Kitabı oku: «An Innocent Masquerade», sayfa 3
Chapter Two
Whether it was the session with Geordie which disturbed Fred, or simply the consequence of his exciting day, he was too dazed to know. Only when he went to bed that night, lying wrapped in a blanket under the stars, he found himself trying to remember and recall who and what Fred Waring was, for all his memories were of the recent past. He was not even sure that Fred Waring was his name.
Geordie’s voice echoed in his ears. Did you live in Melbourne, or did you go there because of the gold rush?
How to say that he had no notion of who he was or where he had come from when he found it difficult to say anything at all? What were his first memories? Try as he might he could remember nothing before…and he was back there again, where his memory began, standing in the dock of a courtroom in a place which he now realised must have been Melbourne.
He was feeling dreadfully ill, and was hardly able to stand upright. There was a horrible smell of drink. It took him some time to grasp that it was he who was the cause of the smell. His wrists and ankles hurt, too, which wasn’t surprising since he was in chains.
Someone was asking him his name.
‘My name?’ he said. His voice sounded odd, and his mouth hurt. His lips and nose were so swollen that he could not breathe properly.
Someone said, ‘He’s been on a bender for four days. Constable Brown said that he came crawling out of an alley a week ago, too drunk and dazed to speak. He’s been lying round the town ever since, begging. There’s always some fool to throw him money. He promptly spends it all on drink.’
‘He must know his name. Ask him again.’
Someone took him by the hair and thrust a grinning face into his, shouting, ‘What’s your name, cully?’
‘My name?’ He dredged a name from some pit whose bottom he had not yet reached. ‘Fred!’ That’s it, he told himself. Fred.
‘Louder, man,’ said another voice.
‘Fred, it’s Fred.’
He looked around and the room came briefly into focus. A well-dressed man was sitting on a kind of dais: other men, some in uniform, were standing about. Where could he be? A courtroom? Yes, it was a courtroom. What was he doing in a courtroom?
‘Fred what? You must have another name, man.’
‘Not Fred what. Fred…Fred…Fred…Waring.’
He was not sure that was his name, but it was a name, someone’s name, and since he remembered it, it might be his. It seemed to satisfy them, even if he didn’t feel too happy with it himself.
If only his head didn’t hurt so much he might be able to understand what was happening to him. The man on the dais began to drone at him. Then he stopped. The man on the right, who had seized him by the hair, now took him by the shoulders and began to push him out of the room.
‘Where am I going?’ he asked.
‘You ’eard, chum. On the road.’
‘On the road? What for?’
His articulation was so poor that, what with his head and his hangover, his guard could barely understand him.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.’
He was in a fog again. To some extent he began to grasp that something was very wrong. Trying to understand what the wrongness was, was beyond him.
‘I need a drink,’ he said pitifully.
Someone cuffed him. ‘No, you don’t. That’s why you’re here. You’re a drunk.’
Yes, there was something wrong about everything because some remnant of his old self had him saying with great dignity, ‘I don’t drink.’
For some reason, when he came out with this the whole courtroom broke into laughter, and even the stern-faced man on the bench gave a great smirk. He began to protest—against what, he wasn’t sure—and it took two men to haul the inebriated ruin he had become through the doorway and out of the courtroom.
He was suddenly in a yard in the open with no memory of how he had got there. He was chained to other men and standing in the cruel mid-day sun. It was so strong that it hurt him to endure it.
He started to fall but was hauled upright by an ungentle hand. He could hear people laughing. Even the other chained men were laughing at him. Out of some dim recess of himself that knew what was really wrong with him, he dredged up a coherent sentence that told the truth.
‘I need a doctor,’ he said, and then everything disappeared around him again.
His next memory was of being in a cart with other men. His neighbour kept complaining bitterly and tried to push him away when he fell, lax, against him, bawling, ‘Sit up, can’t you, mate. You weigh a ton.’
‘Can’t,’ he said, and lost everything once more.
Then he heard someone calling out names. He was standing in a compound, surrounded by huts. He was still chained to other men. Guards stood about—somehow he knew that they were guards, though how he knew, he could not say. They were carrying muskets, old ones. How strange that he knew that they were old, since he knew so little of anything else!
Someone shouted ‘Waring!’
