The Walworth Beauty

by Michèle Roberts

  No. These lilies were real: small, flaring trumpets of white, bruised around the edges, spilling orange pollen, tall stems stuck into an ebony jar placed on top of a low cupboard. Who bought her flowers? Or did she buy them herself?

  Mrs Dulcimer half-turned. A frilled black mask hid most of her profile. The firelight leaping behind, her face stayed in shadow, dark and inscrutable. Glisten of full, plump lips, painted crimson. Such absurd theatrics! He put up a hand to hide his smile.

  Deep frills of lace covered her fingers. She held a sheaf of papers, which she set down on a side table, next to a small stack of books. Patting them into place, aligning them exactly.

  With a swish of her silk skirts, she turned fully in his direction. Blank black face-cover. Unnerving not to see her expression. She said: my eyes tire easily. And then the light hurts them. But I must have light for my visitors. Now that you are here, I shall dispense with my eye-shade.

  She shook back her lace cuffs, reached up her hands and untied the red ribbon, wound it around her fingers, swung the eye-shade back and forth in a curiously childlike way. As though she were considering what to say next, while he surveyed her: arched black eyebrows above shining black-brown eyes; smooth brown skin over curved cheekbones; that fat mouth enamelled red as sealing-wax.

  A black woman. How on earth had she landed up in Southwark? Black folks lived in Africa, in mud huts thatched with grass. They pierced their noses with rings of bone. They wore grass skirts and little else. Savages who threw missionaries in pots and boiled them alive.

  The question flew out of him. Where are you from?

  No spring chicken, forty at least, but in good shape, with plenty of juice still in her. Plump bosom outlined by her orange bodice. She’d hidden the flesh at her throat, surely webbed with lines, with a black choker strung with golden beads, clasped at each side by bunches of gilt chains. The ornament drew attention to her delicate collarbones, their little hollows filled with shadows. Salt cellars. You dipped your finger in then tasted it.

  She said: from Deptford, Mr Benson. My family roots in London go back generations. Further than yours, perhaps.

  He jumped. Sudden flash of his mother’s face, half hidden among pillows. Yet again she whispered her tale of her long-ago journey up from Kent in that drover’s cart. You slept most of the way, Joseph. You only woke up when we stopped to rest the horse. You were hungry, and you wouldn’t hush. She broke off, coughed. Your stepfather was a good man, Joseph, when all’s said and done. Not everyone would take on a widow with no money, another man’s child.

  Mrs Dulcimer stretched out a neat foot towards the fender. Black velvet slipper, a slim ankle in a thin grey stocking. She was pretending not to notice his scrutiny, lifting her chin and turning to stare at the turquoise pot on the mantelpiece, a Chinese-looking thing painted with red dragons, sprays of pink blossom. She was displaying herself; goods in a shop window. Satin at so much the yard.

  He breathed in the sticky lily scent. Don’t let her see how she disturbs you. Study the contrast between pools of golden light and pools of gloom. Two flimsy gilded armchairs padded with gold satin cushions, a red and blue Turkey rug before the fire. Coloured prints in varnished frames on the pink-plastered walls. An ornate ormolu clock under a glass dome, gilt pendulum swinging, on a pedestal stand.

  Mrs Dulcimer waved him forwards: let us sit down.

  He said: I didn’t explain in my note my reason for wanting to call on you, because I preferred to tell you in person. I’m here on a very particular mission. To start with, I require a girl. One of your best.

  She frowned. Twiddled one of her gold earrings; heavily chased and frilled half-hoops. Delicate ears she had, their long lobes weighed down by the lumps of gold. She opened her mouth, shut it again. In no hurry to speak. He had to admire that. Taking her time while she decided what to say. Where had she learned such self-confidence?

  He waited. Mrs Dulcimer merely surveyed him, her brown hands beginning absent-mindedly to stroke the black pleats of lace edging her black mask.

  After some moments her face changed, as though she’d taken a decision. Her mouth quivered, as if she were trying not to laugh. She said: as a rule, I find, gentlemen don’t make appointments. They just turn up.

  She reached across to the side table, deposited the mask, lifted the stack of papers to her lap. She riffled through them. Making him wait. Just for the pleasure of it. Well, he would show no impatience. Let her feel she was in control. Then in the end she would do what he wanted.

