He heard himself sounding prosy as a solicitor’s clerk. Mrs Dulcimer was smiling at him, as though she thought so too. Golden-green leaves rocked and fluttered down. One landed on the red shoulder of Mrs Dulcimer’s cape, stuck there, like an epaulette. She said: that is good of you. I owe you a favour now, don’t I? I should like to help you, and I think I can. Doll is in fact seeking a situation at this very moment. She won’t re-offend. She’s a good worker, I can assure you, with solid references from her last job.
Two dogs, barking and chasing, fled up to them, did a figure-of-eight in between them. Perhaps lured by the smell of the beef in the basket. Joseph kicked out and the dogs sprang away, made off across the green. Tails flying, legs stretched; a flow of muscle under brown skin. References written by whom? Joseph wondered. What kind of job? Pickpocket? Thief’s moll helping out in the swag shop?
Mrs Dulcimer said: Doll was in service until some months ago. Her employers gave her a good character. I’ll send her over to see your wife this afternoon.
She caught his glance. I’ve still got your note, with the address on it.
That first meeting. So exotic she’d seemed. Her black skin, her big dark eyes. But in fact she was quite ordinary. A bustling housewife, a kindly patroness of housemaids, doing her best to help the deserving poor, exactly the kind of people Joseph was not meant to be studying. And now she’d got him bogged down in shopping.
Mrs Dulcimer said: you’ll be giving Doll the chance to put sad things behind her. Once settled in a decent family, she won’t look back.
An experiment in rescue, was it? He was going to take on a girl with a criminal past, see what happened. Cara’s worst fears come true? On the other hand, Doll might prove a helpful source of information about the underworld’s living arrangements, at the very least. Easier to pump her once he’d got her at home. Those gravel-grey eyes looking into his. That bow-shaped mouth releasing stories of bullies’ doss-houses and thieves’ kitchens.
He said: I want it to be a surprise for my wife, that a servant might turn up so quickly. She won’t be expecting one to arrive so soon.
How to ask for discretion? How to explain that there was no need for the females of the Benson household to know exactly whence the prospective maid came? Cara hadn’t liked the idea of a strange woman calling at her house at an unusual hour, and he’d had to lie, claiming that Mrs Dulcimer was the clothes-mender’s wife delivering his coat and wanting to be paid on the spot. While as for Milly: she was too sharp for her own good. Liable to put two and two together and make a thousand.
Was he looking worried? Mrs Dulcimer seemed to read his expression. She nodded at him, as though to say: yes, a surprise it shall be. Don’t fret. It will be all right.
They reached the far side of the common, edged with white-painted wooden rails. You could sense the river, flowing along on the left, invisible behind these massing warehouses. Stinking, sucking tide, burden of excrement. He and Mrs Dulcimer glanced at each other at the same moment, grimaced.
They trudged past a row of shops selling second-hand furniture, second-hand waistcoats, second-hand fire-irons. At the far end a tall, thin house wedged itself in next to a stables, its door painted apple green, its white doorstep patterned with dusty footprints. Tied-back grey-and-white-checked curtains framed the front window, a notice advertising Beds to Let.
Sweat trickled down Joseph’s back. He paused, swapped the basket from one hand to another, took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Mrs Dulcimer’s brown face looked friendly and concerned. She said: that’s too heavy and awkward to carry any further, isn’t it?
She gestured at the green door. Let’s leave it here. I know the owner. Mrs Bonnet and I are old friends. She’ll look after it for me. I can collect it later, on my way home. Or her boy will take it for me, on his barrow. Let’s go inside for a moment, and drink something, and then continue on our way.
Darkness and coolness. A room almost bare of furniture, smelling of scrubbing soap. Three straw-seated chairs pushed back on the damp tiled floor. Mrs Dulcimer! The landlady, coming in, stepping over gleaming wet, sang out her greeting. Auburn hair, lighter than Joseph’s own, under a twist of lace-frilled white linen. Eyes green as gooseberries; creamy, freckled skin. A rounded figure under her muffling grey apron. She nodded and bobbed at Joseph with perfunctory politeness. Her concern was directed at her friend. Ah, my dear. Draw up a chair, do, never mind the floor, it’s nearly dry. What can I fetch you? I’ve no fresh water, pump’s failed, but I’ve lemonade. That do you?
