Fire

by C. C. Humphreys

  Her bed companion giggled. Sarah raised herself onto an elbow and peered over the bare shoulder next to her. Jenny Johnson still slept, caught in some happy dream. Pulled tight to her, her three-year-old daughter Mary stirred but did not open her eyes.

  The bed was narrow. Sarah’s arm had been pressed to the top of Jenny’s back, skin to skin above their shifts. It came away with a wet sucking. August followed on from July in heat. No breeze relieved them from the high, narrow window. No rain for three months.

  She inhaled again. But the cart had moved off and only the ward’s and her own rankness filled her nostrils now. She would have to wash. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it well. Years as an actress had taught her: gentlemen pay more for a better performance. Though many of her colleagues in the playhouse had happily straddled the border between player and prostitute, she never had. But she had observed who earned better and how. Who fucked the dukes rather than the draymen. Over on the men’s side, the Knight’s as it was called, there were several gentlemen. There was even a baronet. All debtors too, but still able to afford the extra shillings for a room, for better food. If either was lying around she would take it, silver or bread or both. Thievery and whoredom went hand in glove.

  Another shifting came, this time within her. She laid a hand on her belly, felt the welcome kick, kick, kick. ‘You are why I do this,’ she crooned softly. ‘You and William Coke.’

  ‘ ’Allo, luv,’ Jenny said, smiling up at Sarah. ‘Been awake long?’

  ‘A while. Thinking.’

  ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sarah took a deep breath. ‘Today’s the day.’

  ‘Yes? Well, ’bout time.’ Jenny slid up the bed now, to rest her back against the stone wall, Mary rising with her. She was fastened as ever to Jenny’s breast, even though there was no milk. ‘I’ve told ya. There’s nothin’ to it.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Well –’ Jenny shrugged. ‘Not much. They’re all so drunk over there it’s over in moments and you walk away with a shilling. Or more.’ She smiled again. ‘And look what sometimes ’appens. You get a lovely little thing like my Mary ’ere. Who would wish that away?’

  She bent down to kiss the top of her daughter’s head, hair as red as the mother’s. Sarah shook her head. ‘That’s not my plan.’

  ‘Nah, you’ll have to clear your oven before you stick in another load of buns.’ Jenny cackled loud. Immediately a voice came from a nearby bed. ‘Will you two poxed whores cease your blabbing? Some of us are trying to sleep.’

  ‘Pot calling the kettle black, Jane Warren!’ Jenny retorted. She lowered her voice, not much. ‘Sixpence she charges. Lowers the price for all of us, the cheap trull. Lucky everyone knows she’s got the Covent Garden gout, so not even the turnkeys’ll touch ’er.’

  ‘Oi!’ Jane screamed, and that woke the whole cell. There was an immediate Babel of competing voices – yelling mothers, crying children, single women complaining.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jenny, popping Mary off her breast and pulling up her shift. ‘Let’s see if we can get to the pump before the rush. I stinks even to meself.’

  Their door had been unlocked at first light. It gave directly onto the yard, as did the others on either side. Some of these were already open, some women and children about, some ahead at the pump. Sarah looked to the main gate which opened onto the narrow lane that led down to Poultry and the city beyond, watching the first few debtors slip out, some to work, some to beg, some to whore. Every man and woman was allowed to leave to earn money by whatever means to repay their debt – though few earned more than the wherewithal to survive. The ‘garnish’, as it was called, charged by the gaolers – for a roof and a bunk, by the bailiffs for clothes and sundries, by the attorney-at-law who would offer hope of freedom with legal quibbles that went nowhere – sucked away everything.

  ‘We’re on,’ Jenny said, jolting Sarah from her stare. Jenny stepped up and pumped the water. It took a while, for the pressure was low for the lack of rain. She filled and tipped a bucket over herself, a second over Sarah and then, to her squeals, a third over Mary. ‘I’ve this,’ she said, producing a nub of soap which she began to wash her daughter and herself before passing the little that remained across. Sarah scrubbed all over under her shift until the block dissolved. As she passed across her distended belly she felt a hardness pressing out. Elbow or heel she wondered, rubbing at it. One pail between them sluiced them down.