  The paper crackled and scraped, leaf by leaf, as she searched. Yes, she said, pulling out a creased sheet: your letter. Yes, I have it here.

  He patted his jacket pocket: and I have yours.

  She stretched her brown hand to the fire. Long fingers with oval nails. She smiled at him with closed lips. More of a grimace, almost a shrug, that conveyed boredom. Surely an act. She must be as alert to the smell of money as he was to the sparks and flames of new ideas. She said: plenty of girls on your side of the river, surely. The Haymarket’s heaving with them every night. And then, if you’re determined to come south, so’s Waterloo Road. So’s much of Lambeth!

  He banged his fist on his knee: well, of course! And yet here you are, ma’am. Doing your bit for the Surrey side!

  Before setting out, he’d looked up Apricot Place on the map. Her establishment was just within striking distance of the railway terminus at London Bridge, the London end of the Kent Road; the busy thoroughfares lined with pubs, lodging-houses, shops. And of course brothels, tucked away in the side streets, sucking in plenty of customers. Not just the young swells driving out from the City to breathe cleanish air, watch cricket, visit the Zoo, stroll past fancy flowerbeds under green trees, but the waves of incomers too. Up from the country they journeyed, the labourers, would-be costermongers, the hawkers and fortune-seekers, all of them in need of cheap shelter, cheap food and drink, cheap women. Joseph did not need some flashy black madam to tell him that. The handkerchief-tossing man in the pub had been a great explainer.

  Anything you wanted you could buy in London, if you could afford it. Depending on how much you’d put aside from the week’s wages, you could buy a girl in a brothel or in her own lodging. As a young man, before his marriage, Joseph had learned from his male acquaintances exactly where to go. Saturday nights, a gang of lads fingering their collars, smoothing down their hair, elbowing each other as they surveyed the jay-bright little birds hopping about, flourishing their plumage at passers-by. Go on! Say hello to her! She won’t bite! Joseph learned about rooms that could be rented by the hour, about discreet, respectable-seeming landladies who looked the other way when necessary, took their cut, and topped it all off by calling you sir when you came in.

  Mrs Dulcimer twirled her eye-shade, threw it down. She said: so why come to Southwark?

  Now she was twiddling her thumbs. Mocking him. Despite his best efforts, he felt a frown break across his face as he stared at her, leaning back on her gold cushions. He glanced away, at the turquoise pot on the mantelpiece. Back to her reddish-purple lips.

  He said: precisely because Walworth is a neighbourhood I do not yet know. Your name and address were given to me by someone previously acquainted with you. In a similar line of business. The suggestion being that this might be a good place, one that might suit my purposes.

  She said: and those purposes are?

  Joseph said: I’d prefer to make that clear to the girl herself. I want a young one. One who’ll tell me the truth when I question her.

  Lots of chaps say that, she remarked: pretend they just want to talk. Others come straight out with it: they want virgins. Not many about, unfortunately.

  She changed role: now she beamed like a benevolent aunt. She was trying out a new register of voice on him, full of trills and runs. Well, Mr Benson, you can choose. Pick any flower from my bouquet! Only, of course, they’re not back yet, any of them, the dears. They’re all out, my busy little bees, gathering nectar!

  How
far afield did they go, her girls, touting for business, before bringing back their clients? Did they stick to their own particular stamping ground? Presumably you avoided straying into someone else’s patch. Rattling through Walworth in the gathering darkness he’d gained little sense of the district. Still semi-rural, presumably. Quiet, apparently. Yet it must seethe with building labourers separated from their families, bored at night after work, kicking their heels, in need of diversion. Consolation for their grim existences in work gangs on low pay, digging up clay for making bricks, throwing up houses, levelling paths into streets. Mrs Dulcimer’s mob of little starlings would spot them fast enough, flap down, settle on them, peck out their eyes if need be.

  He hesitated. It’s getting late, and I’ve a cab waiting. I mistimed my visit, obviously. I should have come earlier.

  Mrs Dulcimer said: they’ll be back soon, I daresay. Sit here with me for the moment, why don’t you? We could take a drink together, if you like.

