by Vicki Delany
Mrs. Hancock studied me. My skin pricked under her unblinking black eyes. I looked into her face and did not look away first.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
“Thank you for the meal. It was delicious.”
Jones laughed.
I lived in the small room above the brothel in Seven Dials for two years. Mrs. Hancock might be a miserable old bag and a whore mistress, but she was a good seamstress. She altered a dress to fit me and used the extra fabric to make it decent and even pretty. The original owner of the dress complained loudly, and slaps and cries drifted up the staircase.
I wore that dress standing on street corners, looking quite lost and somewhat confused and frightened. I sniffed into my embroidered handkerchief and told my sad story, altered when I considered it appropriate, and a good number of men and women pressed money into my hand with kind words for my poor abandoned mother.
Mr. Jones was highly pleased with me and I rose in rank through the levels of his band of street urchins. With improved status came more and better food and I was awarded an extra blanket after one particularly successful day. I did what I could to share with Maise, who as she grew older became less pathetic and less able to earn her income begging.
They were a rough bunch of children, living on their wits and what speed they had to get out of the way of Mr. Jones’s fist. When he swung out at one child, sometimes for no reason, he didn’t much care if the primary object ducked and another one took the blow. I watched the boys dodging Mr. Jones and fighting amongst themselves. On several occasions a neighbouring gang pounced on us. Jones’s boys could defend themselves with their feet and fists, and I found myself imitating them and sometimes even joining in the battle. I learned to fight like a boy on the streets of Seven Dials.
I kept my knife close, under my clothes, at all times. I slept with Maise, on a thin blanket under the window where we caught the cold winter winds and the damp mist. I know she saw the knife, but she never said anything to me, and I did not talk about it. One of the boys, a nice young lad named Alfie with warm brown eyes and a bad stutter, was badly beaten by the biggest of the boys, the one named Nigel who Mr. Jones used to keep the children in line when they were outside the house. I could have helped Alfie, I could have pulled out the knife and defended him. But I did not. If I revealed it, they’d take it away. I would use it to save my life, nothing less.
I practised sometimes, when I could snatch a bit of privacy in a dark alley. Using the knife the way the gypsy boy had taught me. Keeping myself, and the weapon, sharp and ready.
It was, truth be told, a miserable life. Mr. Jones and Nigel kept the children in line with kicks and punches and, worst of all, withholding of food. Each child was expected to earn a certain amount per day, and if they were short, then they would not eat. There was no reward for earning extra, but Mr. Jones might (just might) not punish the culprit too severely if they were short the following day. The boys were expected to supplement their income by picking pockets. If they were caught — well, you could be sure Mr. Jones wouldn’t be rushing to their defence. They were usually never seen again. Lessons in the art of picking a man’s pocket or relieving a lady of her reticule were given in the upstairs room. I earned enough money by begging that I didn’t need to be a thief. But I was eager to learn, nonetheless, and eventually I could snatch a few coins out of even Mr. Jones’s pockets.
I was quickly earning more than most of the other girls combined. That did not make me friends. The girls, numbering between six and nine in the time I lived there, were jealous and hostile. I might have helped them out, on occasion, if they had shown the slightest kindness. But they did not, and so I left them to their own devices. I began to accumulate a few nice things from the “ladies” downstairs. Hair combs, ribbons, cast-off dresses and undergarments, a small amount of rouge. Not because they had gifts to spare, most certainly not, but because Mr. Jones realized that the better I dressed, the more believable my story and the better the money I was able to earn. The other upstairs girls were madly jealous. They excluded me from their circle, they snatched food off my plate, they tripped me and snuck in the occasional surprise blow to my stomach or kidneys. But they knew better to take any of my things or do anything that might mark my face. That Mr. Jones would not tolerate.
I tried, when I could, to keep Maise close. The girls resented her for bringing me in. Her they could harm. And she had little capacity to defend herself.
