The Walworth Beauty

by Michèle Roberts

  Mrs Bonnet said: but how’s Betsy? How’s the little fellow? I ought to take another look at them both. Shall I go up?

  Annie said: better not disturb them just now, missis, if you don’t mind. He’s been very fretful, and she may only just have got him off to sleep.

  Green soup! Mrs Bonnet drank it up with relish, her spoon rising and falling in her plump grip. Clean hands, with squared-off fingertips, short nails. Female, working hands, which could gut and scale fish, wring chickens’ necks, collect pigs’ blood for sausages. Deliver babies. Or abort them. Mrs Bonnet’s curls sprang about her kindly face. She mopped her mouth and said to her hostess: just right, with that touch of black pepper. Well done.

  Mrs Dulcimer said: Mr Benson helped make that.

  Mrs Bonnet said: it lacks salt, though. Not enough salt.

  Joseph had arrived downstairs well before supper because he did not want to be left alone in the sitting-room beside the dying fire. Betsy’s child wailed on the floor above. Its distress tore at him, particularly because he could do nothing for it; simply listen to it screaming. Poor little blighter. Colic, perhaps. Charley, Alfred and Flora had all had it, one after the other. He and Cara had stayed up, nights, taking it in turns, walking the babes to and fro. Where were they now, his little ’uns? Spooning up a bread and milk supper in Boulogne, watched by doting grandparents. Tucked up safely in their cots, caressed and kissed. Cara recounting her troubles, his unspeakable behaviour. Milly listening, forehead puckered in a frown.

  He swigged more brandy. The crying swelled in volume. Footsteps tramped to and fro. Doll, perhaps, trying to soothe the baby. The cries pierced his heart. He wanted to put his hands over his ears.

  As the bawling went on, it became unbearable. Quieten it, can’t you? Give it a drop of brandy, why don’t you? He knocked back the last of his glassful in one fiery swallow. He wanted more. He wanted to finish the bottle, collapse insensible, make this horrible day end. Lovely drunkenness, his true stay, his true support, brandy the golden friend who’d never desert him but accompany him everywhere, never let him down. Strong drink. Dear drink, I can’t do without you tonight and that’s a fact. So avoid the temptation and seek company. Anything to get away from that poor child. He had gone down in the dark, knocking from stair to stair.

  Mrs Dulcimer, alone in the lamp-lit kitchen, was kneading dough in a big, cream-coloured pottery bowl. Humming to herself. Her blue apron tied about her waist, a white cloth slung over one shoulder. She nodded at him. I must get this done before I start on supper. Bread for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. Her strong thumbs prodded the fat yeasty bundle. It seemed alive as she worked it, springing and fighting against her plunging fingers. Flour had risen up her thin wrists as far as the bangles she’d pushed back. She saw him watching her. Cheaper to make my own bread, she explained: than buying it, and this way I know what goes into it. Energetically she sprinkled on more flour, punched and fisted. That’s the way, missis! That’s how I hit that boy once the Hoof had taught me to box: smack on the nose.

  In semi-darkness, the walls padded with shadow, the kitchen felt smaller than before. More cluttered. Piles of blue bowls and plates, wadded with straw and tied with string, filled up the dresser-top. Chairs had been pushed aside to make space for three wicker hampers in a row by the jam cupboard, their lids up, revealing rolls of blue-flowered quilts. The furniture seemed restless, ready to make off at any moment. Or to arrive, shoulder him aside. Which? His heart pounded and shook in his chest. Did nothing ever pause? A clutter of spoons and knives scattered the table. He picked them up, sorted them into two heaps. Then into lines, arranged small to large. A crock of flour stood next to an open recipe book, a jug of water, a bowl of shaved sugar. He pushed them into alignment. A still life. But things did not stay still; least of all his hands, which jumped and trembled.

  Mrs Dulcimer brushed a curl of black hair from her forehead with her forearm. She said: I’m all behind. Luckily the girls are still upstairs. Betsy’s not well enough to get up yet, so Doll and Annie are bathing the baby. They’ll be down any moment.

  Such a crowd she lived with. She had the trick of getting on with people, it seemed, could swivel confidently in the midst of chaos, direct her tenants hither and thither, goosey goosey gander, whither will you wander, upstairs and downstairs and in my lady’s chamber, time to get up time to eat time to sleep. She at the centre of it all. Flourishing. In charge.

  Tonight he formed part of this crowd. So abandon these worries he clutched to him tighter than any overcoat. Let the coat hold them as it waited for him upstairs, tossed onto the floor. Slip into the seethe of the household. One face amongst many. Roll up your sleeves. Join in.

