The Walworth Beauty

by Michèle Roberts

  Mrs Dulcimer arrived, took her place at the head of the table. She’d tidied her hair, got dressed, put on a blue-and-black-striped cotton gown. She’d outlined her eyes with kohl, but her red, swollen eyelids were not to be disguised. She dripped milk onto her basin of grey mealiness, dribbled black treacle on top, the solid stream carving runnels. Dipping in her spoon, she frowned at Joseph. Her expression said: you should eat. Try to look as normal as possible.

  So here we are. How would they get through the morning? The day? So early still. So cold still, down here, despite the range heating up. Clamminess around his neck, his wrists. The hours stretched ahead; an unending bare corridor. How to break that up? Cook. He said: I should think about today’s meals. Orders?

  Mrs Dulcimer brought a loaf to the table. One of the three she’d baked last night. She picked up the bread-knife. She slashed off the crust and let it drop. She buttered the end of the loaf, sawed off a thin slice, very steadily. She repeated the gesture. One by one the wafers flopped onto the dish on the tabletop. She put a couple of sprigs of watercress on each one, rolled them up.

  She said: let’s see. We’ve a piece of bacon to boil. Cabbage. Some onions. That should do.

  The tenants ate their green-stuffed bread and butter, drained their cups of tea. They pushed back their chairs, nodded at Joseph, departed upstairs. Mrs Dulcimer followed them, sweeping Doll and Annie with her. I need you two to give me a hand with something. The glance she flicked him, the set of her shoulders, told him she was going to clear out Betsy’s possessions, remove all traces of her and the baby.

  What had Betsy got ready? For his own little ones he’d had no money to buy new things. Cara had set to, furnished napkins made from old worn towels, nightgowns and caps cut down from her own, bootees knitted from unravelled stockings past darning.

  A creak and squeak upstairs. The tenants departing from their rooms on the ground floor. Rattle of chain, scrape of bolt. The front door opening. The young women stamping out, shouting goodbye. The door slammed shut again.

  Cold porridge curds stiffened in the pot. Crumbs littered the table, the used plates. Clear all this up! Doll’s job, Annie’s also, but if he waited for their return he’d waste half the morning, never get anything done. He took down from the back of the garden door the work-apron Doll had dirtied earlier, tied it on, tried to work out what to do next. A trail of grey ash marked Doll’s track across her newly cleaned floor, stopping at the overflowing bucket. The floor would have to be washed again. Did you wash up first or clean the floor? The dusty windows smirked at him. Wash us too! The range stuck out a dingy lip. Black-lead me!

  Doll’s broom leaned in a corner, next to some discarded, toppled-over footwear. His and Mrs Dulcimer’s mud-caked boots. Do those straight away. A folded newspaper lay on the dresser. He plucked it up, spread it open on the table, stood the boots on it. He found brushes, polish and blacking, set to.

  He heated water, scrubbed his filthy hands, washed up the breakfast things. He threw the crust of congealed porridge outside for the hens, emptied the bucket of cinders and grey dust onto the compost heap, threw the bowls of water over the bushes. The garden smelled very fresh. That earthy scent of autumn flowers. Pink points of roses opening, salmon and russet flares of asters and chrysanthemums. Golden-green leaves lifted and blew about, settled in new drifts. He turned his head aside, hurried past.

  Right. Now wash the floor. First of all: clear the space. He carried the spare chairs outside, two by two, into the windowless lobby, lurched through the semi-darkness, piled them next to a door that presumably led into the storeroom. How cold it was down here. He felt stretched with tiredness; scoured out. He leaned against the doorframe, yawning. The air scraped at him like a fingernail. He rubbed his eyes, yawned again. The shadows opposite wavered. A woman stood there. Barefoot; dressed in a long robe. Loose tumble of curly hair. Yet another tenant? She’d overslept, had hurried down to forage for a late breakfast. Her eyes were red, with tiredness or tears. She was frowning at him. He backed away, excusing himself. The air seemed to blink: she vanished.

  Not a tenant. He’d seen her before. The cemetery, yes. The street. A figure from one of his dreams? Dreams fled in daylight; usually you forgot them as soon as you woke. She’d got caught on one of his daylight thoughts, as you snag your coat on a bramble’s thorns when you brush past. That bramble bush in the field. That bundle of white under it. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, returned to the kitchen.

