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Authors: Belinda Starling
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around me, and my hand failing to grasp one side of
the flabby fabric, and as I clutched for it in the bitter wind I found my knees giving way, and I sank down on to the pavement,
skirts billowing around me like a deflating hot-air balloon. My legs had nothing left in them to carry out my orders, not
even the thought of Lucinda at Agatha Marrow’s. My nose was streaming, but I had not the strength to move my arms to release
my handkerchief from my cuff. I bowed my head so that my bonnet would disguise me from the scurrying swell of folk about me.
‘Here’s a pretty pickle,’ an old voice croaked behind me. I dipped my head further into the chafing wet of my collar, and
sank closer to the ground. ‘Come, lovely. Down on your luck? There’s a sorry story to hear, I’ll warrant.’
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
the flabby fabric, and as I clutched for it in the bitter wind I found my knees giving way, and I sank down on to the pavement,
skirts billowing around me like a deflating hot-air balloon. My legs had nothing left in them to carry out my orders, not
even the thought of Lucinda at Agatha Marrow’s. My nose was streaming, but I had not the strength to move my arms to release
my handkerchief from my cuff. I bowed my head so that my bonnet would disguise me from the scurrying swell of folk about me.
‘Here’s a pretty pickle,’ an old voice croaked behind me. I dipped my head further into the chafing wet of my collar, and
sank closer to the ground. ‘Come, lovely. Down on your luck? There’s a sorry story to hear, I’ll warrant.’
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
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