Poor Tom Is Cold

by Maureen Jennings

  Liepman shook his head emphatically. “Mutter said never to look at devils. If you did, you would go up in a puff of smoke.”

  “You thought these cries, piteous as you describe them, might have not been human?”

  “Devils can take all kinds of shapes.”

  “Indeed they can.”

  He focused on the little finch again. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. I won’t, will I?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Liepman. You have been very helpful.”

  Murdoch looked at the book that was on the table. It was a Bible. There didn’t seem to be any other books in the room, as far as he could see. He stood up. That was probably all he was going to get out of the man. Realising they were done, Liepman cheered up. He took the lamp from the mantelpiece.

  “I’ll see you down. Mr. Henry won’t leave any candles out. He’s afraid of fire.”

  As they left, the finch let loose with a glorious torrent of song.

  An image had leaped into Murdoch’s mind. A young woman tied to a chair, trying to reach out to him, whispering, “Help me, please help me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  SHE FELT AS IF SHE WERE RECOVERING from an illness, a fever that had distorted her view of the world. The strict routine of the asylum, the orderliness, was actually helping to bring about clarity. However, this served to intensify her fear and her isolation. She could see only too well what she faced and she was threading her way like a cat on a mantel.

  During the day, there was little to distract her from her thoughts. Mrs. Foster was coherent but childlike, and she soon gave up on any attempt to communicate with the other women. Trying to hold on to their sanity was like catching a bird in cupped hands. The attendants had a lot to do and were still wary of her. Fortunately, Miss Bastedo had made sure she was given some tray covers to embroider and it helped to while away the time. When she was in the orphanage, she had been taught fine sewing and she had become adept at it, enjoying the praise she garnered for her neat stitching. After Harry died she tried to support herself and Charley by doing dressmaking. Unfortunately, there was a plethora of skilled dressmakers in the city and she never had enough work. It was at this point Nathaniel Eakin had entered her life, by chance, looking for someone to sew for his ailing wife. Peg couldn’t really understand why he had been so smitten with her but it was clear he was. After his wife’s death and when he was scarcely out of mourning, he had proposed marriage. Seeing no alternative, she accepted.

  On Friday Miss Bastedo announced that the Lippincott choir was coming to sing for them that evening. Peg felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of contact with the outside world. Then the reality of her situation rushed in on her. Nobody had visited her yet and she was still wearing the institutional clothes, cotton drawers and chemise, a petticoat, grey woollen dress and a stiff white pinafore. They were the regulation apparel worn by all the charity patients and she felt ashamed to be seen by normal people. Briefly, she considered begging off as being unwell, but after the plates were taken away, the attendants ushered all the women into the sitting room and she filed in with Mrs. Foster on her arm.

  The Lippincott church choir was already there. Seven of them, five women and two men. They were used to the asylum and didn’t gawk or pay any attention, instead sorting through their music sheets or chatting to each other quietly. There were four rows of chairs for the patients set up in a semicircle in front of the piano, but the rear seats were already occupied. Peg’s hope of sitting inconspicuously at the back was dashed.

  “Who are those women?” she whispered to Mrs. Foster. They were all in the asylum clothes, many of them with white mobcaps. There was an air of restless energy surrounding them, as they fidgeted and looked around them. Various looks – bewilderment, fear, suspicion.

  “They’re from second floor,” replied Emma. “It’s not fair of Miss Bastedo to bring them in but she always does. Says it calms them down. Which it doesn’t, in my opinion. They don’t pay attention and shout out at the most inappropriate moments.”

  Peg felt afraid of the strangeness of these women and made sure that she was one row removed as she sat down. That put her in direct line of vision with the women of the choir, but it was the lesser of two evils. She scanned them quickly, relieved that there was nobody she knew in the group.

  Mrs. Foster leaned up closer and spoke into her ear. “Whatever you do, don’t get too close to the woman who’s sitting at the end of the row at the back. The one in the bonnet.”

