Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  We stopped in front of a beautiful house that opened on the third knock. Bertie said to Nance, “She’s waiting upstairs. Room Three. I’ll meet you outside when you’re done.” I wasn’t really conscious of their prattle because I ain’t never seen nothing like this place before. There were ripe velvet drapes tied by ornate gold cords. Fancy tasseled rugs. Pictures. Fine blooms in gilded vases. Wonderfully elegant furniture, and paintings of angels and birds on the ceiling. It might have been Hampton Court itself.

  A richly dressed lady appeared from the drawing room with a glass of wine in her hand. She said, “Welcome, my dear. It is so good of you to come. Here, this is for you.”

  She said quietly to Nance that I looked like I needed a drowse. I was overwhelmed by all the attention so I graciously took the drink. Having never tasted fine wine I didn’t know what to expect but immediately my head began to feel queer and my body turned light and floaty. I was worried I might mess up my dancing steps but they urged me to finish the tainted draught and so I did. And then they nudged me upstairs.

  “How do you feel?” Nance inquired sympathetically.

  “I . . . I’m woozy. . . .”

  “Then let’s get you seen to,” she said. And she led me into Room Three.

  I was surprised to see a nurse there, but she looked kind and motioned for me to sit on the ornately carved bed, and so I obliged. She felt my forehead and wrist and announced, “She seems healthy enough. No fever.” She removed my wet boots and gently rummaged under my costume. I grew nervous as she prodded and messed, and was alarmed when she started touching my privates, but she told me that she was a midwife and that this was her job and that everything would be fine if I just relaxed. “Virgo intacta,” she proclaimed. The lady slipped something to Nance and the nurse then urged me to take another glass of wine. I heard the midwife mutter to the women, “Poor little mite. She’s so small, it’s really going to hurt her.” I guzzled the wine to block out the sounds. She added, “If she’s torn, bring her back and I’ll patch her up best as I can.”

  I think that was the moment I finally realized my fate. I struggled to get up from the bed but my eyes swam dizzy and as strange hands grasped under my arms, everything dissolved in a sepia daze. I came round a short time later to find myself being transported in some kind of cab. Nance was stroking my cheek murmuring, “It’s all right, duckie. Everyone does it. And better to get rich than give it for free to some vagabond.” The wheels and the whispers soothed me back to slumber and the next time I awoke I was back on a strange squashy bed. I struggled to squeeze my eyes into focus, suddenly conscious of a headache that felt like a tar drum pounding and thrumming my skull. I groaned.

  Nance appeared out of the gloom and commanded, “Drink this.” I tried to refuse but realized I couldn’t move. My hands and feet were strapped to the four posts of the bed. I yelled. Loudly. Nance looked down into my face and said, “Go ahead—bawl your lungs out! This house stands in its own grounds and with the thick stone walls and shuttered windows no one can hear you.” She lifted my head and made me drink more laudanum. “The servants are at the far end but they wouldn’t hear nothing anyway on account of the double carpet and heavy drapes.”

  I made a cursory study of my body that had been plucked naked and apparently washed clean. “Why . . . Why are you doing this. . . ?” I stuttered.

  “Money, duckie. It ain’t nothing personal. I get paid half. . . .”

  “I . . . I thought you were my friend.”

  Nance shook her head, smiled vaguely, and said, “We are mates. You do this for me and we’ll get along just dandy.” Then she warned, “But if you make any trouble you won’t get nothing. Understand? So be a good girl and do as he bids.” The young woman readied herself to leave. She said, “I’ve got to get back home now before I’m missed.” And I never saw her again.

  A few moments later a tall man entered the room cloaked in urgency and shadow. I heard him lock the door and pocket the key before he dropped his robe and stood naked in front of the bed. I stammered, “Sir . . . could . . . could I have another cup?”

  He shook his head and lulled, “Not yet, my dear.” He stared through fish-dead eyes and said, “I want to hear your screams.”

