The cat gave a pitiful yowl and continued to burrow into the coal. Cripes. Freezin’ cold out and both of us starving and not a penny to my name. Never could get a few pennies ahead, no matter how good I was. That sod at the receiving house cheated you awful—all fences were the same—and you were lucky to make enough to eat on. Two or three bad days in a row and you damn near caved in from hunger. The thing to do was steal food outright, but the sods who kept the stalls were all burly louts with fierce expressions who’d break your neck soon as look at you, and they had sharp eyes, too. You could be hanged for stealing a loaf of bread, strung up on Tybrun Tree same as the wickedest criminal. Only three months ago they’d hung a lad of twelve for the heinous crime of stealing three apples.
I frowned. Didn’t do no good thinking about the injustice of it all. Things were the way they were, and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. The magistrates and those hired to uphold the law were more corrupt than the criminals, the thief-takers far more savage than the folk they pursued. If you had the money, you could buy your way out of any kind of trouble. You could murder a man and go scot-free if you had the gold to pay a lawyer. He’d hire a couple of straw men to vow you’d been somewhere else the night of the crime and he’d give the magistrate a healthy bribe and you’d saunter out of the roundhouse as free as a bird.
Only the poor swung from Tyburn tree, and the traitors, of course.
They were going to hang a traitor today. One of those poor souls who had fought with Bonnie Prince Charles and managed to escape the slaughter at Culloden only to be tracked down by the vengeful Cumberland. The Duke of Cumberland was the most hated man in England, a bloodthirsty villain who had cut down innocent women and children on the moors of Culloden, and he vowed he wouldn’t rest until he had tracked down every single man who had supported the Bonnie Prince. These Hanovers who sat on the throne of England were a bloody lot, stupid and dense, most of ’em, most of ’em not even speaking English half the time, and poor Prince Charlie was a fugitive in Europe when he should have been smiling his charming smile from the throne.
Poor little prince, I thought, snuggling under the rags. I was glad he had fled the field before Cumberland got him, and I shuddered every time I passed the Temple and saw the heads of his followers sticking on the pikes. Cumberland vowed he’d put Prince Charlie’s head there, too, after it had been parboiled with Bay salt and Cumin seed to keep the birds from pecking it. The thought made me shiver. It was time to get up, I told myself. No profit in shivering here on the straw with an empty stomach and a body near frozen. It must be at least seven o’clock.
Reluctantly I stirred, sitting up again, massaging my arms and tucking my bare feet under the rags. I ran my fingers through my hair, checking for lice. I hated the beastly little buggers, couldn’t abide them. Finding none, I sighed and crawled over to the corner where I kept my possessions: a brush, a broken comb, three candles and the battered Shakespeare book I had snatched up before fleeing Mrs. Humphreys the night my mum died. Picking up the brush, I glanced at the cat and began the morning ritual.
“I may not wash me ’air, cat,” I said chattily, “but I do keep it brushed properly. Fifty strokes in the mornin’, fifty at night, keeps the lice away. Big Moll says me ’air’s like red brown fire, says she could warm ’er ’ands from it, says she’d sell ’er soul for a ’ead of ’air like mine. Fat lot-a good it’d do ’er, ’er bein’ as big as a barn.”
Completely uninterested in my remarks, the cat was far more concerned with the rustling noise behind the wall.
“That’s right,” I told him. “Rats. Big ones. Why couldn’t you ’ave been ’ere last night when that bugger was tryin’ to nibble me toes? I must-a chucked a ’undred pieces-a coal at ’im before he gave up and looked for another snack. You catch ’im and I’ll bring you two pails-a milk.”
Putting the brush aside, I picked up the book. It was falling to pieces, I’d read it so many times. Couldn’t say I understood it all, but it was nice to read those words and imagine all those kings and princes and fairies and soldiers and unhappy lovers, those castles, those moors, those enchanted forests. I used to read the plays aloud to my mum, I remembered, and she had told me I was named after the girl in The Tempest. I flipped through the battered, thumbmarked pages and stroked the watermarked binding that was so sadly torn and ragged, cherishing the volume. It was all I had left of the past.
