Sourdough and Other Stories

by Angela Slatter

  The little doctor, the one who had attended me so unsuccessfully, found the emerald ring lodged in her throat. He, I’m sure, recognised it and placed it in Peregrine’s hand, closing the young widower’s fingers around the piece of jewellery. ‘Someone will be looking for that, young man.’

  I no longer wear it very often, knowing what I did with it, although I do bring it out now and then to remind myself of his constant heart. We live in another house, as far away from his parents as he could get, but still in one of the nicer squares. My mother runs her business out of a real shop not far from us, and has two young girls apprenticed to her.

  ‘They don’t have your touch, Emmeline,’ she sometimes says but she knows why I will no longer bake, why my hands will never again knead dough. She is happy, for she knows her grandchild comes. I am content to visit the small grave where my first child lies. I speak with him often and tell him about his father and sister, who comes to us soon. I tell him I am sorry I could not protect him and that I will never forget him. My memory is true.

  SISTER, SISTER

  THE FINAL hymn is being sung off-key and I suspect the choir-master will not be pleased. I smile, imagining his scowl as he tries to locate the culprit amongst those angel-faces. Imagination is all I have at this distance, there’s very little to see from the arse-end of the cathedral. Pillars, posts, baptismal fonts, and other members of the faithful all ruin the landscape. My kind are tolerated in church, but only just. This is not the view I used to have; once, I sat in the pews up front, those with little gates on the side to let everyone know how special we were. Once, I was on show.

  I still am, I suppose, but now it’s looks of pity, occasionally of contempt. Always curiosity. I’d have thought that after six months it would have died down, but apparently not. I hold my head high, meeting cold stares with one even frostier until they turn away. But I tolerate this, continue coming back once a week for my daughter’s sake. Just because I’ve lost faith doesn’t mean Magdalene should be denied the possibilities of its comfort; besides she loves the theatre of it as only a child can. When she is older she can decide for herself whether there is something genuine to be had.

  The Archbishop lifts the chalice, makes his final flamboyant gestures, bows his head and bids those within range of his voice to go in peace. This much I know from memory. Those in the front rows rise and I think I see the flash of Stellan’s golden hair and a hook twists in my gut; but I could be mistaken. No sign of the other one though. The flock rises with the rhythm of a wave. One advantage of our lowly seating is its proximity to the door. We, the inhabitants of the Golden Lily are out in the sunlight before the exulted few have managed to move two yards.

  Magdalene’s hand creeps up to twine fingers with mine, her grip tight and clammy. In the shade of the portico at the top of the steps sit the Archbishop’s six hounds. Grey and silver in the shadows, insubstantial until someone with ill intent crosses the threshold, then they become suddenly-solid, voracious and vicious. No one wants a resurrected wolf hunting them down. I have explained, over and over, to my little girl that they will do her no harm, but there is a core of fear in her that not even her mother can touch.

  From across the square comes the sound of a carriage and four. It is the white ceremonial one I rode in on my wedding day. The sheer curtains are drawn but I think I see pale blonde hair as the occupant peeks out. Polly, who has yet to attend a church service in all her time in this city. My sister makes no pretence of religious zeal.

  Behind us the wolf-hounds growl and Magdalene wails, climbing up my skirts like a terrified monkey. She holds me so tightly I can barely breathe. Grammy Sykes pats her back and talks in a low voice to the wolf-hounds. They react to her tone, settle back to sit in the shadows, the exiting crowd giving them a wide berth. I look at them, wondering who among the press of bodies set the beasts off. Grammy pokes me to move along and we head for home.

  As we pass by, I look through the lychgate that leads into the churchyard. The red-haired woman kneels beside a grave, brushing it clean with her hand. Beside her plays a small girl, not much older than Magdalene. The woman is there every Sunday. I admire that she has the will to avoid Mass; that she is freed from faith.

  ***

  The inn is old, so old that if you cut into the walls you might find age rings like those in the great trees of the forest beyond the city walls. The wood panels have been darkened by years, hearth smoke, sweat, tears and alcohol vapour. If you licked them (as the children sometimes do), you’d taste hops as well as varnish.

