Imogene

by Eliza Lloyd

  Whoring couldn’t be so bad.

  Mrs. Cookson coughed in her room, a familiar sound to them. It was that or her five-year-old daughter crying ’cause she was hungry. She didn’t have a chimney and her job at the broom factory didn’t pay any more than Imo’s ten minutes of male entertainment. A foul-smelling cock was better than an empty belly and no shelter over your head, especially when there was Charlie to consider. The older three could pretty much make do on the streets now, but it was a sight more comfortable to have a drip on your head than a rainstorm running down your back and filling your shoes.

  They had a bucket for water and a bucket for piss and shit. Imo reached for one of the torn rags hanging from a piece of cord that connected across the attic beams. She cupped a handful of water and sloshed it in her mouth before spewing it into the slop bucket. The rag she dampened and washed her face, her hands and all the places she hated smells. She used a second rag to wipe at the blood that had caked on her neck. The knife prick was nothing. She tried not to think about what had happened tonight, but stupid tears had a way of creeping out at the wrong time.

  She clenched her eyelids, remembering there were worse things.

  She’d remembered a time of extreme want, bitter cold, and the worst, foulest jobs imaginable after Mam died. Those times were long gone, just like the fading memories of Mam.

  Had Mary FitzPatrick not found them, Imo would have been whoring long ago, they never could have helped Charlie and by now one of the boys would probably have been pinched by Bow Street.

  No, their little hot-as-hell attic was their paradise and they were thankful for the mean accommodations.

  “Hurry, your ladyship. Yer bed’s awaiting.”

  “Shut yer trap, Frank.”

  At his mocking, the press of tears burned against her eyeballs again. She’d cried afterward the first time she’d rubbed a man’s parts too. She’d cried because she knew it was the first step toward the rest of her life. As much as they all wanted to pretend they’d be children forever, Imo knew one day she’d be on her own. And she knew what she’d be doing when that happened.

  She’d never dreamt she’d be a fine lady. She never dreamt she’d have any sort of money. What she did dream of was a dress, a pretty ribbon and maybe a pair of stockings. And someplace safe to keep them.

  Imo leaned against the wall, sliding down until she could rest her head against her knees. She didn’t boo-hoo when she cried—the tears just seemed to leak of their own accord. She thought they seeped out from a crack in her heart.

  She rarely wished for things, but she did wish she could make a few coppers in some other way and if she couldn’t, at least make a lot more coppers if she had to do it on her knees.

  “Leave her alone, Frank,” Danny said with his stern, fatherly voice.

  Danny didn’t chastise her any further and the boys found their places on the floor, their feet close to the chimney, and rolled into one another, clothes and all. They had one blanket. This time of year only Charlie needed the warmth, and then only on rain-chilled nights.

  After a time, she brushed the tears aside and crawled on hands and knees across the floor to the shakedown bed, taking her place between the boys—Frank and Danny on the outside.

  “Did you see the size of that ugly cock?” Frank asked as he lay on his back with his hands behind his head. Frank was at that age where everything sexual fascinated him.

  “You like to look, do ya, Frank?” Danny asked, followed by a sleepy yawn.

  “Couldn’t help but look. How do you do it, Imo?”

  Imo reached across Charlie, grabbed Frank in the crotch and squeezed mercilessly. She’d learned forceful coercion one time was better and more effective than a veiled attempt to threaten a hundred times.

  He squalled. “Let go, you little demon!”

  “Don’t you never make fun of the way I get our food. Never.”

  “All right, all right.”

  “She’s right, Frank. It’s better than one of us ending up in Newgate,” Danny said.

  “Or transported,” added Charlie. His voice faded. He squirmed and then turned his head toward Imo’s chest, his two hands curled up under his chin. Imo twisted her wrist once before she deemed Frank’s punishment complete and then lowered her arm across Charlie.

  Frank clapped his hands over his balls and moaned. “Someday, Imo, I’m gonna forget you’re a girl and thrash your naked arse.”

