by Michel Faber
She flinches in embarrassment. ‘Oh William, I’m so sorry: I thought he’d be better behaved — he did promise me.’ She sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, head slightly downcast, so that her abundant fringe falls over her eyes. ‘Can you forgive me? I know so few men, that’s the problem.’
William sits beside her, laying one of his big hands over hers.
‘Ach, he’s no worse than some of the hopeless drunkards I have to deal with in my business affairs. The world is full of repugnant old blackguards.’
‘He’s the nearest thing to a grandfather I ever had,’ she reflects ruefully, ‘when I was a little girl.’ Is this the right moment for winning his sympathy? She glances sideways, to judge if her arrow was wide of the mark, but there’s compassion in his face, and the redoubled pressure of his hand on hers lets her know she has reached his heart.
‘Your childhood years,’ he says, ‘must have been Hell on earth.’
She nods and, without having to will it, real tears fall from her eyes. But what if William is one of those men who cannot abide a woman weeping? What does she think she’s up to? Something has gone awry inside her breast, where such decisions are made; a valve of self-control has failed, and she feels herself borne on a spillage of unfiltered feeling.
‘St Giles has a terrible reputation,’ offers William.
‘It used to be a lot worse,’ she says, ‘before they cut it in half with New Oxford Street.’ For some reason this strikes her as unbearably funny, and she snorts with laughter, wetting the tip of her nose with snot. What’s wrong with her? She’ll disgust him … but no, he’s handing her his handkerchief, an eminently pickpocketable square of white silk, monogrammed, for her to blow her nose in.
‘Do you …do you have any sisters?’ he asks, awkwardly. ‘Or brothers?’
She shakes her head, burying her face in the soft cloth, regaining her composure. ‘Alone,’ she says, hoping that her tears have not entirely washed away the subtle brown pigment with which she defines her pale orange eyelashes. ‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘Do you have any sisters?’
‘None,’ he says, with obvious regret. ‘My father married late, and lost his wife early.’
‘Lost?’
‘She disgraced him, and he cast her off.’
Back in control of herself now, Sugar resists the temptation to pry into the facts of the matter, judging that she’ll be granted the answers to a greater number of questions if she probes less boldly.
‘How sad,’ she says. ‘And your wife Agnes: has she a large family?’
‘No,’ replies William, ‘smaller even than mine. Her natural father died when she was a young girl, her mother when she came out of school. Her step-father is a lord: lives abroad, travels a great deal, has married a lady I’ve never met. As for siblings, Agnes should have had three or four sisters, but they all died in childbirth. She herself barely survived.’
‘That’s why she’s sickly, perhaps?’
William’s eyes flash with pain, as Agnes’s voice, hoarse with demented hatred, yells You make me sick! inside his skull: ‘Perhaps,’ he sighs.
Sugar strokes his hand, insinuates her fingers up his sleeve, pressing her rough flesh against his wrists in a motion she knows arouses him — if he’s to be aroused at all.
‘I do have one brother, though,’ he adds briskly.
‘A brother? Really?’ she says, as though William must be awfully clever or resourceful to have furnished himself with such a thing. ‘What sort of man is he?’
William falls back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. ‘What sort of man?’ he echoes, as she lays her head on his chest. ‘Now there’s a question …’
‘’Ello, sir,’ the prostitute calls, in a friendly but offhand manner, as though eager to please but just as content to be refused. ‘Want a nice girl — not expensive?’
She is pretty, and in much better condition than the freckled girl who, weeks ago in these same streets, told him her hand was his for a shilling. Yet, to Henry’s great relief, his response to this smart little temptress is no different from his response to her shabbier counterpart: he feels pity. The longings that plague him when he walks side by side with Mrs Fox are far from his mind now; he desires only to make a good account of himself, and learn as much from this poor creature as he learned from the grizzled man.
‘I wish … only to talk with you,’ he assures her. ‘I am a gentleman.’
‘Oh, good, sir,’ affirms the woman. ‘I don’t speak to any man as ain’t a gentleman. But let’s speak in my ‘ouse. If you’ll come with me, sir, it ain’t very far.’ Her speech is common, but not Cockney: possibly she’s a ruined maidservant from the country, or some other victim of rural circumstance.
‘No, stay,’ he cautions her. ‘I meant what I said just now: I wish only to talk with you.’