  The bar itself, where Fra Benedict serves the drinks, is pitted with the marks of drinking vessels slammed down too hard, the irresistible will of dripping liquid, and the musings and graffiti carved by the bored, the drunk and the lonely when the barman is distracted. The glassware gleams, though, as do the metal fixtures and the bottles behind the bar are kept clean (although it’s not as if they stay undisturbed long enough for dust to settle). There are booths with seats covered in balding velvet, and the hiss-hum of the gas lamps (lit low for daytime) is a constant comfort.

  Things are quiet at the moment, Sunday afternoon, most of our clients still pretending their piety after Mass this morning. There’s only Faideau in a corner booth, his breeches slung low and his shirt stained with wine. He’s a poet, he says; drinks like one at any rate. He snores loudly. Fra Benedict will go through his pockets soon for the money he owes, then roust him to move on, to spend at least a few hours out in the sunshine.

  In one corner is the crèche, where we whores and wenches leave our children (those of us who have them) under the tender, watchful eyes of Grammy Sykes and her half-wolf, half-something-or-other, Fenric. The small space is scattered with books and toys, which miraculously stay within a reasonable radius. Two little boys, and three girls, one of them Magdalene, three years old and still clad in her red Sunday robe. My little girl, the only reminder that I was once loved.

  In the kitchen I can hear Bitsy dropping pans. A few seconds later Rilka chases her out, swearing mildly, which is about as angry as anyone can get with Bitsy, who now stands in the middle of the room, unsure what to do next. Fra Benedict makes his particular peculiar noise to catch her attention, jerks his head for her to come and sit at the bar. He is mute, his tongue having been torn out many years ago in some monastery brawl. Bitsy hoists herself onto one of the high stools and sips at the weak ale and blackberry shandy he pours for her.

  Bitsy is a little older than me: her face bears the blankness of youth and her long straight hair is a white blonde. She used to be a doll-maker. Not all of them go the same way; she made a special kind of doll, putting tiny pieces of her soul into them. Beautiful dolls, they were (I saw some in a museum, once), but each one left her emptier. Now she’s touched, little more than a doll herself, with just enough wit to sometimes take drinks to tables, wash dishes, and lie still when a client with no need for a real response climbs aboard and lets her giggle beneath him. Fra Benedict is kind to her; I think they are distant cousins.

  Rilka’s dark head pops out of the kitchen. ‘Finished with them peas yet, Theodora?’

  I shake my head. ‘Soon, Rilka.’

  She disappears with a profanity. Rilka was a nun, in her better days. Now she’s just like us. Some men pay extra for her to lose her spectacular temper and hurt them. Her special gentlemen callers, she says with a laugh. Tall and muscular, cedar-skinned Rilka doubles as cook. Kitty thinks Rilka killed someone, tells how she talks in her sleep.

  Kitty mends our dresses, sitting in the corner, working on one of those I brought with me, taken apart and made over to fit others. I had no further need of finery. Kitty pulls hard on her final stitch, makes a knot then cuts the thread with her teeth, etching more deeply the tailor’s notch in her left front tooth. Her hair is brassy-bright, a touch of red, a touch of gold; it’s beautiful and distracts clients from the scars on her face: two running parallel across the bridge of her nose before dropping down her left cheek like deep gutters, r
elics of an unkind husband. Her eyes are blue and sad.

  She holds the dress up for me to see: the green and gold brocade is now short enough to show off Livilla’s fine legs, and tight enough around the waist to push her breasts up so they will spill from the top of the bodice. I nod approval just as we hear one of Livilla’s loud sighs floating down from an upstairs room. A few seconds later there is a satisfied, bellowing grunt from her client. She has earned her fee for the day.

  Fra Benedict and Grammy Sykes, his common-law wife, don’t make us take all comers. Most of the men are regulars who know Fra and Grammy keep a fair house with clean, cared-for girls. Sometimes there are women, too, anxious for something soft and gentle as a welcome relief from their husbands’ violent prongings. We need only bed one client each day, any after that are up to our discretion. The fee here is high enough and the need for us to work as bar wenches outweighs the pull of the money to be made in excessive bed-sports. One of the advantages of Fra and Grammy’s lax policy is that men are anxious to have what might be refused them, so we always have clientele, banging on the doors, hoping to pay for our favours.