Mr. Jones allowed absolutely no familiarity between the boys and the girls. He probably could have made a nice income from a pregnant begging girl, but he had a strange concept of morality. Couldn’t have any romantic relationships between the unmarried children under his care. He ran a whorehouse, but that was business.
A few times, I thought of leaving Mr. Jones, his hard fist, his cold drafty rooms, his cruel band of children. But where else could I go? I was still a child myself and there were worse masters than Mr. Jones.
I did, however, provide for my own future. And for Maise, who I’d decided to take with me when the time came. I found a wallet in an alley behind the pub one day, when I’d not been in London long. It was empty, of course. But it was good tough leather and waterproof. The wall behind the farriers where I’d first met Maise had a loose brick. I dug the brick out and created a space behind, put my wallet inside, and replaced the brick. Most days, I’d slip a few small coins into my knife pouch while I worked. On a couple of memorable occasions, even a pound and once a half-crown. A boy, Nigel usually, had the job of watching over me. It was easy enough to do a slight-of-hand and keep him from seeing how much money I was actually being given. I had a secondary hiding place underneath a loose floorboard in the girls’ room. I knew better than to keep all of my money in one spot.
My friends, such as they were, were the unfortunate women who lived and worked downstairs. The whores. Mr. Jones and Mrs. Hancock ran a brothel that catered to men with money and exceptionally low standards. I was, despite witnessing the murder of my parents and begging on the streets, somewhat of an innocent when I arrived. That didn’t last long.
The women who lived and worked on the bottom floors were a sad bunch. Beaten down by life, they took me under their wing. I suspect now they liked my innocence, such as it still was, and my looks provided a bit of beauty in their sad lives. I was almost a plaything to them. They would pinch my cheeks and comb my hair and paint my face so I looked like a baby whore. Each girl had a small room of her own where she slept and entertained clients. At least they had real beds with sheets and didn’t have to sleep on the floor with only a discarded blanket for cover.
A large parlour, gaudily decorated in wallpaper of royal blue and gold, had lamps with fringed shades, a piano, well-upholstered chairs and sofas, and a beautiful clean carpet. Framed paintings of pastoral country scenes hung on the walls. Glasses and fine china were kept in the sideboard and there was a handsome wooden table on which to prepare drinks. The women didn’t eat any better than we did upstairs, but cheeses and bread and cakes were kept under lock and key in case the customers desired a snack to recover from their exertions.
As time passed, I began to notice a plethora of bruises and black eyes on the whores. Fine one day, they would be walking stiffly and with obvious pain the next. One of the younger girls, fifteen-year-old Alice who’d recently come down from the girls’ room upstairs, appeared one afternoon with a savage welt across her cheek, running from the corner of her eye down though her lips. She looked as if she’d been struck by a whip. The welt healed badly, leaving an ugly scar. Alice grew bitter as her worth declined. One day she was simply gone, and I was told she’d been kicked out.
A woman by the name of Annie took me under her wing. She was older than the rest — probably in her thirties — but the years weighed her down. Alice taught me a few things about dealing with men. Like how to recognize trouble in time to get out of the way. How to knee them in the crotch or to drive a foot into their knee and execute a grab-and-ch
oke hold. From Annie, I learned to fight like a woman.
When business was slow at the brothel, the girls would be sent out into the streets, to ply their trade in the pubs and back alleys of Seven Dials. I shuddered, thinking of the rain-slicked streets and the piles of garbage. Annie said she didn’t mind. Rather a rough-spoken working man who fancied a quick tumble and would pay for the privilege than the toffs who descended into Seven Dials with their posh accents and fancy clothes and money to do things that would cause their well-bred wives to recoil in horror.
Carriages ratted over loose and broken cobblestones and dragged through the filth to reach our front door. Well-dressed men, with diamond stick pins, gold watches, emerald cufflinks, starched shirt collars, and accents as good as mine, would disembark and head inside. Some bold and brazen, some clinging to the shadows, some tittering with embarrassment.