It would be nice to have more time to read. Folks thought it was barmy, of course. Perhaps it was, but it was so cozy and comforting to light a candle and snuggle up in my nest of straw and forget the dangers and hardships of the day as I read about those enchanted beings who had lovely clothes and lots to eat and sometimes went stark raving mad. Me, if I had a couple of nice gowns and a full belly, I’d never go mad, no matter how ungrateful my children might be. I’d tell ’em to sod off and bring me another meat pasty. Wouldn’t kill myself either, just because some silly love affair went wrong. That Juliet really was a ninny, I thought. All those fancy velvet gowns, all those nice things to eat, and she goes and drinks poison because she can’t have Romeo.
Bosh! She was out of ’er bloody ’ead.
There’d never been a Romeo in my life, true, and there never would be if I could help it. Men! Who needed ’em? Blustering, bullying sods, the lot of ’em, always out to cheat a girl, always greedy to pop your cherry. I saw ’em lookin’ at me, sure. I saw the way their eyes lighted up, saw the way they licked their lips, pantin’ to drag me into some dark alley and have their way. Any man stupid enough to put a hand on me got my nails across his cheek, got my teeth sunk into his arm, got a knee in the groin. They called me wildcat, the men of St. Giles, said you don’t want to try any tricks with that bloody Randy, she’ll neuter you an’ ’ave you singin’ soprano. I’d keep my cherry to myself, thanks a lot, and if I did someday decide to have it popped, it wouldn’t be in some filthy alley, and it wouldn’t be in a whorehouse for two pounds, not even for five. That’s what Big Moll assured me it’d fetch.
I put the Shakespeare down. I’d read a lot of other books, too, stole every last one of ’em. It was easy to steal books. Folks never thought anyone’d want to. I stole ’em and read ’em and then took ’em to the receiving house where the fence scowled and gave me a couple of pennies and told me I was out of my bloomin’ mind, stealin’ books when I could be stealin’ brooches and watches and fancy shoe buckles. Books weren’t worth anything, he grumbled, and I didn’t even try to explain how much they meant to me. I kept on stealin’ ’em and readin’ ’em, puzzled sometimes by the words, sure, but greedy for ’em nevertheless. Once I got hold of a dreary book of sermons I couldn’t make head or tail of, and sometimes there were dull travel books, but if I was lucky I’d snatch something like Moll Flanders by that chap Defoe. Folks could call me barmy all they liked, but I ’ad to ’ave my books like others ’ad to ’ave their gin.
No time to read this morning, though. I wrapped the book up carefully in a rag and put it back under the loose floorboard with the brush and comb and candles. I thought of my mum then. As I kneeled there among the straw and the coal I saw her face as clearly as though a portrait had materialized on thin air before me. I saw her as she had looked when we had been living in the house in that sunny little town whose name I couldn’t remember. I remembered very little about those days. Everything was hazy and unclear. I seemed to recall a pond with ducks and a big cathedral with towering spires, and I vaguely remembered someone called Auntie Maggie, but the rest was a blur. Once I caught a fleeting glimpse in memory of a handsome young man who smiled a teasing smile and said he was going to marry me when he grew up. Davy? Was his name Davy? The memory flashed in my mind for an instant and then vanished abruptly.
I remembered my mum, though, and as I gazed at the mental portrait that materialized before me, it was almost like gazing into a mirror, for her features were mine. I had the same high cheekbones and the same mouth, although mine was a bit fuller, not so delicate. I had the same ey
es, mine a deep blue instead of gray, with faint mauve shadows on my lids, as on hers, and long, curling eyelashes. My hair was auburn, too, like Mum’s, but mine was brighter, coppery, leaning more toward red than brown. I might resemble her in a great many ways, but my mum had been a beautiful woman and I was a scrappy, dirty-faced street urchin. The men stared, true, but that was because of my bosom and my narrow waist and my long legs, not because of my face.
The mental portrait gradually began to change, another taking its place, and I was gazing at my mum as she had been that last day. The lovely face had become gaunt, smudges beneath the eyes, deep hollows beneath the cheekbones. Memories came flooding back, bringing the grief that always accompanied them. I would never forget that day. Never. I remembered her gentle smile and the way those sad gray eyes peered up at me as she stroked my cheek with a pitifully frail hand. I remembered the racking cough and those bloodstained handkerchiefs she was always trying to hide under the bedclothes. Mrs. Humphreys came into the room, a horrible woman with shrewd, mean eyes. She was always spying on me, and she was the one who kept insisting Mum turn me over to the parish authorities and send me to the workhouse, saying Mum wasn’t able to watch after me, saying I’d be much better off with the other poor kiddies.
