The Walworth Beauty

by Michèle Roberts

  In a second box, covered in rubbed coral silk, lay Nathalie’s glass-bead rosary, her little tin medallion of the Virgin. The ring woven of a lock of her own hair. He kissed the plaited circlet, closed both boxes, put them back in the drawer behind Cara’s muslin envelope of pocket handkerchiefs.

  His wife met him downstairs in the hall. A smile lifted her face back into girlish prettiness. She said: I’ve put the marigolds in the dining-room. Ah, you’re sweet to bring me flowers.

  She stretched out her arms for an embrace. Her brown weekday dress, trimmed with brown braid, had lumpy-looking sleeves, badly set, the whole thing too obviously home-made by an unskilled seamstress. Cara was so good. Saving on the housekeeping by sewing her own clothes, turning and refurbishing them year by year. Trying to teach Milly to iron. Memories burned into him; like the scorch marks on his shirt-tails. That dark-eyed minx staring straight back at him as he levered her up and down. The scent of her hair and skin.

  He kissed Cara, put his arm round her. Let’s get you a new frock soon, love. That one’s past its best. Does nothing for you.

  Cara flushed. He cursed himself for insensitivity. Dear Cara. She didn’t yet know that he was planning a fine surprise for her. As soon as he’d received his wages he would pack her off, with the children, to visit her family in Boulogne. To hell with the bill for the piano, the bill for the sideboard: his creditors could wait. He’d planned this treat just before the dysentery struck; got as far as obtaining passports. The travel money had dribbled away on medicines. But now his first pay packet would bring Cara delight. She often lamented that she missed her family, especially when she received a letter from her mother. Sighing over its shortness, dropping a tear or two. She got Milly to write back, partly to make sure the girl kept up her French, partly so that she would retain a sense of having grandparents. Something might come of it. You never knew. Families were supposed to help.

  Joseph patted Cara’s shoulder. He slid his hand up to her neck, stroked it, tickled it gently until a new smile trembled on her lips. She had a nice mouth, pale and pink, like a flattened rosebud. He tipped up her chin and kissed her again. She definitely needed a holiday. And she really ought to hire a full-time servant. Her health would suffer even further otherwise. If they continued very careful, perhaps they could just about afford it.

  It might be difficult to make Cara agree. She wouldn’t admit that the idea of servants scared her. She had no sense of her own authority. Because she’d once been a servant herself? He forgot that; it was so long ago. Still, he would insist she got the help she deserved.

  He kissed her a third time. Cara patted his cheek, twisted away from his arm. Milly’s fetched in some chops, and there’s some soup if you want it, and the leftover pudding from yesterday.

  Milly shouted from the basement: dinner’s served!

  The three of them sat down around the table that filled the cramped space dignified by the name of dining-room. All the rooms had similar fine names, and all of them, squeezed into the small, thin house, were no bigger than closets. Hence the low rent. So cosy, Mr Benson, the landlord had said, showing him around: and the dining-room so convenient, you see, bang next to the kitchen. Everything to hand. That was true: Milly could fetch extra gravy in a trice, or more bread, or collect up dirty plates with one sweep of her arm and bowl them into the sink.

  Tonight Milly had hurried in, cheeks shiny from cooking steam, slapped down the marigolds jammed into a jug. Next to the flowers she dumped the knives and forks, then picked up the cutlery again, polished it with a corner of her apron.

  She said: I forgot to heat the soup. Never mind. The chops are done.

  The over-grilled, blackened chops sat in a puddle of fat. Joseph winced. Unfair to criticise Milly. Or Cara. How could she have taught her stepdaughter to produce decent meals? Frenchwomen didn’t understand cookery. He’d been so in love with Nathalie he hadn’t cared that she couldn’t recognise a suet pudding and spoke fondly of garlic. Cara did her best and that was that.