  Except for an occasional cough and the noise filtering up from the street, the darkness and stillness crept over them.

  “I wish we had a place for—” Imo stopped midsentence, remembering the neighbors next door and the little ears beside her.

  “What do you wish, Imo?”

  “Nothing. I’ll tell you in the morning. Thanks for finding me, Danny. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was a-going.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t do it again unless you want to end up dead in some alley. None of us would like that.”

  Chapter Two

  The early morning sun heralded the start of the day and the street came alive as large drays pulled wagons laden with milk and eggs and butter into the city, followed by the bonneted wives and screeching children of the farm. Flower merchants, hawkers and other assorted vendors yelled at the tops of their lungs, uncaring that some in the city still slept.

  Imo emptied the slop bucket after they all took their turn, wrinkling her nose as she hauled the offending pail to the alley. Danny was the only one who got to refuse that chore, since he was the oldest. He did more important things, like handle their coins.

  “I want bread and honey,” Charlie whined as they left the house.

  “You’ll get what you get,” Danny said. “Mrs. Bunton has to be paid first, and who knows when we’ll have this much money again.” Buried deep in his pocket, his hand allowed the clink of the money to sound its richness.

  “We don’t have to pay her for ten days yet. Think of all we could do with that money until then.”

  “That’s why you’re not in charge of the money, Frank,” Danny said.

  Danny had started calling him Frank now that he was a man. Well, almost a man. Frank said he’d be a man once he got to sleep with a whore, but Danny told him that wasn’t what made a man. He never seemed to get around to actually saying what did make a man.

  Maybe killing a man made the difference.

  “We could buy that ribbon Imo wants,” Frank suggested.

  Imo and Danny stared at Frank.

  Charlie piped up, “He wants to get hisself a whore.”

  Imo huffed. “We ain’t wastin’ my money on a whore. Not after what I had to do to earn those coppers,” she insisted.

  “It’s not your money. It’s not Frank’s money. It’s ours. And that means a roof over our heads first and food second. The ribbon and the whore have to wait.”

  “’Sides, no one has to pay for it if they’re handsome enough,” Imo said.

  “That’s a bald-faced lie. Ain’t no whore’s gonna give away her goods,” Frank said. “I’ve asked.”

  “That’s ’cause you ain’t handsome enough.”

  Before Frank could hit her, Imo slipped around Danny as they tromped down the stairs and when they reached the front street, Danny knocked on Mrs. Bunton’s narrow wooden door. She answered the knock herself, wiping her hands against an off-white apron splotched with more stains than an old rag. Her cheery face always appealed to Imo. Mrs. Bunton seemed like sunshine, love and the Christ’s Mass all wrapped up in human form. Danny transacted business with no fuss from Frank.

  They hadn’t always had the money to pay her. Once in a while Mary FitzPatrick helped out with a few coppers, but it had been months since they’d had to bother her.

  “Now, let’s find something to eat.” He placed his larger hand on Charlie’s head and rumpled his hair. “Maybe we’ll find you some fresh bread and honey after all.”

  “I hope so. And a glass of warm milk. I prayed for it last night before I went
to sleep.”

  Charlie never asked for anything. When he did, Danny obliged like a true older brother, pretending gruffness, but in the end doing whatever he could to protect and provide.

  They wound along Thames Street and came to a common lodging house that catered to seamen and whores and occasionally a man of business about to embark on a journey. And the real rarity, London nobs who came down to check on their fat merchant ships and their bursting cargoes.

  The inn served a beef stew that stuck to a boy’s ribs, and all for a penny a plate. The lunch patrons had already come and gone; only a few stragglers sat at the thick wooden tables sipping warm ale.

  The Farrells sequestered themselves in a corner and before too long Tess, the owner’s wife, came along. Tess was as thin as her husband was bulky. She was a solicitous matron always cooing appreciative endearments even if they were to the lowest of humanity.

  “Well, we don’t get to see the Farrells unless there’s money burning a hole in your pockets.”

  “We got a little, Tess. We just want to eat.”

