by David Ashton
‘Ye’re getting very snifty, Mulholland, too much genteelity has that effect. Now let’s get on with this case and leave romance where it belongs – on the shelf!’
One of the provoked gulls settled on the cross spar of a sailing ship, shortly bound for Copenhagen with a cargo of jute yarn.
Jute held no interest for the seagull. It lifted a sharp yellow beak and through beady eyes, watched the figures of the two men as they disappeared out of the November chill into the warmth of the tavern.
Then a far-off skirl of birds brought its head spinning round. In the distance a fishing boat was coming towards the harbour, followed by a mixed flock of terns, razorbills and herring gulls. They were feeding on the scraps thrown from the boat by the men already at work, gutting the fish and throwing the slimy innards back into the sea. Often these same men would stick a hook on a line inside the guts they cast to the wind and then haul the bird in by its bloody mouth.
A cruel sport. But it is a cruel world.
The gull wheeled off into the sky, in the direction of the noisy squabbling flock.
Feeding time.
10
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
Kubla Khan
Jean Brash looked out of the window of her bawdy-hoose, and was conscious of a melting uneasy feeling in her heart.
Below, she could see Hannah Semple, her strong right hand and keeper of the keys of the Just Land, hanging out some of the sheets on the line with one of the girls.
This afternoon the weather had lifted a little with a stiff breeze finding its way up the hill, and Hannah was a demon for airing the bed linen even in November. It was her belief that the clients appreciated a whiff of cleanliness before sinking into the debauchery of their choice.
Jean had no strong opinion on this; in her experience, some liked to be enveloped in the musky odour of sin and any hint of otherwise set them looking anxiously around in case their lawful wife was somewhere in the vicinity.
Perhaps lying rigid under the bed, hands clasped prayerfully together, ready to slide out as if on wheels and confront the miscreant in the throes of his illicit libidinous pleasures.
The image amused her for a moment then the uneasy seasick undulations of emotion, tugging at her from under like drowning waves, brought Jean Brash to an inescapable, deep and undesired conclusion.
It would seem her affection had become fixed upon another. Her lover. Hopefully he had not noticed an older woman’s infatuation; young men can often be trusted on that score. They rise and leave without a backward glance.
Yet she had set down the rules of engagement. It was to be purely for the enjoyment of the senses, concupiscence and champagne, fleshly abandon. All the easy virtues.
Something had changed however. It would seem she had lost part of herself to someone else. Now, in his absence, she felt herself incomplete, lacking hold, an emptiness in the breadbasket. Damnation.
Where was he now? What other trysts? She did not know and could not ask within the rules. The pair were to operate freely, and Jean was caught in a web of her own making.
Self-trammelled.
Once before in her life, she had suffered such a passage. A tainted oyster. She had swallowed it down, with a deal of relish. It had taken months to recover.
The comparison brought some much-needed humour to the situation. With luck it would pass.
As McLevy often said. ‘You aye need luck.’
My God, if he knew that she was sick in love, he would spit out the coffee and die laughing.
He hadn’t been round to scrounge a cup for a while, and she missed his perverse company. Possibly just as well, however, not be under that evil scrutiny.
Jean looked out of the corner of her eye and found her image peeking back from one of many mirrors that adorned her boudoir.
This was her refuge. On a recent whim, the curtains and hangings had been refurbished in a pale peach colour that contrasted delicately with the white sheets and pillows. This feminine aspect was also enhanced by filmy gauze, draped tastefully here and there, which, reflecting back and forward from one mirror to another, produced an illusion of changing shapes, a shifting world.
Hannah, who had preferred the former hue, a coral red more suited to the inner functions of the bawdy-hoose, acknowledged it with some irony as ‘Yer fairy bower’.
So be it.
And here, her lover had not thus far penetrated. She would not allow it. Not that she’d been asked which rather piqued her. He seemed to have no interest in her personal details, only, as he often remarked, the pleasure of her company.
They met elsewhere in the attic rooms of a discreet house in McDonald Road, from which you might see in the far distance the grey tombstones of Rosebank cemetery, or watch the trains of the North British line puff their way from the east towards the docks, then back again.
Not that she ever saw the view. The curtains were always drawn, candles lit, shadows frenzied on the wall.
He rented those rooms and she wondered did he use them for other assignations?
The likeness shook her head in disapproval. A woman of her time and experience should know better.
There she stood, dressed up to the nines in the latest fashion, sheathed like a princess, the dress boned and tight-fitting, the cuirass bodice falling to the hips and flanks, moulding her long lean body like a second skin.
Red hair. Green eyes. Complexion still smooth, though at the corners of the eyes and the full mouth, some wrinkles threatened to gather.
Not enough yet for outright rebellion but gathering none the less.
She leant forward and gazed deeply into herself.
You’d never guess the things these eyes had looked upon from the time of a curtailed childhood when she had looked up and the shadow falling over her was that of a cruel and vicious animal.
Henry Preger. He had abused her and she had poisoned him eventually. But, not soon enough …
The image blinked to dispel such memory.
