By late afternoon, his feet aching, he’d had enough. He cut off towards Blackfriars Bridge. In its centre he halted, leaned on the parapet. He looked north towards Holborn, south towards Walworth, down at the tumbling river that separated them, the low warehouses lining the muddy shores. The fading light dissolved everything into greyness: the stinking waters, the clouds, the sky.
The river behind him, he pursued his route through familiar streets. More than familiar. He even loved them. They led him out towards adventures. Then they summoned him home again.
Yet Holborn wasn’t his true home, though he’d lived here for so long. A temporary resting place, that was all. Somewhere to lay his head at night. Somewhere to leave in the morning. He slowed, considering this.
He passed a row of iron columns bracing a pub. A line of gas lamps rose up. Blink, and columns and lamp-posts became massing plane trees, turning green and gold. Tall as the trees rustling around the edges of the fields in Kent. A certain touch of the wind on his cheek and he was suddenly there. Three years old, newly put into trousers, his long curls cropped, trudging along a hedgerow lane threaded with pink and cream honeysuckle. The smell of his mother’s sun-warmed skin. Blackberries tightly red, hawthorns and hips swelling on the prickly branches leaning down. Such paths lay deep below his feet even now, he tracked his past as he tracked along beside the Fleet, towards Smithfield, the drovers plodded past him whipping their cattle forwards, the birds whirred up disturbed from their nests, his mother called to him not to dawdle, come on, dearie, not far now. Sheen of perspiration on her freckled face, can of milk in each hand. They’d been to the farm, and were coming home. Soft grass shone on the steep banks they walked between, over dry ruts, the mud whitened by the sun, and the scent of manure, warm earth, rich as yeast.
He made a detour westwards, to the stationer’s shop on Southampton Way. He chose a new notebook bound in sprigged cotton, with a black silk bookmark. Cheap, because grimy with shop-dust and dog-eared. He bought a pot of glue, a small brush. He paid for these items out of the money Mayhew had advanced him for expenses, arguing with his conscience: this was for work all right. Just for work he couldn’t yet show the boss. He came out with a brown paper parcel, nicely twirled up with string, tucked under his arm.
He should get back to Lamb’s Conduit Street, greet his wife and children, eat supper. Review his scribbles on his map; paste his new notes and the doodle into his new notebook. Yet he wanted to pause, also. Stay outside the enclosing walls of his house a little longer. Reflect on the work achieved, the work dreamed up. So why not drop in to a pub? He could have another try at his report for Mayhew, summing up the last couple of days. If he just concentrated, he could write the whole thing in one go, then deliver it to the Morning Chronicle office on the Strand. Yes. And afterwards enjoy a quiet evening with Cara and Milly, by the fire.
He turned towards the Strand. He made for the River Queen, sat over a pint, remembering the Italian girl. A long moment, somehow coloured yellow – yellow-amber as a stream of beer or a woman’s hair. Nathalie had had amber-brown hair with yellow lights. At night she’d let it down, shake it loose, swish it like a tail. He wanted to bellow and holler: where are you, Nathalie? For on their honeymoon weekend she’d embroiled him in certain antics. How did she dream up these games? Being French, was it? Surely too obvious. Lots of Frenchwomen didn’t like playing, from everything Nathalie had told him, laughing. You think we’re a nation of harlots, don’t you? Easily seduced, lacking all morals – but I assure you, it’s the opposite, dear Lord, nothing could ever equal the boredom of my parents’ home on Sundays, like being stifled in layers of flannel, those dreary long lunches with the priest visiting, then in the afternoons nothing to do but the mending, oh that tiny brown sitting-room, I hated it.
No. Nothing to do with Nathalie’s Frenchness. She was still a child in some ways, that was all, and she’d liked games, the ones you invented freely, on the spot, between you, when you went to bed in that funny little boarding-house, cheerful after a tolerable supper, a few glasses down, still awake enough to want to romp. Nathalie, his true love. Her knees up, her legs apart, her aureole of curling brown hair, the fleshy lips kissing each other, how gently he put his fingers there, into her juice, how Nathalie flowed for him, he buried his face in her sucking her so juicy sweet and ripe, he licked her until she shouted out. Then they’d change places. She invented such foolish larks. Tonight: pirates. Aha! You are my prisoner! She boarded him, she captured him, she stole his heart and soul away. She picked up his discarded necktie and tied it in a bow around his upstanding cock. Glory glory! Maypole! Oh, you English! She fell over on the pillows, laughing.