  The next thing I remember I came around on top of the chilly bedding. My bonds had been unfastened and the monster was dozing beside me. Every patch of my body felt bruised and itchy, dirty and sore. As quietly as possible I slid to the floor and wended my way to the door. It was still locked. I hurried to the windows. They were all shuttered tight and I realized I was to remain his prisoner. I was about to search for the key when the beast yawned, reentered consciousness, and said, “Come back to bed. You can go a second time now because it is only the first one that counts.” I started crying with great heaving sobs. The bloody streaks sticking the tops of my thighs told me I was forever ruined. But the well-spoken man in a patient tone said, “There is no use in crying, my dear. What has been done cannot be undone.” I sucked my cheeks together, trying to restrain the tears because my anguish seemed to further excite him, and it was sickeningly apparent he was readying to teach me new horrors. He came toward me but the touch of his flesh was repulsive, and before I knew what was happening I was screaming and clawing like a feral cat, slashing and rending his face. He jumped back. Startled. I snarled and spat and bit and hissed and backed him into a corner. A terrified look turned his face to slate and he began shouting for help that never arrived. The man fended my teeth off with one hand, but the other took hold of my swinging hair and tugged with all his anger until he had me pinned to the floor. The golden ornaments tore free and cartwheeled across the room. Then he knelt on my breastbone until I could barely whimper and began punching my cheeks and chin. Over and over—pounding and smacking—until the rising fog deadened all feeling.

  Now, I ain’t never understood to this day why a respectable gentleman would want to do what he did to me that night. Was it the sex that excited him? Being my first when I was young and tight and convinced that I might want it? Perhaps a virgin meant less chance of catching the pox? Or maybe he thought that common girls had no right to resist? I’ve since learned, of course, that men like that can’t relate to grown-up women. And I’ve even heard them blame the lass herself for her own seduction! But I have to say, he showed no conscience or kindness, so I think it was all about power—the thrill—the infliction of will. . . .

  The chattering of my teeth brought the harsh awareness I wasn’t no longer in that house. I was soaked through so knew it was raining and when I opened a crusted eyelid, I discovered my hair had set in ice beneath the slushy cinders. I’d been dumped in some dank, stinking alleyway. Panic shot through me as I focused on raising my head. The first thing I saw was the half-melted corpse of a dog, his last snarl caught in a ghostly grimace a few inches from my left shoulder. My whole body shuddered. The flimsy costume they’d dumped me in was torn and mushy with dirty snow, and my legs felt cold and broken and achy. I realized my kin would have missed me by now but they’d never know where to find me. I wasn’t sure myself—excepting the smell of fish wafted over the sewage so I gauged I must be somewhere near the docks. I had to find shelter. The crowds were about their business best as the weather would permit, a constant thrum of noise throbbing from either end of the jagged alley. But this smoggy passage was dirty and stagnant from the Great Fire of long ago, and was not a good place to be trapped. So I started to crawl away from the steaming horses, through the melting soot toward a decaying door. I rolled my weight against the wood and suddenly tumbled into someone’s parlor.

  “Well, well, well. And what have we here?” a deep voice crackled through the swelling glow of firelight. Somebody shuffled and coughed. The shape came toward me carrying a hefty club and I slowly absorbed the vision from the slippers up. I was staring up at the widest woman I’d ever ever seen. Her legs were like two oak trunks and she waddled on buoyant hips swaying in swathes of blubber. I noted gold hoops set in a nest of grizzled cur
ls and chestnut cheeks topping the rungs of brown flesh that stepped up in layers from her giant bosom. “And who might you be, dearie?” she asked.

  When she realized I was no threat, her voice became more sympathetic and the menacing club transformed into a walking stick. I looked into her bird-dark eyes and whispered, “Help me. I’m lost. . . .”

  The woman intuitively took in my plight. She lifted me to my feet and steered me onto a chair by the fire. “You sit here, love. I’ll warm some ale.”

  I gratefully accepted her offer and the bitterness began spilling. As I shared my ordeal she listened wisely, her plump lips betraying very little. When my last hiccup faded she said softly, “You can rest safe with me until you’re feeling better. Then we’ll sort out what to do with you.”

  “But I must get back to my folks . . . before they start traveling.”

  She shook her head and said sadly, “There ain’t no going back for you, darling. You do know that, don’t you. . . ?”