The man next to him prodded him roughly and said, ‘That’s you, ain’t it? For God’s sake, answer him so that we can get this over.’
He said ‘Yes?’ but it was really a question, not an affirmation, and before he could register anything more the world went dark again, a nasty habit it had which frightened him.
He awoke to find that he was lying in the shade and someone was holding a tin cup of water to his lips. He drank it greedily. A voice said, ‘This man’s not fit for work today. He appears to be in a drunken coma.’
‘No,’ he said. It seemed important to say it again. ‘I don’t drink.’ This time he was not greeted with laughter. Instead a hard face swam into view. ‘You’ve drunk enough to kill a horse, man. You’re sodden with liquor. Leave him to dry out. He should be fit tomorrow.’
After that he slept, or rather was unconscious, he was not sure which. Only that, in the morning when he awoke, for the first time since memory had begun in the courtroom he saw his surroundings quite plainly with an almost hurtful clarity, so that he wished that he were drunk again. Now this was an odd thought to have, and it disturbed him greatly, since he knew—how did he know?—that being drunk was something foreign to him.
The thought disappeared when the stomach cramps took him. After he had recovered and eaten a little, he was told to strip. He was given clean clothes—a coarse canvas shirt and trousers—and he put them on, shivering as he did so. He asked for shoes or boots—his had been removed, and the guards laughed at him.
‘No need, chum, you’re making roads, not walking on them.’
From some corner of his mind Fred grasped—if dimly—that he was part of a chain-gang building one of the new roads which was connecting Melbourne to the north. Not that he knew that he had been living in Melbourne when he had been sentenced to hard labour—he only found that out later.
He was clumsy and bewildered at first, because the whole world was strange, but one of his fellow prisoners was kind and helped him when they were fed at mid-day.
‘Keep your head down, mate, and always eat your grub up. You’ll not be able to work if you don’t, and then they’ll thrash you for being idle.’
His shrewd eyes saw more than the court officials or the chain-gang’s guards and overseers. ‘Ill, aren’t you? It’s not just the drink, is it?’
The man’s voice was coarse but kind. Fred’s short memory had no kindness in it, only curses, blows and kicks.
That night, for the first time, he dreamed of a tiger. It ran through his dreams, frightening him, while he looked for something which he had lost—and knew that he would never find again. This thought filled him with such desolation that it was almost worse than his fear of the tiger which nearly cornered him once.
In the morning the memory of the dreams stayed with him, and trying to remember what they reminded him of made his head hurt again—and the desire to drink almost destroyed him.
At this point in his effort to make sense of his brief past Fred opened his eyes and looked at the stars, bright above him in the clear night. He had seen them when he had been a prisoner in the chain-gang and in an odd way they comforted him. It puzzled him that he suddenly remembered some of their names quite clearly when he was not entirely sure of his own.
He had pointed the Southern Cross out to the man who had helped him, and who, when their time on the road gang was over, stayed with him when they were driven back to Melbourne and set free again. They were given a little money in return for their work, and Fred and Corny Van Damm, his new friend, turned into the first saloon they could find and within a few hours were lying dead drunk in the street again.
Corny looked after Fred, found him places to sleep where they wouldn’t be disturbed and protected him from the roughs who tried to steal his pitiful store of money from him. It was Corny who arranged transport for them to Ballarat where he told Fred that there would be easier pickings than in Melbourne. Corny also comforted Fred when he became distressed, usually something which occurred whenever Fred seemed to be on the verge of remembering his lost past.
The trouble was that every time that this began to happen it was not only Fred’s head which hurt him, but something else which seemed to be associated with his heart. This new pain was so strong that Fred found that the only way to overcome it was to drink himself into a stupor—whereupon it disappeared.
Corny also taught him to steal, beginning with fruit off stalls and barrows, but Fred wasn’t as clever at this as Corny. He was clumsy and got caught and kicked for his pains, but Corny looked after him as much as he could. One day a very bad thing happened. Corny was helping a stupefied Fred to find a nice corner to lie down in, out of the sun, when a pair of policemen stopped them.
The bigger one took a good hard look at them. His eyes widened when he saw Corny. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’re Corny Van Damm. You went bushranging with Ryan’s lot.’