  He’d picked up cooking from watching his mother. How to stretch a scrap of mutton with potatoes, carrots and dumplings. How to keep lunchtime’s vegetable water for night-time soup, thicken it with rice. How to rub fat into flour. Ah, Joseph, you’ve a wonderfully light hand for pastry. With the trimmings from pies he cut out biscuits, made twists sprinkled with sugar. He wanted to be a chef when he grew up, but there was no money to pay for his training: off with him to the police station to act as messenger boy. From there he’d worked his way up to clerking. Thanks to the teaching at the parish board school he could write a fair hand, cover foolscap neatly, with scarcely a blot. He daydreamed as he walked home each night, imagined working behind the scenes in a smart food-shop, creating tarts and cakes. Copper saucepans and moulds; fluted silvery tins. Often in the evenings he’d push his tired mother into a kitchen chair, take over making supper. Ah, Joseph dear, you’re good to me. When the Hoof came in, she didn’t let on who’d cooked, in case he jeered.

  Joseph forked out the chops, shaking off grease drips, served his wife and daughter, then took his own portion. Bone with a knob of fatty meat attached. He chewed the gristly lump in silence.

  Milly kept her head down. Eyelids lowered, lashes brushing her cheeks. Straight white parting, brown hair drawn back and twisted in a messy knot. One long curl falling across her eye. Her right hand rested on the handle of her knife. Her left fiddled with something in her lap.

  He said: what’s that you’re reading, sweetheart? You shouldn’t be reading at table. Please! Put it away!

  Milly scowled. She said: it’s a physiology textbook, that’s all. I want to know how bones fit together. I want to understand fractures and things.

  She reached behind her chair and placed her book on the sideboard. He said: is that from the library? Oh, Milly. You’ll have put grease marks all over the pages, most likely.

  Fingermarks on white paper. The Italian girl’s fingertips caressing his cheeks and lips. She stretched up to reach him, she stood before him on tiptoe, braced, ready to be lifted up, fitted onto him. Her hands clasping his shoulders, pressing them harder, harder, as they panted, fused, bones muscles sinews flesh a deep sweetness mounting, molten.

  Cara said: what’s the matter, Joseph? Is something wrong?

  He jumped. Nothing! A touch of indigestion, that’s all.

  She said: you must have had a hard day, dear. You seem quite tired.

  Once, in their hopeful, newly married days, she had plied him with questions about his working life. Then the children arrived, took up all her attention. She’d nursed Joseph through his bout of dysentery with devotion mixed with a certain briskness. Now she was content just to know he had a job again. Research for a well-known journalist who wrote articles for the national press: it sounded well. He didn’t propose to tell Cara that research now meant eyeing up prostitutes in the street, tapping the chosen ones on the arm, accompanying them back to the low dives where they hung out, offering them rounds of drinks. She’d turn away, flushing. She wasn’t supposed to know about such things. Nor did he want her to.

  Cara said: the chops are a little bit tough, I confess. We’ll do better tomorrow, won’t we, Milly? She beamed at her stepdaughter: pure, maternal affection. She blinked shortsightedly at the cruet set: Milly, did you remember to grind more pepper?

  Cara would seal off the troubling outside world by drawing the curtains around their bed. Inside this cocoon they made love, when they did make love, in the dark. She’d never allowed him to see her naked. She lay swathed from head to toe in frilled and pintucked linen, and to get anywhere near her he had to gather up those voluminous folds and roll them above her waist. Like rolling up an awning. Roll up, roll up. Circus parade of girls at Mother Busk’s who shed their underclothes so easily, bright layers of silk petticoats, lace drawers.

  Cara blinked again: where’s the salt?

  He’d blinked all right on that first visit to Mother Busk’s, but then his eyes flew wide open, ma
intained a steady gaze. The spectacle glittered and flashed like a kaleidoscope: the tarts parading in the brilliant light of flaring gas-jets; wearing their painted faces like masks. Lifting their hands to swish their crinolined skirts from side to side, making them balloon and sway. Unbelievable glimpses of nakedness. Shock of those pink lips. Haloes of hair. Then the rainbows of crisp frills swept down and hid them again. The men leaned in, open-mouthed; fish drawn to those bright lures. Hooked, bloodied, gutted. Their money once twinkled out of their pockets, they’d be thrown aside. No use to anybody.

  On his recent visit, two days back, dutifully following Mayhew’s instructions, Joseph had bought Polly the black-haired girl a drink, then coaxed her to talk to him. I’ll pay you for your time, of course I will. Early still: few other customers in. With Mother Busk’s glance on her, Polly had to yield. She fiddled with her scarf, re-arranging it over her décolletage. She studied her fingernails. Talk to you? What about?