Jean threw back her head and flipped up the back of her dress, as she swung round. It trailed behind her like the closed tail of a bird; indeed the colour was peacock blue.
Some peacock, she thought as she marched restlessly around the room and then, on impulse, hurled herself on to the bed and closed her eyes.
They had met last night. No questions asked. Then he had left, late into the night. Business, he said. He had business on hand.
He had helped her into the waiting carriage and waved her goodbye, handkerchief fluttering.
Business on hand.
They had made another rendezvous for this very night but perhaps she would not go, perhaps she would punish him for not being at her beck and call.
Perhaps.
Outside in the garden, a bird chattered in alarm. A series of sharp cracks denoting a sensed danger.
‘This is menial.’
Rachel Bryden’s pale face was set in sulky lines, her hands were freezing and this was surely no occupation for a horizontal of her ability and class.
She had plied her trade in the Just Land for six months now and was highly regarded especially by the older clients who deluded themselves that her fair hair and soft skin, elegant body and oval countenance, might intimate a recently lost virginity, or, at the very least, purity that trembled on the verge of translation.
Her speciality was surrender. Then she brought blood to the surface and afterwards, as the client lay spent, her busy little mind calculated how far to compromise and following on, to corrupt.
‘Menial,’ she said once more.
Hannah Semple made no answer. Her mouth was full of clothes pegs.
‘Do we not have maids?’
The older woman spat out a peg and stuck up the corner of a sheet.
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘And you’re one. Watch wi’ that counterpane, you could be jiggin’ on it the night.’
She
laughed raucously, her squat purposeful figure surprisingly agile amongst the flapping sheets.
Rachel thought to let the material fall and get dirtied on the ground, just out of spite, just to let the old bitch see that her delicate fingers were not made for such a mundane pastime, but she hesitated.
The other girls had warned her that Hannah was not to be crossed, so she had listened and obeyed. Surrendered even. But behind her composed, poised features, behind the passive creature she presented to the world, Rachel was wilful and hot-blooded. Only one other knew of her secret, and he would never tell. She would not stay here long. They had big plans. Big plans.
The thought of it and the dangerous game involved, sent a shiver through her. Then fired the blood.
‘Can we not send out to laundry?’ she asked, unable to let the subject die.
‘I like to keep my hands busy.’
‘I have better uses for mine.’
‘Uhuh?’
The old woman turned to meet the cool gaze. There was a measure of provocation in the air, but hard to nail down.
She had been observing this girl for a time now and still had not fathomed her out.
Hannah Semple knew that she was ugly. Pug-nosed, flat-featured, pock-marked and her teeth were nothing to write home about either. She barely rose to beyond five feet in height and Rachel was a good deal above, the long neck and pale blue evasive eyes hinting at a refinement the other would never possess.
But Rachel was also a harlot. An employee who was paid good money for wicked deeds … a franchised whore of the Just Land. That placed her under Hannah’s jurisdiction; ugly or not.
She smiled, but her eyes held no humour.
‘Listen girlie, just because the mistress has a soft spot for you doesnae mean I concur.’
Rachel cast down her eyes demurely.
‘I am sure the mistress knows best,’ she murmured.
Indeed it was true that Jean Brash indulged Rachel, claiming that she brought a different class of service that raised the tone and clientele in equal measure, but Hannah wasn’t sure if that was the only reason the girl had become such a favourite.
It puzzled Hannah but she was buggered if she would pay it too much mind.
She pointed to the wicker basket they had lugged out between them, still part filled with sheets.
‘Finish that. Peg them up and not another word out of you.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
‘And who will make me so?’
Rachel jerked her head back as an explosive movement from Hannah brought forth a cut-throat razor which unfolded in mid-air to lay its keen edge against the taut skin of the girl’s slender neck.
It was Hannah’s proud assertion that rarely she unveiled that razor without drawing blood. Nothing in her face contradicted the possibility at this moment.
She pulled Rachel down by the bodice so that their faces were level and shifted the blade so that the tip rested high on the girl’s face just beside the eye.
‘Don’t get cheeky,’ she said softly.
‘You wouldnae dare,’ gasped the other.
‘Why would I not?’
‘Because I’m valuable merchandise!’
Hannah suddenly released her hold and roared with laughter at the retort. She packed away her razor while Rachel tried to still the trembling in her legs and keep the fear inside from showing on her face.
‘That’s the style girlie,’ the older woman remarked amiably. ‘Stand up for yourself, that’s good. But the other thing is …’ and thereupon she dropped all of her pegs back into the basket, ‘do as you’re told by me.’
For a moment their eyes met, then Rachel nodded her head in acceptance. Let the old bitch think she’d won.
‘Now hang up the rest. On your own. By yourself. I put my trust in you to accomplish that task.’
With these sardonically delivered words, Hannah turned and made for the back door of the house without waiting to see if they would be obeyed.
As she turned the handle to enter in the house, Rachel’s voice sounded behind her.