  He said: I’ve taken up a lot of your time, haven’t I? Let me help you. Where do you keep your wood and coal?

  He carted up a scuttleful to the sitting-room, replenished the fire, returned downstairs. He set to work cleaning the bundle of spinach that bulked on the far end of the table. The spade-shaped leaves so fresh they bounced in his hands; seemed to squeak. The muddy green waste of thick stalks he threw into a bucket, for her hens. He washed, chopped, stuffed the subdued spinach into a colander, re-rinsed it. Mrs Dulcimer jerked her chin: the butter’s over there, look, with the jug of stock. Use that big pot.

  Joseph moved over to the range. Heat glowed from inside it. He wilted the spinach in golden grease, poured on the stock. He found nutmeg, and a grater. He stirred, tasted. Mrs Dulcimer divided her dough into three, formed egg shapes, dolloped these into loaf tins that she covered with a cloth.

  Mrs Dulcimer was treating him as part of her household; for tonight at least; so he could give vent to curiosity. Where’s Betsy’s husband? Or has she not got one?

  Mrs Dulcimer frowned. No. She wouldn’t want to marry the father of her child. He wanted her, not the other way round. That was a bad thing that happened.

  She smote her hands together, flour showering off between her palms. Little white crusts, crescent-shaped, fell from her fingernails. She said: I shouldn’t have answered you. Those are Betsy’s private affairs.

  She went outside, returned with an apronful of potatoes, which she tumbled onto the kitchen table. She sat down and began to peel them.

  Her long brown fingers moved swiftly, the ribbons of dirty white unspooling, dropping into curls and coils. Just so had she worked the other day, when he sat with her here. Since then, the kitchen had changed, danced about, embraced newness: those piles of bowls and plates on the dresser, those hampers. Mrs Dulcimer’s glance followed his. She said: the quilts are for the girls. With winter coming on they’ll need warmer bedding. And I’ve begun to collect extra crockery because I’ve new tenants arriving. I’m taking on the house next door in addition to this one. Mrs Bonnet’s found me more lodgers. The ones she hasn’t got space for. She recommends me, see. So they know I’ll offer fair terms and look after them properly.

  Busy Mrs Bonnet. Busy as a bee. Bee in her bonnet. Did Mrs Dulcimer realise he knew the full extent of Mrs Bonnet’s activities? Poor Doll, poor Annie. He didn’t want them had up as criminals, nor the older woman, when it came to it. Let sleeping dogs lie.

  Joseph left the pot to simmer, came back to the table. He took up another knife, seized a potato, began to work the edge of the blade under the skin. A child’s game: ease it off in one long spiral without breaking it. They always did that at Hallowe’en, with apples, he and his mother and stepfather. They drank hot spiced beer, the Hoof fell asleep in his chair, and Joseph’s mother taught him to throw the strip of peel over his left shoulder to land on the floor. It forms the first letter of your sweetheart’s name, see? Hallowe’en tomorrow. Perhaps he’d teach that game to the tenants tomorrow night, if they didn’t already know it.

  The potato resisted Joseph. The peel broke, and slithered onto the tabletop. He went back to the range, lifted the lid on the pot of the soup to check it wasn’t boiling, burning. Green bubbles danced and b
urped. He was like the soup. He couldn’t stay still. As though he had to keep one step ahead of everything. Catch the drop of water on the rim of the colander, before it fell. Wipe a smear of butter from the yellow horn handle of the knife, before it stained her apron. Keep an eye on the lamp; trim its wick.

  Mrs Dulcimer began cutting the potatoes into dice. She said: I’ve a proposal to make to you. Just now I’ve some money put by. Sitting in the bank, earning no interest. I could lend it you, if you like, so that you can clear your debts, pay your rent that’s owing.

  Joseph’s spoon bumped against the side of the pot. He said: I’d never take money from a woman.

  She lifted her knife: no, listen. Let me finish. With the extra tenants coming in, I shall need a cook-housekeeper. My own work gets neglected when I have so many other duties to attend to. So in return, to pay me back, you could work for me here. You could cook for the household, run the kitchen. Proper wages, I mean, to set against your debt. Everything right and tight.

