The Walworth Beauty

by Michèle Roberts

  He sat with her, and soon she slept. Next day, feeling weaker, she did not get up.

  Restless after work, unwilling to go home, he began taking evening strolls through the city streets. Long walks, criss-crossing the river, back and forth between prisons and palaces, following the curves of the brown serpent leaping past wharves and warehouses, wallowing between mud banks, biting London in two. In the blue glimmers of dusk he became an anonymous wanderer, carried hither and thither by the crowd, pushed down unknown alleys, back courts, tiny squares. You fled along, swept by the wind, by the pressure of people, by your desire to understand this monstrous, filthy, voracious town and your own place in it, you pursued the smell of money, of sex, of death. A young woman flitted ahead of him, hawking her cheap buttons. His mother. The Hoof waylaid her, took her for a drink. Your kid won’t miss you for an hour or two. Come on, sweetheart, keep me company.

  His mother was dying. Mother Busk’s on the Waterloo Road flashed like a lighthouse. Sailor, beware the rocks. Mother Busk’s rescued Joseph from drowning. He swam inside, summoned by the gold-spangled red and green glass panels of the lantern above the entrance. Thin Mother Busk had a tired, painted face, eyes like apple pips, wore a billowing dress of striped black and purple silk. She summed him up, summoned Polly, the black-haired girl. Polly lolled back, smiled as he arranged her. He lifted the lace edge of her chemise to lie just above her cunt. Plump thighs curving above her black stocking-tops. Her springy black hair tight as a sheep’s fleece, curls clustering over his fingers. He kneeled, parted her lips, kissed and licked her.

  He said: I should be going. I’ve trespassed on your hospitality long enough.

  Mrs Dulcimer said: you’ve no coat and hat. I’ll lend you my husband’s, if you like. I’ve kept them all this time, thinking I’d sell them at some point. You’re welcome to borrow them.

  As he levered himself from his chair, the latch clicked. Annie, red-cheeked, pushing wisps of hair behind her ear, peeped round the door. A message, missis.

  She hung back. Doll, dressed in a brown bonnet and brown cloak, stepped past her, carrying a large parcel and her straw bag. She halted just inside the door, shifted her feet, as though her boots hurt. Annie behind her bobbed from side to side, presumably to get a good view of what was going on. The draught whistled in from the passage, lifting the edge of the carpet. Just as on his first visit. Only a few days ago.

  Doll’s little face, framed in brown buckram, looked white and tight. She glanced at Mrs Dulcimer, received a nod, which seemed permission to speak. She faced Joseph, took a breath, lifted her chin and pushed words out, as though she were reciting a speech in some unfriendly classroom. Mrs Benson told me to bring you your coat. Miss Milly had a pretty good idea of where you’d be. Mrs Benson didn’t believe her at first, then she looked in your papers, and found the letter from the missis, with this address. So she told me to come straight over.

  He’d locked his desk, hadn’t he? He could see Cara forcing the lock with a sturdy knife, lifting the lid, trying the interior drawers, one by one. Rummaging through his private papers. Her flushed face, pursed lips.

  Mrs Dulcimer leaned forward, lifted the lid of the teapot and peered inside. Annie, would you fetch us some more hot water, please? Shut the door behind you, there’s a good girl.

  Doll put down her bag, held out her parcel. I couldn’t manage your hat as well, Mr Benson. I had to leave it behind.

  He took the parcel from her, dropped it on the ground. He clasped her mittened hand. She was shaking. She smelled of the street: coal smoke and sweat. She lifted her face, rushed the words out. Mrs Benson’s gone away. To her parents in France. Miss Milly too. I went with them to the station, to help them with the children, to see them onto the boat train, and then I come on here.

  They’d done a runner. When in doubt: bolt. He couldn’t fault it as a strategy.

  How would they manage? Such inexperienced travellers. Flustered Cara, best bonnet thrust on, the three little ones tied to her wrists by ribbons, tangling and whining. Milly with a hastily packed bag in each hand. Climbing up into a third-class compartment, forcing their way into the packed space, finding room on the wooden seats. He should have been there to help them. To help them leave him.

  Joseph stepped back from Doll, but kept hold of her hand. It lay stiffly in his. Damp wool, cold fingertips. Doll’s mouth trembled. She pressed her lips together. She was obviously trying hard for self-control. He squeezed her hand. She did not squeeze back.