Mrs Dulcimer tweaked off her gloves. She settled them on her knee, stroked them to lie flat. Joseph took off his own gloves, stuffed them into his frock-coat pocket. He removed his hat, and placed it on the seat of a nearby chair.
Mrs Bonnet returned with a brown pottery jug, poured streams of lemonade into glass tumblers. She said to Mrs Dulcimer: you look well. And that’s a nice earring you’re wearing. Have I seen it before? But surely it’s one of a pair? You’ve lost the other on the way here. Oh, what a shame.
Mrs Dulcimer touched the little gold-strung cluster of turquoise beads that hooped one earlobe. Oh, Hetty dear, I lost the other years ago. And I don’t wear this one every day, you know. You wouldn’t recognise it, necessarily.
She stroked the other earlobe. She looked over at Mrs Bonnet. Strange, isn’t it, the power an ornament has to affect your mood? Mornings I decide to wear this I feel half hopeful and half sad. Or perhaps it’s not so strange. I can’t wear a particular earring in the wrong state of mind, that’s all. But which comes first? The choice of ornament, or the feeling? The one seems to be the same as the other, when I think about it.
Mrs Bonnet puffed out her lips, blew a little cloud of airy sound. For heaven’s sakes! Blowed if I know! Ah, you do go on!
Mrs Dulcimer shrank a bit; folded her hands in her lap, studied the tips of her boots. Glancing at this withdrawal, Mrs Bonnet seemed to regret her sharpness, to want to humour her friend. She touched her own earlobes, both of them bare and pink; black pinholes where earrings would jab in. Mine have gone for a walk again. Coming back on Monday we hope. It’s terrible, the exercise they have to take. To and fro, to and fro!
Mrs Dulcimer recovered, sat up. She said: never mind. That’s a nice bit of lace you’ve got there, Hetty. It suits you very well.
Mrs Bonnet lowered her voice. So. Everything all right? Mrs Dulcimer gave a tiny shake of the head in Joseph’s direction, setting the red plume on her bonnet nodding, and replied: all right. The other woman said: Annie’s getting along? Mrs Dulcimer confirmed this: yes, she’s getting along. Her friend Betsy’s with us now, turned up just recently, and so they keep each other company.
Mrs Bonnet sighed. She drew up a chair, sat down, leaned back. She stuck out her booted feet in front of her, rubbed one hand over her rounded chin. She gazed at the floor, spoke to the damp red tiles: ah, poor Annie, it was hard for her. She sat up straighter, cleared her throat. Well, I’m stopping at home all morning. Of course I’ll mind the basket for you. We’ll put it out the back, in the cool.
Mrs Bonnet leaned forwards. A kindly face, wasn’t it? It would show concern at children falling over, scraping their calves, wailing; at tenants needing nice hot dinners. She might, at a guess, be willing to answer some questions. Silently Joseph rehearsed them. Do you ever let beds by the hour rather than the night? What do you charge? How large are your rooms? How often do you change the sheets?
Mrs Bonnet looked past him, to Mrs Dulcimer. Tell me more of how Annie’s doing. She’s improving, I suppose.
Mrs Dulcimer returned: yes, certainly. We’ve come a long way from beef tea. We’re onto soups now, and rice pudding.
She pointed to the basket. And stew, as you see.
How long were they going to sit gossiping? They seemed set for the rest of the day. His arms and legs felt too long, folded up in this small room. He fidgeted, tipping his chair backwards. He reached for his hat, hooked it over his knee, smoothed its glossy top.
Mrs Dulcimer turned, gave him a faint smile, and nodded. To Mrs Bonnet she said: we’re heading to Newington Causeway this morning, this gentleman and myself. He has a mind to visit the lodging-houses, one in particular, I’m sure you can guess which. A business matter. I’m going along to smooth his path, as you might say.
She made him sound like a debt collector. Or worse. The auburn-haired woman folded her arms over her plump aproned belly. Ah, you won’t find her. Nobody in. The police was round there earlier today, tipped off it was a swag shop. She got a hint of it, they say. Some plain-clothes man poking about yesterday, asking questions, she got the wind up her. She done a runner in the middle of the night. Her girls too. Place cleaned out, all the bedding and crockery they could lift, and the month’s rent not paid. My boy Bertie came past this morning, told me. He was down there on a delivery. Heard all about it.
