No Good Deed 37

We arrived in South Main Street after a brisk walk. The young woman was sure-footed, although the sun was long down and the few lights in the streets were clustered round the more expensive residential properties. We stopped in front of an unmarked 'store-front', as Miss Shepherd referred to the building. The young lady rang the bell, gave a rhythmic knock and pulled the bell again. The door opened and we passed inside. It was an eating establishment, although of no great quality, judging by the poor ratio of cuspidors to tables. Many of these tables were occupied, although the hour was late. I could scarce credit that there were so many free persons of colour in the township of Hannibal. Service was provided by a crude imitation of the Grand Turk's Texas Tender, this personage lacking any footwear, polished or no. His shirt and apron might once have been white but were now an uncertain colour between grey and beige. The trousers almost made claim to smartness, although the effect was spoiled by the gingham patch on one of the knees.

Miss Shepherd's arrival drew nods of greeting from the waiter and from many of the diners themselves. It was uncommonly dim in the dining room: candles were ensconced at rare intervals on the walls and each of the four windows to the front aspect was obscured by hessian or horse-hair blanket. We took at table in a particularly dark corner, next to the ever swinging door leading to the kitchen. The smell was passing strange, if by no means unappetising. The waiter approached our table, a grubby towel over one arm,

'Evenin' Miz Winona,' his smile seemed genuine enough.

'Good evening, George. What do you have for us this evening?'

'Well we got pork, thass pig's feet or chitlins, o' course, and they's eggplant, okra, black-eyed peas an' rice. And they's melon too, Miz.'

Miss Shepherd turned to me and said,

'Well, Mr Northrup, the choice is not great, the feet or the guts: which is it to be?'

I was on the point of answering, when George dropped the grubby towel and received quite a blow from the rough edge of the table in his attempt to recover it. The pig's trotters seemed the lesser of two evils and so the choice was made, just as soon as the waiter had recovered himself.

He returned with a large porcelain jug and two un-matched pottery tumblers. Miss Shepherd poured a cloudy liquid whose colour was uncertain in the gloom. To my dismay it contained no alcohol, although the taste was not unpleasant. My companion informed me that it was lemonade, and I found it uncommon sweet. The food arrived and it was hot and surprisingly tasty. However, I must confess that I was quite starving by that time. Miss Shepherd ate efficiently if not daintily, and without too much noise. Thankfully the meat fell from the pig-trotters, since they were tender enough to have been cut with a spoon, which implement I was put in mind of by the sharpness of my knife.

We forwent the melon: this was a source of some disappointment to me, as I should have enjoyed the watching of Miss Shepherd's consumption of such a thing.

'Well, who are you then?' she asked. 'It's plain you are not Mr Northrup, any more than you are an American, Yankee or Southron.'

She gave a low laugh, which quite distracted me from any consideration of any answer I might have given her.

'A simple question, with a most complicated answer. One I might be prepared to give in more... intimate surroundings.'

She laughed again, 'I don't think so, sir. I don't think so at all.'