  He upended the remaining chairs onto the table. Laced with spiders’ webs underneath. He found a duster, wiped off the worst swags of dirt. Yellow softness patched with grey. Now he would have to wash the duster. Curses. No. Shake it outside, later on. What was housework but a transfer of dirt from one place to another? Clouds of dust bowling into the garden, along the street, fetching up on a vast rubbish heap, to be sorted by the dustmen, then the wind picking it up and bowling it back again. So much for opening windows to air rooms; you just let in currents of London filth.

  He stuffed the duster into his pocket. He carried the hampers of bedding, one by one, up to the ground floor, dumped them in the hall, stacked on top of each other. Above him the floorboards shifted and creaked as slippered feet went to and fro. Voices called indistinctly, and rang across each other, and the floors croaked their own replies.

  He picked up the top hamper and lugged it upstairs to the first landing. The women’s voices sounded from above, summoned him. Past Mrs Dulcimer’s sitting-room, at the very end of the passage, a cupboard-like door opened. A boxed-in staircase, steep as a ladder, delivered him into the attic. Two sloping windows set into the roof let in pale light. An iron bed in disarray stood under each of these skylights. A bentwood chair next to each of them bore pillows and folded blankets. The white calico curtain dividing the attic in half had been drawn back.

  Mrs Dulcimer and Doll were turning one of the mattresses, Annie bundling sheets over her arm. All three glanced at him as he entered, bumping the wicker hamper in front of him. Beyond them and behind them and above them: the grey sky, a frieze of chimney-pots, a flurry of birds’ wings and scudding clouds.

  Mrs Dulcimer said: that’s right. Those quilts are for in here.

  Rolled-up blinds topped the sloping windows. Cream-coloured wallpaper displayed a stencilled pattern of tiny scarlet flowers. Two small chests of drawers, fronted by rainbow-striped rag rugs, bore washing sets of matching white china jugs and bowls. A workbasket sat on a table, next to a heap of stockings, a couple of books. The floor had been stripped, waxed. The boards looked soaked in honey. No wonder Doll wanted to stay. Better than dossing down in his kitchen, wasn’t it?

  Joseph straightened his apron bib, addressed Doll. Did I take your bed last night? Sorry if so.

  Mrs Dulcimer prodded the corner of the mattress, caught on the iron end of the bedframe, thumped it to make it lie flat. Was she thumping him? Don’t mention last night, if you please! Doll and Annie swapped tight looks. They flapped out clean pillowcases, making a great business of shoving the pillows into them. Mrs Dulcimer laid down a woollen mattress cover, seized a sheet, spread it smooth, bent to mitre the corners, tuck them in. Doll lifted her eyebrows as she picked up her bunch of cleaning tools. Think nothing of it, Mr Benson! Annie gave him a mock bob. Glad to be of help, Mr Benson.

  Mrs Dulcimer unrolled blankets, quilts. She spoke to Joseph over her shoulder. Those other two lots of bedding, leave them down in the hall for the time being, will you? I’ll see to them later.

  Yes, ma’am, he said.

  SIXTEEN

  Madeleine

  Madeleine’s night-time stroll brings her back across London Bridge to the Elephant. The warm October night heats the greasy pavements of Walworth Road. Litter of stained, soggy-looking paper blows along between the kerb and the black glass fronts of shops. Groups of adolescents, in hoodies and low-slung jeans, loaf along, picking at takeaways, smoking. The occasional older man shrouded in a windcheater goes by, the occasional young mot
her bent over a pushchair. Lit buses trundle past.

  The corner before Orchard Street. Darker here: not all the street lamps on this stretch work. Some emit a sour yellow light; some have blinked off. No moon tonight to help her progress. No stars.

  Shadows detach themselves from pools of gloom, shift and advance. A trio of young men in fleeces and trainers slouches towards her. Faces set to look hard, cool. They glance up when she passes them and wishes them goodnight; they nod; they lope on. In winter, when they wear fur trappers’ hats, such would-be toughs become transformed into long-eared bunny rabbits with wide-open, softly lashed eyes. In the summer, their hoodies make them sleek and dark as otters. Now, in autumn, they swim along heads down, anonymous.