  “No! I . . . I . . .”

  The woman took my deathly hand in her warm soft paw and added, “Little chey, the gypsies will treat you like a gorgio now.” She stared into my sadness and explained, “Because you are no longer pure.”

  Ma’s life flashed into my mind and I instantly understood. But how did she know our ways? I faltered, “Are . . . Are you . . . ?”

  “Romany? Ain’t no more, love.” She looked away and revealed, “Something like what happened to you once happened to me.” She stood up and stoked the fire, then concluded, “But that ain’t the only good life, if you know what I mean.” She winked and smiled a toothless grin. “There’s much to be said for staying in one spot. It gives you a chance to make something of yourself.” She looked proudly around the room and my own eyes followed. They took in a comfortable level of wealth that the decrepit exterior concealed well. This was obviously no vagrant’s dwelling. My pupils expanded in wide appreciation and my hostess seemed gratified by such response.

  “Your room’s lovely,” I told her.

  “Room?” she cackled. “I own the whole street, duckie!”

  I was speechless. A burble of spit came out before I could formulate actual words. Then I muttered, “How . . . How did. . . ?”

  She chuckled and said slyly, “You might just find out, darling, if you decide to stick around.”

  “I can stay?” I asked in genuine astonishment. “Here?”

  “In one of the other houses you can. . . .”

  Over the next few days my hostess ministered my physical wounds with poultice and herbs until I was able to walk again. She made up a trundle bed by the hearth and had her girls feed me delicacies and keep lively company. The girls—an attractive assortment of vibrant young slatterns—worked in the Big House. From scraps of gossip, I discovered that my patron had progressed from whore to madam, building a powerful empire with her pirate lover, Dandy Dick Brennar. Richard Brennar had sailed with the famous Captain Morgan right up to the Sack of Panama. Now he was officially lost at sea—but it was rumored that, being so canny, he was most likely resting quietly and enjoying the fruits of some Carribee island.

  Within a week I was up and about. And before I knew what was happening I’d become the newest recruit of Mother Lovel’s bridge gang—known to insiders as “Dya’s Odji”—and to outsiders as the “Black Guard.” Now, I ain’t too happy at this point, as you can imagine, but I quickly adapted to circumstance and soon as I’d properly healed I intended making my way back to Battersea before the spring thaw. I couldn’t accept being banished from my tribe—it seemed so unfair. But in the meantime, I was learning lots of new tricks so there wasn’t no time being wasted. The gang consisted of eleven of us ranging from four to fourteen. We were split into two crews and my lot worked the West Side. Our con went something like this: I was dressed as a street urchin and Dya usually rented some baby or other for me to lug round. Our adult minder picked a suitable mark, then I stared through big bleary eyes and begged for money, claiming I was orphaned and sold matches (pegs, flowers, pins) and owed money for lodgings and didn’t know how I was going to afford breakfast. The toff would take in the ratty clothes and dirt, stare guilty from his own silks and lace, and then would fish out some paltry appeasement of conscience. Once we knew where he kept the wonga, the others would come charging round and little Sal would lift his purse and slide it in her bloomers. Poor nobs never knew what had hit them. After a few weeks’ training on a coat sewn with bells I could lift a pocketwatch or handkerchief as slick as the rest, and Janky (a pimpled, sandy-haired youth of fourteen who hadn’t enough brawn to join the men yet) was unsuccessfully trying to teach me how to pick locks. Whatever valuables we poached were given straight to the minder for Dya to fence, alongside those she’d acquired from her regular source of jack-tars and highwaymen. Mother Lovel was known wide and far, but her patch actually stretched below Cheapside from London Bridge to the Tower. She had been in business some thirty or forty years and had a finger in almost every pie the underworld cooked. And there was never any trouble from the locals because they were all too aware of the muscle at her command.

  One day Dya gave me a child that was wan and silent. The bundle felt cold and the thin lips were turning blue. I gasped and said, “This baby’s dead.”

  She nodded and confided, “Make sure the punters can see its face. They always pay more.”

  I was horrified at the thought of carrying a corpse around and I panicked. I thrust the burden back at her and stood stammering, “I . . . I . . .”