“She’s goin’,” Mrs. Humphreys said tersely. “’Adn’t got long now. I ’eard ’er coughin’ ’er lungs out last night.”
“Get out!” I cried.
“I’m goin’ to fetch Jenkins. Jenkins’ll know what to do. She’s with the parish, Jenkins is, a nurse. She’ll see your mum’s buried ’an take you back to the parish ’ouse with ’er.”
“My mum’s not dying!”
Mrs. Humphreys gave me a smug look and tromped heavily out of the room. I held Mum’s hand, squeezing it, and she kept shaking her head. Both of us knew it was almost over. Her strength had gone. She was a mere skeleton. I kept wringing a cloth out in water and bathing her brow, and I kept smiling, too, pretending it was just another seizure, pretending she was going to get better. My smile didn’t deceive her, nor did her own gentle smile deceive me. I squeezed her hand and bathed her brow, waiting.
“You—you’ll be taken care of, Miranda,” she whispered. “He—he’ll come for you, I know he will. I sent—I sent him a—” She closed her eyes, summoning enough strength to go on. “I told him everything—the whole story, and I know he—he’ll fetch you. You’ll be—”
Her voice faded. She coughed again, and when she withdrew the handkerchief from her mouth it was covered with blood.
“Don’t try to talk, Mum,” I said gently. “Don’t—”
She murmured a name I couldn’t quite hear and told me he would fetch me and take me to someplace called Cornwall and take care of me.
“They—they’ll send you to the workhouse, my precious, but it will only be for a—for a little while. He’ll come for you and—”
She could say no more. She looked up at me with such pain in her eyes, such love, and the tender smile left her lips and she closed her eyes for the final time. I knew she was gone, even before Mrs. Humphreys and another woman came marching into the room and declared her dead. I fought back the tears as they clucked and chattered, and then Mrs. Humphreys turned to me, eyes glittering with malicious triumph.
“It’s a pauper’s grave for ’er,” she declared, “an’ it’s th’ work’ouse for you, brat! Nurse Jenkins ’ere is gonna take you there.”
“Oh no she ain’t, you old bitch!”
I grabbed the Shakespeare book and tore down the stairs as fast as my feet would carry me, running through the twisting labyrinth of streets and alleys until I reached Big Moll’s. I sobbed and sobbed and begged her to hide me, and the plump, hard-shelled old bawd crushed me to her ample bosom and stroked my hair and told me to shush, told me them bleedin’ bastards weren’t going to get her little Randy, not bleedin’ likely.
Nine years ago that had been, nine long years, yet it was still as vivid in memory as though it had happened yesterday. Big Moll made good her promise, and the parish authorities never did find me, nor did the man who prowled St. Giles for almost three weeks, asking questions, searching for me. Someone told Big Moll he was a man of the cloth, that he’d come a long way to find me. Them clergymen, they were worse’n th’ parish authorities, Moll declared. Wudn’t one of ’em gettin’ ’is ’ands on ’er Randy. The man eventually left St. Giles without finding me. They said he looked very, very sad and worried. Moll said good riddance, them sods were all corrupt. If it wudn’t for th’ clergy, ’alf th’ ’ore’ouses in St. Giles ’ud go broke.
Already an accomplished thief at nine years of age, I quickly became one of the best in St. Giles, fiercely independent, refusing to join a gang, refusing any kind of “protector.” Skilled as I was at my trade, I had frequently gone hungry and, even on a good day, barely earned enough to keep body and soul together. They paid a mere pittance at the receiving house for even the finest goods, Black Jack Stewart the only one to make a profit. I was eighteen years old now, still free, still independent and, alas, still hungry.
Putting the loose floorboard back in place and covering it with rags, I stood up straight and yawned. Dim rays of early morning sunlight sifted through the filthy windowpanes, filling the tiny, cramped cellar with hazy white light. I adjusted the bodice of my faded violet-blue dress. The garment was horribly soiled and much too small. My breasts threatened to pop put of the low-cut bodice, and the waist was so tight I could hardly breathe. The full skirt was torn in several places, the ragged hemline swirling at mid-calf.
“One-a these days I gotta get me a new dress,” I told the cat, “a pair-a shoes, too. It ain’t so bad in the summertime. It’s ’ot as ’ell then and shoes don’t matter, but on a mornin’ like this—”
I shivered dramatically, folding my arms around my waist, but the cat wasn’t at all impressed. Nose in the air, tail sticking straight up, he continued his investigations.
