Read Online The Journal of Dora Damage by Belinda Starling - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Belinda Starling
Ads: Link
I
Were baked in a pie,
The gravy was wonderful hot.
We had nothing to pay
To the baker that day
And so we crept out of the pot.
I ’d have been lying if I’d said I didn’t consider his proposal. I had often wondered how perilous life had to get before a
woman would go to the bad, and now I knew. For it was not the word ‘whorehouse’ but the word ‘workhouse’ that sent a dart
of power to my legs, and I stepped rashly into the street, into the path of a lurching omnibus, and hurled myself to the other
side of it. The traffic was not heavy, but created enough of a slow-rolling barrier between us to prevent him following me.
He stood at the side of the road and bellowed over the din, ‘My money not good enough for you, eh? It’ll be the workhouse
for you, you whore! The workhouse, you ungrateful trollop!’
But I feared that his money was good enough for me. How hard could it really be, I wondered, to let this man lead me to his greasy bed and open my legs to
him? I pondered it all the way back to Ivy-street, past Granby-street, which was notorious for its night-ladies. I did not
turn in to Ivy-street, nor Granby-street neither, mind, but continued beyond, to the slums towards the river. No, I was not
thinking yet of plying that trade. But I knew that there was no coal in the cellar, and no old log basket left to crumble
into kindling, and I skulked along the shadowy streets where the tenements leered so far towards the centre that they almost
met overhead. I met a woman in a door-way with a pinched face, eyes sunken and dead like coal, and, to my shame, I begged
her for some wood. I could see from the rabble in her house that she was one of those who, at this time of year, actually
become grateful to be living fifteen to a room, for the little warmth they could give each other.
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
Were baked in a pie,
The gravy was wonderful hot.
We had nothing to pay
To the baker that day
And so we crept out of the pot.
I ’d have been lying if I’d said I didn’t consider his proposal. I had often wondered how perilous life had to get before a
woman would go to the bad, and now I knew. For it was not the word ‘whorehouse’ but the word ‘workhouse’ that sent a dart
of power to my legs, and I stepped rashly into the street, into the path of a lurching omnibus, and hurled myself to the other
side of it. The traffic was not heavy, but created enough of a slow-rolling barrier between us to prevent him following me.
He stood at the side of the road and bellowed over the din, ‘My money not good enough for you, eh? It’ll be the workhouse
for you, you whore! The workhouse, you ungrateful trollop!’
But I feared that his money was good enough for me. How hard could it really be, I wondered, to let this man lead me to his greasy bed and open my legs to
him? I pondered it all the way back to Ivy-street, past Granby-street, which was notorious for its night-ladies. I did not
turn in to Ivy-street, nor Granby-street neither, mind, but continued beyond, to the slums towards the river. No, I was not
thinking yet of plying that trade. But I knew that there was no coal in the cellar, and no old log basket left to crumble
into kindling, and I skulked along the shadowy streets where the tenements leered so far towards the centre that they almost
met overhead. I met a woman in a door-way with a pinched face, eyes sunken and dead like coal, and, to my shame, I begged
her for some wood. I could see from the rabble in her house that she was one of those who, at this time of year, actually
become grateful to be living fifteen to a room, for the little warmth they could give each other.
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
Similar Books