Joseph smacked his fist into his palm, causing his hat to fall to the floor. So this expedition has been a complete waste of time!
He stooped to pick up his hat. Damnation. Damp stains on the brim. Mrs Dulcimer got up. Dearie, we must be off. Can you spare your barrow for half a day? If we’re not going on to Newington, I’ll take my shopping home with me immediately. And the basket’s very heavy.
Certainly you may have the barrow, Mrs Bonnet assented, rising from her chair: I’ll send my boy over to fetch it this evening. No, better that he goes with you now. Then he can bring it straight back.
She touched Mrs Dulcimer’s arm. You take care.
Back in the street, Mrs Dulcimer turned to Joseph. Our conversation got interrupted, didn’t it? Why not come home with me now? I’ll give you lunch, and we can go on talking.
He said: thank you. I assure you, a slice of bread and cheese is all I require.
She said: that’s what Mrs Bonnet likes, too. She works so hard, she’s the midwife for all round here, as well as keeping her lodging-house, she doesn’t always have time for a proper dinner. Sometimes she comes over to me for supper, and that way I make sure she gets something decent to eat.
Past the common, they took the back way, parallel to the main road, to avoid the market crowds. They walked silently side by side under the plane trees, Mrs Bonnet’s boy following behind with the loaded barrow. The sun’s warmth pressed down through the grey clouds veiling the sky. Mrs Dulcimer was lifting her face to the gusting wind, the whirling leaves, smiling faintly. Left to himself, Joseph calmed. I’ve wasted an entire morning. Am I sulking? Yes.
The breeze tickled the back of his neck above his collar: Joseph, you’re absurd! He jumped. Who was that? A female voice, amused and low-toned. To hell with it. He offered his arm to Mrs Dulcimer, and she took it. They swung along, under the trees.
At Apricot Place Joseph flicked Mrs Bonnet’s boy a farthing: good lad. Off with you now, straight back home and no lingering! No getting into mischief!
The boy shrugged: you won’t be there to see, though, will you, mister? He skipped off with his barrow, smirking.
Joseph stroked his soles over the bootscraper, leaving curds of mud, then followed his hostess down into the area and under the stone porch formed by the steps going up to the front entrance. She unlocked a blue-painted door, led him into a kitchen with whitewashed walls; windows back and front. A range stood in the chimney breast, saucepans and ladles hanging from a rack above it, shelves to either side. Opposite, a dresser held a grey pottery bread crock, an array of blue and yellow plates, jugs and bowls. The same china he’d seen on sale in the market. There stood her blue, yellow-flecked breakfast cup, the matching coffee-pot.
Mrs Dulcimer halted by the deal table. She said: let me take your hat and coat, and find Doll and send her off, and check on Annie, then, if you don’t mind, I shall cook while we talk, so that I don’t fall behind. I shan’t be a moment.
He heard her running upstairs, calling for Doll. A female creature flying away from him, promising to return. He just had to wait. He didn’t mind. Observe, Benson, observe. So far, Mayhew had interviewed no household servants, seemed not to require descriptions of kitchens and pantries. Domestic life too dull for him to bother with? No villains here? Not in Cara’s view: she knew all about cooks filching sugar and tea, hoarding more than their fair share of leftovers, watering the wine. Life on the street had more snap and fizz, certainly. Nonetheless Joseph paced about, taking measurements with eye and foot.
A clock ticked somewhere. Cool air reached him from the open window. Pigeons cooed in the green garden wreathing beyond the glass panes. The back door dangled an array of aprons, presumably graded for different levels of work: heavy baize, sturdy linen, fine cotton.
Wheelbacked oak chairs, tucked well in around the table, a yellow-painted stool laden with books, completed the furniture. Pots of preserves, their pleated white paper caps secured with string, massed on a shelf. A second shelf held brown pottery jars with labels tied on: salt, flour, sugar, rice, tea. Mrs Dulcimer’s handwriting: he recognised the flourishes on the tails of the consonants.
Her particular way of forming her letters cropped up again on a piece of card propped on the dresser: a scrawled list of menus. Tripe with onions. Apple tart. Beef rissoles with carrots and cabbage. Caramel rice pudding. Neck of lamb with suet dumplings. Raised mutton pie. Plum turnovers. Vegetable curry.