“You catch that rat now, you ’ear, luv? I won’t forget the milk.”
I crept up the narrow wooden stairs and cautiously unbolted the door, opening it as quietly as possible. Old Hawkins let me sleep in his coal cellar for a penny a night, yes, and it was a dandy arrangement for us both, but of late he had the idea that the penny entitled him to something more. As doddering and decrepit as most of the customers who frequented his squalid gin shop, he had taken to lurking in the back hall of a morning, waiting for me to come up. He would engage me in idle conversation and casually stroke my arm, “accidentally” touching my breast. The only reason I hadn’t smacked him silly was because I couldn’t afford to give up the cellar. I had put the bolt on the door myself, going to considerable trouble to do so, and Hawkins had been quite surprised when he tried the door late at night after the last customers had staggered out.
Men were all alike, even in their dotage. You couldn’t trust any of ’em. A girl ’ad a ’ell of a time ’oldin’ on to ’er virtue, particularly in St. Giles. I wasn’t prudish or prim, but I didn’t fancy lettin’ any man paw over me. When I finally gave up my virtue it would be on silken sheets, I told myself, and the man who introduced me to those splendid delights would be a man I’d chosen myself. Besides, what was the bloomin’ ’urry? I was eighteen, sure, I couldn’t deny that, practically an old maid, and half the whores in St. Giles had started sellin’ tail by the age of eleven, but I staunchly held on to my cherry. That was one of the reasons they called me “Duchess Randy.” They said it in derision, mocking me, but in truth I was rather proud of the title. Who wanted to be like everyone else?
The back hall was empty this morning. Hawkins was probably in a drunken stupor in his quarters over the shop. I crept down the hall and stepped into the alley and made my way nimbly through the piles of refuse. Rats scurried in every direction, diving beneath heaps of rotten vegetables, skittering across the chest of an emaciated old drunk who snored loudly as he sprawled against the wall with an empty gin bottle beside him. A chill wind swept down the alley, and the
hem of my skirt billowed up, exposing my bare legs. Jemminy, if only I ’ad me a cloak. It was cold enough to freeze your arse off.
The street outside the gin house was almost as narrow as the alley, almost as filthy, too, lined on either side with shambly, sooty-brown buildings that looked ready to come toppling down at any minute. Lurching, slanting rooftops festooned with black chimneypots leaned out, almost meeting overhead, blocking out most of the sunlight and permitting only a few glimpses of leaden gray sky. Laborers fortunate enough to have work plodded wearily to the crowded, unventilated factories. Dirty-faced, unkempt children played noisily, early though it was, and two shrill old bawds were arguing over a fish one of them clutched by the tail. Life in all its ugliness spilled out onto the pavements.
Sprawling beneath the spire of St. George’s, Bloomsbury, St. Giles was a huge, festering slum, a sore on the face of London, “the cesspit of beggary and wretchedness,” and the ornate richness of the church that towered so nobly at its entrance merely emphasized the squalor. A dark labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets and alleyways, it was known as “the Rookery,” crowded with hideously congested tenements, with brothels and doss houses and gambling dens—every known vice thriving vigorously within its boundaries. Respectable folks dared not step foot in St. Giles, for it was packed with ruffians who would cheerfully slit a throat for a handful of coins. The constables and watchmen who patrolled the slum stepped warily, always in pairs, their chief protection being that they were generally even more corrupt and vicious than the denizens they kept an eye on.
No fine squares and spacious gardens for us in St. Giles, no elegant, majestic buildings and courtyards. It wasn’t so bad, though. You got used to it after a while. The overpowering stench didn’t bother you, though it would fell a man not accustomed to breathing it in night and day. St. Giles had been my home for almost as long as I could remember—those earlier years seemed like a dream, all nebulous and blurry, not real at all—and I knew every alley, every hidden courtyard and cul de sac, every putrid ditch. It was bleak and ugly, yes, and you had to fight just to stay alive, but there was a raw, raucous vitality in the air and an excitement you wouldn’t find in those swell, swank neighborhoods. You knew you were alive in St. Giles, knew if you didn’t keep your guard up every minute you’d find yourself in a ditch with your body violated and your head bashed in—or else you’d starve.
Once More, Miranda Page 15