I had been in residence for about six months when I developed a bad cough. As a child raised walking the hills of Skye, and later living with Travellers as they moved about the countryside, the air in London came as a shock to my poor lungs. I stood on street corners, hacking and spitting phlegm into my lovely handkerchief and took in even more money than when I was well. I couldn’t sleep, however, and was often up, just looking out the window at the activity on the streets below and trying to remember the colour of heather on the hills, the sound my father made when he laughed, the way my mother’s fingers moved when she sewed.
It was getting on toward morning, and a weak sun was trying to break through the smoke and gloom of the city. For a brief moment all was quiet, the night over, the day not yet begun.
Below me, a man came out the front door. His carriage was waiting — an impressive thing with a shiny gold crest on the doors, pulled by high-stepping black horses. He carried a sturdy walking stick, and was dressed in formal evening wear. His face was hidden by his hat as he turned and pulled out his billfold. He counted money and slapped it into Mrs. Harrison’s waiting palm. She said, “Do not come here again, sir,” and he replied, “Have no fear of that. You’ve a cheap quality of whore.” He climbed into the carriage, the driver whipped the horses, and they were off. A few minutes later, the front door opened again.
At first I thought Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Jones were discarding a soiled carpet. They carried a weight between them, him at one end, her at the other. They crossed the street and tossed their burden into the gutter. It rolled up against the wall and I could see it was no carpet. It was a woman.
I slipped downstairs and out the back. I crept around the house, where a few lights were still on and women laughed fake laughs and someone played, badly, the untuned piano. I crossed the street. It had rained. Mud was thick in the streets, and the gutters ran with rainwater and filth. I knelt down and touched the woman. She groaned and one eye opened.
Annie. She had failed to protect herself.
I gasped and fell back. Her face was a mass of blood and torn skin. Blood stained the bottom of her dress so thickly it might have been a crimson gown, and her right arm was twisted into an unnatural angle. She opened her mouth and spat blood through a mouthful of broken teeth.
She looked at me. I believe she knew I was with her.
More blood gushed from her mouth, and she lay still. I knew she was dead.
I went back inside, climbed the stairs, passed over sleeping girls, settled by the snoring Maise, and tried to get some rest. In the morning the body was gone. Only a patch of drying blood marked the spot where Annie had lain. I wondered, for a short while, why Mr. Jones had dared discard the dying woman outside his door. Then I realized that no one would much care. Another dead whore found in the morning. If the police did come knocking, and that in itself would be a shock, he would simply deny the woman worked for him. Certainly he wouldn’t identify her killer, and none of the other whores would dare to step forward.
Bad for business, I’d expect.
I had been with them for two years and my fifteenth birthday had passed unremarked. I returned late one evening from my begging job. I’d handed Nigel a coin and suggested he stop at the pub on the way home. Too stupid and greedy to question why I’d give him anything, he took the money quickly enough. I went to my hiding place behind the farriers and secured the excess of my day’s earnings. I hadn’t taken a penny out in two years and the sum was accumulating nicely. Whenever I got the opportunity to be alone, I moved money from beneath the loose floorboards to this spot, recognizing the possibility of Mr. Jones or one of the other children uncovering my hiding place.
I wore a cast-off dress of green satin with clean lace around the collar and cuffs and stiffly starched petticoats. A matching ribbon held back my hair and small cheap earrings were in my ears. I had been given a belt to match the dress, but had left it behind because it would be difficult to wear with the knife belt beneath. My looks were important to my earning potential, so I was kept supplied with soap for washing and even given a brush for my hair and one with which to clean my teeth. Unparalleled favours. The other children stayed dirty and if their faces broke into spots and their teeth were stained and darkened and their eyes wept with infection, it would only make them look more deserving of charity.
No wonder the rest of the begging girls hated me.
A man was stepping out of a hired cab when I arrived at the house. His eyebrows lifted at the sight of me. I nodded politely and went around the building, to the back entrance. I felt his eyes following me. It was the end of a warm sunny day, a treat in London in mid-November, but I shivered.