Mistrust, absent from her face while she took him for a partner in crime, now creases her brow.
‘Oh, I ain’t very good at talkin’, sir,’ she says, casting a glance over her shoulder. ‘I’ll not keep you.’
‘No, no,’ Henry remonstrates, guessing the reason for her reluctance. ‘I’ll pay you for your time. Whatever is your usual fee, I will pay.’
She cocks her head quizzically then, like a child who has been promised something she’s old enough to know is improbable.
‘One shillin’, please,’ she proposes. Without hesitation Henry puts his hand into his waistcoat pocket, produces not one but two shillings, and holds them out to her.
‘Come along then, sir,’ she says, folding the coins into her small hand. ‘I’ll take you where we can talk to our ‘earts’ content.’
‘No, no,’ protests Henry. ‘Here in the street is quite satisfactory.’
She laughs, raucously and without covering her mouth. (Mrs Fox is right: there is no mistaking a fallen woman.) ‘Very well, sir. What do you wish to ‘ear?’
He draws a deep breath, knowing she thinks him a fool, praying for the grace to transcend foolishness. She has clasped her hands behind her back, the better to show him her body no doubt. She is bosomy, but thin in the waist — very like the women used in advertisements for shoe polish, or his brother’s perfumes for that matter. Yet she is nothing to him but an unfortunate in peril of perdition. His heart beats hard in his breast, but only with fear that she’ll use her pretty tongue to mock his faith or his sincerity, and leave him stammering in the wake of her scornful departure. Apart from his heartbeat, he is unaware of his body; it might as well be a column of smoke, or a pedestal for his soul.
‘You are …a prostitute,’ he confirms.
‘Yes, sir.’ She clasps her hands tighter, and stands straighter, like a schoolgirl under interrogation.
‘And when did you lose your virtue?’ ‘When I was sixteen, sir, to me ‘usband.’
‘To your husband, you say?’ he replies, moved by her ignorance of moral science. ‘Why, you didn’t lose it, then!’
She shakes her head, smiling as before. ‘I weren’t married to ‘im then, sir. We was married in shame, as they say.’
Is she making fun of him? Henry squares his jaw, resolved to demonstrate he knows a thing or two about prostitutes. ‘You later left him,’ he suggests. ‘Or were you cast out?’
‘You might say as I was cast out, sir. ‘E died.’
‘And what is it that keeps you in this life? Would you say it was bad company? Or Society’s door being closed to you? Or … lust?’
‘Lust, definitely, sir,’ she replies. ‘The lust to eat. If a day goes by an’ I ain’t ‘ad a bite, I crave it, sir. Food, that is, sir.’ She shrugs, pouts, and licks her lips. ‘Weak, that’s me.’
Henry begins to blush: she’s no fool, this woman — cleverer than he, perhaps. Is there a future for a clergyman whose wits are duller than those of his parishioners? (Mrs Fox assures him his brain is as sharp as anyone’s and that he would make a wonderful vicar, but she is too kind …) Surely, for a man with a
mind as run-of-the-mill as his to be any use at shepherding a parish, he’d need to be blessed with exceptional purity of spirit, a divine simplicity of …
‘’Ave you finished with me already, sir?’
‘Uh … no!’ With a start, he returns his attention to his prostitute’s eyes — eyes which (he notices suddenly) are the same colour as Mrs Fox’s, and very nearly the same shape. He clears his throat, and asks: ‘Would you leave this life if you had work?’
‘This is work, sir,’ she grins. ‘Ard work.’
‘Well, yes …’ he agrees, but then, ‘No …’ he disagrees, ‘But…’ He frowns, dumbstruck. That old cynic MacLeish (he now recalls) once spoke of the futility of arguing with the poor. ‘More education,’ MacLeish declared, ‘is precisely what they don’t need. Already they can outfox philosophers and do circus tricks with logic. They’re too clever by half!’ But Mrs Fox refuted him, yes she did … What was it she said?
The prostitute cocks her head and leans closer to him, in an effort to see through the dreamy sheen in his unfocused eyes. Impishly, she waves her tiny hand at him, as though from a distant shore.
‘You’re a strange one, ain’t you?’ she says. ‘A ninnocent. I like you.’