Corny let out a shrill cry, dropped poor Fred and bolted. One policeman ran after him, and the other bent over Fred and hauled him to the nick. Neither Fred nor the police ever saw Corny again—self-preservation being the name of his game. Without Corny Fred was lost. People tripped over him, and he was dragged in and out of the nick until Sam and Kirstie had arrived to free him, feed him, and promise him something of a future.
Remembering all this not only made Fred’s head hurt again, but disturbed him so much that when he finally slept not only did the tiger run through his dreams, trying to eat him, but somewhere in the background there was an old man who disapproved of him and frightened Fred even more than the tiger.
He shouted his distress and one of his new friends came to comfort him.
The odd thing was that when Fred woke up he remembered the tiger, but not the old man…
Sam decided that the new chum was to be put to work at once, and Fred, who had heard him tell Big Sister to feed him, was anxious to oblige him, never mind that Sam and Bart had thrown him into the water.
Fred had suffered from cramps in the night, and had begun to shout wildly in his sleep. Geordie, who shared a tent with Sam and Bart—Emmie and Kirstie slept in the hut for safety—heard him, and went outside to look after him.
He was thrashing blindly about. Geordie put a gentle hand on his shoulder and asked, ‘What is it, Fred?’
Fred opened his eyes, clutched at Geordie’s wrist and gasped, ‘It’s the tiger, Geordie! The tiger’s after Fred. Don’t let it catch him.’
‘Don’t worry, Fred. Sam, Bart and I will keep the tiger away. I’ll fetch you a drink of water and then you must try to sleep.’
‘Thank you, Geordie. Don’t let it catch you.’
‘It won’t, Fred.’
Fred drank the water down obediently and went back to sleep. The tiger was to run through his dreams for months but he never woke up shouting about it again, as though Geordie’s reassurance had made it toothless.
He enjoyed his breakfast. His head had cleared even more, and while he sat eating and drinking he really saw them all for the first time.
Sam was fair, well built and powerful, both in mind and body, the true leader of the party. Bart was dark and ox-like. He depended on Sam and Geordie for leadership and advice, but he was a tireless worker—and reliable. He always did what he said he would. All three of them were dressed in guernseys and moleskins, and Sam and Bart were heavily whiskered.
Geordie was small and sallow and, Fred came to understand later, somewhat sardonic. He was one of the few men in the diggings who was clean-shaven. His eyes were watchful, occasionally moving over Fred, assessing him slightly. Fred didn’t mind this. Geordie was his friend. He hadn’t thrown Fred about as the other two had. Geordie had given him these nice warm clothes, and had been kind: the tiger had been chasing Fred in the night but Geordie had made it go away.
The diggings were alive with noise and movement while Big Sister and Emmie Jackson handed round the grub. Big Sister, Fred thought, was a puzzle. She was nasty-nice. True, she gave Fred his grub, but she wasn’t pleased with him, Fred knew.
On the other hand, Fred could see how well she looked after everybody, even though she snapped at them, and cuffed large Pat and small Herbie when they were naughty. She had nice, fair hair even if it was screwed up. Her eyes were nice, too, bluey-green. They reminded Fred of someone, but every time he tried to remember who that someone was, he felt so sad and ill that he gave up trying to remember. He thought that he didn’t really want to know if knowing made his head hurt.
Big Sister looked after baby Rod, giving him his food, tying him up to the kitchen-table leg with his reins so that he couldn’t stray and get lost or hurt. In his new awareness he also saw that she looked after Emmie Jackson and her baby as well. It was a pity that Big Sister was so cross at times, particularly with Fred.
Still and all Fred helped her to clear away again, and would have done more except that Sam said, ‘No, Fred. Leave that to Big Sister. It’s time you started work. Pay for all the good grub you’ve eaten, eh?’
Geordie examined Fred’s hands carefully before shrugging resignedly. It was apparent to him that, although Fred’s nails were broken and his hands bore recent scars on the backs, palms and wrists, he had done very little manual work. His palms were soft and the calluses on them were new. His hands were beautiful and shapely, and Geordie thought that they had been cared for until not too long ago. All the marks of neglect on him were recent.
His body had been cared for, as well, and he had done very little physical labour. He was not unfit, but his muscles were not those of a man given to using them. For all his size—and his potential for strength—digging would, at first, be a hard task for him.