  “Listen,” she hissed. “Take the child and do as you’re told.” Then she added, “I’ve a mind you should try around Battersea today. What do you think?”

  Battersea! She meant I could look for my folks. I took the baby back and awaited further instructions. Dya yelled, “Janky!” The leader of our crew appeared in the doorway. “Do you know your way to Battersea?” The youth nodded confidently. “Right then. Your lot are going there with Dobby. If Lola finds her kin all’s well and good. But if they want to buy her back it’ll cost two guineas.” She turned to me and said, “To pay me back for your keep.”

  I felt my first jag of concern. Did my folks even have two guineas? And would they want me back since I was ruined? But I knew I must seem grateful so I whispered, “Ta,” and hurried after Janky as he left to find Dobby and round up the others.

  Now, over the years Dya had given birth to four sons (a motley band of cutthroats and wide-boys), and Dobby was the youngest. He was built like a bulldog, with the speed of a lurcher and the cunning of a wolf, and I ain’t kidding when I say he put fear of the devil into most folks. He was to be our minder, which meant he’d dress as a sailor carrying a large ditty bag and would stroll on ahead to choose our mark. Then we’d make our play, quickly passing him the stolen loot in case we got caught. And we always got away with it—because even those who saw the switch thought better of challenging Dobby.

  Those of us from London know it’s two or three leagues from the tower to Battersea, so we stopped a couple of times to filch a likely score before we crossed over the bridge. I was feeling quite weary by the time we arrived and the baby was starting to stink of sour death, but as we approached the common where I’d left my folks my body drained entirely. Our bender tent was gone. I ran to the patch of worn grass in desperation but all that remained was a pile of muck and a cold campfire long deserted. No. I threw my revolting bundle to the mud and hurried from wagon to wagon shouting the names of my folks, but no voice answered. Eventually a worn face peered from a sailcloth tent and stared in my direction. I screamed, “My kin! Do you know where they are?” I pointed at the vacant spot. The creamy eyes followed my arm, then a gnarled thumb flicked the whiskery chin in a gesture that meant they’d done a flit—left for their own private reasons. The face disappeared.

  Almost gagging in panic I returned to the emptiness and scrabbled through the garbage searching for clues as to where they might be. It was too early to be on the road yet. Why would
they leave? Now, perhaps it was the rotting debris, or perhaps the realization of truth, but the next thing I knew I was vomiting and heaving and choking all over the garbage. The others stood silent at the edge of the grounds, letting me find my own knowledge. I wiped my lips on the hem of my dress and tried to regain some clarity. Think. Where would they hide a message? The only other structure was the campfire so I cautiously approached the charred ring of stone, knelt down beside, and carefully began blowing the ash away. And there I saw it. Hidden beneath the soot lay a large smooth stone with an arrow made of wood pointing west. I ain’t never felt so much relief as I did just then because they’d not forgotten me after all. The bile dribbled down my chin and suddenly one of my crew (a rough girl called Polly) stood tentatively stroking the back of my wrist. I allowed her to take my hand and lead me over to the rest of the gang, who smirked, or swallowed hard, or looked away into their own choked memory. Janky said, “Right then, let’s be off.” I numbly retrieved the dead infant and wiped off as much mud as possible, while Dobby led us back through the rough pasture toward Southwalk.

  There were always good pickings to be had around the bridge so Janky suggested we make a few more hits on our way home. I was so drained I didn’t care what we did—which I suppose made me look even more pathetic—and perhaps that’s why the ever opportunistic Dobby selected a grander target than usual. He singled out a big, fancy wig, who was chuckling with his pretty thing as she delved among a covered stall of velvet and taffeta. I watched from the shadows of a cheese vendor until they stepped out into the open, and then shuffled forward to make my play, scrunching the stinking bundle to my chest. I pleaded, “Good sir! Spare a coin for a poor wench?”

  The young lady reached out to move the blanket for a better look at the baby, then automatically recoiled. “Oh, my Lord. . . .” I slipped into role and looked pitifully down at my charge, my round blue eyes popping with pathos. “Is . . . Is this your sister?” she asked sympathetically. I nodded.