others outshine
Give me the brave widower, the valiant widower,
The stout-hearted widower who keeps the Cock Inn.
She saw Emma nudge Martin, who looked across at her and smiled. She sang on, as if butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth until she got to the last verse:
Then here’s to the brave-hearted hewer I prize
In a bumper now filled to the brim,
For who could resist such a pair of blue eyes,
Such a face, such a smile, such a him?
Away, then away with my single girl’s vow,
My hand then in his with the ring;
Because he was willing to take me in tow,
I married the widower, the stout-hearted widower,
I married the widower, and we keep the Cock Inn.
She gave a ghost of a smile, and the mere hint of a wink, and saw Martin pushing his way through the throng towards her as she drew breath to repeat the last two lines:
For I love the widower, the stout-hearted widower,
Yes, I love the widower and I love the . . .
He managed to clap a hand over her mouth just in time to stop her, but couldn’t prevent the rest of the company roaring, ‘Cock Inn!’
A sea of laughing faces surrounded them. Amid a riot of cheering and clapping and stamping. Martin held up an admonishing finger and looked at her severely. ‘Now you really hev gone too far. I can see I’ll hev to rein you in.’
She opened her eyes wide, a picture of injured innocence. ‘But I cannot help people’s minds, Martin!’
‘No, but you know what people’s minds are. And that’s the last time you sing that,’ he warned.
With every eye expectantly on them, Ginny solemnly lowered her gaze and nodded in perfect wifely submission, but when he clasped her to him and held her head against his chest, she knew it was to hide a smile. As he hurried back to his customers, still carefully hiding his face from her, she pressed both her hands to her lips. With the bright flame of love that burned in her heart for him shining in her eyes, she spread her arms wide to scatter kisses after him, before treating the audience to a final, impudent, wink.
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A Sovereign for a Song Page 27