  Sometimes, coming back late at night, she bumps into one of her male neighbours rolling home from the pub, or making for the park with a wrapped bottle sticking out of a pocket, a dog trotting alongside. They greet each other, halt for a quick chat. One of the younger ones she recognises from afar by his silhouette: short and broad-shouldered, hair in thick braids finished with beads. He likes to seize her in a hug. Arms hold her tight then release her. One stranger asked: you married? Madeleine lied: certainly. He shook his head: and there was I, just getting ready to make my move. He went on his way, laughing.

  She turns into Apricot Place, passes along under the massive plane trees. Scuffle of dry fallen leaves. Something white flashes ahead. Whiteness moves across the pavement at the far end of the cul-de-sac; towards the kerb; then floats back. A gleaming flow of whiteness that vanishes. Like a long banner trailing along the ground, then in a flurry of wind flicking out of sight.

  Madeleine hurries forward through patches of wavering shadow. Reaching the black gate marking the descent to her basement area, she grips an iron finial, looks up at the flight of steps leading to the raised ground-floor entrance above her flat.

  Above her, on the low balustrade inside the porch, one on either side of the door, glances cast gravely down, perch two small, still figures, clothed in shimmering spreads of white, satin robes rippling from shoulders to feet. Their hair falls in waves over their shoulders. Hands clasped in laps, heads slightly bowed, they seem impersonal as the carved angels guarding a Victorian grave.

  They hold their watchful pose a few seconds more. Then turn their heads, glance at her. They open their arms: night flowers blossoming. The vision dissolves: they break into smiles. They stand up, bunch their ballooning skirts: fooled you! Madeleine sings out: yes, you did! Wonderful girls!

  Sally’s younger grandchildren, dressed up in her bridesmaids’ frocks: Madeleine claps them. They grin at her, swing their legs over the balustrade, slither down into Sally’s porch. A wedge of light. Sally’s voice exclaims and laughs. The front door slams shut.

  A cat pads along the quiet street, disappears beneath a parked car. Madeleine swivels, checks the surrounding dimness. Just in case.

  No sign of Emm. No nasty surprise on the pavement, the area steps. Good. Nonetheless she holds her breath until she’s safely inside.

  She yawns, stretches. She’s got a bottle of Chablis in the fridge. Why not open it, have a glass? Celebrate.

  For three whole weeks now the flat has felt freed of whatever presence previously haunted it. Warmth and calm flow through the space. The air seems to hum, the rooms feel welcoming again, the entrance hall seems larger, lighter. Kitchen smells: newly cut lemons, crushed cardamom.

  Approaching the fridge, sweeping aside the lace curtain veiling it, she glances at the shelf above. A gap in the clutter of stuff. The spot where Nelly’s turquoise pot formerly stood. The flat’s atmosphere changed after she threw the broken pot and its hoard of garden relics into the flowerbed. The haunting simply got up and went.

  Nelly’s pot. I’m sad I broke it. Poltergeists break things, throw them around. Was I myself somehow the poltergeist? Did I raise the ghost, the disturbance? Why?

  Think about it some other time. I’m hungry.

  She takes her glass of wine, a hastily cut ham sandwich, into the dark, fresh-smelling garden. Spiky profiles of shrubs; lax whips of climbing roses. Tomorrow, pursue autumn tasks. Rake fallen leaves, prune bushes, put in more bulbs. Second autumn task: dream up what to write next. The stories for Rose are nearly done. Rose’s model of the cul-de-sac is nearly finished too. I’ll show it to you very soon, Madeleine, I promise. You and Nan can come and see it together.

  Brown bread, fragrant ham, cold butter, Dijon mustard. She used to make similar sandwiches in the café, before the new owner insisted on shavings of factory-farmed chicken breast, slivers of taste-free tomato, embalmed in white pap. For her next project should she do something with food? Write a food blog? Thousands of those already. Start a pop-up café? Thousands of those too.

  The wine tastes coolly flinty. She lounges on an iron café chair, surveys the back of the house. Sheer brick wall, black drainpipes falling down one side. Rows of black oblong windows and window-frames, black panels of glass, one above the other.