  Mrs Dulcimer got up, walked across the room with a swish of skirts. She pulled forward a third chair. Low, like a chair for nursing a baby, it ran on little casters, its oval seat and back upholstered in faded yellow velvet, fastened with tarnished brass studs. Mrs Dulcimer put a gold satin cushion on it, patted it. I’m glad you found your way safely, Doll. Come and sit down and get warm.

  She picked up the tray of crockery. I must just go upstairs and cast an eye on Betsy and the baby. Then I’ll go down and help Annie make some fresh tea. I daresay you’re thirsty, Doll, after your journey. I’ll bring you up some tea, shall I?

  Joseph held the door open for her. She said: it’s dark now, and you’ve a long journey home. If you want to stay the night, I’ve the space. Doll can go in with Annie, and you can have the little room next to the kitchen.

  She’d offered it before, hadn’t she? Mocking him. Playing some game. This time he wanted to believe her, that she was serious, that she meant him well. Why not believe her? She’d taken him in, she’d let him sleep, given him tea, time to recover himself. How did you recover? He was a long gaping wound. His wife-skin torn off. Raw red flesh.

  He said: thank you.

  She nodded at him, glided out. Straight-backed, upright as a queen, the green-grey striped sack billowing out behind her. She vanished into the cold gloom of the passage. Closing the door, he heard the tap of her slippers, the clunk of the tray as she set it down somewhere, her contralto voice calling out to Annie to bring her a light.

  He turned to his maidservant. Doll stood still, her brown outdoor things clutched round her. She chewed the tip of her glove. Pinched pale face. She peeped at him, looked as scared as she had done last night, when he caught her and Milly swapping confidences in the kitchen.

  He rubbed his chin. A sigh blew out. Go on, then. Get yourself warmed up. Doll sat down abruptly on the third chair, which Mrs Dulcimer had placed between the other two, immediately opposite the fireplace. She made a bustle of taking off her damp things. She drew off her gloves, and chafed her hands. She undid her cloak and threw it behind her, so that it hung off the back of the chair. She untied her bonnet strings, discarded the bonnet, which fell aside onto the floor. Her lower lip sticking out, she fixed her glance on the red mass of the fire.

  Her downcast gaze: sorrowful and puzzled. She was trying to spare him something. What?

  He said: Doll?

  She jerked her head in the direction of the doorway, where the parcel she had brought lay tumbled on the carpet, next to her bag. You better take a look, Mr Benson.

  Joseph picked up the package, brought it over to the fire. He sat down, tore off the string, pulled away the brown paper wrappings. He lifted out his coat, unfolded its smooth woollen length. He unfastened the buttons, held the collar in one hand and slid his other between the lapels. His fingers slanted across the cool, soft lining, searching for the ridge of doubled-over silk marking the secret opening. His hand plunged into a hole. The stitches fastening the deep pocket had been cut through, and the banknotes removed.

  Doll said: Mrs Benson found the notes this morning, after you’d left, when she picked up the coat, and was brushing it. She took them because she hadn’t any money. She said she didn’t know how long she’d be away for, so she took her jewellery too. Everything in the green box, and in the red one.

  She blurted it out just as Milly would. Both defiant and scared. She sank back onto her seat. Her arms flopped, hung down at her sides. There, her pose seemed to sigh: now you kn
ow.

  Joseph beat his fists on the arms of his chair. He said: hats off to Cara! She was always thorough, wasn’t she!

  He rolled the coat up, threw it down by the side of his chair along with the brown paper. He pushed the whole lot, crackling, behind him, away out of sight.

  The fire was sinking. He got up, kneeled in front of the grate, scrabbled in the gritty bottom of the coal bucket, bringing out the last pieces of fuel. You had to fiddle delicately with the fallen, glowing lengths of wood, poke carefully so that they did not fragment, disintegrate into red cinders. The half-burned lengths settled, and he balanced coals on top, one by one. Flames sprang and danced.

  He rose, dusted his hands on his trouser knees. His legs trembled. Seasick sailor cast adrift again. Tossing along over black waves under a black sky. No: Cara was the one who’d taken ship. The winds of rage behind her, filling her sails as she steered towards Boulogne.