This soon proved to be true. Fred began enthusiastically enough in order to show his thanks to them, but he soon grew weary. His hands blistered and bled and he used his spade and swung his pick ever more slowly. He looked dismally at Sam, but Sam said, not unkindly, ‘You’ve got to persevere, chum. We all went through this at the start, didn’t we, Geordie?’
Geordie agreed, but he kept watch over Fred without saying anything or showing his concern overmuch. It was obvious that Fred was strong-willed behind all his artless charm—charm which even Big Sister grudgingly conceded he possessed. Once he grasped that they wanted him to go on, he bent to his task again, whispering to himself, ‘This hurts,’ but he still continued to dig, if slowly.
He had dug quite a hole when they stopped for a rest, a drink and more grub. Sam had hit a small pocket of gold-bearing quartz and Big Sister, Pat and Allie went down to the creek to wash it out. It wasn’t a big strike, but with what they had already found between them it would make a fair profit on the week and would enable them to keep and pay Fred, and feed well themselves.
It was surprising how deft the women and children were at washing out and sorting the grains of gold. Sam showed it to Fred and told him that that was what they were looking for, and how he would know it when he struck it.
Geordie dressed Fred’s hands and they started work again. The piles of muck around Fred’s diggings grew, but he slowed down more and more when his aching shoulders and back began to add to the pain of his hands.
By the time the gun went off to signal the end of the day’s work, Fred was so exhausted that he had to be lifted out of his hole by Sam and Bart. They laid him down on the ground and he only recovered a little when Big Sister brought him tea and grub, and said approvingly, ‘Well done, Fred.’
Her voice was so kind that it nearly brought tears to poor Fred’s eyes. So few people had been kind to him lately.
Sam agreed. ‘Kept at it, Fred, didn’t you? Many wouldn’t.’
It was nice to hear them say it, but it didn’t ease his bleeding and swollen hands much, nor his aching back and shoulders. Geordie dressed his hands again, and he too said, ‘Well done, Fred,’ and then, ‘Are you all right, mate? Your head’s not hurting you too much?’
‘No,’ said Fred. ‘It’s not my head today. It’s my hands and my back,’ and he made an almost comic face when he said it.
‘You’ll get used to it in time, and so will your hands.’
Fred was more than ready for his grub that evening and Big Sister was kind to him because he had worked so hard. Before supper Geordie treated his hands with spirits, which hurt, but Geordie said it would harden them sooner. He still wouldn’t let Fred drink, which saddened Fred, but he tried not to mind too much.
Funnily enough, although Fred was so sad, he didn’t feel able to disobey Geordie. Geordie told him that the more he worked the more he would be able to work, and the sooner his body would become work-hardened.
‘Drinking won’t help that,’ Geordie told him. ‘Quite the contrary.’
Although talk of the past was taboo round the diggings it was inevitable that a certain amount of harmless enquiry went on.
Bart said idly, ‘How’d you get to Ballarat, Fred?’
Fred looked up from the damper he was eating with great enthusiasm. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Corny brought me.’
‘Clerk, were you?’ asked Sam, who, like Geordie, had noticed that Fred’s hands were not those of a labourer.
Fred looked puzzled. ‘Can’t remember,’ he said, after a minute’s thought. ‘Don’t know.’
It became increasingly plain that Fred had, or claimed to have, little memory of a life before he had arrived in Ballarat. He had apparently worked on a road gang. He disliked the few police he saw, and was inclined to hide from them, crouching in his hole if they appeared when he was working.
Mac came along to watch him throwing muck about, and said, ‘Congratulations, Geordie, think it’ll last?’
Geordie shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Time will tell.’
Fred didn’t object to Mac. He couldn’t remember him as unkind, but the hard-faced man caused him obvious distress when he appeared one day.
Fred told Geordie that he thought that the police had been very unkind to him before he came to Ballarat, but careful and quiet questioning of him when the others were not about, continued to show that Fred’s memories were all very recent.
Big Sister bawled at him once when he annoyed her by refusing to hand over a particularly dirty shirt to be washed. ‘Brought up in a pigsty, were you?’
Great hilarity greeted his solemn answer, ‘Don’t know, Big Sister. Perhaps?’
‘Can it be true?’ Kirstie said to Geordie later, ‘Can he really not remember anything? Or is it that, like some, he’s quiet about the past because he’s got a dreadful secret in it which he doesn’t want to reveal to us?’
