The Journal of Dora Damage (6 page)

I remember leaving the gates of Remy & Randolph as the lamplighters started their rounds, and I was fretting about all sorts:
that Lucinda might have had a turn in my absence; that Peter might never return; that I had no choice but to find that old
suitcase of my parents’ in the box-room, and sell it, or at least pawn it, which might bring us enough money to last another
two days. The evening chill was setting in, and I scrunched my toes in my boots to squeeze out the cold from them. I walked
like this down New Cut, past the two hundred costermongers, the vagabonds loitering in gin-shop doorways, the five-year-old
urchins collecting horse-droppings for the Bermondsey tanneries, in and out, in and out.

The rain had picked up even more, and my damp clothes quickly became saturated. The wool of my shawl was sodden, and my skirts
were drenched by water hurled up from the cobbles by passing carriages. Soon, wool, flannel and horsehair were all soaking,
and I stank of wet animal. I remember trying to wrap my cloak tighter around me, and my hand failing to grasp one side of
the flabby fabric, and as I clutched for it in the bitter wind I found my knees giving way, and I sank down on to the pavement,
skirts billowing around me like a deflating hot-air balloon. My legs had nothing left in them to carry out my orders, not
even the thought of Lucinda at Agatha Marrow’s. My nose was streaming, but I had not the strength to move my arms to release
my handkerchief from my cuff. I bowed my head so that my bonnet would disguise me from the scurrying swell of folk about me.

‘Here’s a pretty pickle,’ an old voice croaked behind me. I dipped my head further into the chafing wet of my collar, and
sank closer to the ground. ‘Come, lovely. Down on your luck? There’s a sorry story to hear, I’ll warrant.’

I could see a pair of once-smart, heavily scuffed brown boots, and the hem of a brown tweed greatcoat. Then a gloved hand
came down to mine, but I could not take it.

‘Come with me,’ the man said, his voice softer now. I wondered if he was one of those gentlefolk from the missions, who collect
paupers from the pavements and throw them into church shelters for the night, only serving to delay for a few hours their
inevitable demise in an icy puddle of gin and worse.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked, and the words formed on my lips, but it felt as if frost was spread there like a glass cobweb,
and would not let them out. Ivy-street, I wanted to say, by the Necropolitan Railway. Not far yonder, I can walk there. But
he did not hear me.

Ivy-street. It might not have been one of the golden avenues around Lambeth Palace, or as smart as Vauxhall and Kennington,
but neither was it one of the crumbling rows of tenements butting on to the river, or the slums of Southwark and Bermondsey.
It was not as holy as Lambeth Palace to the south-west, nor was it as mad as Bedlam to the south. It was in a tenuous position,
poised between two fates, just like me at that point. ‘Ivy-street,’ I finally managed to say. But the man clearly didn’t know
where that was, for he said, ‘Come now. Follow me, and there shall be some small salvation in it for you, I’ll warrant. I
know a place that’s fine and warm . . .’ I let him pull me to my feet, and when I wobbled for a moment, he grasped my waist
through my cloak, and steadied me. Some keys jangled at his belt; I shuddered as the thought crossed my mind that he was Relieving
Officer for the Poorhouse.

‘. . . and better suited than the gutter for a fine-looking woman like yourself.’ I dug my frozen fingers up my sleeve to
find my handkerchief, but it was not there. ‘Here, take mine.’ I raised my hand to take the white cloth from him, but he had
already started to wipe my nose with it, like a mother to a child. He was kindly, though, even if he were from That Place.

‘Now, are you ready to walk?’ He proffered his arm, but still I did not take it. I moved my right foot, and tried to transfer
my weight on to it. I could walk, I was sure of it.

‘Come, dear.’ We set off walking together, side by side but not arm in arm, although I was grateful for his presence. We came
to the end of the street and I raised my hand to bid him farewell and thank him for his assistance, for it was clear that
I was going one way and he another.

‘No, no, no, Mistress Pretty. I believe we have a misunderstanding. It is this way, comfier than the street and . . .’ here
he dropped his voice, ‘. . . cosier too.’ His yellow eyes stared into mine, and he pulled his face so close that I could see
the wax shining on the tips of his moustache. Beneath it, his dry mouth broke into a vile smile.

‘So, what’s it to be, you mischievous sow?’ As he spoke, the clouds of air used by his words hung between us, as if I were
to read from them the choice he was spelling out to me. ‘So, what’s it to be, then? Workhouse, or whorehouse?’