  Her lips gleamed, satiny as plums. What did black women drink? Rum? Gin, perhaps, same as other female wrongdoers, white or brown or yellow.

  Mrs Dulcimer nodded towards the cupboard: I’ve everything there. Wouldn’t do to leave it downstairs, where Doll might get at it. Will you join me?

  Why not stay and keep her company? That would induce her to talk more, he could see, and after a glass or two she would put aside all reserve and spill information he might find useful. On the other hand he hadn’t journeyed across the river to listen to her ramblings. He knew her story already, he felt sure. She probably rehearsed it in front of her mirror, while she pinned on her front of false curls, to serve up to those romantic clients who liked a bit of a chat to get them going.

  Hers would be a worn-out tale, such as he’d heard from the girls at Mother Busk’s in Waterloo, tweaked to garner sympathy from do-gooders: initial respectability, seduction by some nice-seeming gentleman, thus the fall. More likely she had set out from the start as a businesswoman with an eye to the main chance. Her mother would have been not a milliner, no indeed, but some black seaman’s doxy. Cherishing her daughter over any son, wanting to set her early on her mother’s own track, make money from her. The girl moving away from her squalid beginnings in the docks into a more genteel part of town. First of all, perhaps, keeping a baby farm for the working mothers of the neighbourhood, then discovering that farming the mothers themselves brought in better money.

  But the chit downstairs, now. Those indifferent eyes, grey as stones on the river shore. That slender waist. The way she dodged above him, swaying from step to step. He said: what about the one who let me in? Is she the one you call Doll?

  Mrs Dulcimer hesitated. She tapped the bunch of papers against her chin and looked thoughtful. It was all pretence. He just needed to give her a few minutes, to let her go on feeling in control. He glanced at the red fire jumping in the polished grate. She made plenty if she could afford such a heap of coals. The candles too: wax not tallow. And what had that dress cost, its yards of silk? Flashy it might be, but effective too, wrapping her in flame-tints. The colour of oranges. Their pungent scent. Stinging sweet taste. Every time she moved, her skirts rustled.

  He laid a bet with himself: after a count of five she’ll come round.

  She said: well, Doll’s a bit special. A cut above some of the others. Because she’s so very young. Time with her will cost you a fair bit. But I’m sure that for you, Mr Benson, money’s no object. Aren’t I right?

  He said: she was a good girl, once, was she?

  The woman nodded, and sighed. They all were once, poor dears. All children are good to begin with, Mr Benson.

  He persisted. So she’s not simply the maid? Normally she goes out, too, like the others? If she doesn’t, she’s no use to me.

  Mrs Dulcimer propped her chin on her hand. She’s been going out since she was ten years old, that little one.

  He pushed his chair back from the fire’s suddenly oppressive heat. From his increased distance, he could look at her and wonder. PresumabIy, once a woman got a taste for sensual sin, and its rewards, she couldn’t abandon it. Poor creature. Like opium, or alcohol, it seized and controlled and eventually killed you.

  He sat back, shivering. First too hot, suddenly too cold. Was this how cholera began, with a sick chill, a touch of fever? And yet the air outside had smelled cleaner than that in the Borough this morning. Those cloying, creeping miasmas, sidling in from the sewage-filled Thames, becoming trapped in the narrow streets, surely infected any passer-by careless enough to linger there. He did want a glass of something now. A measure of good brandy mixed with hot water. A ham sandwich, with mustard. He hadn’t had time to eat earlier, too busy, hovering in that squalid wine-shop in the Mint with that haggard woman, waiting for her to consume enough spirits that she’d become willing to give out. She hadn’t been sober even when she picked him up in the street and then she kept wheedling for more. Maisie needs another little tot! That was prostitutes’ problem, surely: their dependence on drink, their willingness to do anything to get it.

  Mrs Dulcimer said: we can settle up afterwards. And then I’ll write you a receipt.

  For services rendered. Around them the house seemed to sigh. The window sash gave a faint rattle. The wind getting up again, bowling city-stink across the Thames. Those winds that scraped your face raw, if you stayed outside any longer than you had to. Those flint-faced women, big gilt earrings jangling, patrolling Borough High Street, decked out in flimsy finery, shivering. Presumably the drink hardened them somewhat against the freezing air.