  First time the little ones had been out at sea. What would they make of it? One thing to paddle at the edge of the beach; quite another to stand at the rail and feel the deck lift and fall under your feet, shove you this way and that. They’d cling to Milly, whimpering, and she’d coax them not to cry, her curls streaming, her skirts whipping up.

  Well, Milly had got what she wanted. Off to France, and as soon as could be, no doubt, she’d be making her way to Paris, to train with those nursing nuns. Sped on her way by the money he’d put aside for her and Nathalie all those years ago. Fair enough, Mrs Benson! He’d wanted Milly to benefit, and now she could. What would Cara’s parents make of her visit? When would he see his wife and children again? Had Cara deserted him for good?

  He sat down. Doll gave him an anxious look from her gravel-grey eyes. Poor child: what reversals for her to fathom. He tried to find a cheerful, encouraging voice. You did very well, Doll, making your way back here all by yourself. You were very brave. I wouldn’t like Miss Milly to have to make such a journey all alone.

  Doll gave him a flinty look. She said: I’m used to going about by myself, sir. I’ve had to be, from an early age.

  She reached her hand backwards and patted her cloak pocket. Mrs Dulcimer showed me how to keep a hatpin handy, in case of need. You hold it inside your palm, and then, anyone who bothers you, you whip it out, stick it in his privates.

  Nathalie had owned three hatpins. One black, tipped with jet. Two painted white, with fake pearls stuck on the ends; anchors for her wedding bonnet, ornaments emphasising her scrap of lace veil fastened to the confection of cream-coloured straw lined with pleated white silk. She’d trimmed the bonnet herself, adding a bunch of artificial white daisies, long white ribbons that streamed in the breeze. To bury Nathalie, they’d dressed her in her best gown, the one she’d worn for her marriage, and her wedding bonnet. The two white hatpins held the little straw poke over her curls.

  And Mrs Dulcimer drew me a map, Doll went on: before I come over to you yesterday. She put arrows on it, for me to follow, and the numbers of the omnibuses.

  After they had laid Nathalie in her coffin, leaving the lid leaning for the moment against the wall, Joseph had bent down, cut off one of his wife’s twining locks. Later, Cara had plaited it into a ring for him. When Cara left the room, to open the front door to the undertakers, Joseph leaned over his wife, stroked her cheek, kissed her mouth. The men came in, hammered down the lid.

  Joseph said: my notebooks. Do you know what happened to them?

  Doll addressed her boots. She spoke sorrowfully, as though the boots had inexplicably misbehaved, and she had to chide them. But she loved them too and hoped in time that they’d improve and do better. She said: Mrs Benson burned them, sir. She threw them into the kitchen range. She threw in all of your papers that she could find.

  Click of the latch, a rush of cold air. Mrs Dulcimer returned. She handed Doll a cup of tea. Brisk demeanour, a smile, which said: don’t fret. None of this is your fault. Eyes fixed on her cup and saucer, Doll drank.

  Little cave of firelight. The burning twigs shifted and sent up red sparks. Downstairs a door opened, slammed shut. Overhead, a baby began crying. Mrs Dulcimer said: I forgot to bring candles. I’ll go and fetch some. And I’ll bring up some more coal at the same time. Then I must start on the supper.

  Joseph wanted so much to stay that he could not bear it. Slide downstairs, find that kitchen again, that bed next door to it, fall onto it. Just one good night’s sleep and he’d be restored.

  Much too easy. He had to prove he was capable of decision right now, that he could act. So get up, man. Pull yourself together. He said: please don’t bother on my account. I need to be pushing off home. Put your things back on, Doll. We must be off.

  Doll lowered her head, placed her cup on the little table. She crossed her arms and addressed the hearthrug’s blue-grey tufts. Mr Benson, I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go home. You’re locked out. The landlord come back round again, lunchtime, he took the keys off Mrs Benson as she was leaving, you can only go back in once the rent’s paid.

  Joseph jumped to his feet. He can’t do that! He’s got no right!

  Doll shrank in her chair. Joseph clenched his fist, roared. Doll ducked, threw up an arm to shield her face.

  The tide cooled, ebbed. He gripped the chair back. He said to Doll: I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you. You’ve done nothing to make me angry. I’m sorry I frightened you.

  Mrs Dulcimer put her hand on Doll’s shoulder. It’s all right. Go downstairs and sit with Annie for a bit, dearie. I’ll be down shortly.