The barmaids’ reflections moved, refracted, against the mirrors, in the light of the gas lamps. Reddened mouths opened, cried, joked, cursed. He looked at his brown-paper parcel, sighed. Those fresh white pages would have to wait. He drained his glass. Another? The trouble with drinking was that it tempted you to drink more. He ought to resist, hurry back to Cara. No. First of all obey his self-imposed deadline. Then, and only then, call it a day.
He shouted for pen and ink, fetched himself a brandy and soda, paid for it out of his expenses cash. He’d reimburse the boss at the end of the month, out of his wages. Right. Just sum up what he had learned about prostitutes’ accommodation in Waterloo, the Borough, Newington. Apartments or rooms rented or not. Beds shared at such-and-such prices. Costs of washing and so forth. A sober, dull account. But one that Mayhew would approve.
He’d gleaned so little information so far that he’d have to fudge it a bit, expand guesses into reported speech. Well. All right. Get on with it.
After a while he forgot his surroundings, was just a flow of words, a hand moving steadily back and forth across small lined pages. Thoughts arrived, one connecting to the next, all seemingly in the right order. He finished, signed his name, tore out the pages and folded them in three, ready for delivery. He stretched and yawned. He hardly noticed the change in the light, the shadow falling across the table, until someone bent over him, murmured in his ear. Hello, dearie. Lonely, are we?
He raised his head. A girl had swayed up to his side. Fresh from the farm she looked, wholesome as a newlaid egg. Barns, and crackling straw, and sunlight in long shafts. Thick ginger hair. Her skin glowed almost golden. Freckles, and a rosy, pouting mouth. A direct glance from her amber eyes. What’s all that writing for, then?
She would clasp his hand, wrap his arm around her waist, lead him upstairs. Kiss him with those soft lips. Good as a country supper of strawberries and cream.
Hunger could be relished. Sharp. Almost exquisite. You could put off satiety, enjoy anticipating it. With Nathalie, on that rapturous weekend of honeymoon, he had taken his time, because from now on she’d always be there, she’d keep offering herself freely, giving him herself completely.
Cara had done so too. Not her fault if the babies kept coming. If now they had to hold each other at bay.
The girl whispered: I’ll make it a real treat. You’ll see.
Her voice, slow and rich, pulled him towards her. He hesitated. He was on the wrong side of the river for work. But hang on. Surely Mayhew wouldn’t object to his doing a spot of compare and contrast. See whether lodgings on the Strand differed much from lodgings in Walworth. Or not. Discover the price this little beauty charged, discover whether a girl here cost a great deal more than one on the Surrey side. What had he paid the little Italian girl? He couldn’t remember. An illicit expense, which he hadn’t recorded. Mayhew would frown as he flipped through Joseph’s accounts. These don’t add up. Where exactly did my money go, Benson? Explain yourself, if you please.
Think about that later. He shoved his notebook and report into his pocket, put his parcel under his arm. The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder. Her feet, moulded in tightly fitting boots, tap-tapped up the staircase. He followed her.
The lit gas burnished the girl’s hair. Like light shining through a glass pot of marmalade. She threw
down her plaid shawl. Nice little place, isn’t it? A real home from home.
A bare, wood-planked floor, a strip of grey matting near the bed. A pink quilted coverlet. A white nightdress flung over a plywood screen in one corner. A bunch of feathery green herbs in a brown jar on the windowsill, next to a pot of scarlet geraniums. Keep the flies out, don’t they? Ma taught me that.
Lazy drag of vowels. An accent with a burr in it. No wonder she attracted him: sounds he knew; deep in him. Part of his flesh. From Kent, she must be. If he took notes, would she go on talking to him or would she feel too shy? He hesitated, then dug in his pocket for his notebook and pencil.
She began unbuttoning her blouse. Deft brown fingers with blunt nails.