  There was a rectangle of sunlight at the western end of the yard. They went and sat in it, enjoying the warmth on their cooled skin, knowing they would be sweating again all too soon. ‘You sure about this?’ asked Jenny, pulling Mary tight to her.

  Sarah sighed. ‘Were you sure the first time?’

  ‘What, back in the reign of Good Queen Bess?’ She laughed. ‘First time? Well, my ma was in the trade so –’ She squinted. ‘Nah, didn’t like it. I remember that. But you get used to what you must, eh? And that was “first time” first time. Won’t be yours,’ she gestured down, ‘unless that’s the result of you coupling with the ’oly spirit.’ She cackled again, crossing herself at the same time. Jenny was a Catholic and on her knees each night before she climbed into their cot.

  ‘Nay, indeed.’ A brief vision of William came, as he’d been in the dream. Survive, he’d said. Survive, she would.

  Jenny reached out and touched her arm. More gently now she said, ‘I was born to it, but you was not. Is there no other way? Your cousins in St Giles?’

  ‘They spared me all they could, which was not much, for they are near as hungry in those tenements as we are here.’

  ‘Try the playhouse one more time.’

  Sarah shook her head. They would not let her act any more. Indeed, Betterton disliked her so, for always refusing his advances, that he would not even let her sew the dresses. Others had helped, sparing what they could from the little an actor earned. But, like the pump soon would in the Compter’s yard, that course had run dry.

  ‘No one else?’

  There’d been one other source that had sustained her until now. Bettina Pitman had been a weekly visitor, always bringing something – from her table, or her stove, for she was a marvellous creator of cordials and elixirs. But at the last visit a week before, she’d wept at the little she could offer. ‘Since the pestilence departed, few buy my plague water,’ she’d said. ‘And Pitman’s pittance of a constable’s salary is putting little food on our platters.’ She’d dabbed her eyes, tried a smile. ‘But his leg’s set, and he’s up on two feet again, though moving slowly, the great cabbage. Perhaps he’ll be agile enough to take us a thief ere long and all our problems will be solved.’

  Sarah looked back at Jenny. ‘I can rely on no one else.’

  Her friend took her hand. ‘You can rely on me, love. I’ll see you through it.’ Without letting go, she rose. ‘Come, let’s beautify.’

  They borrowed a brush, pulled it through each other’s hair, shaking off lice at every pass. Sarah’s had lost all the blonde dye she’d used as an actress; it was auburn again now, though she knew well enough that silver wound through it too. They mixed charcoal from the long-dead fires with spit, making a paste that would substitute for kohl and highlighted their eyes and eyebrows. They even giggled as they did each other’s, though Sarah fell silent when she remembered that these preparations were not leading to the stage. She stayed silent as she pulled on first her other, better shift, then her second dress, the one she had worn only when calling on friends to beg for money. She’d had to let it out, of course, and had done that enough so that her pregnancy was not immediately obvious. There was no mirror to look at herself in, for which she was grateful. She felt like a foaling mare.

  Jenny seemed more pleased with herself, in her Sunday best. She twirled and said, ‘Shall we go pay a call?’

  ‘At this hour?’ Sarah raised a hand to the sound of the bell in St Olave Old Jewry only just then sounding nine.

  ‘The best time to c
atch them. The sots will have drunk the night through and those who are still awake will be lusty – lusty and largely incapable.’ Jenny giggled. ‘Doesn’t matter, s’long as they pay us ahead.’ She moved to the door. ‘We’ll go see the baronet. He’s got a lovely room.’

  They crossed the narrow yard to the Knight’s side. On the ground level, either side of an archway, one on each side, were cramped cells just like the women’s; from which, if possible, an even greater stench emerged. Men crowded the windows, leaning there with mouths wide to catch some fresher air. One called out, ‘Avast! A fine pair of frigates hoving to!’ and a few others then thrust their faces to the bars, whistling and blowing kisses. Just inside the main doorway, a gaoler had a key in the lock, about to turn it. Sarah knew that the men were only locked in to prevent them wandering at night, causing a disturbance in the streets and getting up to various villainies. By day, like the women, they could leave in search of the means to pay back their debts. Like the women, they all returned at night. For if they absconded, and were likely caught again, they would be Newgate-bound, that prison an even lower level of hell.