  Grammy Sykes was a whore once herself; she remembers what it was like, the constant line of hard, demanding cocks. I think she prides herself on being kinder to us than anyone ever was to her. Livilla whispers that Grammy was a great beauty in her day, although there is scant evidence of it now.

  Grammy and Fra will both tell you how many of their girls have gone on to better places, indeed, so many of their old girls are now the wives of rich and influential men that upper-class dinner parties sometimes resemble a whores’ reunion; can’t throw a silken shoe without hitting some woman who used to earn her living horizontally. The comfort of a prosperous future is for the other girls. They don’t tell me this story.

  I finish shelling the peas then turn to polishing the silverware Grammy keeps for the private parlour. I hear the front door open behind me, see the sunlight flare in momentarily before the door closes and the cool dimness is restored. I don’t turn around until Fra nods to indicate that the customer is waiting for me.

  Prycke was, still is, the Prime Minister. He wanders the capital with minimal guards as if he is still as unimportant now as he was when he was born in the lower slum areas, out near the abattoirs in the furthest, poorest quarters of the city. He’s not overly tall, has a stern sallow face, but his eyes are kind. Clad in dark colours, you might not realise how fine the fabrics of his breeches and frock coat are unless you look carefully. The buckles on his shoes catch the light of the gas-lamps and it seems he has stars on his feet.

  ‘Have you a moment, mistress?’

  I nod, feeling the precarious pile of dark curls on my head sway; one long tendril breaks free and snakes down my neck. He watches it fall. ‘My time costs nowadays, sirrah.’

  He is taken aback, reaches into a pocket and draws forth two gold coins. I raise one finely plucked brow but say nothing. I remain silent until he has extracted seven gold coins, then tell him to pay Fra Benedict.

  Prycke follows me upstairs. I choose the room with blue velvet curtains hanging around the four-poster bed and a view of the city, an expanse of roofs and, if you look straight down, the Lilyhead fountain and children playing in its greenish waters. I tug at the loose stays of my dress with one hand and at the single clip in my hair with the other; the russet velvet falls to the floor and torrents of hair tumble down to my waist, obscuring the jut of my breasts. I sweep the tresses back so he gets his money’s worth.

  He gulps, removes his shoes first (so sensible! So practical! So strategic!), then his coat, and unbuttons his breeches, letting them drop. His legs are pale, hairy, strong. The tip of his cock peeps from under the hem of his shirt, shy, not quite ready. He didn’t expect this encounter, I’m sure, at least not this kind of encounter.

  I lie on the bed, splayed like an open flower, and wait for him.

  When we are finished, he avoids my eyes. He slips, calls me Majesty. I laugh long and hard at that.

  ‘Would you come back, Ma—madam? If you could?’

  ‘Even if I wanted to, I would not, could not. Another sits in my place.’ I fix him with a stare, blue and cold.

  ‘Your step-sister, madam, she never sets foot in . . .’

  ‘My sister, Prycke, neither step nor half. Only full-blood can hate so well.’

  ‘Your husband sent me.’

  ‘My husband heard me called “whore” and believed it. My husband heard his daughter called “bastard” and believed that, too.’ I hiss the words at him, spittle gathering at the corners of my mouth and curse that I still feel anything. ‘Five years together and I gave him no cause to doubt me, but the moment my sister swears to him that I had taken lovers he believed her.’

  ‘Madam, I was not in the city when it happened. I would have counselled him otherwise,’ he stammers. He feels badly for me. But he did nothing for me.

  ‘For all the good it would have done. My husband brands me whore and takes my sister to his bed. So, I embrace my new title, Prycke. I am whore to whoever pays for me.’ I sit up, step into my gown, lacing it tightly for I have earned my keep for today and tomorrow.

  He dresses quickly, a handy skill. ‘Madam, your sister has a strangeness about her. She is peculiar . . . she does not attend . . .’

  I raise my hand. ‘No more, Prycke. No more.’ He reaches for the doorhandle. ‘Prycke?’

  He turns back, face hopeful.

  ‘Tell Archbishop Willem I will see him on Tuesday, at our usual time.’

  ***

  ‘Illustrious company we’re keeping,’ snipes red-haired Livilla, but it’s a half-hearted dig. She’s feeling generous after her early earnings.

