by Ami McKay
Fig. 1
All the dresses I’d ever worn had been made for a girl, with buttons up the front, or a short row down the back that could be fastened easily at the nape of the neck. They were second-hand dresses bought a bit too large, with hems that could be taken up, and later let down. The frock I’d brought with me from home was one I’d found sticking out from between two crates behind Mr. Goodwin’s shop. I’d spotted the skirt first, its sad ruffle coming apart, snaking down into a muddy puddle. Both the sleeves had been torn as well, but aside from the mottled way the fine-checked gingham had faded, there was nothing that couldn’t be repaired. Much to Mama’s dismay, I’d filled it out nicely, my breasts looking like more than two knobby lumps, my hips almost round enough to rest a basket on when I walked.
“You favour your mother,” Mrs. Wentworth said, still staring at me. “You have her lovely dark hair and eyes.” Trying to get me to look up at her she asked, “Tell me, who were her people?”
The ladies who went slumming on Chrystie Street often asked the same question of me. Perfectly fashionable and modestly snobbish, they came from parish halls and ladies’ societies or on behalf of Miss Jane Clattermore’s Home for Wandering Girls to peer into our windows and our lives, one hand holding the front of a skirt, the other keeping a peppermint-scented handkerchief to the nose. “Poor little dears,” they called us children, as they dropped pennies into our hands, taking care not to touch us.
I hated them almost as much as I hated the surly, knock-kneed boys who hissed at me and called me “dirty little Gyp.” They’d yell after me from down the street, telling me to wash the ugly off my face and go back where I came from. I’d run home feeling sad and angry, and scrub my face with salt until it burned, wishing that at least one of them would fall in love with me and that all the rest would die.
“Just stay away from them,” Mama would say, throwing up her hands at my tears. “And stop stealing my salt. You’re never going to be a golden-haired Alice with a long neck and freckled skin. You’ve got the Black Dutch in you.”
I’d liked the way the words had sounded coming out from Mama’s mouth, Black Dutch—rude and proud all at once, like her. The Jews and Gypsies and Swarthy Germans all claimed Black Dutch for themselves. It meant that however they looked, they could be whatever they liked, that they had good beginnings and acceptable blood.
“Don’t be shy now,” Mrs. Wentworth urged. “You can tell me.”
Mama’s voice echoed in my head, but the words that had once seemed so defiant, so sure, now felt like they had little to do with me. My skin and my heart were never the same as hers. They were fairer, perhaps even weaker, somewhere in between her Gypsy blood and my father’s unknown roots.
“Black Dutch,” I answered. “My mother’s Black Dutch.”
Dearest Mama,
I am doing my best to please Mrs. Wentworth.
I hope my wage proves to be enough.
Did you know I was to be a lady’s maid?
It’s better than serving in the scullery, but more
difficult than you can imagine.
I have much to learn.
I miss you.
I miss hearing my name.
Your daughter,
Moth
Mr. Wentworth’s portrait graced the wall of Mrs. Wentworth’s sitting room—a grand-looking likeness of the man, set to stare at his wife’s back while she was seated at her desk. The collar of his shirt was stiff and high, wrapped round with a tie so full it nearly covered his chin. What the tie couldn’t conceal (even under the careful hand of the artist) was the weary slant of Mr. Wentworth’s jaw. The dour-faced gentleman’s eyes were dark and searching and had far more to say about regret than accomplishment. Seated in a chair that was larger and more imposing than the one paired with his wife’s desk, Mr. Wentworth had a walking stick in his hand and an eager-faced hound at his side. Both the dog and its master were curiously absent from the house and Mrs. Wentworth’s life.
The first time I entered the sitting room was to serve the lady her afternoon tea. I found Mrs. Wentworth standing and gazing at the painting. Before taking her chair she approached the portrait, touched the edge of its frame and said, “I’m waiting.” Her voice was steady, her lips not quite turned into a half-smile.
