Free Solomon's Song by Bryce Courtenay Page A

darning,’ she says gruffly, then adds, ‘Better than bleedin’ ter death.’
    Mrs Pike has become aware of Hinetitama sulking on the mattress within the tiny bed chamber. She nods her head towards the door, ‘Bite you, did she?’ Hawk doesn’t reply and Mrs Pike continues. ‘Mouth bite ain’t a nice thing, could turn very nasty.’
    Hawk rewards her over-generously for her work, handing her a sovereign. ‘Ta-muchly, that’s very good of you, I must say. Don’t see too many o’ these around here.’ She plunges her hand into the bodice of her dress and moments later withdraws it minus the gold coin.
    ‘You won’t forget to give the lads their sixpence?’ Hawk says.
    ‘It’s too much for the likes of them,’ she says sternly, ‘I’ll give threepence each to their mothers.’
    ‘No! I promised it to them. I’d be obliged, Mrs Pike.’ Hawk watches as the midwife reluctantly finds the sixpence and hands it to one of the urchins.
    ‘Thanks, mister!’ the boy says with alacrity. Plainly he was expecting a less happy outcome at the hands of the bossy midwife.
    ‘Is there some place near we may stay tonight?’ Hawk now asks her.
    ‘There’s a wee tavern up the road a bit, the Thornton Arms, you can stay there, they’ve got a bathhouse out the back.’ Then the midwife adds gratuitously, ‘They’ll take niggers, but I don’t know about the likes o’ her, she’s Maori ain’t she? ‘Alf-caste I’d say lookin’ at her.’ She sniffs. ‘Brings out the worst of both sides if you want my opinion.’
    ‘I haven’t asked you for it, missus,’ Hawk says softly. ‘We are both Maori, and proud to be so.’ He smiles, for he is grateful to the midwife, ‘I daresay a coin or two placed in the right pakeha’s hands will take care of his sensibilities, Mrs Pike.’
    ‘Oh dear, we are the proper gentleman then, aren’t we! No need to be uppity,’ the midwife reproves him. Then adds cheerfully, ‘Well, must be on me way then, plenty to do, folk breeding like mice, makes a nice change to stitch up a gentleman’s ear ’stead of a torn pussy.’
    The following morning, leaving Hinetitama locked in her room in the tavern, Hawk bathes and, wearing clean linen, visits a Dr Spencer in a more respectable part of town who examines his ear and pronounces Mrs Pike’s work rough but adequate. He is a Scotsman in his fifties with a large belly and a talkative manner to go with it.
    He chats as he examines Hawk’s ear and then treats his wound with a solution of carbolic acid to stave off infection. ‘Stitches, sutures we calls them in the profession, fascinating study, what. Been done since time out o’ mind, Ancient Sumerians, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans all did much the same as your Mrs Pike, horsehair! Nothing wrong with that, first-class material.’ He pauses as he attempts to wipe away a crusting of dried blood. ‘Now if you’d have come to me, m’boy, I’d have used catgut, recommended by the great Doctor Lister himself. Easy to work and doesn’t break. If this had been a scalp wound I might have tried something else completely, plaiting.’ He looks up at Hawk expectantly, waiting for his reaction.
    Hawk, who is only half listening to the good doctor’s prattle, feels compelled to say something. ‘Plaiting? Like a girl’s hair?’
    ‘You heard me right, m’boy. Plaiting. Worked in America once, New York, in the slums of the Bronx where getting your head split open was more frequent than getting a hot breakfast. College chappy, doctor in the Civil War, McGraw, Irishman, nice fellow, apt to drink a bit, hands unsteady, not much chop for stitching, never did it, got his young assistant to plait the hair on either side of the wound together, worked like a charm, union by plaiting, no shaving, stitching, plastering and an excellent result if you ask me, learned it in the American Army, thinks it was probably borrowed from the Red Indians.’
    All this is said without a pause and Hawk, feeling he