Gibbous House 24

Salomons busied himself about my person with chalk, pins and a bolt of dark material I found crude and rustic.

‘It is for the patterns, Mr Moffat. I assure you I shall choose the best of cloth to make your clothes, but I could not bring every bolt from Alnwick, I regret to say.’

Glancing over at Maccabi, I fancied I saw the beginnings of a smirk but he averted his gaze from me and engaged John Bill in a monologue punctuated by a nod or two from the mute.

‘John, John. Join me in a porter would you?’

John Bill’s eyes rolled alarmingly as he gave a savage nod of affirmation. He poured two tankards and I noted none was proffered or offered to me.

‘A Game, a game, John. To while away my employer’s fitting, wilt thou?’

The same exploration of every neuk of the eyesockets and brutal head movement came as answer. The dumb figure moved slowly from behind the counter and both of them repaired to the opposite corner of the room. A table of a yard by a yard-and-a-half dimensions had nine skittles atop it in three rows of three. The table itself was lipped, a four inch boundary around the edge, giving the impression of an over-large fruiterer’s box set on four high legs. A stout wooden pole stood in the centre of the box. Attached to the pole by a link chain was a heavy looking wooden ball about the size of a plum. Maccabi, still addressing his mute companion in the same jovial tones, which, in truth, I could not credit nor countenance, said:

‘Ha, John, take you the first foray among the pins.’

After his ritual of assent, John Bill siezed the ball, drew back the length of his arm and let fly at the skittles. It must have taken a throw of some skill, and an unerring eye, to cause the bolus to miss every one so completely, not only on the first pass, but on subsequent journeys through the pins until it came to rest against the pole.

‘Bad luck, John! A farthing every one down, ho?’

The silent giant modified his rite to move his head in the lateral plane and furthermore held up a single gnarled finger as knotted as a branch.

‘A penny?’ Maccabi’s eyes were wide. ‘Gladly John, on your head be it!’

Maccabi’s shy was a delicate thing, the wooden ball passed through clean, carving a parabola in the air beyond the box and returning at such an angle as to make the square of pins a rhombus, then struck a glancing blow at a pin on the point of the arrangement. It toppled slowly and fell at right angles, knocking down some four skittles. John Bill’s carved mouth turned up slightly at one corner before the nod and eye-rolls. Taking the wooden ball between thumb and forefinger with some delicacy he gave it the merest push towards the skittles. It struck just one, which rocked from side to side like a staggering drunk before clattering into another, causing that to strike still another and so on until all five remaining were rolling in the box. The tall figure twitched up the corner of his mouth once more and held his forefinger up.

It gave me undoubted pleasure to see Maccabi fumble in his pockets for the penny that he owed the mute. I noticed the tailor too, had been fascinated by the short game and had left off his sizing up of my figure. I looked down at him:

‘Of course, you know what they call this game north of the border, Salomons?’

He set to with pins and chalk, shaking his head:

‘No, sir, indeed I don’t.’

I told him: ‘It’s known as De’il Among the Tailors.’

Several pins fell from his lips and were lost between the coarsely fitted floorboards.