Halfway through the hour, Mrs. Wentworth took up the fan that was dangling from her wrist and tapped it on the arm of her chair. After gaining my attention, she touched the tip of the fan to her cheek. I thought she meant to show me a drop of tea that was lingering there, so I quickly reached for a napkin and moved to wipe her face.
Waving the napkin away as I came near, she shook her head with disapproval. “You’re to kiss me, not clean me,” she scolded.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, giving a short bow before bending to bring my lips to her cheek. It was a kiss given in haste, and far less gentle than the one I’d placed on her cheek that morning.
Grabbing me by the arm she held me fast and said, “You should’ve known what I wanted.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wentworth,” I whimpered, hoping she’d soon let go.
She did not.
My awkward and tardy show of affection had caused her to lose all patience and she meant to punish me for it.
“Kneel down and bare your wrists,” she ordered, her eyes narrow with anger.
Frightened by this change in her, I pushed the sleeves of my dress past my elbows, knelt and held my arms out.
“It’s the soft of them I want,” she complained, circling her fan in the air to show she wished for me to turn them over. “And you’re to keep your hands open, no fists.”
Unsure of what might happen if I refused, I did as I was told.
“That’s better,” she said, as she raised her hand, the fan tight in her grip. Then she brought the thick of the fan’s guard down on my arms, so hard I couldn’t help but cry out. I knew she didn’t mean to stop.
“Please,” I said, wincing from the pain the blow had left behind. “I’ll do better, I promise—”
But she paid no attention to my pleas. Five, six, seven stripes appeared as she continued to smack the tender part of my wrists, red lines burning in a row. Mr. Wentworth and his dog looked out from the portrait, eyes blind to the cruelty that was being heaped upon me and the tears coming down my cheeks.
Mrs. Wentworth had chosen the fan that morning out of a drawer filled with gloves and garters. It was a beautiful thing, the sticks and guard made of bone, the image of a dragon painted on its silk—tail snaking around, eyes wide, tongue lashing out.
The look on the dragon’s face had reminded me of a dead horse I’d once seen on the side of the street when I was small. Two men had been arguing over the animal—one grousing over who should have to dispose of it, the other muttering of secret poisonings and evil deeds. A gang of guttersnipes soon gathered, pushing and shoving, daring one another to touch it, take its eyes, even piss in its mouth. The horse’s head was nearly larger than the whole of me, but I walked right past the bickering men and sat down next to the poor creature. Curling up in the curve of its neck, I shooed away the flies so I could marvel at its eyelashes and stroke its velvety nose. My bare knee touched its skin, rubbing against the wormy scars that had been left behind by its master’s whip. “Sleep well,” I said to the horse thinking it deserved at least a bit of kindness.
When she was done, Mrs. Wentworth ran her hand along the length of my arm, fingers gliding over my stinging flesh. She clasped her hand around my wrist and pushed her thumb into one of the marks she’d made. “Now you’ll know better,” she said, as she tightened her grip and watched me flinch.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, salty tears on my lips.
The imprint of her fingers blossomed white after she let go, then faded away.
“I’d like some shortbread now,” she said, straightening her shoulders and picking up her teacup.
Afraid to stop to wipe my eyes, I stood up, the room blurry before me. I fumbled to place the plate of
biscuits in front of her so she wouldn’t have to reach for them.
Rather than taking one of the squares, she folded her hands in her lap and stared up at me. “From your hand,” she ordered, making it clear she intended for me to feed her. “I don’t like getting butter on my fingers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, picking up a piece of shortbread by the edges and bringing it to her lips.
To my dismay, she chose to make a meal of it, nibbling at the biscuit in tiny bites, licking at my fingertips for the last of the crumbs. When she was finished, she smiled and said, “I quite like forgetting where I end and you begin.”
From then on, with her every complaint, out came the fan.