Don’t, he said: please. You’ve misunderstood me. I didn’t come up here for that.
She went on undressing. Now she was unloosening the back fastening of her skirt. Easing it off, over her hips. Didn’t you? What did you come for, then?
How pale the flesh of her upper arms, contrasting with her sunburned face and neck. White chemise, gathered at the yoke, flowed to her knees. From underneath it her white petticoat fell to her calves. He wanted to look away but couldn’t.
I’d like to talk to you, he said.
She lifted an eyebrow. Talk, then.
Begin with Mayhew’s questions, to put her at her ease. Then move on to the details that really interested him. But she was the one at her ease, wasn’t she? Calmly folding her clothes over the footboard of the bed, patting the sleeves of her blouse to lie flat. Whereas he could feel himself sweating. He plunged on. I’d like to know how much rent you have to pay, how often you change the sheets, how you get your washing done.
Was she listening? She perched on the near side of the bed, unlaced her boots, kicked them off. She sighed. Ah, that’s better. They were killing me. She wiggled her feet. Stockings dark with damp at the toes. Joseph said: and I’d really like to know where you’re from, what brought you here. Won’t you tell me?
She let out her breath in an explosive puff. You’re a queer one. Oh, my poor feet.
She bent down to touch one of her heels, winced, cupped it in her hand, soothing a blister perhaps, then sat up again. She spoke to the bedpost. You’re a real nosy-parker, you.
Joseph prompted her. You’re from Kent? I’m sure you must be, from your voice. My family came from there too. Do you miss it? I know I do.
She seemed to soften. Well, the farm failed, didn’t it. We was all thrown off. Nothing for it but to move up here.
She balanced on the grey matting, flexing her toes, looking down at them, then straightened herself, came to stand close to him. Her breath smelled of the mint leaves she must have been chewing earlier. That fresh green scent: his mother propped up in bed to sip mint tea, steam shadowing her face. That late, halting conversation. You can’t know how hard it was for me, Joseph, coming to London, leaving everything I knew. You were so little, just four, you were worried by the change, you didn’t settle for a long time. Your stepfather called you the Silly-billy-bawler. First time you met him you burst into tears.
Did this girl have brothers, sisters? Where were they now? He said: I’m sorry you’ve had such troubles. I’m sorry your life is so hard.
She said: let’s stick to business, shall we?
She put a hand on his arm. He stepped back a pace. Such fresh skin. London hadn’t yet tarnished her. She glowed in the cheaply furnished room like a flower at sunset, as though the last of the sun had got inside her, deepening her colour. Her low, warm voice slid over him. Then the sense of her words scratched him. So what would you like, then? Come on, get on with it, I haven’t got all night.
She could have been weighing out sugar in a shop. He could play that game. Choose from his list of gestures, of poses. His shopping-list.
He could turn her on her side in a flurry of petticoat pleats, enter her from behind, grasp the bedstead with one hand, caress her breast with the other, jerk at her rhythmically, the bed creaking under them. They’d both heat up, she’d release more scent. Something aromatic, spicy, that she’d dabbed on her neck and behind her ears. Below that: something darker, more animal. He was in that Kentish farmhouse kitchen, reek of warm blood, newly slaughtered chickens piled at one end of the table, a woman, her back to him, was bending over a bowl, whisk and wooden spoon lying nearby, she broke eggs into the bowl, separating them, beating them, the whites frothed and mounted, the sheets on this girl’s bed would furl up round him beaten egg white her white chemise crumpled on the floor he’d shoot into her. Joseph flinched, heard himself groan: Nathalie.
What’s up with you? Hands on hips, the girl stared at him. Frayed linen straps of her chemise. He touched her cool freckled shoulder. I’m sorry.
She frowned. He searched for a get out. I’ve had too much to drink. Another time, perhaps.
The girl wheeled away. Just clear off, mister. You’ve been wasting my time. Here I’ve been, taking everything off, and now I’ve got to put it all back on again. Plus those bloody boots.
I’m really sorry, Joseph said to her back.
