'I don't believe you,' I say. 'I am meant to come to an hotel. Mr Hawtrey paid you for that— '
'Paid me to bring you here, and then to leave you. Most particular. If you don't like it— ' She reaches into her pocket. 'Why, here's his very hand.'
She has brought out a piece of paper. It is the paper that Mr Hawtrey put about the coin. It has the name of the house upon it__
A home, he calls it, for destitute gentlewomen. For a moment I gaze at the words in a 249
sort of disbelief: as if my gazing at them will change them, change their meaning or shape. Then I look at the woman. 'This is a mistake,' I say. 'He didn't mean this. He has misunderstood, or you have. You must take me back__'
'I'm to bring you, and leave you, most particular,' she says stubbornly again. '"Poor lady, weak in her head, needs taking to a charity place." There's charity, ain't it?'
She nods again to the house. I do not answer. I am remembering Mr Hawtrey's look— his words, the odd tone of his voice. I think, / must go back! I must go back to Holywell Street!— and yet, even as I think it, I know, with a dreadful chill contraction of my heart, what I will find there if I do: the shop, the men, the youth; and Mr Hawtrey gone, to his own home— his home, which might be anywhere in the city, anywhere at all... And after that, the street— the street in darkness.— How shall I manage it? How shall I live a night, in London, on my own?
I begin to shake. 'What am I to do?' I say.
'What, but go over,' says the woman, nodding again to the house. The girl with the taper is gone, and the lamp burns feebly. The windows are shuttered, the glass above them black, as if the rooms are filled with darkness. The door is high— divided in two, like the great front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.
'I cannot,' I say. 'I cannot!'
Again the woman sucks her teeth. 'Better that than the road— ain't it? It's one or the other. I am paid to bring you here and leave you, that's all. Go on out, now, and let me get home.'
'I cannot,' I say again. I grab at her sleeve. 'You must take me, somewhere else.'
'Must I?' She laughs— does not shake me off, however. Instead, her look changes.
'Well, I will,' she says; 'if you'll pay me.'
'Pay you? I have nothing to pay you with!'
She laughs again. 'No money?' she says. And a dress like that?'
She looks at my skirt.
'Oh, God,' I say, plucking at it in desperation. 'I would give you the gown, if I might!'
'Would you?'
'Take the shawl!'
'The shawl's my own!' She snorts. She still looks at my skirt. Then she tilts her head.
'What you got,' she says more quietly, 'underneath?'
I shudder. Then slowly, shrinkingly, I draw up my hem, show her my petticoats— two petticoats there are, one white and one crimson. She sees them, and nods.
'They'll do. Silk, are they? They'll do.'
'What, both?' I say. 'Will you take both?'
'There's the driver needs his fare, ain't there?' she answers. 'You must pay me, once for myself; and once for him.'
I hesitate— but what can I do? I lift my skirt higher, find out the strings at my waist and pull them loose; then, modestly as I can, draw the petticoats down. She does not look away. She takes them from me and tucks them swiftly under her coat.
'What the gentleman don't know, eh?' she says, with a chuckle; as if we are close conspirators now. She rubs her hands. 'Where to, then? Eh? Where must I tell the driver?'
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She has opened the window, to call. I sit with my arms about myself, feeling the prickle of the fabric of my gown against my bare thighs. I think I would colour, I think I would weep, if I had life enough.
'Where to?' she asks again. Beyond her head, the street is filled with shadow. A moon has risen— a crescent, slender, filthy-brown.
I bow my head. With this last, awful bafflement of my hopes, I have only one place to go. I tell her, she calls it, and the coach starts up. She settles herself more comfortably in her seat, rearranges her coat. She looks at me.
All right, dearie?' she says. I do not answer, and she laughs. She turns away. 'Don't mind it now, does she?' she says, as if to herself. 'Don't mind it, now.'
Lant Street is dark when we reach it. I know the house to stop at, from the house which faces it— the one with the ointment-coloured shutters, that I have gazed at so hard from Mrs Sucksby's window John answers my knock. His face is white. He sees me, and stares 'Fuck,' he says. I go past him. The door leads into what I suppose is Mr Ibbs's shop, and a passage from that takes me directly into the kitchen. They are all there, apart from Richard. He is out in search of me. Dainty is weeping: her cheek is bruised, worse than before, her lip split and bleeding. Mr Ibbs paces in his shirt-sleeves, making the floorboards jump and creak. Mrs Sucksby stands, her eyes on nothing, her face white as powder, like John's. She stands still. But when she sees me come she folds and winces— puts her hand to her heart as if struck.
'Oh, my girl,' she says.
I don't know what they do after that. Dainty screams, I think. I go by them, not looking. I go up the stairs to Mrs Sucksby's room— my room, our room, I suppose I must call it now— and I sit upon the bed, my face to the window. I sit with my hands in my lap, my head bowed. My fingers are marked with dirt. My feet have begun, again, to bleed.
She gives me a minute, before she comes. She comes quietly. She closes the door and locks it at her back— turning the key gently in the lock, as if she thinks me sleeping and fears to wake me. Then she stands at my side. She does not try to touch me. I know, however, that she is trembling.
' D e a r g i r l , ' s h e s a y s . ' W e s u p p o s e d y o u l o s t . W e s u p p o s e d y o u d r o w n e d , o r murdered— '
Her voice catches, but does not break. She waits and, when I do nothing, 'Stand up, sweetheart,' she says.
I do. She takes the gown from me, and the stays. She does not ask what has become of my petticoats. She does not exclaim over my slippers and feet— though she shudders, as she draws off my stockings. She puts me, naked, into the bed; draws up the blanket to my jaw; then sits beside me. She strokes my hair— teases out the pins and tangles with her hands. My head is loose, and jerks as she tugs. 'There, now,' she says.
The house is silent. I think Mr Ibbs and John are talking, but talking in whispers. Her fingers move more slowly. 'There, now,' she ays again; and I shiver, for her voice is Sue's.
Her voice is Sue's, but her face— The room is dark, however, she has not brought a candle. She sits with her back to the window. But I feel her gaze, and her breath. I 251
close my eyes.
'We thought you lost,' she murmurs again. 'But you came back. Dear girl, I knew you should!'
'I have nowhere else,' I answer, slowly and hopelessly. 'I have nowhere and no-one. I thought I knew it; I never knew it till now. I have nothing. No home— '
'Here is your home!' she says.
'No friends— '
'Here are your friends!'
'No love— '