Like me, thought Geordie, but said aloud, ‘I don’t know why, Kirsteen. I thought that it was because he’d had a head injury that he couldn’t remember anything, but I’m not sure that the injury was bad enough for that. I think that perhaps he doesn’t want to remember. Don’t question him. It makes him unhappy. Perhaps, one day…’ and he shrugged. ‘I think that he’s already beginning to change a little, which is a good sign.’
Kirstie thought it all very odd. She continued to be kind to Fred that evening which made Fred very happy. Indeed, what surprised Kirstie the most was how contented Fred usually was—unless he was questioned about his past.
She remarked to Geordie that perhaps it was because Fred could remember so little that he was happy—which was not the first time that she surprised Geordie by her perception. She had already grasped that it was her memories which made her miserable, whether they were of the loss of her mother, or her dead older sister, Kathleen, or the farm, or her brother Jem, who had deserted them after his marriage to a wealthy farmer’s daughter.
In the noisy press of their active life she and the others gradually forgot Fred’s strange loss of his past, particularly since living with their little group began to educate him, to make him more responsible and a little less artless. It was not only Geordie who noticed that, when Fred stopped referring to himself as ‘Fred’ so often and began to use ‘I’ instead, much of his oddity disappeared.
He helped Kirstie in many little ways from that very first evening onwards. He also liked to tease her, as though she were his little sister, but he would always give over if he thought that it made her unhappy. As for his drinking, that had stopped altogether, and even though Geordie had hoped that his attempt to cure Fred might work, he was a little puzzled by how effective it had been. He had never seen a case like this since the days when…well, those days, anyway—he tried not to remember them.
What Fred did not tell Geordie, or anyone else, for they might think him mad, was that when he thought of having a drink a cold, hard voice in his head told him he was to do no such thing. ‘You’ve had quite enough of that, Fred Waring,’ it said. ‘You don’t need any more.’
Fred wondered who the voice belonged to. It wasn’t Geordie’s, that was for sure. Geordie’s voice to Fred was always kind. This was a nasty voice. It belonged to a right nasty and arrogant bastard, the sort of person Fred disliked most. It reminded him of the magistrate in Melbourne, or the Commissioner and the police who rode about the diggings being unpleasant to people.
It was so harsh that Fred was frightened into obeying it. Who knew what might happen if he didn’t do as he was told? Perhaps it was a pity that he didn’t tell Geordie about the voice, for it would have confirmed Geordie’s growing belief about what was really wrong with Fred.
Fred puzzled for a long time about who the voice might belong to, and then gave up the struggle. Life was too interesting, and there was so much fun to be had, that it would be a pity to waste it worrying about voices. After a time this one began to fade, but Fred was still careful never to take a drink—he didn’t want it back again.
Fred discovered fun with women quite early on, and like everything to do with Fred, it came about in the oddest manner. Geordie Farquhar was one of the few clean-shaven men in the diggings; most could not be troubled to take the time, or make the effort, to shave off their beards and moustaches once they had reached Ballarat. Thus Big Sister’s dismissal of men as large hairy monsters seemed particularly apt.
Geordie, however, always kept himself trim—he tried not to become too dirt-encrusted, even if, like everyone else, he fought a losing battle with mud and/or dust.
Fred, however, once he emerged from his liquor-induced semi-coma began to see the world—and himself—quite clearly. Consequently he started to chafe at his enforced dirtiness and to grieve over his damaged hands, but he had to accept that there was nothing he could do about them, committed to digging as he was. He also disliked intensely his unkempt and unruly black hair and beard. He was vaguely sure that there had been a time when he hadn’t possessed them.
One day, watching Geordie shave, he came to the conclusion that he, too, would like to rid himself of his beard and shorten his long hair.
‘Could you show me how to do that?’ he asked Geordie plaintively.
‘Surely,’ said Geordie. ‘Let me do it for you first, Fred, and then you’ll know how to keep in trim yourself.’
It was a lengthy and painful business, Fred discovered, losing his whiskers, but Geordie’s handiwork transformed him completely. Kirstie was not the only person to stare at the new handsome Fred it revealed to the world. That his teeth were good had always been plain, but that the rest of him was so personable was a surprise.