I was the one to dress her, so I was responsible for making certain it was always on her person, secure around her wrist. She’d strike me with it whenever it pleased her to do so. If I winced, or made any sound at all, she’d hit me again, twice as hard. The more attention I gave her, the more she required. I was to hold her hand until she fell asleep at night, wash every inch of her when she bathed. Turned-down sheets and pinned-up ringlets (no matter how deftly placed) never satisfied her for long. She wanted more. Without any gentle words on her part, she expected to be showered with affection. “Show your devotion, Miss Fenwick,” she’d say several times throughout the day, pointing the fan to her cheek. She had a Sybil’s sense for detecting half-heartedness, and try as I might, my attentions were never soft or sincere enough to please her. She did not hold back in showing her disappointment.
The insides of my arms grew raw, and soon became mottled in shades of yellow, green and blue. According to how many times she’d hit me the hour, the day, the week before, spidery lines of purple and red formed like lace around the edges of my bruises.
Mama had, on occasion, left a dark bruise on my ear or in the fleshy part of my arm where she’d pinched me too hard, but even at her worst, she’d never been set on hurting me like this. Every time Mrs. Wentworth came at me, I thought of Mama. I prayed she’d walk through the door and put a stop to Mrs. Wentworth’s meanness. I dreamed she’d take the woman by the hair and give her a fierce pounding—cursing, spitting and screaming, “I won’t let you treat my girl that way.”
But Mama could never know. I was tied to Mrs. Wentworth now. The wage they had agreed upon was meant to keep Mama alive. If I ran away, I feared Mrs. Wentworth would come after Mama. She’d be left with nothing—no clothes to wear, no place to sleep, no food in her belly. My bruises were a small price to pay.
Caroline still hadn’t seen fit to speak to me directly, and although Nestor had told me time and again not to worry about it, I couldn’t help wishing she’d change her mind. “Maybe Chrystie Street can get that for you,” she’d say whenever Nestor asked her to pass the pitcher of milk from across the table, not quite speaking to me, but almost. Calling out in the dark whenever she thought I was listening to her talk herself to sleep she’d grouse, “Chrystie Street should mind her own business.”
I missed the kind of talk that went on between women—over the course of an hour’s worth of chores, at the clothesline in the courtyard, on front stoops in the evening. The women of Chrystie Street were generous with their stories and their gossip, even when there was no fondness between them. Fast friends one minute, enemies the next, it made no difference to them.
Nestor did his best to make life bearable. We did not talk of Mrs. Wentworth’s cruelty or of the things she did to me behind closed doors. Instead, we spent late nights in the kitchen after Caroline had gone to sleep, raiding the larder and bragging about our “worsts”—the worst fight he’d ever been in, the worst thing I’d ever found rotting in a trash barrel.
He said he’d been raised on Old St. Nichol Street in the East End of London, a place where rats dine better than people, a place that sounded an awful lot like Chrystie Street to me. He went on to say that the only thing that had saved him from ending up in the gutter like the other St. Nichol lads was “meetin’ my dear Polly one evening at church.”
His girl’s name was Miss Paulette Saxby, and according to Nestor, she was the prettiest and kindest soul he’d ever met. “Don’t know what she sees in a sod like me,” he liked to joke, his hearty laughter there, then gone, as memories of Polly took over his thoughts.
Not long after the pair met, Nestor decided to make his way across the Atlantic to America. Hearing there were untold riches to be had in New York and points farther west, he convinced Polly that his going was their best chance to start a new life together. As much as he’d hated to leave her behind, he knew it was better she stay with her family until he got settled in a place they could call their own.
He wrote to her nearly every night, penning letters to be sent out in the next morning’s post. I’ll bring you here one day soon, my love, I promise. Until then, thoughts of you warm my bones and my heart as I write, as I wait for your reply.
I’d known how to read for as long as I could remember, having figured out, first, the words Mama used on her notices, and then others as she read me ads from the paper. She’d run her finger along the text and say the words under her breath—curious, clean, lily-white, good, sweet, amazing! I soon knew all the words that got painted on signs or the sides of buildings, and anything to do with soap or baked goods, yet I’d never learned to use a pen. The only writing I’d ever done was to make my name in the dirt with a stick. Lines and hatches beside a game of hopscotch, M-O-T-H written to the right of the numbered court, my O looking lopsided and strange next to Eliza Adler’s graceful script that swirled inside the arch at the top spelling out the word Home.
