Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

‘Yes. I would.’

  Ruth sniffed, then slapped her hands, trying to lighten the tension that had wheedled into their conversation. ‘Let us not be melancholy! He has found you – or you him – whichever way around it was. You have saved each other. When Osborne loves, he loves completely, Catherine. I have never seen him so happy.’

  ‘He has been a little cold with me at times.’

  Ruth flicked her hand. ‘Men. Their little moods. They say we are complicated!’ She chuckled. ‘Old habits are hard to change, my dear. Do not expect too much of him all at once. He is only just learning to trust again.’

  Chapter 17

  June 1854. Birmingham.

  Osborne shut the door of Brent’s solicitors and smiled at the ugly town. Plumes of black smoke churned into the sky, and the stench alone was enough to make one sick, but neither of these things could dampen his spirits. He simply shielded his nose with his lavender-scented handkerchief and skipped towards his carriage.

  ‘The hotel, sir?’

  ‘Not yet, Barclay.’ He shouldn’t … he had promised. But what would it hurt just to take a look? ‘Take me to Bronson’s button factory.’

  They had to stop a few times as Barclay consulted people for directions. The whole place was a rabbit warren of streets, all looking the same with the same kinds of people scurrying from here to there. The horse was agitated in these narrow lanes – it skittered away every so often, and then halted entirely in its fright. It was not a pleasant ride, and Osborne was feeling positively nauseous by the time the carriage finally stopped, and Barclay called down to Osborne that they had arrived.

  From his window, he observed the towering brick building. It was taller than his own house and was speckled with windows encased in iron bars – it looked more like a gaol than a place of work. He could hear the machines from here.

  He could not imagine his Catherine in such a place. Her small, beautiful body held inside somewhere so ugly and hard. He could not even bring himself to step outside and get any closer to it – Bronson would never know what had become of one his girls. Osborne guessed that the old crone wouldn’t care anyway.

  He smacked the roof of the Brougham.

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  Did he want to see more of Catherine’s old life? Could he bear to know the extent of her suffering? Curiosity stung him.

  He recalled her terrified face, begging him to stay away from her past, crying that he would no longer love her. Did she have so little faith in him? He was not a man easily cowed – not anymore, at least. No, he would know the full extent of Catherine’s previous existence. He would know exactly what he had rescued her from.

  ‘Bailey Road,’ he shouted to Barclay and settled himself in for another unpleasant journey.

  Bailey Road was so narrow that the sides of the carriage almost touched the brickwork as it squeezed between the back-to-back houses. Either side of him, curtains twitched, and sometimes Osborne saw a ghostly face at a window, although when he double-checked, there was nothing but black beyond the glass.

  He shouted for Barclay to stop and, though his heart was beating too fast, he opened his door and dismounted.

  The ground beneath him was not fit to call a road. Under his Brougham, wastewater trickled in an open gutter. Desperately, he dragged out his handkerchief again and pressed it over his mouth and nose.

  He should not have come. What sorts of diseases were filtering through the lining of the cotton right now? He took one last breath then sealed his mouth shut and vowed not to breathe again until he was back in the Brougham.

  Quickly, he took in the houses surrounding him, somewhat absently noting how the woodwork was splintering in the doorframes, how the glass was cracking at the corners of all the windows. How should he know which had been Catherine’s home? It was even more impossible to imagine her here than it had been at Bronson’s. How could her sweet, pale face, so round and innocent and pure, ever have gazed out from one of these windows?

  ‘You all right, sir?’

  He turned to find an old woman standing in a doorway. Her clothes were tatty but her apron, which was fastened tight around her waist, was clean. She had rolled up her sleeves, revealing soft, sagging flesh, and her plump cheeks were pink as she smiled at him.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  His lungs were starting to ache. His cheeks would no doubt be pink now, if not turning blue. He must look most ridiculous.

  He glanced at his carriage, waiting so invitingly for his return, then forced himself to inhale and speak.

  ‘Did you know a woman called Catherine Davies?’