  ‘Now there’s a pair of fishmonger’s daughters if ever I saw ’em,’ said the gaoler, straightening up. ‘Who’re you off to jilt?’

  ‘We’re jilting no one but playing upon the square. The baronet sent for us.’

  ‘Did he? Wonder how he managed that since he was snoring not five minutes past. I look after his door so –’ He scratched at his unshaven chin. ‘Wha’s in it for me to let you up?’

  Jenny glided close to him, grabbing him through his breeches. ‘Somethin’ on account, Mr Jenkins?’ she purred.

  ‘Leave that,’ he growled, slapping her hand away. ‘I’m a God-fearing and a married man.’ He shoved her back. ‘But I’ll take me cut.’

  Jenny sucked at her teeth. ‘I’ve already got a mackerel,’ she said. ‘Bully Davis, in charge at the ’ospital. Shall I tell ’im you was trying to squeeze us?’

  The man whitened. ‘On your way,’ he muttered, and turned back to the men’s door.

  Jenny led the way up the stair. ‘Mackerel?’ asked Sarah, as they rounded the corner.

  ‘Pander,’ Jenny replied. ‘I ain’t got one in ’ere, but Bully Davis is mad so ’e believes ’e is mine if I give ’im the odd free fondle. Kill a man if I asked.’ She paused before a door. ‘So ’ere we are. You sure you’re ready for this?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because you’ve got a face like a smacked arse. Can you fake it?’

  Sarah smiled. ‘My dear countess, it’s what I’ve been doing all my life,’ she said.

  ‘Good girl. Tits up. Tally ho.’

  She pushed the door. The first thing Sarah thought was, lovely room? With mould blooming on bare plaster between strips of torn wallpaper; the floorboards that were splintered and cracked; the single, sagging bed; and the same overflowing slop bucket that reeked in the corner of the women’s ward. But then she remembered: one man has all this space to himself. He had a table, two chairs. There was a moth-chewed rug on the floor, but a rug nonetheless. Above all there was the open window. Higher up, a breeze reached through it, slightly tempering the heat of the morning.

  There were three men in the room. One upon the bed with his forearm across his eyes; two at the table, face down. There were bottles upon that, dice – and some silver coins. Sarah indicated them with her chin. Jenny mouthed a ‘no’ and crossed to the bed. ‘Sir Knight,’ she said softly, running her hand down his chest. ‘Coo-ee there, Dickie bird.’

  She rested her hand on the man’s crotch. He jerked awake. ‘What?’ he screeched. ‘Egad, what means this, ha? Who the devil –’

  Jenny had leaned out of range of the flailing. Now she caught the knight’s hand. ‘ ’Tis I, Dickie. Your sweet Jenny.’ She kissed his finger, lingeringly. ‘You sent for me.’

  ‘Did I?’ He swung his feet onto the floor, sat up, clutching his head with a yelp of pain. Sarah could see that he was a man of middling years, his face florid with drink, his nose a small purple cauliflower. Hair ringed his bald head like a grey coronet.

  ‘ ’Ere, sweetheart,’ Jenny said, rising and fetching a mug from the table, ‘ ’ere’s fur of the same wolf what bit ya.’

  As the baronet gulped greedily, Sarah looked at the two men at the table, both of whom had sat up. The younger one was already appraising her from under a thatch of black hair. The elder had an eye-patch, in which the missing eye was marked out in tiny glittering gems. Sarah had a vague recall, of someone William had talked of, a dice sharper whom he disliked. Then she shook herself. Do not think of Captain Coke, she thought. Do not.

  ‘Are these the buttocks we were promised, Father?’ said the youth.

  ‘I do not know, my boy,’ Eye-Patch replied. ‘Are they, de Lacey?’

  The baronet squinted. ‘Don’t know that one. Who’s she, Jenny?’

  ‘A friend. You said you’d like somethin’ new.’

  ‘Something new, indeed.’ A gleam had displaced the torpor in his eyes. He stood, wobbled, then steadied. Took a step forward.

  ‘Oh, but Dickie!’ Jenny cried. ‘Aren’t you going to offer the ladies a drink? A bite? You are always so gentlemanly.’