  Gold light blooms in the blackness: a lamp inside the first-floor window. The bedroom of the flat above hers. Glimpse of pale green walls, the edge of a blue picture-frame, a triangle of salmon-pink. The sash crashes up. Someone leans his elbows on the sill, looks out into the night.

  Her new neighbour, presumably. She wills herself not to move in the darkness. Not wanting to be caught being a voyeur. A peeping Thomasina. Yet she is a voyeur. Coming home at night along Orchard Street, along Apricot Place, she glances at the lit, uncurtained ground-floor and basement windows of houses she passes, the framed bright images of people inside stirring saucepans, lolling on sofas, talking, watching TV. They don’t know she can see in. Out in the black street she’s invisible. A flash of their intimate lives. Then she’s past them, stepping along in the dark.

  The man tilts his head. Beaky profile. Rumpled edge of hair, as though he cuts it short to subdue it. He looks up at the grey clouds. Around them, London’s garbled noises: a woman three gardens away yelling at her children to go to sleep; a plane growling across the sky; a fox barking; a motorbike revving. The garden holds the scent of stocks. Wind swishes through the branches of the ash tree.

  She tips up her glass, finishes her wine. When she looks back at the house, the window is dark and the man has gone.

  Inside, she slides into bed, puts out the light, waits for sleep. Images flash, like an oncoming car’s headlights on a black, lonely road. Moths startle up, fizzily dash, staccato gold, onto the windscreen, across the long, slanting beams. She’s a child again, sleepily enchanted in the back seat, travelling home with her parents after a party. They swing around corners into further darkness. Moths open their white wings, furred like film stars’ party cloaks. Party dresses. Fancy dress. Sally’s two little granddaughters dressed up in those trailing white frocks.

  What would her own two children have been like, if they’d hung on inside her, been born, survived, grown up? She has never allowed herself to contemplate their possible lives. Now they arrive, running along the street with arms outstretched. Calling for her. Fighting her. Hating her. Kissing her. She can’t hold on to them.

  After a while she stops crying, rearranges herself, sinking in the midst of her two pillows. She puts an arm round each pillow. One is called Rose and the other Francine.

  SEVENTEEN

  Joseph

  Joseph and Mrs Dulcimer ate lunch by themselves. She dismissed Doll and Annie, organised them a piece each, wrapped in paper, for carrying in their pockets. She carved leftover chunks of beef into thin squares, pressed them in between slices of bread and butter and pickle. Her two maids looked pale, she declared: they needed a dose of fresh air. Annie said: not in the countryside, though. I’m going to the Hallowe’en fair.

  Mrs Bonnet’s tow-headed boy arrived, despatched by his mistress with a dismantled bed on his barrow, a bunch of overblown blue and purple asters balanced on top. He said: Mrs Bonnet meant to bring you the flowers yesterday, but she forgot. She wasn’t sure whe
ther or not you’d be needing the bed, but she sent it anyway. Said to tell you Miss Betsy’s settling in nicely. I’d say so too. She looked bristling with life as this gentleman’s whiskers!

  He bowed to Joseph, who scowled back. So what if he hadn’t yet shaved? The rude child deserved a ticking-off. He wouldn’t give him one, though. He didn’t want to make any trouble, give the boy an excuse to go blubbing home, rouse up that righteous matron he lived with. Was she his mother or his employer? A termagant, anyway. Did she have a husband tucked away somewhere? There was a lad who needed a father, all right. Joseph could show him the ropes, if he had to. Teach him how to speak politely to his elders and betters, for one thing. Teach him to box, perhaps.

  He sighed. Wives didn’t hit you with their fists; just with what they said, or didn’t say. Which hurt more? Fists, yes, definitely. But wives left their own sorts of scars, bruises. On the skin of your soul.

  The boy announced his determination to squire the two young women to the fair. Mrs Dulcimer made a third beef and bread piece, and the threesome prepared to depart for the common. Doll tied on her bonnet, fastened her cape. She adjusted Annie’s shawl, tugged her friend’s skirts to bulk out in neat pleats. Just so had Mrs Bonnet tidied Mrs Dulcimer, only a few days ago. Nathalie used to do that for him, didn’t she? Years back.