  Peg glanced quickly behind her. The woman in question was small and thin with haggard features. She was sitting quietly but her lips were moving in a conversation only she could hear.

  “She’s had ringworm. It’s very contagious. She shouldn’t be here but matron is always letting the old-timers get away with things. She’s been in this place for twenty-two years.”

  “My Lord. She doesn’t look much into middle age.”

  “She was twenty-six years old when she was admitted.”

  “The same age as me.”

  “There you go then,” said Emma ambiguously. “I’ve been here seven years, three months, and fourteen days tomorrow.”

  That wasn’t what she’d said before but Peg didn’t challenge her. “Wouldn’t you like to leave?”

  Mrs. Foster shrugged. “I have left more than once, but I’ve had to come back.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t get along with my daughter-in-law.” She hesitated and began to pleat her skirt, nervously.

  “Why didn’t you?” Peg asked.

  “She said I stole things.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  The other woman looked up at Peg in confusion. “Sometimes I take things that I know people would give me anyway. That’s not so wicked, is it?”

  “I don’t think so but perhaps it would be better to ask them first.”

  “Oh, no. They wouldn’t give them to me then.” Mrs. Foster’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “She’s a good girl, is Letty. I miss her so much. She’s been like a daughter to me.”

  She began to weep with increasing fervour. Mrs. Reid, who was talking to the choir leader, came over.

  “What is it, Mrs. Foster?”

  “Hurt,” said the old woman in a child’s voice and touched her chest.

  “Did you say something to her?” the attendant asked Peg.

  She shook her head. “No, I did not. She mentioned her daughter-in-law and that seemed to upset her.”

  Reid took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped at Mrs. Foster’s face. “Come on, where’s my sunshine smile? We want to set a good example, don’t we?”

  Emma sniffed away the tears and gave her a wan little smile.

  “Lovely. That’s what I like to see. Now I need to have one more word with Mrs. Greenwood. Shall I ask them to sing ‘Annie Laurie’ for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Reid straightened up, gave Peg a warning don’t-do-anything-else glance, and returned to the choir mistress.

  Emma examined the handkerchief, which was of good linen with a deep black border.

  “Poor Reid’s brother died this year. She was very fond of him.”

  She put it in her pocket.

  One of the choir members was at the piano. She struck a note; the others hummed to get the right pitch. Then Mrs. Greenwood faced them, lifted her arms, and they all rose, music held straight out in front of them. A patient from the rear seats shouted out, “Hurray.”

  “And …”

  They burst into a boisterous rendition of “Bringing in the Sheaves.”

  Peg felt a surge of grief that tightened in her throat. If only she could get up and walk across that small patch of floor and be with them, the normal ones, the ones who could leave when they wanted to; the ones who could go to a home where they were safe.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  IT WAS REMARKABLE THAT THE REAL BUSINESS that occurred at the house on Sydenham Street was undetected. Clara Doherty told
her neighbours that she was a music teacher who lived with her four orphaned nieces and her housekeeper. She was strict about secrecy. Customers entered the house by way of a lane at the rear and were accepted by referral only. The whores were available at certain times and no other. Most of the men came directly after working hours, some few before work, although only Rose was willing to do that, the other girls preferring to sleep in.

  The setup of the house was simple and practical. The four bawds shared the top two rooms, something they unfailingly grumbled about, as the attic was unbearably hot in summer and cold in winter. Clara allowed them only a small coal allowance. On the second floor were three well-furnished bedrooms which were used only for business. Clara had a private suite on the first floor that she shared with Emily Dawson, the housekeeper, who was also her long-time lover. Across the hall was the parlour, a good-sized room where the men could wait and have a drink of spirits and smoke a pipe if they wanted. However, they were rarely permitted to linger through the entire evening, and Clara was always there to ensure they obeyed. Sophie, the oldest whore, referred to this policy as, “Get up, get in, get on, and get out.” The premises were closed at midnight and woe betide any man who presumed otherwise. Drunkenness was frowned upon and those leaving late were expected to be quiet. The Sabbath was always a day of rest.