  Work for a woman. Take orders from a black woman. Milly rose up before him in a twist of steam: a soup-wraith, finger raised. Yes, Pa. Try it. Why not? He clutched the wooden spoon in one hand, pot-cloth in the other. He blew out his cheeks. Anyone who wanted to was welcome to cart away the piano and the sideboard, but the rent had to be paid. Not least so that he could get back inside his house, find the address of Cara’s parents in Boulogne, write to Cara. Saying what, exactly? Think about that later. And then pay the slavey her wages. Kathleen. Yet another female reproaching him. Just join the line! Milly dissolved in the smoke issuing from the pot and he clapped the lid back on. It clinked up and down. He slid the tin cover off again, laid it to one side.

  He said: why should you want to help me?

  Mrs Dulcimer gathered up her cubes of potato between her hands, walked to the stove, dropped them into the soup pot. She said: why should I not? From what I’ve gathered, you are in a state of great distress.

  Doll and Mrs Dulcimer putting their heads together while he slumped upstairs drinking brandy, Doll recounting the tale of his misdeeds. Reciting the Cara version. The Milly version. Feckless, incompetent, failed, supposed breadwinner who couldn’t keep his job, his house or his wife. Certainly not his wife. She’d slipped her leash and raced off across the Boulogne sands and he’d no idea how to whistle her home.

  Cara wasn’t a dog. He banged a hand to his forehead. Sorry, Cara. Sorry.

  Mrs Dulcimer said: I’m offering something to tide you over. For the time being. I told you before, I’m a businesswoman. You know how to cook. I can pay you to do that. What d’you say?

  I say yes, Joseph said: thank you.

  The kitchen door banged open and a line of girls clattered in, exclaiming and pushing. Five minutes behind them came Mrs Bonnet, waving an umbrella like a crook, seeking a flock of sheep to herd into place, lamenting the difficult walk here, the rain, the mud. Kissing Mrs Dulcimer’s cheek, calling for a tankard of beer.

  Soup, a slice of cheese, bread pudding served with roasted apples. The blackened, shiny skin on each one had split: burst of fluffy whiteness around a stuffing of sultanas and honey. The sweet smells were enriched by the yeasty scent of baking bread. Annie took a tray of food up to Betsy. She reported the baby woken from his nap and crying, and Betsy rocking him, and refusing her supper. Asking for a glass of rum and water. I left the tray there for her, Mrs D., in case she changes her mind later on.

  Joseph drank as much beer as he was offered. Medicine. It soothed him, as the brandy had not. The kitchen furniture stopped shifting around, and sighed, and calmed down, each piece in its rightful place. The lamp flames burned up steady and clear. The shadows thickening around the walls were comforting as blankets. Mrs Bonnet talked of the situation in the Baltic, war very likely on its way.

  What kind of work did Milly want to do after training with those nuns? If war came would she want to dive into the thick of things, nurse wounded men in the stench and blood of the front line? His child watching as surgeons amputated limbs, his child holding the hand of screaming soldiers as they fell towards death. How long would she stand it? That good brave Milly, squaring up to danger. She’d manage all right. Forward the Bensons!

  Joseph swallowed more beer. Mrs Bonnet went on discussing the political situation in the east. His concentration blurred. When he glanced at Mrs Dulcimer she nodded back, then returned immediately to her voluble friend. He shifted in his chair. He began calculating how much these girls made per week working as kitchen maids. Would they make better money working as tarts? What did cooks get paid? Cook-housekeepers?

  The young women’s chatter began to die down. Mrs Bonnet’s voice trailed off. Second helpings were consumed, plates pushed away. The plentiful food made everyone quiet. Their faces reddened and slackened. Mrs Dulcimer said: now, who’ll give us a song?

  Annie spoke up: I will.

  She pushed her hair away from her face, spread her hands, flung up her chin. Took a deep breath. In a small, clear soprano she sang a Scottish ballad. Plaintive. Mournful. A coffin in a boat shunting across a loch. Did she want them all to burst into tears? Her audience sat still. Some rapt, some merely listening politely. Hands folded in laps, faces turned to their companion. The lamplight enclosed them. Ah, that’s beautiful. Ah, thanks Annie. Now something cheerful! Annie duly delivered a comic song, with appropriate gestures, which had the women beating time and joining in the chorus, finally applauding. Joseph joined in. He caught Annie’s glance, raised his beer mug to her.

  The tenants yawned and patted their bellies, drank up, mentioned washing out their stockings for tomorrow, didn’t stir. Eventually they cleared the table, brought out a couple of packs of cards, began to play for matchsticks.

