The Journal of Dora Damage(17)

I wondered if she ever let men take her for money. Not that I judged her to be a whore, but I wanted to ask someone who might know what it was like, how much to charge, how not to hate it, nor hate them, nor hate oneself, so.

She looked me over and said not a word, before going back inside. She must have read my mind, and I had offended her. I heard her growl something at a child; she was Irish. The little boy ran out of the house and past my legs, completely barefoot, his legs beneath his rags grey as a corpse. I began to turn to leave, but the woman grunted at me, and there was something in the sound that bade me stay. The scamp soon returned with a couple of thick sticks and a few lumps of coal, which he handed to me, staring at me directly with his dark, soulful eyes. There was a time when I wouldn’t have touched a wretch like that even with fire-tongs. I found out then that sometimes it is the most miserable who are the quickest to help someone else in a similarly pitiable state.

I returned with my gifts to our little house, and pushed open the door, so I could ignite the home’s warm heart and bring Lucinda safely back into it. In the gloomy darkness I could make out a shape on the rug in front of the cold hearth, and I could hear panting, punctuated with shrieks, like a monkey dancing to an organ-grinder.

‘Who’s there?’ I said cautiously. ‘Who is it?’ I kept my foot in the door, despite the rush of icy air, in case I needed to escape. The shape fell silent. Then it started to heave and sob, and in the heart-rending sounds of misery I recognised Peter’s tones. I let the door bang shut, dropped my meagre bundles, and sank on to the rug next to him, my hand on his back. He flinched, and scrambled to the corner like a chased animal, gibbering. But there were words amongst the incoherence.

‘Hub- hub- hub- . . . Roo- roo- roo- Hub- . . .’

I followed him into the corner and crouched down, ensuring I was lower than him and looked up to him, and smiled encouragement.

‘A – sp – a –, a – sp – a –, a – sp – a . . .’

I reached for his hands in order to hold them at chest-height as a kind of prayer of communication, but the moment I touched them he drew back and hollered in pain. But I had briefly felt the rage in his fingers, and feared for where he had been. It had not been drier than his home.

‘Where have you been, my love? Tell me.’

‘A – sp – a –, a – sp – a –, a – sp – a . . .’

‘A spa? A spot?’ I tried.

‘A – sp – a – n –, a – span . . .’ he continued. ‘A sponge –’

‘A sponge!’ I seized upon the word, and he nodded, then shook his head, which added to my consternation. ‘A sponge?’ Did he want one? Was I to mop his brow? His face looked black in the gloom; I moved myself to allow the lamplight from outside to shine on him, and saw that it was bruised, swollen, and matted with blood both fresh and dried.

‘I’m going to get a flannel from the press,’ I told him slowly, but his protests mounted, and he continued repeating the word ‘sponge’ so I stayed by him, and tried to fathom his request. Eventually he sighed heavily and let his head drop to his chest, and so it went, and nothing was revealed, so I settled him into the Windsor chair and went into the kitchen. I let the draught into the range to draw up the heat, then went back to the parlour to lay the fire in the grate, before running upstairs to get a flannel, and returning to the kitchen to boil some water.

Then I cleaned his face as best I could as he winced and groaned, and I applied some salve.

‘Here, love, drink some tea. You can tell me all later.’ I poured him a cup and placed it into his beleaguered hands, then left for Agatha Marrow’s house.

Lucinda was already asleep on a chaise amongst the piles of laundry and I picked her up and started to carry her home. Agatha said not a word, nor even smiled at me, but she laid a paper bundle on Lucinda’s sleeping stomach, and held the door open for us to leave. Back home, I nestled Lucinda into her bed and felt a warm patch on her dress where the parcel had been. Inside the paper were four steaming cheese-and-parsley scones; it was as much as I could do to stop myself crying out and devouring them all there and then, but I scuttled down the stairs and presented them to Peter, who was still struggling to lift the cup to his lips. I broke a scone into pieces, and placed them into his dry mouth, trying not to let the errant crumbs straying from the corners down his shirt trouble me in their profligacy. I restrained my hunger until he had finished, and then I fell upon my own scone, and when it was gone I ran a licked finger around the paper to collect every last crumb, and thought about starting on those lingering on Peter’s chest. I folded the other two up in a towel and put them in the dresser for Lucinda in the morning. It felt strange to be a recipient of such alms, but I was glad all the way down to my frozen feet.