  On the whole, Clara treated the girls well. She let them have short holidays every so often, food was plentiful, and she performed abortions herself when necessary. She would have been comfortably off by now, except that, with dismaying regularity, she lost her heart to some young doxy and lavished such gifts on her that her savings were seriously jeopardised. This blatant favouritism created havoc in the house, but fortunately the infatuations never lasted long, and the girl disappeared to Montreal or America, where Clara had friends who also ran ill-reputes. Later, the others would hear her sobbing in Emily’s arms, begging for forgiveness, promising it would never happen again, and then the house would settle down for a little while.

  Every afternoon the girls were invited into Clara’s sitting room and Emily served them lemon junkets and cakes as a treat. Here they would sort out petty quarrels, receive their allowances, and discuss their customers. Clara encouraged them to unburden themselves. The information gave her ammunition if she needed it at a later time.

  She yawned. The others had been having a lively discussion of their toms, ever a popular topic.

  “Personally, I like the fast-trigger ones the best; the grunters, no words, next; and the shouters the least. You could go deaf with some of them yelling in your ear,” said Nellie, licking the last of the junket off her spoon. “You had one of them Friday, didn’t you, Rose? The greenhead. I heard you.”

  “Ha! That humper wasn’t a greenhead. He said he was sixteen, a virgin and the son of a bishop. The closest he’s ever been to a bishop is his own cock.”

  “It’s wicked to say things like that,” said Sophie. She had been brought up in an orphanage run by the Sisters of St Joseph. Although she had become a prostitute at an early age, she suffered from regular attacks of guilt that sent her scuttling off to confession at St Michael’s Cathedral. She was so oblique about her sins, however, that the priest never understood what she was referring to, and she always got off with a light penance. She compensated by wearing a piece of sacking next to her skin for the next week and refusing her favourite delicacies. Behind her back, the others referred to her variously as Mother-of-God, Saint Sophie, or Jesus-Wept, which she said often.

  “He was wild for it,” continued Rose. “‘Oh, another one, my dear, that was so bad, oh, say that again, I’m coming, I’m coming.’ You’d think he was a delivery boy. I was running out of words by the end.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like to me,” said Nellie. “I thought you could have gone on for another half hour and not repeated yourself.”

  Rose scowled. She was notorious for her vulgarity, but she hated the scorn of the other women.

  Clara intervened before a squabble could develop. “Now, dears, let’s get on. They’ll be arriving soon.” She picked up a small wooden pail of candies and offered it around. “Everybody take one for now and one for later. They’re lovely and fresh; Emily just bought them.”

  The women started to help themselves.

  “I just wanted to reply to Rose,” said Mary Ann, her mouth full of the candy. “The one I had, friend of your gull, he was the opposite. He whispered lovely things in my ear the whole time, ‘You’re so lovely, your eyes are extraordinary.’ Never repeated himself and he was spent twice.”

  “How many times were you?” asked Nellie. The other two snickered. Nobody liked Mary Ann, whose childlike body appealed to a lot of customers. She milked the attraction for all it was worth – wore her hair down, kept her skirts short and flounced, and pouted like a spoiled child.

  Mary Ann wasn’t offended. She enjoyed stirring up the other whores. “All men are the same. They need to think you are really enjoying yourself, that they are therefore great lovers.”

  “I think about the taste of the dollars they’re going to leave,” said Nellie. “I must look happy.”

  Emily came in. “Hurry up, girls. Time to get dressed. Nellie, don’t you have anything cleaner to wear?”

  “My other dress isn’t dry.”

  “Well, you’ve got a stain all over your bodice; it’s disgusting. Wear a shawl.”

  She clapped her hands as if she were shooing away geese. “Come on. We’re late tonight.”

  One by one the girls started to leave. Emily went over to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and took out a corset.