She stepped to the window, plucked a sprig of mint, tore off a few leaves and put them into her mouth. She turned, chewing, folded her arms. She spoke through her mouthful of leaves. Hey ho. A change is as good as a rest, I suppose. You’ll have to pay me, anyroad.
Of course, Joseph said: certainly.
He fished in his trouser pocket. She waited. The whole space of the room between them. The air somehow bristling, the light of the gas lamp sliding away behind her halo of golden-ginger hair.
She shivered, reached for her blouse, pulled it on. She bent her head, concentrated on her buttons. She flung on her skirt, put her hands behind her waist, fastening it. She faced him again. Right.
He opened his leather purse, counted money into her outstretched hand. She checked it, pocketed it. The identical moment with the little Italian. Briskly shaking out the coins in her palm. Businesslike shove of money into its hiding-place.
The girl sat down on the edge of her bed, hands on her knees, and stared with hatred at her boots. He was a boot. She hated him. He bolted out, ran down the stairs.
Dark sky, melting into fog. People in masses, shoving back and forth. Bumping into him, jolting him aside. Fifteen minutes later, his report safely delivered to the Morning Chronicle, walking up Lamb’s Conduit Street he felt even hungrier than before. The grumpy-looking clerk had rubbed his hands and yawned: you want to see Mr Mayhew, sir? He’s still here. Working late as usual. Joseph had shaken his head, thrust out his written pages. Just make sure he gets these.
He stayed up after Milly and Cara went to bed, telling them he needed some peace and quiet for thinking over the day. Milly smiled at him: and for smoking a nice cigar, eh, Pa?
He took down his little portable desk from its perch on top of the bookcase, unlocked it. He unwrapped his parcel, took out the new notebook.
That girl tonight. Herself. Her own distinctive face, form, history. Memories of a childhood all her own, whether unhappy or happy. Now a hapless girl cast upon the town, part of a tribe of streetwalkers. A race? Ethnographers classified races, the white, the brown, the black, as scientists classified plants or butterflies. Could you really classify women too? Mayhew thought so, didn’t he. Poor, labouring-class women, at least. Good women. Bad women. The work-shy criminals. Female pickpockets and thieves, exploiting their reputation for tender, maternal femininity, luring little children round corners, stripping them of all their clothes then legging it. Night-flying prostitutes netted like moths: classes one, two, three. For some men prostitutes were flowers. A nice fresh rosebud for your lapel. When it faded, dropped its petals, you tossed it away and bought another. That girl tonight had been robust as mint.
He pasted the torn-out notes and the doodle into the new notebook, locked everything up inside his desk, which he hid behind the piano, pushing it behind the heap of children’s toys as far back as it would go.
He’d never
tried to write down his thoughts about Nathalie. He couldn’t keep her inside a notebook, inside his desk. She belonged in a different space: some kind of oval frame, wreathed in twining stems and buds. Like the Virgin on her little tin medal. Next time he visited her in Highgate he’d take her some fine autumnal blooms. Chrysanthemums perhaps. He whispered to her: goodnight.
SIX
Madeleine
Wet, shivery lunchtime in May. After only a few hours in Highgate Madeleine wants to bolt. The mansion’s gardens, planted with laurels, imprison her. Rain patters on leaves. Light as the touch of that hand early this morning, stroking her hair.
She stiffened. Lay rigid, eyes closed. It’s not true it’s not true. Someone breathed quietly, very close to her. Warm breath on her cheek. Someone was leaning over her, waiting for her to wake.
The hand flitted over her hair again.
The alarm clock beeped and she jumped. Nobody there. Of course not. Get up. Go to work.
Standing on the gravel path near the grapelike clusters of wisteria blooms, she ticks herself off: you’ve come to Highgate to give Toby a hand, just keep your head down, do your work, do what Francine tells you, all will be well.
The soprano notes of invisible Francine start up. Come and see the potting shed.
Toby’s voice, dark cello glissando, sounds an echo: oh, do. Such a treat for the hired help! A Highgate potting shed is like no other!
Just over here, cries Francine.
Madeleine ducks under the wisteria roof of the pergola, through a low arched doorway, into a grey interior smelling of earth. Springy planked floor underfoot. Small gothic windows diffuse pale light.
The Walworth Beauty Page 12
