don’t feel nothing but the rope about your neck. Rather ticklish, I should think it.’
‘Ticklish?’
‘Say then, pricklish.’
Still her hand kept smoothing.
‘But when the drop is opened?’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you say you felt it then?’
She shifted her leg. ‘Perhaps a twitch,’ she admitted, ‘when the drop is opened.’
I thought of the men I had seen fall at Horsemonger Lane. They twitched, all right. They twitched and kicked about, like monkeys on sticks.
‘But it comes that quick at the last,’ she went on then, ‘that I rather think the quickness must take the pain clean out of it. And when it comes to dropping a lady—well, you know they place the knot in such a way, Sue, that the end comes all the quicker?’
I looked up at her again. She had set her candle on the floor, and the light striking her face all from beneath, it made her cheeks seem swollen and her eyes seem old. I shivered, and she moved her hand to my shoulder and rubbed me, hard, through the velvet.
Then she tilted her head. ‘There’s Mr Ibbs’s sister, quite bewildered again,’ she said, ‘and calling on her mother. She has been calling on her, poor soul, these fifteen years. I shouldn’t like to come to that, Sue. I should say that, of all the ways a body might go, the quick and the neat way might, after all, be best.’
She said it; and then she winked.
She said it, and seemed to mean it.
I do sometimes wonder, however, whether she mightn’t only have said it to be kind.
But I didn’t think that then. I only rose and kissed her, and made my hair neat where she had stroked it loose; and then came the thud of the kitchen door again, and this time heavier feet upon the stairs, and then Dainty’s voice.
‘Where are you, Sue? Ain’t you coming for a dance? Mr Ibbs has got his wind up, we’re having a right old laugh down here.’
Her shout woke half the babies, and that half woke the other. But Mrs Sucksby said that she would see to them, and I went back down, and this time I did dance, with Gentleman as my partner. He held me in a waltz-step. He was drunk and held me tight. John danced again with Dainty, and we bumped about the kitchen for a half-an-hour—Gentleman all the time still calling, ‘Go it, Johnny!’ and ‘Come up, boy! Come up!’, and Mr Ibbs stopping once to rub a bit of butter on his lips, to keep the whistle sweet.
Next day, at midday, was when I left them. I packed all my bits of stuff into the canvas-covered trunk and wore the plain brown dress and the cloak and, over my flat hair, a bonnet. I had learned as much as Gentleman could teach me after three days’ work. I knew my story and my new name—Susan Smith. There was only one more thing that needed to be done, and as I sat taking my last meal in that kitchen—which was bread and dried meat, the meat rather too dried, and clinging to my gums—Gentleman did it. He brought from his bag a piece of paper and a pen and some ink, and wrote me out a character.
He wrote it off in a moment. Of course, he was used to faking papers. He held it up for the ink to dry, then read it out. It began:
‘ To whom it might concern. Lady Alice Dunraven, of Whelk Street, Mayfair, recommends Miss Susan Smith ’—and it went on like that, I forget the rest of it, but it sounded all right to me. He placed it flat again and signed it in a lady’s curling hand. Then he held it to Mrs Sucksby.
‘What do you think, Mrs S?’ he said, smiling. ‘Will that get Sue her situation? ’
But Mrs Sucksby said she couldn’t hope to judge it.
‘You know best, dear boy,’ she said, looking away.
Of course, if we ever took help at Lant Street, it wasn’t character we looked for so much as lack of it. There was a little dwarfish girl that used to come sometimes, to boil the babies’ napkins and to wash the floors; but she was a thief. We couldn’t have had honest girls come. They would have seen enough in three minutes of the business of the house to do
‘Ticklish?’
‘Say then, pricklish.’
Still her hand kept smoothing.
‘But when the drop is opened?’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you say you felt it then?’
She shifted her leg. ‘Perhaps a twitch,’ she admitted, ‘when the drop is opened.’
I thought of the men I had seen fall at Horsemonger Lane. They twitched, all right. They twitched and kicked about, like monkeys on sticks.
‘But it comes that quick at the last,’ she went on then, ‘that I rather think the quickness must take the pain clean out of it. And when it comes to dropping a lady—well, you know they place the knot in such a way, Sue, that the end comes all the quicker?’
I looked up at her again. She had set her candle on the floor, and the light striking her face all from beneath, it made her cheeks seem swollen and her eyes seem old. I shivered, and she moved her hand to my shoulder and rubbed me, hard, through the velvet.
Then she tilted her head. ‘There’s Mr Ibbs’s sister, quite bewildered again,’ she said, ‘and calling on her mother. She has been calling on her, poor soul, these fifteen years. I shouldn’t like to come to that, Sue. I should say that, of all the ways a body might go, the quick and the neat way might, after all, be best.’
She said it; and then she winked.
She said it, and seemed to mean it.
I do sometimes wonder, however, whether she mightn’t only have said it to be kind.
But I didn’t think that then. I only rose and kissed her, and made my hair neat where she had stroked it loose; and then came the thud of the kitchen door again, and this time heavier feet upon the stairs, and then Dainty’s voice.
‘Where are you, Sue? Ain’t you coming for a dance? Mr Ibbs has got his wind up, we’re having a right old laugh down here.’
Her shout woke half the babies, and that half woke the other. But Mrs Sucksby said that she would see to them, and I went back down, and this time I did dance, with Gentleman as my partner. He held me in a waltz-step. He was drunk and held me tight. John danced again with Dainty, and we bumped about the kitchen for a half-an-hour—Gentleman all the time still calling, ‘Go it, Johnny!’ and ‘Come up, boy! Come up!’, and Mr Ibbs stopping once to rub a bit of butter on his lips, to keep the whistle sweet.
Next day, at midday, was when I left them. I packed all my bits of stuff into the canvas-covered trunk and wore the plain brown dress and the cloak and, over my flat hair, a bonnet. I had learned as much as Gentleman could teach me after three days’ work. I knew my story and my new name—Susan Smith. There was only one more thing that needed to be done, and as I sat taking my last meal in that kitchen—which was bread and dried meat, the meat rather too dried, and clinging to my gums—Gentleman did it. He brought from his bag a piece of paper and a pen and some ink, and wrote me out a character.
He wrote it off in a moment. Of course, he was used to faking papers. He held it up for the ink to dry, then read it out. It began:
‘ To whom it might concern. Lady Alice Dunraven, of Whelk Street, Mayfair, recommends Miss Susan Smith ’—and it went on like that, I forget the rest of it, but it sounded all right to me. He placed it flat again and signed it in a lady’s curling hand. Then he held it to Mrs Sucksby.
‘What do you think, Mrs S?’ he said, smiling. ‘Will that get Sue her situation? ’
But Mrs Sucksby said she couldn’t hope to judge it.
‘You know best, dear boy,’ she said, looking away.
Of course, if we ever took help at Lant Street, it wasn’t character we looked for so much as lack of it. There was a little dwarfish girl that used to come sometimes, to boil the babies’ napkins and to wash the floors; but she was a thief. We couldn’t have had honest girls come. They would have seen enough in three minutes of the business of the house to do
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