  “You’d better get ready,” she said to Clara. “There’s a man here. Wants to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Smith.”

  “Which Mr. Smith?”

  “One of the older ones.”

  “Damn. Did he say anything else?”

  “No. Come on, stand up.”

  Clara got to her feet and Emily helped her off with her dressing robe. She held the corset so that Clara could step into it and started to tighten the laces.

  “Not so tight, Emmie, I can’t breathe.”

  “It’s no tighter than usual; you’ve been eating too many candies.”

  “You’re the one who bought them.”

  Emily planted a kiss on Clara’s shoulder and grinned. “True, I like to see you enjoy them so much. It’s like watching my little piggy at her trough.”

  “Emmie!”

  “Don’t get frosty. You know how much I love that pig.”

  She gave Clara’s plump buttock an affectionate squeeze. “There you go. All done. What dress do you want to wear?”

  “The pearl grey.”

  Emily came around and looked Clara in the face. “Be careful what you say, dearest. This man smells like trouble to me.”

  “I know. But we’ve managed this long, I’m not going to let any gull sink me.”

  The man calling himself Henry Smith was sitting in the front room. Clara had furnished it according to her idea of a well-to-do family parlour, and it was so crammed with furniture there was barely room to enter. There were two Turkish couches upholstered in purple velour with gold fringes, four Morris chairs, and taking pride of place a so-called courting couch. It was S-shaped and a man sat on one side and a woman the other. The notion was they could converse quite intimately without physical contact. Rose particularly liked this couch as she could whisper lewd things in her customer’s ear and have him squirming in no time. There was a piano in one corner on which Emily stoically played popular songs like “A Beautiful Dreamer” and “Home Sweet Home,” which were always in demand. The piano invariably needed tuning and she added fancy chords that changed the melody, but nobody would dare voice an objection. There were two sideboards on either side of the door, heavy and ornate with burled walnut mouldings. This was where Clara kept the more lascivious tools of her trade. Plush vellum albums of special photographs, books to make a man as rand
y as a goat. A stereoscope sat on one of the side tables. Just in the unlikely event that a neighbour came to call, the photos on display were innocent: a view of the Nile, a girl on a giant lily pad, children sitting on a wall. In the sideboard were the other pictures. The three-dimensional nature of the stereoscope made these pictures particularly startling. They were twenty-five cents a viewing.

  Smith had been a customer of Mrs. Doherty’s for seven years, following her whenever she moved to a new location for safety. Sometimes he visited once or twice a week, sometimes he would stay away for a month or more. There was something in his disdain that made the women uncomfortable. He wouldn’t take liquor, ignored the books and photographs, and was never tempted by the latest special novel. They were glad when Mary Ann took him over.

  Nellie was sitting on one of the Morris chairs. She had a bad cold and was hawking copiously into her handkerchief. Clara came out of her room. The man immediately took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it.

  “Good evening, Mr. Smith. Sorry to keep you waiting. Nasty weather, isn’t it? Can I get you a hot gin in the meantime, warm you up?”

  “No, thank you. I’d like to speak to you in private.”

  “Of course. We can talk in my sitting room.”

  He followed her to the door, where she paused and looked over her shoulder. “Nellie! If you have to blow out that much snot, can you do it more quietly? The customers are going to vomit.”

  The girl coughed. “I can’t help it. I’ve got a bad cold.”

  “Go back to bed then or you’ll give it to everybody. It looks like it’s going to be quiet tonight anyway.”

  Gratefully, Nellie got up, pulling down her skirt, which had been hitched to her scrawny thighs. She wasn’t wearing any drawers.

  The man’s face contorted with contempt. “I must admit, the mere sight of female private parts has never aroused me.”

  “Each to his own,” said Clara with a shrug.

  She showed him into her sitting room. It, too, was crammed with furniture, and every surface was covered with crotchet work, each piece lovingly made by Emily. She’d left the lamps lit and the fire was cheery.