  Joseph reached towards the pile of books on the yellow-painted stool, picked out a couple for reading in bed. Doll and Annie washed up. Mrs Dulcimer opened the oven door, releasing a rush of heat. She took out the loaves, tipped them onto a wire tray, tapped them underneath. Yes. Just right.

  Mrs Bonnet got up. Flushed, comfortable. Bed soon for me, my lovey. I must be up very early. So much still to do. You coming up now?

  Wait just a second, Hetty. Mrs Dulcimer lit a candle in a tin holder. Outside in the cramped hallway, she opened the door under the stairs, showed Joseph a cubbyhole containing a narrow bed. I’ve put clean sheets on it for you. The space is so small, you’ll be tight as a nut in a nutshell, but I’ve no rooms spare. Doll’s sharing Annie’s bed for tonight as it is. Tomorrow Mrs Bonnet’s boy is bringing over another, so we’ll be all right.

  Where would Mrs Bonnet sleep? In with Mrs Dulcimer? Nathalie once described to him how she and Cara shared a bed until they left home. She’d wriggle, she’d kick me sometimes, and I’d kick her back, then we found a way of sleeping like spoons, she’d put her arm over me and hold me to her. Like this, look. Nathalie’s breasts pressed against his back. Her hand stroked the fur on his chest. He gripped her hand in his, nibbled her fingertips. Nathalie had vanished into the black void. He’d wanted to follow her. Now he didn’t need to: the black void had got inside him. Broken and entered. A fist cracking his ribs. Internal bleeding. Nathalie was neither inside him nor outside him. She’d gone. He lowered his head, grunted. Why were there no field hospitals for men with broken hearts? He’d thought tarts were for that. Mending men. You came, bliss flooded you, your woes healed. He didn’t want Milly going to the Crimea and encountering men like himself. He’d write to her. He’d find the Boulogne address. He’d borrow the money from Mrs Dulcimer and pay his rent. Get back into his house. Write to his daughter.

  He hiccupped, staggered, put a hand to the wall. Mrs Dulcimer turned to face him. Now that she’s back, Doll wants to stay here. Work for me as kitchen maid. Living in. Of course she knows we must consult you first.

  No one consults me about anything! They make their own decisions, then scarper. In any case I’ve no longer a house for her to work in. Don’t rub it in.

  Joseph said: we hadn’t got r
ound to signing any sort of contract. She is free to do as she likes.

  Mrs Dulcimer handed him her candle: you take this one and I’ll fetch myself another.

  Light gleamed on her full mouth. Shadows tipped and swung on the wall. It kept trying to lean on him. He put up his hand to shield the flame. How brisk she sounded. How in control.

  She said: if the girls make too much of a racket, just tell them to pipe down. They should be off to bed soon, in any case.

  Mrs Bonnet erupted from the kitchen. Coming, lovey?

  The two women walked off upstairs. Their golden circle of light receded, vanished. Slap slap slap of Mrs Dulcimer’s slippers, tap tap tap of Mrs Bonnet’s boots.

  Soon they’d be curling up together in that wide bed, the candle set down nearby, faces turned towards each other. How warm Mrs Bonnet would be, her soft bulk. And Mrs Dulcimer’s eyes would glow black amber in the darkness.

  On the other side of the wall a door banged open. The young women’s voices surged out. Calling and exclaiming. Noisy as a pub at closing time. I’ll carry Betsy her rum. Won’t the missis mind? Dunno. Course not. No need to tell her, anyroad. They clattered out of the kitchen, past his cubbyhole, clumped up the stairs. Feet walked to and fro above him. So there must be bedrooms on the ground floor. Other feet continued up the next flight. Tall house full of women, laid in rows.

  If he went upstairs now, because he ought really to fetch his coat, he could crouch at Mrs Dulcimer’s bedroom door, peep through the keyhole. Just look. A long, slow, assessing look piercing the golden candle haze, glossing skin, eyelids, mouths. The charm of those books on the barrows, those books in Holywell Street: look for as long as you wanted. No one ever said stop.

  He shivered. All that girl business was done with now. Over. Go to bed.

  But still. Go upstairs. Fetch my coat.

  He rose through the silent dwelling. He shimmered up the stairwell. He was a phantom, haunting the house, floor by floor; holding it. He could stretch, he could shrink, go anywhere, pass through walls, slide under doors. He glided through the cold, dark sitting-room. Smell of cooling ash. Glimmer of red cinders marked the fireplace. Gold light outlined Mrs Dulcimer’s door, gold light knobbed the keyhole. Mrs Dulcimer’s voice, murmuring. He kneeled, put his face to the gold opening, and looked in.