  “Stew for everyone, luv?”

  “Do you have any fresh bread and honey?” Danny asked.

  “And milk?” Charlie said. He leaned against the table, the thick board cutting into his chest. Imo knew his hands were clasped, prayer-like, between his legs.

  “And milk. Ale for the three of us,” Danny ordered.

  They chatted about the awful smell coming from the back of Mrs. Bunton’s house where one of the local businessmen threw all of his refuse. Frank vowed he was going to shovel a big pile of that shit onto the front door of Old Man Kramer’s fancy painted steps some dark night.

  “Did you see the dress Molly Smith had on this morning?” Frank asked. Imo already knew what Frank was going to say. Molly always wore the same dress.

  “Her tits were spillin’ over the top. I thought I was gonna have to help her stuff them back in.”

  “She ain’t never gonna let you touch her. Not even if you ask real nice,” Imo shot back.

  “She let Danny.”

  Imo turned with an incredulous stare. “You like that old harpy? She’s two years older than you. At least. And her papa, that bracket face, is meaner than a country mule. He’d beat you fer sure if he knew you shagged her. Maybe kill ya.”

  “Ain’t takin’ advantage when it’s offered,” Danny said. Imo always had a suspicion he’d done it, but he’d never said what girl spread her legs or if he liked the doing.

  “What’d she let you do? Did you get to fuck her? And what about her titties?”

  “Frank!” Imo barked at him and then jerked her head in Charlie’s direction.

  “Oh, knock it off. Charlie knows all about fucking, don’t you?” Frank asked. He bounced his hand hard against Charlie’s back.

  Charlie was a true innocent, but he’d lived on the streets with them long enough to know some things were just part of life. “Sure. A man puts his wanker into a woman’s cunt and gives her a baby, if he knows what he’s doing. Everybody knows that.”

  Frank stared at Danny, dying to know the details. “Tell me,” he demanded.

  When encouraged, Danny could be just as horny as Frank. Who knew what they talked about when they snuck off to a corner and jawed.

  Danny leaned forward and so did his rapt audience. Even Imo wanted to know the details. “Her tits were like soft pillows. I’ll bet even a fancy house over in Mayfair doesn’t have finer. And when I put my prick into her, she screamed like a banshee and then she grabbed my arse and said ‘oh, don’t stop, Danny, don’t stop, not ’til I squeeze every drop from you’.” He ended on a falsetto voice.

  “And by then, my cock was thicker than a Hertfordshire bull.” He gestured over the table indicating an impossible length. “Her cunny started to squeeze. I nearly passed out before I could empty my load.”

  “And then?” Frank asked. One of his hands had slipped under the table.

  “And then? And then, I fucked her like an Arabian stallion. I’ve done it three times now. With her.”

  “Oh jeez, Danny. I gotta do that too. I just got to. Are you sure I can’t have a couple of those coins?”

  “How much do men pay to shag?” Imo asked. Besides discussions on food and money, fucking, how to get fucked and who to fuck were their favorite conversations.

  “For fucking? Depends on the whore, I suppose.”

  “But more than a couple of coppers?”

  Danny sat back and then folded his arms over his chest. “No.”

  “I’m just asking.” The truth was she wanted to know because someday soon, her brothers would find girls and there would be no room for her. She was going to need a place to go and she was going to need money. If she was lucky, someone good to provide protection.

  “The answer’s still no.”

  “You ain’t my husband.”

  “No, I’m yer brother.”

  Frank sat with his chin propped in one hand, daydreaming about Molly’s tits. His other hand still worked in his dirty trousers.

  Imo fisted him in the shoulder. “Do you have to do that here?”

  Charlie’s head rested on his forearm while the fingers of his other hand tapped a rhythm only he understood.

  Imo turned her attention back to Danny and whispered conspiratorially, “But what if it was enough to get us out of here?”

  “You want to be used by crude sailors and dirty fishmongers and cutthroats and thieves? Is that what you want?”