  ‘Cat!’ The old woman’s smile grew wide, and then suspicion clouded her eyes. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  He laughed, suddenly feeling foolish. ‘I have married her.’

  ‘You? You’ve married Cat?’

  Heat flooded his face. Hearing it from this stranger’s lips, it sounded even more absurd than when Stephen had shouted it at him. How had someone like him ever married someone who had originated from somewhere like this?

  He nodded uneasily. ‘I love her very much,’ he said, finding reassurance in his own words. ‘Anyway, I was in town, and she has told me so much of where she used to live that I thought I would like to see it for myself.’

  The old woman lifted her apron to her eyes. ‘Oh, sir, you have made me a happy woman. Such a lovely girl, she was.’

  ‘You knew her well?’

  ‘Knew her! I helped bring her into this world. Such a nice girl and ever so pretty. Well, all the girls were pretty, but Cat! You know all about that!’ She laughed. ‘Yes, they were my neighbours, lived next door. Such a pity, what happened.’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t stand the folks who came in after. Horrible lot. Kiddies’ got no manners. I hoped they’d go, tell the truth, but they’ve stuck for three blooming years.’

  ‘Three years?’

  She nodded. ‘Hear them now? Screaming and shouting! All day and night–’

  ‘I didn’t know Catherine had been gone from here for so long.’

  ‘Awful when she went, and Lottie and Helen being shipped off like that. I offered her a place here for a while until she’d got herself sorted, but she was headstrong, didn’t take kindly to charity. You’ll know that though, I bet!’ She laughed and bumped him on the arm.

  He stepped away. It took all his willpower not to cast his jacket into the street. He felt the woman’s filth penetrating the wool as he forced himself to remain still. He would burn it later.

  ‘Do you know where she went after she left here?’

  ‘Able Street.’ The woman shuddered, now more guarded after noting Osborne’s disgust at her touch. ‘I never saw her after.’

  ‘Able Street – whereabouts is that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go there if I were you, sir. You think this street is bad; they’ll have your wallet before you’ve even got out of your carriage.’

  He found it difficult to imagine how anywhere might have been worse than Bailey Road. Nevertheless, he managed to smile as the smell began to burn his throat. ‘Thank you, Mrs …?’

  ‘Smith.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Smith, you’ve been most helpful.’

  He found a shilling from his pocket and held it out at arm’s length for her. For a moment, she hesitated, her skin blushing, but she was not quite so proud as to refuse it. She snatched it from him before diving back into her house.

  ‘Able Street, Barclay!’

  ‘Can’t get down there, sir.’

  Osborne peeked through the carriage curtain. Able Street was terrifyingly narrow; even the weak daylight could not penetrate the gap. He opened the door, boldness sweeping over him.

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’ Barclay said, peering at the street and holding the reins tight as the horse fidgeted and threw its head back.

  ‘Wait here for me.’ Osborne clutched his jacket tight, despite the heat, making sure his watch was hidden and that his wallet was safe in his pocket, and marched into Able Street.
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br />   The houses were so high that it made him dizzy to look up at them. People hung in dark doorways. Faces stared brazenly from the windows, looking him up and down, assessing him, his wealth and status and connections – was it worth the risk to rob him? He squared his shoulders, hoping false confidence would keep him safe.

  He stomped forward, squelching over the muck, flinching from the vivid, lurid noises lunging at him from the open doorways. Once more, he forced the handkerchief to his nose, but the lavender was no match for the stench in the street.

  Something brushed behind him, and he felt cold, damp fingers against his hand, aiming for his pocket. He jerked around, ready to fight them off, but found nothing but shadows. His skin crawled as he replayed the feeling of that putrid flesh against his, and he wished to God that there might be a clean bowl of water and some soap nearby. There wasn’t.

  He came to the end of the street. He had no idea what he was looking for. He hoped something might strike him as important, that he might feel the presence of Catherine somewhere, but there was nothing but the creeping sense of danger. He was alone amidst people who would club a man to death for less than a quarter of the money he had in his pocket right now.