  ‘Gentlemanly,’ drawled the younger man, rising, ‘to a pair of painted punks? There’s only one part of this gentleman they’ll get.’

  ‘No!’ the baronet roared. ‘You do not live here, sir, and I do. We’ll have our fun, never you fear. But we’ll do it in proper style.’ He bowed. ‘Ladies, help yourself to whatever’s here, while I relieve my beastly bladder.’

  He staggered to the corner, turned his back and fiddled with his breeches. After a while a trickle came, the sound enough to provoke the others. They lined up behind the knight, turning their back on the two women.

  Sarah looked at the table. The remains of several partridges were upon it, not completely picked clean. She tore into them, glancing about, and saw, upon the sill, a basket of fruit. Still chewing, she moved over and recognised greengages. Throwing the partridge bones through the open window, she lifted one and bit into it. It was young, a little sour. She didn’t think she’d tasted anything so delicious in her life. The only fruit they got inside the Compter was the kind that pigs rejected outside it.

  She ate three standing there, pausing only to throw a greengage to Jenny who caught it in one hand, while she swigged from a bottle in the other.

  ‘And now, my dear.’

  His voice made her turn back. The baronet crossed to her. ‘My, but you’re a plump one, girl,’ he said, running his hand over her breasts. He mistook her pained groan. ‘Like that, d’ya? Hmm!’ He squeezed harder and then his hand journeyed down. ‘See if you like…Egad!’ He jumped back as if he’d placed his hand on a hot hob. ‘By Christ! By Jesus! You are with child.’

  Sarah remembered what Jenny had said. What she had decided herself. She was there to – act. Which she could do. ‘Never mind that, sir,’ she said, letting her voice go deep as she stepped forward, reaching towards him. ‘There’s plenty of things –’

  ‘No! God, no!’ He stepped away. ‘Can’t stand the stench of a woman with a babe in the breech. Reminds me of her Ladyship.’ He shuddered and turned. ‘Jenny, do ye seek to gull us here?’

  ‘Nay, indeed, sir –’

  ‘It does not matter to me.’ Eye-Patch’s voice was as smooth as the baronet’s had been agitated. ‘I doubt it will to my son.’ He smiled. ‘Do you take your old moll, de Lacey. Let us handle the brood mare.’

  Jenny turned to the men. ‘Do you suggest one after the other or both at once? That’ll cost ya more –’

  ‘Quiet, whore,’ Eye-Patch snapped. Then his voice returned to silk. ‘She will be well rewarded, I assure you. For I stint nothing in my boy’s education. Why, has he not just come down from Oxford?’ He reached into his doublet, pulling out a leather purse and placing it on the window sill. ‘What’s within will also pay for whatever de Lacey wishes.’ He chuckled. ‘Even d
eeper in my debt, old friend, what?’ He turned to his son. ‘And I think, both at once, don’t you?’

  ‘Really, Father?’ The youth laughed. ‘You are better than any tutor at Oxford.’

  Sarah swallowed. She wanted to run – from the coolness in the single eye of the older man and the heat in the eyes of the younger. But the purse? There might be a month of food within it. For her, yes. But more importantly for her baby.

  Act, she told herself again and put a smile on her face. ‘Whatever you desire, gentlemen.’

  Eye-Patch picked up the wooden platters on the table and tipped the scraps out of the window. ‘What I desire is that you remove that hideous dress and lay yourself on the table.’

  With a last nod at her, Jenny led de Lacey to the bed. With some difficulty, Sarah pulled her gown over her head. Then, clad only in her shift, she hoisted herself onto the table. Survive, she heard her William say.

  ‘Knees up,’ Eye-Patch said, reaching for the buttons of his breeches.

  —

  As the bell sounded the quarter in the tower of St Olave’s, Pitman limped into the yard of the Poultry Compter. He leaned there on his great staff and looked about.

  There but for the grace of God go I, he thought, eyeing the wretches around him. He wondered if the proverb was biblical, and decided not. It was true nonetheless. How far had he and his been from such degradation? Not very far, was the answer. But that was all changed now.

  He did not find whom he sought. But there was a turnkey on the Knight’s side whom he’d dealt with before approaching the gateway now. ‘Jenkins,’ he said.