Sometimes Mama would tell a woman who came to have her fortune told to write something down on a piece of paper. It was usually the name of a man, one whose affections might be turned, or who had wronged her, or who owed her money. The bits of paper she used for the ritual were tiny enough to hide inside a pocket-watch or, in the case of needing to forget the man, to be burned in a candle flame.
Pen and ink were luxuries, so Mama guarded them, even from me, keeping them locked inside an old wooden tea caddy. The box was one of her fire treasures, found intact but without a key. To open it, she’d insert a bent hatpin in the keyhole and give gentle tics with her wrist until it unlocked. There, nestled between the bottle and nibs were three small rolls of paper she’d cut from the margins and edges of the Evening Star and then carefully wound onto empty thread spools. Delicate and creamy, one edge evenly (barely) scalloped, it looked just as beautiful as fine French ribbon.
The paper Nestor used to write to Polly had been given to him by Mr. Wentworth. Each sheet was perfectly square at the corners and embossed at the top with a proud, weighty W. The envelopes had the same mark on the flap. It seemed to me that London was a terribly long way for a letter to travel, but Nestor assured me that far lesser paper had made the journey there and back. He showed me one of Polly’s letters to prove it, her words of love scrawled across sheets so thin the ink had bled through to the other side, making them nearly impossible to read. The day will come, my dearest, when we will have no use for pen and paper. We’ll be too occupied with being in each other’s arms. Your adoring Polly.
There is much to be learned from the ebb and flow of a lady’s script. No matter her words—all her hopes, schemes, aspirations, and inclinations are coded within her hand. Aside from the obvious cues of station set forth by the quality of the paper and ink, the writer gives further indications of her identity away when she puts pen to paper. Swift, short lines indicate distraction, bold strokes given to words such as Dearest, Yours, and until are hallmarks of true affection. Shakiness of script often portends weakness of constitution or mind.
After Nestor finished his letter to Polly for the night, he’d guide me through lessons in penmanship. He watched over me as I looped L after L, O after O, learning to connect letters together.
I felt guilty when I dipped the pen, thinking I should offer him something for his kindness. I had only bits of myself to give (a ki
ss, a touch), but he asked nothing in return. He smelled like pipe tobacco and Macassar oil, of warmth and somewhere far away. At first I wished he were my father, then, later, I wished I were his Polly. Neither thing was right or good, but my affection for him knew nothing of manners.
In Nestor’s company, I forgot Mrs. Wentworth and the pain she gave me, at least for a little while. I’d stay at the table long after I should’ve been in bed, turning my name into a feat of curves, the pen never coming off the page until the final upturn of the h, trying to impress him.
“She’ll like it, won’t she?” I asked him, before gently blowing sand off a letter I was writing to Mama. In my heart I knew it was the sort of thing she’d find to be a waste of time, but it meant everything to me, the words having come from my heart to my hand to the page, a bit of myself about to be folded square and sent back home.
“I should think she’ll like it very much,” Nestor answered, his voice filled with confidence and perhaps even a little pride.
Standing behind me, he placed a hand on my shoulder and looked down at my work. I’d turned the cuff of my sleeve back so as not to smudge the ink, and when I glanced up at him, I caught his gaze shifting from the page to the bruises on my wrist.
“You’re not hers,” he said, staring at the marks on my arm. “She doesn’t own you.”
I’d once watched Mama work a spell to help a woman break free from a bad situation; the woman’s man had beaten her, and she said he simply wasn’t the same to her anymore. Out of a page from the Evening Star, Mama made a charm for the lady to take home and burn in a candle’s flame—a perfect heart within a heart, cut from the centre fold of the newsprint and marked with the man’s name. “Repeat the words I’m not yours while the heart burns away. Don’t stop until it’s turned to ashes, or all will be ruined.”