Beards could be grown to hide weak, lumpy, and ugly faces, and Big Sister often thought that some men were happy to grow them in order to disguise their facial shortcomings. Trimmed, Fred’s hair fell into loose black curls, which added to the attractiveness of a strong and handsome face.
‘Looks a different man, doesn’t he?’ said Sam to Bart. Both of them had ‘run wild’ as Kirstie disparagingly put it, and had luxuriant hairy growths.
‘You could say so,’ agreed Bart sadly.
It had been easy to patronise Fred when he was so vague and looked so wild, but the new man who had emerged from Geordie’s ministrations—like a handsome butterfly breaking out of a cocoon—was not someone you could easily look down on.
Women turned to stare at Fred when he walked through the diggings, and Kirstie thought that this was what started Fred on his road to ruin with them. Not that Fred was vain. He seemed in some mysterious way innocent of most of the minor sins, vanity included. Perhaps what principally distinguished him was his happiness—it was difficult to upset him other than by being naughty with his food which Kirstie sometimes was in order to punish him for anything she thought was a misdemeanour. Kirstie considered all those in her care, from Sam, Bart and Geordie downwards, to be little more than her children to be kept in order for their own good.
Fred liked to eat and, whilst not over-fastidious, he always looked glum if he was given the least attractive portions or didn’t get what he considered to be enough. He was big, worked hard and loved his grub. He was always ready for it, and was always the first to hold out his plate for seconds.
‘You’re greedy, Fred Waring,’ Kirstie snapped at him once.
‘Now, now, Big Sister,’ said Sam mildly. ‘Fred’s a big fellow. He needs his grub and he works hard. Don’t grudge it to him, girl.’
She half-flung more damper at Fred which he took thankfully. Damper wasn’t exciting, but it was better than nothing. He decided that Big Sister for all her grudging manner deserved a smile, so he gave her one. The effect was dazzling, but didn’t mollify her.
‘You needn’t grin at me, Fred Waring! You’ll get your share, no more.’
‘I don’t want any more,’ said Fred, who was feeling restless. He didn’t know why, but somehow it was connected with the sheep’s eyes which several women had made at him that day. He rose, and instead of helping Big Sister he decided to take a stroll around the diggings and see life. He might be able to walk the strange feeling off.
Geordie watched him go, and then joined Sam and Bart in a card game around the fire. Big Sister finished the washing up, put the children to bed and began to mend shirts. Emmie Jackson, more lethargic than ever, sat beside her, making no effort to help.
Fred looked around him on his walk until he reached the section where Hyde’s saloon and gaming den was flanked by Fat Lil’s Place. He had never visited either of them, although he had heard Sam and Bart chatting about them.
He stopped there—and caught the eye of Fat Lil herself.
It was the Yankees at the diggings who had christened the Madam at The Golden Horseshoe Fat Lil, and had changed its name to Fat Lil’s Place. Not that Lil was really fat, just big all over. Junoesque, as Geordie had once described her to Bart.
‘You know who?’ Bart had said, puzzled. ‘She’s Fat Lil, isn’t she?’
Fat Lil was very much the Madam. She kept the girls in order, and the place respectable, if a whorehouse could ever be called respectable. She often stood, or sat, outside, gathering custom, magnificent in her satins, with feathers in her hair, her face as highly painted as an Old Master, Geordie said, confusing Bart all over again.
Although Lil had once been on the game herself she rarely practised it now. Occasionally, if someone took her fancy when she sat outside, she invited him into her bed. ‘Lucky for some,’ laughed the diggers, since she never asked for payment—but this happened rarely.
Fred’s restless mood had grown with every step he had taken. Lately he had found that looking at women, other than Big Sister, that was, made him feel—well—strange. He had a dim memory that doing something with women was very nice, but like many other aspects of Fred’s life, his memory of exactly what that something was, was rather patchy.
Fat Lil watched him approaching. Everything about his handsome face and his beautiful body attracted her. When he drew level she returned his innocent stare with her knowing one.
‘Hello! New chum, aren’t you?’ Then she realised that he was The Wreck, sobered off, and without all the hair. A proper Apollo, as someone had once called a handsome man she had known, long ago when she had been Thinner Lil.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Not all that new now, though.’
‘No,’ said Fat Lil, running her eyes up and down him. ‘Like a bit of fun, would you? Free, too.’
Fred was immediately attracted by the prospect of a bit of fun.