  A boy emerged from one of the houses, no more than ten years old, Osborne guessed, for the size of him. The boy eyed Osborne, then began to walk away.

  ‘You.’

  The boy stopped, turned to Osborne, and jutted his chin out as a response.

  ‘You know of anyone called Catherine Davies?’

  The boy shook his head and went to leave.

  ‘This tall,’ Osborne pointed to his chest, ‘Yellow-haired. Pretty.’

  ‘There are lots of pretty girls here, sir, if that’s what you’re looking for?’ The boy came closer. His voice was low and scratchy – he must have been older than he looked.

  ‘I specifically require information about Catherine Davies. I understand she used to live on this street.’

  ‘I get confused with names, sir.’ The boy waited, eyebrows raised, eyes pointed at Osborne’s pocket.

  Osborne found him a shilling. ‘Did you know her?’

  The boy nodded and waited. Osborne gave him another shilling.

  ‘She used to have a room here,’ he nodded at the house from which he had just come.

  ‘Will you show me?’ Osborne handed him two more shillings before the boy had to ask.

  Osborne’s shoulders were as broad as the doorway. His shadow blocked out all daylight, leaving the corridor gloomy. The smell of smoke and stale bodily fluids hit him through his handkerchief.

  ‘This way.’ The boy mounted the stairs silently, but when Osborne put his foot on the wooden slats, they screeched under his weight.

  Muffled noises came from the doors off the landing. Osborne did not try to understand them. He followed the boy to another set of stairs and saw, just in time, the boy jump two steps; the boards had collapsed. He imagined the scream of someone as they had fallen through the step, legs ripping against the rotten splinters.

  ‘This is it,’ the boy said at the top of the stairs. Osborne had to incline his head so he did not hit it against the eaves.

  ‘Which room?’

  The boy jerked his head towards the door to Osborne’s left. Behind the only other door on this floor, a girl’s voice trilled, and metal clinked against metal. Osborne focused on the door to his left.

  ‘Can I look inside?’

  ‘Someone else has got it now. Shouldn’t be showing you inside someone’s private room.’ The boy’s dead eyes met his. Osborne chucked another shilling at him.

  The door was not locked. Inside, a set of drawers was pushed against the far wall and topped with a piss pot. Clothes were strewn across the floor to act as rugs, an old skirt draped against the window to block out the light. A black, dripping patch of damp spread over the ceiling above the unmade bed where dirty sheets lay in a heap.

  ‘Who is here now?’

  ‘A girl.’ The boy shrugged.

  ‘How long was Catherine here?’

  ‘Days turn into years. I can’t remember what happened yesterday.’

  Osborne gave the boy a shilling, and the boy slipped it into his pocket beside all the others.

  ‘I still can’t remember.’

  The boy was frustrating him. The stench was making him queasy. He must leave – he would not find anything here. Indeed, he wished to scour this place from his mind already, especially the idea that Catherine had ever lived in it.

  He turned, about to run down the stairs as fast as he could, when the door across the narrow landing opened and a man, perhaps fifty years of age, hobbled out. His wooden leg thumped along the floor and, on seeing that a gentleman had witnessed his sin, he pulled his hat down over his face and hurried down the stairs, jumping deftly over the two missing steps with ease, as if he’d had plenty of practice.

  A girl loitered in the doorway. Like the boy, she seemed little more than a child for her height and size, but the way her clothes hung – revealing most of her breasts – suggested she was older. Red hair draped around her shoulders, matted and unkempt.

  ‘All right, sir? Waiting for me?’

  ‘He’s asking about Cat,’ the boy replied before Osborne had the chance.

  ‘Cat? Why’s he interested in her?’

  ‘Did you know her?’ Osborne said.

  ‘We were neighbours.’

  ‘Got to go.’ The boy slipped past Osborne, fleeing so fast that Osborne wasn’t quick enough to grab him and make him stay.

  ‘What do you want to know about Miss Catherine?’