Chapter Three

Baby and I

Were baked in a pie,

The gravy was wonderful hot.

We had nothing to pay

To the baker that day

And so we crept out of the pot.

I
’d have been lying if I’d said I didn’t consider his proposal. I had often wondered how perilous life had to get before a
woman would go to the bad, and now I knew. For it was not the word ‘whorehouse’ but the word ‘workhouse’ that sent a dart
of power to my legs, and I stepped rashly into the street, into the path of a lurching omnibus, and hurled myself to the other
side of it. The traffic was not heavy, but created enough of a slow-rolling barrier between us to prevent him following me.
He stood at the side of the road and bellowed over the din, ‘My money not good enough for you, eh? It’ll be the workhouse
for you, you whore! The workhouse, you ungrateful trollop!’

But I feared that his money
was
good enough for me. How hard could it really be, I wondered, to let this man lead me to his greasy bed and open my legs to
him? I pondered it all the way back to Ivy-street, past Granby-street, which was notorious for its night-ladies. I did not
turn in to Ivy-street, nor Granby-street neither, mind, but continued beyond, to the slums towards the river. No, I was not
thinking yet of plying that trade. But I knew that there was no coal in the cellar, and no old log basket left to crumble
into kindling, and I skulked along the shadowy streets where the tenements leered so far towards the centre that they almost
met overhead. I met a woman in a door-way with a pinched face, eyes sunken and dead like coal, and, to my shame, I begged
her for some wood. I could see from the rabble in her house that she was one of those who, at this time of year, actually
become grateful to be living fifteen to a room, for the little warmth they could give each other.

I wondered if she ever let men take her for money. Not that I judged her to be a whore, but I wanted to ask someone who might
know what it was like, how much to charge, how not to hate it, nor hate them, nor hate oneself, so.

She looked me over and said not a word, before going back inside. She must have read my mind, and I had offended her. I heard
her growl something at a child; she was Irish. The little boy ran out of the house and past my legs, completely barefoot,
his legs beneath his rags grey as a corpse. I began to turn to leave, but the woman grunted at me, and there was something
in the sound that bade me stay. The scamp soon returned with a couple of thick sticks and a few lumps of coal, which he handed
to me, staring at me directly with his dark, soulful eyes. There was a time when I wouldn’t have touched a wretch like that
even with fire-tongs. I found out then that sometimes it is the most miserable who are the quickest to help someone else in
a similarly pitiable state.

I returned with my gifts to our little house, and pushed open the door, so I could ignite the home’s warm heart and bring
Lucinda safely back into it. In the gloomy darkness I could make out a shape on the rug in front of the cold hearth, and I
could hear panting, punctuated with shrieks, like a monkey dancing to an organ-grinder.

‘Who’s there?’ I said cautiously. ‘Who is it?’ I kept my foot in the door, despite the rush of icy air, in case I needed to
escape. The shape fell silent. Then it started to heave and sob, and in the heart-rending sounds of misery I recognised Peter’s
tones. I let the door bang shut, dropped my meagre bundles, and sank on to the rug next to him, my hand on his back. He flinched,
and scrambled to the corner like a chased animal, gibbering. But there were words amongst the incoherence.

‘Hub- hub- hub- . . . Roo- roo- roo- Hub- . . .’

I followed him into the corner and crouched down, ensuring I was lower than him and looked up to him, and smiled encouragement.

‘A – sp – a –, a – sp – a –, a – sp – a . . .’

I reached for his hands in order to hold them at chest-height as a kind of prayer of communication, but the moment I touched
them he drew back and hollered in pain. But I had briefly felt the rage in his fingers, and feared for where he had been.
It had not been drier than his home.

‘Where have you been, my love? Tell me.’

‘A – sp – a –, a – sp – a –, a – sp – a . . .’

‘A spa? A spot?’ I tried.

‘A – sp – a – n –, a – span . . .’ he continued. ‘A sponge –’

‘A sponge!’ I seized upon the word, and he nodded, then shook his head, which added to my consternation. ‘A sponge?’ Did he
want one? Was I to mop his brow? His face looked black in the gloom; I moved myself to allow the lamplight from outside to
shine on him, and saw that it was bruised, swollen, and matted with blood both fresh and dried.