Henry feels a fresh rush of blood to his cheeks, much more copious than the last. It throbs across his entire face, even reaching the tips of his ears –what an ass he must look!
‘I–I know a man,’ he stammers, ‘a man who owns a business. A very great concern, that’s growing larger as we speak. I … I could arrange …’ (for hasn’t William been saying he needs more workers and quickly?) ‘…I’m sure I could arrange for you to be given employment.’
To his dismay, her smile vanishes from her face and, for the first time since they met, she looks as if she despises him. All at once he’s afraid of her; afraid like any man of losing the approving sparkle in a woman’s eyes; afraid, simply, of letting her go. He yearns to convey to her the glad tidings of God’s generosity in times of need, to inspire her with proof of how the grimmest circumstance can be lightened by faith. The desire chokes him, but he knows that words are not enough, especially his feeble words. If only he could transmit God’s grace through his hands, and galvanise her with a touch!
‘What sort of work?’ demands the prostitute. ‘Factory work?’
‘Well … yes, I suppose so.’
‘Sir,’ she declares indignantly. ‘I’ve ‘ad work in a factory, and I know that to earn two shillin’s like these’ (she holds up the coins he has given her) ‘I should ‘ave to work many long hours, breakin’ my back in stink and danger, with never a minute to rest, and ‘ardly no sleep.’
‘But you wouldn’t be damned!’ blurts Henry in desperation. No sooner is the word ‘damned’ past his lips, than he receives his own punishment: the prostitute looks away and irritably thrusts his coins into a slit in her skirts, obviously deciding she’s given him as much time as he deserves. Fixing her gaze on the far end of the street, she remarks, ‘Parson’s tricks, sir, just parson’s tricks, all that.’ She glances back at him suspiciously. ‘You’re a parson, ain’t you?’
‘No, no, I’m not,’ he says.
‘Don’t believe you,’ she sniffs.
‘No, really, I’m not,’ he pleads, recalling Saint Peter and the cock crow.
‘Well, you ought to be,’ she says, reaching forward to touch, gently, his tightly-knotted necktie, as if her fingertips could conjure it into a clergyman’s collar.
‘God bless you!’ he cries.
There’s a moment’s pause while his ejaculation hangs in the air. Then the prostitute bends forward, resting her hands on her knees, and begins to giggle. She giggles for half a minute or more.
‘You’re a character, sir,’ she wheezes, shoulders shaking. ‘But I must go … ‘
‘Wait!’ he implores her, his head belatedly crowded with vital questions, questions he could not forgive himself for failing to put to her. ‘Do you believe you have a soul?’
‘A soul?’ she echoes incredulously. ‘A ghost inside me, with wings on? Well …’ She opens her mouth to speak, her lips curved in mockery; then, observing his plaintive expression, she swallows her spite, and softens the blow. ‘Any thing you ve got,’ she sighs, ‘I’ve got too, I’m sure.’ She smooths down the front of her dress, her hands sliding over the contours of her belly. ‘Now, I must be goin’. Last question, gentlemen, please!’
Henry sways on his feet, horrified to find himself in the grip of Evil. Only a few minutes ago, he was in the Lord’s hands: what’s become of him now? His self-possession is gone, and he might as well be thrashing in the clammy grip of a dream. One last question his pretty prostitute will answer; one last question, and what shall it be? Aghast, he hears his voice speak:
‘Are you … are you hairy?’
She squints in puzzlement. ‘Hairy, sir?’
‘On your body.’ He waves his hand vaguely at her bodice and skirts. ‘Do you have hair?’
‘Hair, sir?’ she grins mischievously. ‘Why, of course, sir: same as you!’ And at once she grabs hold of her skirts and gathers them up under her bosom, holding the rucked material with one hand while, with the other, she pulls down the front of her pantalettes, exposing the dark pubic triangle.
Loud laughter sounds from elsewhere in the street as Henry stares for a long instant, shuts his eyes, and turns his back on her. His upbringing makes it almost impossible for him to turn his back on a woman without first politely concluding the conversation, but he manages. Head aflame, he stumbles stiffly down the street, as if her sex is buried deep in his flesh like a sword.
‘I only wanted an answer!’ he yells hoarsely over his shoulder, as more and more of Church Lane’s elusive and subterranean voices join in the laughter without even understanding its cause.