  A board creaked outside. Mrs Dulcimer said: there’s a nice little room come free this week, just off the kitchen. You can use that.

  He hesitated. It did all seem so pat. Was that it? He wanted to make this moment last. Why? He didn’t want to be disappointed. That was it. He wanted Doll to be different from other prostitutes. But why would she be? These women were essentially cold. Manipulating lonely men, exploiting their human need for company, in order to get money out of them. Tantalising respectable fathers of families by offering forbidden excitements. Don’t be shy, sir. Shall I show you?

  He put out a hand to the sinking flames. A sudden draught whistled in and lifted the edge of the matting, roused the fire, which jumped up like a dog to his fingers.

  Mrs Dulcimer said: she’ll be sitting in the kitchen, ready to open up for the others when they come home, the dears. I’ll take you down myself. And then when you’re done you’ll be very welcome to that drink.

  She picked up the candelabra, went through the door, which he held open for her.

  He followed her down the stairs, into whistling cold air.

  The front door of the house stood open. The hall was empty. His coat, with its freight of banknotes, was gone, along with the girl. Vanished into the darkness hiding the street, and the river behind.

  Black branches crashed together in the wind. Water gurgled down roofs, shot from gutter spouts. Joseph swore. Mrs Dulcimer ran past him, onto the doorstep. She peered out at the rainy night, biting her lip. She shouted the girl’s name, turned back to Joseph. She can’t have gone far. Such weather! She’ll catch her death.

  More worried about the girl than about his coat, damn her. She couldn’t know about the money, of course. At the far end of Apricot Place, a horse stamped and whinnied. The cab’s lights showed under the archway. The cabbie shouted: you coming or not? I’m off! Joseph seized his hat and stick. At least the little wretch hadn’t stolen those.

  Wait! Mrs Dulcimer swerved back inside, fumbled in the dark entry. She pressed on him a tweed cloak, threw it up over his shoulders. I’ll find out what happened. I’ll get your coat back very soon, Mr Benson, never fear.

  She might be more effective than the police. Worth trying in any case. Joseph descended the steps. Over his shoulder he said: I’ll give you twenty-four hours. That girl of yours should be clapped in jail.

  Mrs Dulcimer went on jabbering. Joseph strode into the gusting wet. He plunged ins
ide the vehicle, pulled the door shut, shouted at the driver. Just go!

  TWO

  Madeleine

  I spotted a woman shoplifting today, Madeleine tells Toby: in the supermarket. Two packets of lamb chops. She just dropped them inside her coat. Then she walked out, cool as can be, and nobody noticed a thing. I suppose because she looked so ordinary.

  In the cartoon strips of Madeleine’s childhood, robbers were easily distinguished. They wore black eye-masks, striped jerseys and black tights, and carried sacks marked Swag. They leaped, catlike, across roofs, by moonlight, by starlight. They were male. They were youthful.

  Madeleine often wears black tights, like a lifter of jewels in the Beano. Tonight, black fishnet holdups. When she put them on they seemed glamorous and sexy. Now, seeing Toby glance at them, twitch an eyebrow, she’s less sure.

  Mutton dressed as lamb, Madeleine’s grandmother Nelly would have said. Any woman over fifty using too much makeup, flaunting too much décolleté, too short a skirt. A cook attempting to pass off a dish of old sheep as something less tough. These days you wouldn’t speak of dressing a dish. You wouldn’t call a woman a dish any more either.

  Madeleine picks up her glass of house white. The over-oaked wine tastes oily, makes her cough.

  Toby’s pale, broad face has taken on an inward look. Blue eyes lowered. He plays with his empty crisp packet, folding it, flattening it. They’re drinking near St Paul’s, in the Broker, formerly a pub called the Bow Bells, recently sharpened into a bar shiny with beech flooring, chrome fittings, black leather seats. Crowded with chattering people in suits. No one else in fishnets. The young women pulling pints wear black T-shirts and black minis. No stockings or tights at all.

  Toby wakes up from his meditation and eyes Madeleine’s hair. Looks different, he says: blonder than before.

  Madeleine says: I had it done two weeks ago. You’ve only just noticed!