The Devil's Ribbon by D. E. Meredith Page B

in an instant. Addy threw his rod down and went after her. A flash of black hair, she ran like the wind up the grassy bank, but he was a damn good hunter when he put his mind to it. ‘Got you!’ he said, as the girl – and she was a girl despite her strange appearance – fell to her knees then turned around to face him, saying,
‘Saoirse …’
Her breathing came in sharp little rasps as he held her to the ground. ‘You scared the fish away …’ He grabbed her wrists tighter. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
    ‘Saoirse …’
    ‘I don’t understand you? Speak English.’ He held her there for a few more seconds, pinned beneath him, his legs straddling a thin body in rags. There was a storm coming, electric in the air, a crack of thunder, clouds rolling in. His breath running faster than hers.
    ‘I speak the Queen’s own English,’ she said, wriggling free of him. ‘I speak Latin, as well. All Irish do, maaaster.’ The ‘maaaster’ said with a sly smile. The girl brushed her ragged dress down as if it was the best
Indian silk. She had flowers in her hair – speedwell and purple mallow. Ophelia, he thought, laughing to himself. ‘Sure, the fish could see you coming for a mile. I was standing on the bank watching you. I could teach you how to tickle them straight out of the water, if you want me to.’
    Hatton laughed out loud. ‘I’d like to see you try. A girl who can fish? Now I’ve heard everything. You’re Irish aren’t you?’
    She curtsied, lower than she should have done. ‘My people are here for the seasonal work, yer honour. There’s nothing at home.’ She twisted her foot in the ground and sighed. ‘We’re here for the hops but I slipped off half an hour ago.’ She looked at him, with defiance in her eyes. He walked off, thinking girls are stupid and a waste of good fishing time, but she followed him and continued to seek him out and follow him for that long hot summer, and when summer was out, he was of a different mind altogether.
    She drew him into her world. Each night he’d leave the house, while the others were asleep, to visit the camp on the edge of hop fields; flames of fire under a dark luminous sky, the sound of rapacious fiddling, and, in the middle, a people gone mad, wild with drink and dancing, Mary festooned with ribbons, golden bells around her heels.
    She was always questioning why the moon controlled the waves, why the sun rose, was it true what people said about the layering of the earth? She told him stories, but said they weren’t stories, but legends – ancient legends of a noble people, with their own language and their own ways, downtrodden by his. He’d be angry with her and she’d only kiss him and tell him, ‘It’s of no matter, Addy. A hundred years ago. All forgiven and forgotten.’
    He should have heeded his father’s warning.
    The accusation came on the brow of a hill. Eddy Stoates had come out of nowhere, red-faced, spitting, ‘That Irish bitch of yours is stealing. Her whole family is. Our milk’s gone sour, the hens ain’t laying, my ma’s silver brush has been taken from the dresser.’
    Eddy Stoates was leering at her. ‘So, what have you got to say for yourself? But I’ll let you off a thrashing if you give me whatever you’re givin’ Addy Hatton, here …’
    Hatton rounded on him, saying he would give him a pummelling if he didn’t take every word back and, for good measure, Mary said, ‘He’ll not be bothering me, Addy.
Pogue mahone,
Stoat face …’
    ‘Irish bitch.’
    Addy was quick, running at Eddy Stoates, levelling him, his fists raised for more. ‘Apologise, right now—’
    Mary was quicker, laughing her head off and grabbing some itchy hay, sticking it down the boy’s shirt and calling him a scarecrow. ‘That’ll teach you a lesson.’
    The boy kicked her and wrestled himself free and slunk off. ‘You’ll pay for this …’
    Addy brushed himself down. ‘Are you all right, Mary? He didn’t hurt you, did