  “No. Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. You won’t be spreading your legs for any of them fancy gents who take their ladybirds to Drury Lane and hide them in townhomes and parade them on their arms when their wives are in the country. You’ll be used. You’ll be used until there’s nothing left.”

  “I was just asking.”

  Tess arrived, carrying four plates of stew stacked neatly down one arm. A wooden trencher of bread landed on the table, followed by the clank of the stew bowls. Charlie grabbed first. “Oh, it’s hot.” He dropped the round bread roll on the wooden table as Tess slid a plate in front of him. Charlie grabbed his utensil and slurped a spoonful into his mouth.

  Tess left and just as quickly returned with the warm milk and cool ale.

  Imo put a hand on his arm. “Slow down, Charlie, this has to last you all day.”

  “But it’s so good.”

  “I know. Nice and slow-like.”

  Frank still pouted, but now that the food had arrived he could ignore his other urges. With both elbows resting on the table, he spooned his food in with slow deliberation like Danny and Imo. They had missed too many meals not to savor every drop.

  “Only half a roll for you, Charlie. You can have the rest for breakfast tomorrow. You too, Imo.”

  “I know,” she snapped back. As if she was going to waste all this food in one meal. Frank and Danny both ate a whole roll. She understood. She did.

  After a warm meal that filled the belly better than anything they’d had in the last month, Imo wondered if Danny was right to keep her from making even more money for the family.

  He must have read her thoughts. “We’re eating well because we stole from that miscreant, not because of what you’re doing.”

  “Right, but it doesn’t hurt.” Imo laughed along with the boys. They had never had it so good.

  * * * * *

  The world was their oyster when they had money in their pockets. After lunch, they strolled along the waterfront visiting with friends and the occasional acquaintance, but always looking for business prospects, legitimate or otherwise, until they arrived at Twenty Acres Dock. They finally settled at a pier post near the warehouses where an American clipper was docked, watching as the crew scuttled back and forth unloading the ship of its tobacco cargo.

  A forest of ship masts filled Twenty Acres and trailed off into the Thames where more ships, coal barges, colliers and steamboats jockeyed through the organized chaos.

  Sometimes the boys could get day work and e
arn a few coins for the family coffer, even if it was only a farthing. They weren’t going to accumulate their fortune through vagrancy alone, not that they hadn’t tried.

  The noise of trade was near deafening. The din was like music to them: exciting, pulsing, homey. They got to shout and cuss and be whatever they wanted to be on the docks.

  Seagulls swept down from the sky making quick, dangerous forays near the food vendors. Wild dogs ran in small packs amidst the busy legs and under carts, causing all sorts of havoc. Carts rattled by, horses shat right in front of them, a milkmaid dropped her milk bucket and her father beat her about the head for her clumsiness.

  And the prostitutes were everywhere, dressed in red, with feathers in their hair and some with their titties showing and willing to give free touches. All of them waiting for sailors, returning home from long sea voyages.

  Imo couldn’t lure a man the way they could, but she wasn’t as expensive either. She’d heard they sometimes got a whole shilling for lying down and spreading their legs. Imo couldn’t believe that. A whole shilling!

  “Bet that red dog gets to the corner first,” Frank said, watching two mutts chase something.

  “Whatcha got to bet?” Imo asked.

  “I’ll take your turn carrying slop buckets for the next two weeks.”

  Imo stuck out her hand. Frank spit on his palm and then slapped it against hers. The red dog sped out of sight; the black one got distracted by a fancy man on horseback. Imo lost.

  “You carry shit like you were born to it. I’ll make sure I piss a bucketful for you.”

  “Yer all heart.”

  “Wanna bet that nob has a stick up his arse?” Frank asked, pointing his chin toward the same man who had caused her to lose a bet.

  “Who’s gonna check?” Danny asked. Frank and Imo laughed. She eyed the man as he dismounted in front of one of the counting houses where cargoes were bought and sold. Brass letters proclaimed the name of Deaver and Son, not that any one of them but Danny could read the sign; they just knew.