  This felt more intimate than when they’d had their clothes off. He was unsure, in these new circumstances, quite how to address her. Courtesy was the key surely. And the drink certainly helped overcome shyness, his as well as hers.

  I’m doing a spot of research, Miss Polly. Into, ah, your living conditions. So, for example, do you sleep here, as well as, er, sit here? What kind of accommodation is offered you?

  Mother Busk might want to fold her girls up, like evening frocks, press them flat into chests of drawers in some anteroom behind the row of boudoir cubicles, but presumably they tottered up to an attic of an early morning. Three to a grubby bed, wiped out by gin.

  Polly bared her teeth at him: you want to come up and see for yourself, darling?

  He scribbled down her words while she tossed back her drink. Did she choose with whom to share a bed, a room? Well. It varied. Girls came and went. Decent sorts, mainly. Good friends with the others she mostly was: they looked out for each other. You hollered for help if a man turned violent, and your pal would holler back, bang on the wall. Mother Busk kept a cudgel to hand. When necessary she dashed in, sorted the punters out. The girls slept upstairs. In a dormitory, yes. They kept their private stuff in baskets under their beds. If somebody nicked something you usually guessed who it was and thumped them. They did their own washing, monthly rags included, hung it up to dry in the yard behind. Cheaper, see? If the house girl did it, Mother Busk docked their earnings, mean old cow. Joseph felt himself blush. At home no one mentioned those rags. On wash-days, Cara instructed him to keep out of her way. The house smelled of hot soap. Dinner was a bite of meat.

  On getting up, the wine bottle emptied, Polly had offered him some parting words of advice. You should talk to Mrs Dulcimer. Not much she hasn’t seen in her time. She knows all the girls. ’Course she does. Yes, so you should.

  He’d written down in his pocketbook the address Polly gave him, gone home, composed a discreet note asking for an appointment. She’d replied the following morning: come this evening; and so off he went. Did the postmen ever imagine what kind of business they facilitated, as they flew hither and thither, criss-crossing the same street eleven times a day? Storks brought babies, he’d been told as a child: white bundles dangling from their beaks. Postmen storks brought bundles of bills, mostly. And then a note from an unknown woman, drawing him into her dark world. Tantalising at first; then disappointing. Why had he bothered travelling to Walworth? It had brought him only grief. A lost coat. A loss of self-respect as well as of precious money. A sense of having been fooled. But there was something there. Something going on. Worth finding out what it was, surely.

  Milly dropped the serving spoon on the floor, and Cara exclaimed. Under the noise of her reproaches came a faint tapping sound from upstairs. One of the children, presumably. Out of bed, hopping about, looking for mischief. He’d send Milly up to check, once she and Cara had calmed down. Milly wanted just to wipe the spoon on the cloth and Cara was insisting on a clean one. He shut them out of his attention, chewed on the last of his chop.

  Cara began listlessly to scrape and stack their plates. The sound from upstairs came again: this time a sharper rat-a-tat. Milly pushed back her chair. I’ll go.

  She banged out. Joseph said: Cara, you look so tired. We really must get a proper servant. Let’s stop all this shilly-shallying and just hire someone.

  He waited for her to list the difficulties involved. Hard to manage with someone living in, a maid would have to sleep on the fold-down bed in the kitchen, and that cluttered up the space. Girls these days were so insolent, so careless. And how did you know you could trust their references? They might be faked! They might be thieves, just winkling their way in!

  No. Just find a strong, good-tempered skivvy who could clean the boots and knives, keep the house nice, stoke the parlour fire. Milly was prone to lounging in a chair, her legs swung over the arm, getting lost in a book, letting the coals burn too low. Just as the fire died, she’d start poking furiously at the red, twinkling mass, then sigh as she took up the scuttle and trailed off out to the shed for coal. If she wasn’t reading she was wanting to get out of the house, to tow Cara to concerts at the library, to public lectures. Who’s going to pay for that, my darling miss? Kissing her cheek, tweaking her ear. D’you suppose I’m made of money? Milly would answer him back: so let me learn a trade! Let me go out to work! He had to remind her: your stepmother needs you at home, put on a smile, can’t you?