We ate our supper, sausages tonight, which was an indulgence, prior to the other children being sent back out for the evening trade. I didn’t work at night. According to my story, I did not have the sort of mother who would allow me to walk alone on the streets after dark.
I had managed to gain possession of a couple of books. About a month previous, an elderly man walked past the corner on which I stood looking sad and frightened. He’d asked if I were lost, and when I repeated my story of the theft of my mother’s money, he’d shaken his head regretfully.
“I’ve not a penny on me, my dear. So I can do little to help your mother. But books are of value beyond compare.” He thrust a battered satchel into my arms. “I’m sure your mother would enjoy listening to you read to her when she is unwell.” He walked away. I opened the bag. Mr. Currer Bell and Miss Jane Austin were among the treasures within.
Nigel had wanted to take the books to the rag-and-bone man, but I’d held them close and refused to give them up. He didn’t dare strike me: he knew by now I’d fight back.
It was difficult, sometimes impossible, to read in the light of the single poor candle Mr. Jones allowed to be lit in the upstairs rooms. But read I did when I could and for a while at least I was taken beyond the confines of Seven Dials, back to the hedgerows and sunny fields of England.
Mr. Jones mounted the stairs. I looked up from the depth of the book and got to my feet.
“I’ve a job for you,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Downstairs. There’s a man wants to meet you. Be nice to him and I’ll give you an extra shilling to buy whatever you like.”
I put the book down, and rose to my feet. “No.”
“No? You can’t say no. Go and brush your hair. Put on the dress you wore this afternoon.”
I held my back straight, my arms loose at my sides. I felt the weight of my knife belt around my waist. “I am not a whore.”
“I didn’t say nothing about whoring.”
“I know the man you mean and I can guess what he wants. I will not go downstairs and I will not let him touch me.”
“Two shillings then.”
“No.”
We faced each other. I stared into his face and did not blink or turn away. That would be to show a weakness. I kept my voice calm. I judged the distance to the door. Mr. Jones was used to smacking around disobedient children. I should be able to knock him aside and get out before he gathered his wits enough to react.
>
“I can get a lot for you, you know. It’s almost time you start working for Mrs. Hancock anyway. You’re a virgin, I’ll bet. You do a good job and I’ll split some of the proceeds with you. Don’t tell the others or Mrs. Hancock. Don’t want them thinking I’ve gone soft.” He tried to laugh.
“I will not whore for you. Now or at any time. Do you understand?”
He lifted his fist and took a step toward me. I didn’t move. “Strike me and I’ll never work for you again. Not in any capacity. I said, do you understand?”
He stopped. I don’t know what might have happened had Mrs. Hancock or the other children been watching. He probably would have beaten me and dragged me downstairs to be raped by the waiting man. He would have tried at any rate.
But no one was watching. I saw the moment the fight left his face. “You’re a tough one, Fiona. I’ll give you that.”
“I’ve been meaning to discuss business with you. This seems like an appropriate time. I’m earning a good deal more money for you than you’re spending on us. I think meat for supper an extra two times a week. Good meat, too. Enough for everyone. You can afford it.”
He stared at me, speechless.
“I’d like you to find another job for Maise. It’s not doing her any good sitting out in the cold and rain.”
“Maise …”
“Time for a more equal partnership,” I said, full of fifteen-year-old bravado.
He burst out laughing. “I never heard such a thing.”
I picked up my copy of Jane Eyre. I would be like Jane. Strong and confident. “One more thing. It’s time for new bedding. You can start with providing for Maise and me and then the other children. Pillows would be nice. Soft feather pillows.”
“Take care you don’t go too far, Miss Fiona. You’ve airs above your station and a mouth on you I don’t like. I’m not buying pillows for the likes of Maise. She’s lucky to have a roof over her head. She’d starve without me. All of them would.”