‘I’m going to get a flannel from the press,’ I told him slowly, but his protests mounted, and he continued repeating the word
‘sponge’ so I stayed by him, and tried to fathom his request. Eventually he sighed heavily and let his head drop to his chest,
and so it went, and nothing was revealed, so I settled him into the Windsor chair and went into the kitchen. I let the draught
into the range to draw up the heat, then went back to the parlour to lay the fire in the grate, before running upstairs to
get a flannel, and returning to the kitchen to boil some water.

Then I cleaned his face as best I could as he winced and groaned, and I applied some salve.

‘Here, love, drink some tea. You can tell me all later.’ I poured him a cup and placed it into his beleaguered hands, then
left for Agatha Marrow’s house.

Lucinda was already asleep on a chaise amongst the piles of laundry and I picked her up and started to carry her home. Agatha
said not a word, nor even smiled at me, but she laid a paper bundle on Lucinda’s sleeping stomach, and held the door open
for us to leave. Back home, I nestled Lucinda into her bed and felt a warm patch on her dress where the parcel had been. Inside
the paper were four steaming cheese-and-parsley scones; it was as much as I could do to stop myself crying out and devouring
them all there and then, but I scuttled down the stairs and presented them to Peter, who was still struggling to lift the
cup to his lips. I broke a scone into pieces, and placed them into his dry mouth, trying not to let the errant crumbs straying
from the corners down his shirt trouble me in their profligacy. I restrained my hunger until he had finished, and then I fell
upon my own scone, and when it was gone I ran a licked finger around the paper to collect every last crumb, and thought about
starting on those lingering on Peter’s chest. I folded the other two up in a towel and put them in the dresser for Lucinda
in the morning. It felt strange to be a recipient of such alms, but I was glad all the way down to my frozen feet.

‘I was rooled,’ Peter murmured finally, his mouth clagged with scone. ‘Rooled up. In the sponging-house. Blades and Old Skinner
had me done. Skinner skinned me. Got himself an arrest warrant for a shilling, threw me in the sponging-house. Blades too.’

Lucinda was turning in her bed upstairs.

‘I only pledged twenty-five pounds. But the paper says fifty. It’s got my signature on. And we agreed five per cent. Not –
not –’

‘How much?’ I dared ask.

‘Thirty per cent,’ he lied.

‘They charge what they please, don’t they, those folk,’ I said, numbly. Sixty, I wanted to scream. I saw it, Peter. Sixty!

But he proffered nothing further. There was nothing left in his voice, nothing left in him. He had become a veritable Dombey.

‘How long have we got?’ I eventually said.

‘A week.’

‘Will the bailiffs come?’

‘If Mrs Eeles doesn’t distrain it all first. We must – should we – can we bolt the moon?’ For the respectable Peter Damage
even to suggest this was a sorry sign of how far he had sunk.

I shook my head. ‘No need, Peter. I’ve taken care of her. The rent’s been paid for two months, love. Don’t you worry there.’

‘How?’ He looked up at me in shock.

‘I’ll tell you another time.’

In bed that night I could not rest, despite my wearying day. I was hungry and faint, and sick for more food; my limbs were
restless, and my sleep enervated. My dreams were haunted with spectres of my daughter, my husband and my father hovering around
my mother’s death-bed, but who was dead and who alive I could not tell, for all were grey with terror and privation, and all
cried at me to save them.

My mother, Georgina Brice, died on 14 September 1854, twelve days after she went down with the cholera. She weakened quickly;
her liveliness poured out of her with every filling of the chamber-pot. Everything about her was dry: her skin flaked under
my touch, her mouth cracked not only at the corners but inside, at the roof, under the tongue. No matter how much clean water
she drank, nothing would quench her. Soon she stopped passing water: she could not even cry tears, although she knew she was
dying, and her face sometimes creased and heaved up and down, as if she were weeping dry. The doctors said to give her salt,
and more salt, to keep the water in her tissues, but it was too late, and I might as well have been embalming her for all
the salt I shovelled into her. The fishy smell of cholera pervaded the house and the streets around the contaminated water
pump in Broad-street. Even now, when I walk past the fishmongers’ stalls, I am reminded of those dreadful days of death in
our little tenement north of the river. Would that we had never left Hastings in search of the heart of the book trade.

