Read Online The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber - Free Book Online
Authors: Michel Faber
Ads: Link
Instead she asks, ‘Anyone you knew?’
Caroline blinks stupidly. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her.
‘Gaw, I don’t know ! Fancy it bein’ …’ She screws her face up, trying to imagine any one of her prostitute friends being on the street at that time of morning. ‘I’d best go ’ome.’
‘Me too,’ says Sugar. ‘Or Mrs Castaway’s may lose its reputation.’ And she smiles a smile that isn’t for the likes of Caroline to understand.
Briefly they embrace and, as always when they do, Caroline is surprised by how awkward and tentative Sugar is; how the girl’s body, so notorious for its pliability in the hands of men, feels gawky and stiff in the arms of a friend. The heavy parcel of paper, dangling from Sugar’s fist, bumps against Caroline’s thigh, hard as a block of wood.
‘Come and visit me,’ says Caroline, releasing Sugar from the clasp.
‘I will,’ promises Sugar, a blush of colour coming to her face at last.
Who to follow? Not Caroline – she’ll only take you where you’ve come from, and what a shabby place that was. Stay with Sugar now. You won’t regret it.
Sugar wastes no time watching Caroline go, but hastens out of the Square. As hurriedly as if she’s being pursued by ruffians intent on garrotting her, she makes her way to the Haymarket.
‘I’ll get you there faster, missie!’ shouts a cabman from one of the hotel stands, his raucous tone making clear he’s seen through her fancy clothes.
‘You can ’ave a ride on me ’orse, too!’ he whoops after her as she ignores him, and other cabmen on the rank guffaw with mirth, and even their horses snort.
Sugar advances along the footpath, face impassive, back straight. The other people on do not exist for her. The men loitering around the coffee-stall step back from her advance, lest her swinging parcel clip their knees. A bill-poster moves his bucket closer to the pillar on which he’s pasting his placard, lest she kick his gluey liquid all over the paving-stones. A bleary-eyed gent – a new arrival from America, by the look of his hat and trousers – appraises her from head to hurrying feet; his innocence will wear off by this evening, when a flock of harlots will flutter into the Haymarket and proposition him every dozen steps.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he mutters as Sugar pushes past him.
Up Great Windmill Street Sugar goes, past Saint Peter’s where the best of the child prostitutes will later congregate, past the Argyll Rooms where even now the cream of male aristocracy lies drunk and snoring, interleaved with snoozing whores damp with champagne. Unerringly she turns corners, ducks through alleyways, crosses busy streets with barely a glance, like a cat with an idea glowing in its catty brain.
She doesn’t stop until she’s in Golden Square, with the rooftop and smoking chimneypots of Mrs Castaway’s, and the desultory traffic of Silver Street, already in view. Then, with only a few yards to go, she cannot bring herself to walk those last steps and knock at the door of her own house. Under her green silks, she’s sweating, not just from her haste, but in fresh distress. She turns about, hugs her parcel to her bosom, and dawdles towards Regent Street.
On the stone steps of the Church of Our Lady of the Assumption in Warwick Street, a small child of uncertain sex lies huddled in a pale-yellow blanket that twinkles with melted frost. In the pale sunlight, the drizzle of snot on the child’s lips and mouth shines like raw egg-yolk, and Sugar, disgusted, looks away. Alive or dead, this child is doomed: it’s not possible to save anyone in this world, except oneself; God gets His amusement from doling out enough food, warmth and love to nourish a hundred human beings, into the midst of a jostling, slithering multitude of millions. One loaf and one fish to be shared among five thousand wretches – that’s His jolliest jape.
Sugar has already crossed the street, when she’s stopped by a
Caroline blinks stupidly. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her.
‘Gaw, I don’t know ! Fancy it bein’ …’ She screws her face up, trying to imagine any one of her prostitute friends being on the street at that time of morning. ‘I’d best go ’ome.’
‘Me too,’ says Sugar. ‘Or Mrs Castaway’s may lose its reputation.’ And she smiles a smile that isn’t for the likes of Caroline to understand.
Briefly they embrace and, as always when they do, Caroline is surprised by how awkward and tentative Sugar is; how the girl’s body, so notorious for its pliability in the hands of men, feels gawky and stiff in the arms of a friend. The heavy parcel of paper, dangling from Sugar’s fist, bumps against Caroline’s thigh, hard as a block of wood.
‘Come and visit me,’ says Caroline, releasing Sugar from the clasp.
‘I will,’ promises Sugar, a blush of colour coming to her face at last.
Who to follow? Not Caroline – she’ll only take you where you’ve come from, and what a shabby place that was. Stay with Sugar now. You won’t regret it.
Sugar wastes no time watching Caroline go, but hastens out of the Square. As hurriedly as if she’s being pursued by ruffians intent on garrotting her, she makes her way to the Haymarket.
‘I’ll get you there faster, missie!’ shouts a cabman from one of the hotel stands, his raucous tone making clear he’s seen through her fancy clothes.
‘You can ’ave a ride on me ’orse, too!’ he whoops after her as she ignores him, and other cabmen on the rank guffaw with mirth, and even their horses snort.
Sugar advances along the footpath, face impassive, back straight. The other people on do not exist for her. The men loitering around the coffee-stall step back from her advance, lest her swinging parcel clip their knees. A bill-poster moves his bucket closer to the pillar on which he’s pasting his placard, lest she kick his gluey liquid all over the paving-stones. A bleary-eyed gent – a new arrival from America, by the look of his hat and trousers – appraises her from head to hurrying feet; his innocence will wear off by this evening, when a flock of harlots will flutter into the Haymarket and proposition him every dozen steps.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ he mutters as Sugar pushes past him.
Up Great Windmill Street Sugar goes, past Saint Peter’s where the best of the child prostitutes will later congregate, past the Argyll Rooms where even now the cream of male aristocracy lies drunk and snoring, interleaved with snoozing whores damp with champagne. Unerringly she turns corners, ducks through alleyways, crosses busy streets with barely a glance, like a cat with an idea glowing in its catty brain.
She doesn’t stop until she’s in Golden Square, with the rooftop and smoking chimneypots of Mrs Castaway’s, and the desultory traffic of Silver Street, already in view. Then, with only a few yards to go, she cannot bring herself to walk those last steps and knock at the door of her own house. Under her green silks, she’s sweating, not just from her haste, but in fresh distress. She turns about, hugs her parcel to her bosom, and dawdles towards Regent Street.
On the stone steps of the Church of Our Lady of the Assumption in Warwick Street, a small child of uncertain sex lies huddled in a pale-yellow blanket that twinkles with melted frost. In the pale sunlight, the drizzle of snot on the child’s lips and mouth shines like raw egg-yolk, and Sugar, disgusted, looks away. Alive or dead, this child is doomed: it’s not possible to save anyone in this world, except oneself; God gets His amusement from doling out enough food, warmth and love to nourish a hundred human beings, into the midst of a jostling, slithering multitude of millions. One loaf and one fish to be shared among five thousand wretches – that’s His jolliest jape.
Sugar has already crossed the street, when she’s stopped by a
Similar Books