  Doll picked up her straw bag, her cloak and bonnet, tumbled out. The door clapped shut. Mrs Dulcimer gathered up Doll’s peeled-off gloves, which had fallen near her chair. She turned them the right way, smoothed them, rolled them into a neat ball, put it into her pocket. Joseph breathed heavily. His chest rasped and hurt. That poor girl. She’d laboured all the way across London, bringing him his coat, and he’d yelled at her. Not her fault she’d had to bring him bad news. Not her fault, any of this mess.

  He sat down again, rubbed the back of his head, stared at his feet. Brown boots crusted with darker brown mud. Leather tops discoloured with milky stains of wet. At home the slavey or Milly cleaned the boots. He’d have to do it now. He’d done it as a child, sitting on the back step, a newspaper across his knees, brush in one hand. Knife off the dried clots of dirt. The Hoof’s boot still damp with sweat. His mother’s smaller boot, laces trailing. That pair of pale boots on the landing windowsill here. A girl beginning to miscarry, being offered comfort, a clean bed. Nathalie gasping, pressing her hands to her belly: it’s beginning! Oh, Joseph, it’s beginning.

  He put his hand across his eyes, to hide his tears. So what if Nathalie had lied to him at the start? She had to. She hadn’t lied to him in bed. He knew that, he felt it, her body-truth. Her flushed, serious face turned towards his, her hands gripping his shoulders, she squeezed him, commanded him, shut her eyes, opened them again, wait, wait, yes, he waited, kept moving, their fierce gentle dance, the long cry came from her. Had he dreamed it? No. So long ago, those rapturous encounters. Tears leaked through his fingers, ran saltily into his mouth.

  Squeak of wood. A cupboard door opening and shutting. Clink of glass. The powerful fragrance of brandy. Mrs Dulcimer’s voice said: I’ll leave this with you.

  The door shut behind her. He sat in the darkening room, sipped the brandy, stared at the sunk red mass of the fire.

  TWELVE

  Madeleine

  Blue sky and golden air. September warmth overlaid with coolness. Madeleine screeches the gate shut. Sally waves from her front window: where you off to, then?

  Just for a walk, Madeleine calls back: such a beautiful day.

  She’s lying. She keeps on needing to find excuses to leave her flat. Escape that whatever-it-is. Philip Larkin would have called it a toad.

  Once across the river she lets her feet decide. She strikes towards Covent Garden.

  Years ago she passed through it on the day it closed as a wholesale fruit
and vegetable market, emptied itself of working life. Piles of shallow wooden trays leaned against walls. Crumpled sheets of soft blue paper drifted along the straw-scattered cobbles. Hosed down, slippery with wet. A makeshift notice cut from the side of a carton dangled from string: goodbye from Vic, John and Reg. Now crowds of sightseers mill about near the tube, dawdle down towards the boutiques in the colonnades. Clowns pedal unicycles. Someone belts out an aria from Don Giovanni.

  Madeleine weaves through the tourists, across the Piazza, dawdles eastward along the Strand, past the River Queen, one of her favourite pubs. She crosses Farringdon Road, goes straight ahead, up Ludgate Hill, towards St Paul’s cream-gold façade. Another crowd here, people jostling about, chattering, eating ice creams. She’s caught in a swarm advancing from behind, pushed forward.

  Her phone thrums and beeps. Toby sounds hurried, also mocking himself for being so. So much to do! So little time!

  Madeleine plants herself at the foot of the steps leading up to the cathedral’s great brown wooden doors, closed fast. The tides of visitors eddy towards the corner, towards the smaller entrance there. Others loll on the wide stone steps, stretching out their bare brown legs, drinking water from plastic bottles, checking their phones.

  I’ll help, Madeleine says: I could organise your transport, and a driver.

  Is it worth it? Toby asks: such short distances. We could get the bus, surely.

  He and Anthony have moved in together to an ex-Council flat near Waterloo Station, on the ground floor of a 1950s block set in a side street leading between shabby tenements and Victorian industrial buildings. They have ripped up the decking at the back, carted in sackfuls of earth, planted a garden. A vine, a row of lavender, an apple tree. On summer nights they’ll sit out and drink gin and listen to the trains clattering in and out of the terminus. Now, in autumn, they perch, wrapped up in coats and scarves, on a bench set next to the short, promising stem of the climbing rose, which Madeleine brought, and watch the scudding clouds, the moon.