The Journal of Dora Damage(16)

I could see a pair of once-smart, heavily scuffed brown boots, and the hem of a brown tweed greatcoat. Then a gloved hand came down to mine, but I could not take it.

‘Come with me,’ the man said, his voice softer now. I wondered if he was one of those gentlefolk from the missions, who collect paupers from the pavements and throw them into church shelters for the night, only serving to delay for a few hours their inevitable demise in an icy puddle of gin and worse.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked, and the words formed on my lips, but it felt as if frost was spread there like a glass cobweb, and would not let them out. Ivy-street, I wanted to say, by the Necropolitan Railway. Not far yonder, I can walk there. But he did not hear me.

Ivy-street. It might not have been one of the golden avenues around Lambeth Palace, or as smart as Vauxhall and Kennington, but neither was it one of the crumbling rows of tenements butting on to the river, or the slums of Southwark and Bermondsey. It was not as holy as Lambeth Palace to the south-west, nor was it as mad as Bedlam to the south. It was in a tenuous position, poised between two fates, just like me at that point. ‘Ivy-street,’ I finally managed to say. But the man clearly didn’t know where that was, for he said, ‘Come now. Follow me, and there shall be some small salvation in it for you, I’ll warrant. I know a place that’s fine and warm . . .’ I let him pull me to my feet, and when I wobbled for a moment, he grasped my waist through my cloak, and steadied me. Some keys jangled at his belt; I shuddered as the thought crossed my mind that he was Relieving Officer for the Poorhouse.

‘. . . and better suited than the gutter for a fine-looking woman like yourself.’ I dug my frozen fingers up my sleeve to find my handkerchief, but it was not there. ‘Here, take mine.’ I raised my hand to take the white cloth from him, but he had already started to wipe my nose with it, like a mother to a child. He was kindly, though, even if he were from That Place.

‘Now, are you ready to walk?’ He proffered his arm, but still I did not take it. I moved my right foot, and tried to transfer my weight on to it. I could walk, I was sure of it.

‘Come, dear.’ We set off walking together, side by side but not arm in arm, although I was grateful for his presence. We came to the end of the street and I raised my hand to bid him farewell and thank him for his assistance, for it was clear that I was going one way and he another.

‘No, no, no, Mistress Pretty. I believe we have a misunderstanding. It is this way, comfier than the street and . . .’ here he dropped his voice, ‘. . . cosier too.’ His yellow eyes stared into mine, and he pulled his face so close that I could see the wax shining on the tips of his moustache. Beneath it, his dry mouth broke into a vile smile.

‘So, what’s it to be, you mischievous sow?’ As he spoke, the clouds of air used by his words hung between us, as if I were to read from them the choice he was spelling out to me. ‘So, what’s it to be, then? Workhouse, or whorehouse?’





Chapter Three

Baby and I

Were baked in a pie,

The gravy was wonderful hot.

We had nothing to pay

To the baker that day

And so we crept out of the pot.





I’d have been lying if I’d said I didn’t consider his proposal. I had often wondered how perilous life had to get before a woman would go to the bad, and now I knew. For it was not the word ‘whorehouse’ but the word ‘workhouse’ that sent a dart of power to my legs, and I stepped rashly into the street, into the path of a lurching omnibus, and hurled myself to the other side of it. The traffic was not heavy, but created enough of a slow-rolling barrier between us to prevent him following me. He stood at the side of the road and bellowed over the din, ‘My money not good enough for you, eh? It’ll be the workhouse for you, you whore! The workhouse, you ungrateful trollop!’

But I feared that his money was good enough for me. How hard could it really be, I wondered, to let this man lead me to his greasy bed and open my legs to him? I pondered it all the way back to Ivy-street, past Granby-street, which was notorious for its night-ladies. I did not turn in to Ivy-street, nor Granby-street neither, mind, but continued beyond, to the slums towards the river. No, I was not thinking yet of plying that trade. But I knew that there was no coal in the cellar, and no old log basket left to crumble into kindling, and I skulked along the shadowy streets where the tenements leered so far towards the centre that they almost met overhead. I met a woman in a door-way with a pinched face, eyes sunken and dead like coal, and, to my shame, I begged her for some wood. I could see from the rabble in her house that she was one of those who, at this time of year, actually become grateful to be living fifteen to a room, for the little warmth they could give each other.