bed. Despite his exhaustion, Ashby took up the letters, untying the bright-blue ribbon.
The flesh-coloured paper had an odd scent, which was rank like the workhouse. On some pages the writing was small and ill-formed. Just a few pages, he thought, to see what they said. Her words had suggested a sensation and the ‘M’ taunted him even more than her words. What had she said? Oh yes, ‘An upsetting of the apple cart, Mr Ashby, and the end of your world. It’ll be the workhouse for you, unless you pay me the money.’
The inked words blurred across the sheets. They rushed around his head. A great, single tear lolled down his face and he mumbled something about ‘God’ and ‘God’s mercy’. He pulled a worn blanket over his head, shut his eyes, and eventually, fitfully, the old man slept.
Madame Martineau counted her money again. It was barely worth bothering with, but she opened the box anyway, which was decorated with pearly blossoms and butterflies flitting about in jewelled colours. She sat down and shifted her dress a little, unfastening the hooks at the waist, the pain in her pelvis like a vice. Old wives said she needed to rest at this time of the month, but she instead found the tiny pots of herbs she kept for her girls, the older ones, which if she doubled the dose would do the trick for her as well. She could feel swelling at her temples again, the headache gathering a storm.
She measured out the salicene, two drops of laudanum, and the rest a mixture of dried-out, sage-coloured dust steeped in hot water. Ten minutes she would give it, but when the moment passed, still the gnaw in her belly. She picked up a little hand mirror and looked at herself. Yes, she was drawn. By the pressure of it all? Perhaps, or the passing of another unborn. She hated anything leaving her, but mostly it was the girls, and she forbade it. There were lines around her mouth but they were fine. She hauled her frame up and wrapped her coat around herself, and on top of that, a fur-lined shawl. She found a muffler and an outdoor hat. She chose black bombazine framed with red-dyed rabbit.
Then, she went into the sewing room and spoke sharply to the girls. None looked up. She told the tawny one at the machine, ‘Hide that colour from me. You know I detest it. Why must the ladies insist on purple? It’s a reminder. Cover it.’ The sallow little girl knew a bit of what madam said and why, and so splayed her hand across it realising the colour was a reminder of treachery, because the colour wasn’t strictly purple at all. It was violet.
‘I’ll be back at dawn,’ Madame Martineau said. ‘Make sure you are finished by then, because I’ll want to pack the gowns myself. My ladies like the personal touch, and as for the gentlemen …’ She looked at the girls and her eyes fell on a little one. ‘Yes, you girl. Tabitha, I think he likes to call you. There’ll be a job for you and I tomorrow.’
None of the girls asked her where she was going, because these night saunters were not uncommon.
So Madam Martineau left The Borough, cutting through the skeletal dockyards and iced jetties. The freezing air was doing the trick and she felt better for the movement. If she hurried, she could find a little skiff before the clock struck two. Spectre-like, she wheeled down to the portside where she heard men hollering and the sound of creaking ropes. She found a solitary boatman and gave him a shilling and told him, ‘Put your back into it, sir.’ But if truth were known, she was not in a hurry, and despite the aching damp of the timber, she let the river envelope her.
The boat was lit by a single lamp and cracked through the ice. She listened to the sound of the melting underneath her and felt the pull of the oar and let her head tilt a little onto the ruff which she had made into a pillow, recalling the old looms of Spitalfields, long fallen still. Her family dead and gone. To the wall, they called it. But she could remember her life
The flesh-coloured paper had an odd scent, which was rank like the workhouse. On some pages the writing was small and ill-formed. Just a few pages, he thought, to see what they said. Her words had suggested a sensation and the ‘M’ taunted him even more than her words. What had she said? Oh yes, ‘An upsetting of the apple cart, Mr Ashby, and the end of your world. It’ll be the workhouse for you, unless you pay me the money.’
The inked words blurred across the sheets. They rushed around his head. A great, single tear lolled down his face and he mumbled something about ‘God’ and ‘God’s mercy’. He pulled a worn blanket over his head, shut his eyes, and eventually, fitfully, the old man slept.
Madame Martineau counted her money again. It was barely worth bothering with, but she opened the box anyway, which was decorated with pearly blossoms and butterflies flitting about in jewelled colours. She sat down and shifted her dress a little, unfastening the hooks at the waist, the pain in her pelvis like a vice. Old wives said she needed to rest at this time of the month, but she instead found the tiny pots of herbs she kept for her girls, the older ones, which if she doubled the dose would do the trick for her as well. She could feel swelling at her temples again, the headache gathering a storm.
She measured out the salicene, two drops of laudanum, and the rest a mixture of dried-out, sage-coloured dust steeped in hot water. Ten minutes she would give it, but when the moment passed, still the gnaw in her belly. She picked up a little hand mirror and looked at herself. Yes, she was drawn. By the pressure of it all? Perhaps, or the passing of another unborn. She hated anything leaving her, but mostly it was the girls, and she forbade it. There were lines around her mouth but they were fine. She hauled her frame up and wrapped her coat around herself, and on top of that, a fur-lined shawl. She found a muffler and an outdoor hat. She chose black bombazine framed with red-dyed rabbit.
Then, she went into the sewing room and spoke sharply to the girls. None looked up. She told the tawny one at the machine, ‘Hide that colour from me. You know I detest it. Why must the ladies insist on purple? It’s a reminder. Cover it.’ The sallow little girl knew a bit of what madam said and why, and so splayed her hand across it realising the colour was a reminder of treachery, because the colour wasn’t strictly purple at all. It was violet.
‘I’ll be back at dawn,’ Madame Martineau said. ‘Make sure you are finished by then, because I’ll want to pack the gowns myself. My ladies like the personal touch, and as for the gentlemen …’ She looked at the girls and her eyes fell on a little one. ‘Yes, you girl. Tabitha, I think he likes to call you. There’ll be a job for you and I tomorrow.’
None of the girls asked her where she was going, because these night saunters were not uncommon.
So Madam Martineau left The Borough, cutting through the skeletal dockyards and iced jetties. The freezing air was doing the trick and she felt better for the movement. If she hurried, she could find a little skiff before the clock struck two. Spectre-like, she wheeled down to the portside where she heard men hollering and the sound of creaking ropes. She found a solitary boatman and gave him a shilling and told him, ‘Put your back into it, sir.’ But if truth were known, she was not in a hurry, and despite the aching damp of the timber, she let the river envelope her.
The boat was lit by a single lamp and cracked through the ice. She listened to the sound of the melting underneath her and felt the pull of the oar and let her head tilt a little onto the ruff which she had made into a pillow, recalling the old looms of Spitalfields, long fallen still. Her family dead and gone. To the wall, they called it. But she could remember her life
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