  Cara said: I’ll think about getting a servant, I promise. Just let me take these plates to the kitchen. I want to see how the pudding’s getting on.

  He and Milly fought because they loved each other so much. They were so alike: hot-tempered, easily roused, relishing a skirmish. On those occasions of strife he couldn’t explain to his frowning daughter, watching her fiddle her fingers through her untidy hair, re-twist and re-fasten it on top of her head, the ferocious tenderness he felt for her; this fierce need to protect her. As though she were a baby dove he cradled in his hands. The spitting image of Nathalie. For that alone he cherished her. He saw himself mirrored in her too, in her desire to explore the city, its churches and monuments. She shared his interest in the natural world, in history. She pored over the encyclopedia, listened to his explanations about ferns, minerals, butterflies, building materials, engineering. Then would fire up: let’s go down to the river, let’s take the ferry to Greenwich, let’s go and see the Hospital, let’s visit the Observatory. He couldn’t spell out to her his fears. Some of the prostitutes he’d been interviewing, if you believed their tales, had started out just like Milly, wanting ardently to embrace life, and look at them now: ghastly imitations of youth, hair dyed, faces heavily painted to conceal their age. Raddled and haggard, diseased, utterly wretched. Finally awarded a bed in the workhouse, if they were lucky, followed by a bed in the paupers’ graveyard on Redcross Way.

  Cara came back in with the pudding, a jug of custard. Try some of this, dearest.

  Milly’s feet pounded back down the stairs. She flung open the dining-room door. She said: it’s for you, Pa. Some queer woman. She looks foreign, somehow. What you can see of her, anyway. Perhaps she’s a spy! Or an assassin!

  Joseph said: you and your love of drama. You’ve been reading too many novels, Milly.

  Cara pulled at her collar, settling it higher around her throat. Rather late to be paying visits, surely. Why not just leave a card?

  He rose, put his hand on her shoulder. Now, now, dearest. She’ll be someone collecting for some good cause, I have no doubt.

  Milly said: perhaps she’s the good cause herself. She looks like a widow. She’s all in black.

  Upstairs, in the dimly lit hall, the woman waiting just inside the front door wore a black-spotted veil drawn tightly over her face, a black hooded cloak. She was carrying a large carpet-bag, which she put down on the mat as he stood still and stared at her.

  She lifted her black-gloved hands, pushed back her hood, revealing a close-fitting black bonnet. She unfastened the veil, threw it back over the b
onnet’s edge. No hair showed. Just the curving bones of her face. Her dark skin gleamed. She glanced at him from under her eyelashes. Those big brown-black eyes. His mouth felt dry. He greeted her: evening, Mrs Dulcimer.

  She spoke in that low, controlled voice of hers: please forgive me for disturbing you at home.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d write her down as a mantua-maker travelling with her bag of samples. Standing here in his hall, meek and composed, she looked as respectable as any one of his neighbours. Those inquisitive matrons with their sharp eyes. God help him if they’d watched her approach, glimpsed the dark skin beneath the veil. They’d soon waylay Cara: that nigger a friend of yours? Got herself up as quite the lady, hadn’t she?

  Tossed-back veil dewy with rain. Her features arranged to look soft and concerned. She said: I felt I must come, as quickly as I could. As you asked me to.

  He’d got back late last night chilled to the bone and very upset. He’d drunk a glass of brandy to calm down, had fallen asleep over the fire’s embers. Cara had prodded him awake and he’d stumbled upstairs.

  Well, lady, so what can you do for me, hey? He swallowed the words back. Let her reveal her hand first.

  Raindrops glistened on Mrs Dulcimer’s woollen shoulders. How tidy she looked, in all her blacks; demure as a missionary’s new convert. Did she feel nervous, crossing the river, coming north, arriving in a distant, strange neighbourhood? No longer the mistress of her own household but some kind of supplicant. Had she come to plead with him on Doll’s behalf? To offer him a bribe? Unnecessary. What he needed was simply an informant, and very likely she’d fit the bill.

  She pointed to the carpet-bag, slumped like a dog on the mat. Skin of bristling purple velour. Twisted fangs of brass. Your coat, she said: here it is. I decided to return it to you myself. I certainly couldn’t trust that foolish girl.