‘What if I tell Mistress Brash about this?’
Hannah swivelled round.
Rachel was already hanging up the sheet, back presented, the remark thrown over her shoulder.
‘I shall inform her myself, girlie,’ said Hannah.
And she did.
Jean had opened her eyes to find that, rather than a lover looming over her bed, the dumpy purposeful form of her second in command stood there like Banquo’s ghost.
‘I knocked. Ye didnae answer.’
‘I didnae hear,’ muttered Jean.
‘That’s not like you.’
‘I was sleeping.’
‘That’s not like you either.’
‘I’ll try to assemble myself into something you recognise.’
This snippy rejoinder provoked a grunt of amusement from Hannah and then she related the incident of the razor.
While she did so, Jean, for some reason, refused to move, and lay prone upon the bed much in the manner of her previously imagined wife under it.
‘Was that not a wee bit harsh?’ she pronounced, looking up at Hannah and the peach surroundings.
‘Ye have to keep order.’
Both women were inclined to leave it there. Jean was aware that Hannah disapproved of her partiality for the tall figure of Rachel and it, to an extent, perplexed the mistress herself. Jean had experienced a few encounters with her own sex as she rose through the ranks, but she pinned her colours, for the most part, to the priapic mast.
And yet something about Rachel Bryden weakened her resolve to keep a professional detachment. Not good, and it went straight against the grain of her experience. This was the third and best-equipped brothel she had ever owned, a well-oiled machine of sliding sheets and compliant limbs.
But it had its own commandments. And one of them was that she never played favourites amongst the girls.
In the first bawdy-hoose, the Happy Land, which she had part-owned with Henry Preger until he had obligingly died, she had witnessed a savage knife fight between two of the whores over his malign patronage. One of the magpies had her face cut to ribbons and it was a point well made to Hannah at the washing line. Don’t damage the merchandise.
On her ownsome, once Preger had died in spite of himself, Jean had then managed the Holy Land, moving from tarry-breeks, stokers and dock workers, to randy young apprentices, the lower professional classes and the occasional man of the church. All denominations welcome.
This present establishment was her pride and joy. The Just Land. It was set discreetly in a respectable district, upon the high reaches of Leith, and catered for the ruling classes, judges, bishops, heads of government and local council. Bastions of respectability. Linked by a lustful bent. And there was no depravity that Jean could not deliver.
If, like a previous provost of the city, you desired to be dressed in swaddling clothes, then talcum-powdered, and pampered like a baby with three heavy-breasted milk nurses to hand, that could be magicked up directly.
If, at the other end of the scale, you wished to be sprawled out upon the Berkley Horse and scourged like our Saviour, then Francine the Frenchwoman would lay it on with cold intent and no little artistry.
If, however, you were a flagellomaniac, this was not the house for you.
Pain supplied but not accepted; that was the motto.
This was the Just Land. Run like a ship of state.
But now, everything was sliding. This was Hannah’s observation as she looked down at her mistress. There was a man somewhere, gumming up the works. A sticky-fingered man, she could smell him on the breeze.
Jean had taken to leaving of an evening, coming back late into the night, leaving for destinations unknown to Hannah and returning from same, driven in her coach by the giant Angus Dalrymple who was as close-mouthed as a healthy oyster.
No use asking him and even less use asking Jean who
regarded her personal life as a private affair. But in Hannah’s view there was no such thing as privacy. To be a bawdy-hoose keeper was to accept the twin requisitions of supply and demand.
And the girls were getting restless in their commander’s continued absence. Lippy. Discipline was slipping. Hannah hated to admit a limitation of her iron hand but the place needed the calm authority of Jean Brash, and without that stillness at the centre, things began to drop from the periphery like pots off a tinker’s cart.
‘Are ye going out tonight, mistress?’ she asked.
Jean’s mind had a picture from the previous night of her lover, waving goodbye then turning to stride off down the street. She had craned her neck out of the carriage to see if he looked back.
Not even once. But nothing in the rules said you had to look back.
‘I don’t yet know,’ she answered Hannah.
‘The girls would appreciate your presence.’
‘Surely you can keep them in line?’
‘It’s not the same,’ answered Hannah.
And so they left it there.
11
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
That it do singe yourself.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Henry VIII
Leith, 1836
The big boy had plenty of time. His opponent was doubled up in pain, nose bloody, crouched over, unable to move any further. The other boys behind yelped and howled like a pack of wild dogs that could sense the kill.
‘Say it.’ The big boy licked his lips. This was the best bit, the moment before he put his hard Protestant fist into the wee porker’s belly, the silence that invited the blow, the pure release of a long hatred. ‘Say it. I kiss the Pope’s arse, on my knees, his big fat arse. Say it!’
No response came from the crumpled form. The big boy had been hammering with his fist and boots for near the length of the narrow passage that led to the wee porker’s wynd. If he’d got through there he’d be safe but they’d bottled up both ends and let the big boy loose. The porker had made no attempt to fight just taken the blows one after the other, hunched over like a dumb animal