  Fra Benedict gives me a grin and flips me a gold coin. I more than double-charged Prycke and the spare is mine.

  ‘My thanks, Fra.’ I smile at Livilla, then take pity on her and snap the coin down the middle, along the little groove meant for such making of smaller change. Livilla, for all her ill liver, has stood me well in the last six months; this is a small price, to share with her.

  ‘Pippet, moppet, dolly-doll-doll!’ Bitsy sings from the crèche, where Magdalene has crawled onto her lap.

  ‘Watch yer childer,’ slurs Faideau. ‘Watch ’em after dark.’

  ‘Shut up, you sot,’ Livilla throws in his direction.

  ‘Childer going missing, mark me.’ Faideau subsides back to his stupor.

  ‘Man at his finest,’ sneers Rilka. ‘What a wonderful husband he’ll make.’

  Livilla shrieks with laughter.

  ‘When I remarry,’ says Kitty dreamily, ‘I want that fancy bread they make. Queer shapes and all.’

  ‘The girl, Emmeline’s her name, don’t do that no more and she’s the one you want. She moved in with some rich fella, the one whose wife choked on their wedding bread.’ Rilka sniggers. ‘Sure that’s what you want?’

  I had Emmeline’s breads at my wedding, but I don’t tell them that.

  Kitty tosses her curls. ‘I want what rich folk have. Her mother still makes the fancy bread; not so good, but still it’s the best can be had.’

  Grammy finishes the argument. ‘Stop yer yammers. Time to get ready, my girls, clients be here soon, almost five of the after.’

  We troop upstairs to tidy ourselves. Those who’ve already earned their horizontal fee taking a little less care than those who have not. Livilla and I will wench this eve; one of Rilka’s beaters is expected, Kitty and Bitsy have no appointments and so will take whoever they like.

  ***

  Restless, I leave my bed and sit at the attic window.

  Through the frost-dimmed glass I can see square after square after square, all the way up to the giant square that is the epicentre of this city. All the way up to the cathedral with its vaunting spire and gothic towers, flying buttresses—as if all possible styles were thrown together with no thought for taste. Right next to the cathedral lies the palace, my once and former home.

  A s
mall palace but respectable nonetheless, perfectly appropriate for the size and wealth of our city, with sufficient halls and ballrooms and bedchambers and kitchens and wine cellars to ensure we were not embarrassed by the standard of our palace. Gilt and glass and crystal in all the right places, the chandeliers kept shiny and bright, the wood panelling polished to a warm, rich finish, the brocades and tapestries thick and elaborate. Just the right number of winding staircases, deserted towers and hidden passageways.

  Above it all flies the full-faced moon, soft and cold.

  I look at Magdalene, curled into our bed like a kitten. This is the child I did not want. She was the change in my life that was utterly undesired. Stellan, though, he wanted her, wanted an heir, proof of his potency. I spent my pregnancy in a stew of discontent, resentful of being subject to the rhythms of another organism, of a heart beating not quite in time with mine. It was Stellan who would rub my swollen belly, caress the hot distended skin and whisper to what grew within. He made plans for her, told her about the little city that was her inheritance. He created a future for her then forgot it just as quickly.

  In truth, for me it did not happen with speed, the change of heart. I resented her as much in the first few weeks of her life as ever; I shudder to think on the bitter milk she drank from me. I do not believe there was a single moment when it changed: I simply found myself going willingly to her one day, craving the serenity of the times when she fed and I simply sat, we two in our tranquil little bubble. And Stellan stood outside where he was prey to others, although I did not know it at the time.

  Bitsy and Livilla and Livilla’s sons sleep in the room on one side of us, Rilka and Kitty and their respective daughters in the room on the other; they will hear her if she wakes. I drop a kiss on her sleep-damp forehead then slip a long black woollen dress over the top of my nightgown and pull on a heavy coat, belting it tightly around my waist. Under Bitsy’s door I can see a splash of light—we have candlelight up here, only gas on the floors below. I tap lightly and go in. Bitsy is in bed, wrapped around a large doll with red hair. Livilla sits in a rocking chair, half-moon glasses balanced on her nose while she reads a scandal-sheet.