She would ask me to sponge her face with water, then leave the sponge on her lips so she could suck it. But she was too weak,
and the water just pooled in her mouth and dribbled down her chin. I was nineteen, and about to become a mother myself, but
I was not ready to lose her, even though there are millions of wretches out there who lose their mothers as they draw their
very first breaths, or in their tenderest years. I wiped her chin and neck, and I could see from her pallor that she was leaving,
and that she did not know me any more. She opened her eyes wide one last time and stared at me, and she did not cry. She could
not, the doctor told me, even if she had wanted to. She died like that, with her eyes open; her eyeballs had so dried out
that it took me twenty minutes to close the lids, using my own tears as lubrication. Her body was not cold as marble, as the
saying goes; rather, it was like petrified wood, so ravaged was her desiccated skin. As I washed her all over before dressing
her, my tears dripped onto her and mingled with the water, and so great were the out -pourings of my grief it was as if I
needed not have brought the pail up. But tears are futile, and could do nothing for her dry old body, and so ashamed was I
of my excess that I have not cried a single tear since.

Early the next morning, stiff-limbed, I picked the fire over for cinders to stoke up the range, and drew water into the kettle.
As I set the breakfast things I ran my hands over the table, the chair backs, the piano. The knock at the door would surely
come soon, and we would stand by stoically, relinquishing everything to the bailiffs, or the brokers, and be left standing
in a bare little house. Where would Lucinda sleep, and how would Peter eat breakfast?

Yet it was a rare moment, for I felt a peculiar sense of freedom at the thought, as if furniture was merely tiresome and its
removal a blessing, and I knew then what I had to do. Perhaps the answer had been inside me all along, but it took the prospect
of release from my trappings for me to notice it.

So in and out my toes went again that morning, only this time the hem under which they went was edged with a slightly worn
but still fine green ribbon, which contrasted with the pale floral cambric. I married Peter in this dress; it was the only
decent dress I had kept from Huggitty, as if I knew I would need to look proper again one day, and it had a matching bonnet
that caught the worst of the drizzle. I had left a note, assuring Peter I would not be gone long, but I did not state my destination.
With luck Lucinda might not even wake before I returned.

I paid my ha’penny and scurried over Waterloo Bridge once more. It was still dark. I did not look over at Lambeth Marshes,
but kept my eyes on my worn leather boots lined with
The
Illustrated London News
, going in and out beneath my green hem. How hopeful the colour seemed, how fresh and spring-like. I was such the innocent.

Occasionally I would glimpse the steamboats puffing underneath me, crowded with clerks on their way to Essex Street Pier,
or Blackfriars Bridge Pier, or St Paul’s Wharf, or Old Shades Pier by London Bridge, where they would disgorge their sombre-suited
cargo. The air was oily on my skin: the breath of London.

The lamplighters were doing their rounds with their ladders, turning off the stopcocks at each lamp-post, and the pavements
were already full of tradesmen, footmen, clerks, all wrapped up in thick cloaks. A few women were amongst them: maidservants
in couples, wives tottering next to their tradesman husbands, the odd gentlewomen mantled and veiled to obscurity, with maids
in tow. All were in pairs; I felt conspicuous on my own. I was stared at with impunity, especially by the men. Women are experts
at the cross-gaze; why do men have to look directly? Was I overdressed in my finest, or not smart enough? Did I look like
a lady’s maid who had done away with her lady, or a prostitute, even? For, unaccompanied, I became a public woman, a term
I used to reserve for those whose coquettish walks, kiss-me-quick ringlets, and slightly-too-trim trimmings sought to be noticed,
and paid for. Oh, for an escort on to whose arm I could cling, to allay my fellow street-goers’ curiosity and render me invisible.

Straight up Wellington-street I went, with studied nonchalance and directness of purpose, past Somerset House on my right
and Duchy Wharf down to my left, and all the way up to the top where the road was bisected by the Strand. Then I turned right,
trembling but determined, and increasingly immune to the gaze of men. I was crossing paths with journalists and hacks from
The Illustrated London News
, which had its headquarters hereabouts, and doctors from King’s College, which I was just now passing. Through the shoppers
I went, the gentlemen on fast business, the trolleys, crinolines, crossing-sweepers, hawkers, urchins, wheel-barrows, all
weaving in and out of the irate, tedious crawl of carriages, cabs and buses. The noise was deafening: the iron-shod wooden
wheels of the carriages rattling over the cobbles, the drivers of the omnibuses shouting their destinations, the thwarted
haste of the red newspaper express, and at last I was anonymous, irrelevant, obliterated in the thickness of the crowds.