‘Jesus, sir!’ she calls after him. ‘You ought to get summat for your extra shillin’!’
‘So there you have it,’ says William, as Sugar strokes her hands through the thick fur of his chest. ‘As different from me as night from day. But not a bad fellow all the same. And who knows? He may yet astound us, and seize his destiny.’
Sugar pauses in her encouragements to William’s growing manhood. ‘You mean … seize Rackham Perfumeries?’
‘No, no, that’s mine now, forever; no one can take it away,’ he says –though his erection, unnerved by the thought, falters and requires reassurance. ‘No, I meant Henry may yet seize … I don’t know, whatever a man of his sort wishes to seize, I suppose …’ He groans as Sugar mounts him.
This is the safe course, she’s found. Through all the years, with all the men, this is what she’s learned: a wilted man is an unhappy man, and unhappy men can be dangerous. Sheathe them in a warm hole, and they’ll perk up. Whenever the cockstand is uncertain, whenever strong drink has taken its toll, whenever sadness or worry lie heavy on a man’s heart, whenever doubt attacks his soul, whenever he glimpses his own nakedness and finds himself ugly or absurd, whenever he sees his manhood and is struck by the morbid fear that this may be the last time it rises from its patch of hair, then the only safe course is to cultivate its growth so it can sway unsupported for an instant — just long enough for it to be stowed snugly inside. Thereafter, Nature takes over.
FIFTEEN
Spring is here, and everyone who knows Agnes Rackham is amazed at how she’s come back from the dead. Such a short while ago she lay like a corpse in her darkened, airless room: now, dressed gaily, she’s brightening the house with her angelic singing voice as she prepares to meet the Season.
‘Open the curtains, Letty!’ she cries, everywhere she goes. All day she’s practising: standing erect, turning demurely, smiling fetchingly, walking without the footsteps showing. There’s an art to moving as if on castors, and only an elite few can master it.
‘Lay the book on my head, Clara,’ she says to her maidservant, ‘and stand well back!’
Nor are Agnes’s labours confined to the four walls of the Rackham house: she’s
been making frequent sallies to Oxford and Regent Streets, and returning with candy-striped parcels large and small. The Prince of Wales may still be on the Riviera, but for Agnes Rackham the Party That Lasts A Hundred Days has begun. She feels almost like a Debutante again!
Of course, it’s all thanks to her guardian angel. How encouraging it is to know there’s one creature in the world who loves her and wishes her well! What a relief to be truly, deeply understood! Her guardian angel appreciates that she has Higher Reasons for seeking success in the Season — no frivolous desire, but a contest of Good against Evil. Evil is what’s made her ill and done its utmost to rob her of a place in Society; Evil is what she’s banishing from her life now — with the help of her spirit rescuer, and those tiny rosy pills Mrs Gooch has introduced her to. Each pill no bigger than a sequin; each pill more than a match for the pains in her head!
Two dozen kid gloves have arrived yesterday. This will do for a start, though she expects to go through many more, as the silly things aren’t washable. (‘Honestly, Clara, I don’t know why there’s such a fuss about Great Advances in Knowledge, when we ladies are constantly having to replace such a simple necessity.’) Agnes has a pair of new kids on the glove-stretchers, to break them in, but the thumbs are still impossible to get on even with powder. Ridiculous! Her thumbs haven’t thickened, have they? Clara assures her they’re as slender as ever.
Gloves are just one of a hundred dilemmas. For example she must decide soon what scent to wear this Season. In past years she avoided all Rackham perfumes, fearing it would offend Good Taste to be a walking endorsement of her father-in-law’s business. However, the ladies’ journals are lately unanimous in their opinion that the truly refined woman restricts her perfumes to eau de Cologne and lavender water, and as these are the same from one maker to another, mightn’t it be all right to use Rackham’s? Only she would know, after all — making her choice purely a moral one. Also, should she wear her white silk dress on Croquet Day at the Carcajoux? The weather can’t be trusted, and her skirts might get muddy and wet, but white would go so well, and no one else will be wearing it. Of course she can instruct Mrs Le Quire (her new dressmaker) to add aport-jupe to the skirts, but would this solve the problem? Agnes foresees difficulties in attempting, simultaneously, to play croquet and hold her hems suspended on a chain.