  He couldn’t look at the girl, at her unflinching stare, at her folded, scabby arms; it made him feel … odd. He stared at his feet instead. ‘Her past.’

  ‘You sure? You might not like it.’

  By now, he was sure that he would not.

  ‘I ain’t standing out on this draughty landing to tell you.’ She shrank into her room, leaving the door open for him.

  He could leave now. He could run down the stairs, all the way through Able Street, and be in his Brougham in less than a minute. He gripped the rough bannister, feeling his stomach flip, his feet itching to get away.

  With effort, he dragged himself into the girl’s room.

  Inside, it seemed she had disappeared. He stepped in further, looking for her, and the door shut behind him.

  ‘Drink?’

  Out of the shadows, she shoved a bottle of gin under his nose. He shook his head and watched her gulp the liquor as she sat on the edge of her bed. When she had finished drinking, she sucked the tip of the bottle and held his gaze, her red tongue rolling over the rim, menacingly.

  ‘You seem sad, sir. May I cheer you?’

  He pinched his top hat between his fingers and breathed slowly, trying to ease his nausea. With the help of the light, he could see the sore at the corner of her lips, red and angry, marking her disease.

  ‘Were you a friend to Catherine?’

  ‘Miss Catherine only ever had one friend. Nobody else was good enough.’

  He thrust his handkerchief inside his pocket. It was useless; with the door shut, the air in the room was concentrated. He could smell the man who had just left – body odour and semen still fresh on the sheets – and all the men who had been before.

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘A man.’ The girl grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes.

  ‘Only a friend?’

  ‘Can a man ever just be a friend to a woman?’ She got to her feet, placed the bottle on the floor, and straightened the dirty sheets.

  ‘Miss Catherine thought herself better than us,’ she yanked the sheet into place, the sparkle and seduction suddenly gone from her eyes. ‘She wasn’t.’

  ‘She is a good woman.’

  The girl barked laughter, then rounded on him. ‘We can all be good girls, if that is what you require, sir?’ She ran her fingers over his chest and laughed again as he flinched away from her.

  ‘Never trust
a woman, sir, we’re good at making things seem just as you want them to be. Who is she to you, anyway? You some kind of missionary, come to save a soul like hers? You’ll find plenty of souls like that what need saving, sir, but not all want it, you see?’

  ‘What do you mean, souls like hers?’

  She met his gaze squarely. ‘Like mine.’

  He could not believe it, not of Catherine. ‘You’re lying.’

  She shrugged. ‘Believe what you like.’

  She stepped to the window, finding a glimmer of her reflection in the grimy glass. She pushed up her breasts and ran a hand over her hair.

  ‘I have a man coming here, any minute. He doesn’t like to wait. And I need a piss. So …’ She gestured at the door.

  ‘Wait. What makes you think Catherine was … like you?’

  ‘I haven’t the time–’

  ‘I can give you this.’ Osborne held out the rest of his shillings on his palm.

  She stared at them. ‘You might, but this man’s a regular, and I don’t get the impression that you’ll be returning if you don’t have to. So,’ she plucked the coins from his fingers, ‘I’ll take this from you now, and you can come back next week if you really want to know all about your little pussy Cat. If you don’t change your mind in the meantime, that is. I’m quiet just after midday.’

  Chapter 18

  November 1852. Birmingham.

  Cat pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. It was too thin for this time of year – she felt the cold and the rain as sharp as pinpricks against her chest. Her corset was looser than usual, her hair down and swishing against her back. The only warmth was from John’s arm, which held her close as he dragged her towards the cut.

  Their feet skidded in the mud, the path beside the water more like a bog than a walkway. John kept her upright, but it was not only the mud and the dark which was making her wobble. The half bottle of gin that John had insisted she drink had made her head feel as if it was padded with linen.

  Barges lined the cut, and yells and laughter of workmen, drinking and fighting, carried over the water from somewhere nearby. Fog strangled the water, growing denser the more they walked, clutching at Cat’s ankles and making her shiver.