A pile of books teetered on the three-legged stool. The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by Mrs Hannah Glasse. A complete Shakespeare. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley. Jane Eyre by Currer Bell. A book of household hints. A book on home doctoring.
Above him, the front door banged shut. Doll departing for Lamb’s Conduit Street, presumably. Footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs. He closed the medical textbook, shoved it back underneath the Shakespeare. When Mrs Dulcimer entered the kitchen he was lifting out the bloodstained paper-wrapped package of meat from the basket, looking round for a plate.
She had put off her bonnet and walking-dress, had donned some grey and green garment, a sort of sack, in a striped pattern. No cap. Her knot of black plaits glistened. Again he caught the scent of her pomade. She reached down an oval platter: here, put it onto this.
She tied on a linen apron, blue with cream stripes, hands behind her back twisting a swift bow. Nice neat waist she still had, despite her age. She pulled out a blue kerchief from the apron pocket, tied it round her head like a turban, with a rakish bow over one eye. She saw Joseph watching her, and smiled. My uniform!
Transformed into a cook, she obviously knew her business. She moved in her small kingdom deftly, confidently. Everything seemed to be in the right place, ready to hand: pot-holders, trivets, long-handled iron hooks. She took up a thin-bladed knife, with a ragged edge. With this fine weapon she chopped the beef into red cubes that she dusted with flour. She slashed off leeks’ whiskery ends, sliced them thinly, cast them into a little pot with butter and salt, set them to soften. She peeled and sliced onions and carrots, threw them into a wide, flat pan with a larger knob of butter, a spoonful of oil. Ah, just a moment, I must go outside for some herbs.
He took the frying-pan and wooden spoon from her: here, let me do that. Mrs Dulcimer pursed her lips. You know how to cook?
He pushed aside the browning vegetables, tipped in the meat, moved the pieces gently to and fro over the flame. I certainly do!
Mrs Dulcimer nodded. My husband enjoyed cooking, too. He was the chef in our hotel. He was so gifted, he could make food the way French people liked it.
Foreign dishes. Nathalie had got him to try eating steamed globe artichokes. Oh, Joseph, plenty of English people eat artichokes, I know they do. He poked it. But this is a giant sunflower bud! No, it’s not. She showed him. Tear off the leaves, one by one, dip them into the hot cream sauce, draw them through your teeth, the nutty base of the leaf resting on your tongue. There. See? Later he undressed her, layer by layer: my sweet artichoke.
Mrs Dulcimer returned from the garden with a fistful of thyme and sage. She fished dried bay leaves out of a jar. We’ll flavour t
he stew with beer, as well. When I lived in France, we used wine of course. The beer’s over there. Will you fetch it?
She gestured towards a cloth-covered jug on the windowsill. She sat down and began to peel potatoes. She said: so. To business. I understand that you wish to talk to prostitutes, for your research, or, I should say, you wish to get them to talk to you. I can certainly introduce you to some of the local women. You’ll need to be respectful, mind. They are used to being lectured by well-wishers, and can grow very resentful.
Joseph took up the jug of beer, poured a brown stream into the pan. The puddle of meat and vegetables hissed and frothed, then settled. He stirred gently. He said: please go on. I’m listening.
Mrs Dulcimer selected another potato. She cupped it in her brown palm. May I speak freely? I think you may be making a mistake in how you approach your study.
Where did she learn to speak so fancy? From the visitors to her hotel, it must have been. That husband of hers, egging her on to talk nicely to their guests. Or perhaps all that Shakespeare. All those books she read. You didn’t expect a black woman to sound so educated. More educated than he was! Blimey.
She went on. Men like you define street women, prostitutes, as completely cut off from their respectable sisters. Yet, from my point of view, they are just girls who take up that trade at certain moments in their lives. They may not stay in it. They may move in and out of it, as circumstances dictate.
Joseph said: trade?
She hailed from Deptford, didn’t she. Ships sailing into the docks from the East Indies, the West Indies. Spice trade. Sacks of nutmeg, cinnamon, mace. To flavour fruit cakes. Mincemeat. Savoury pies. Bite into the pie, stick your face in it and eat. Stick to the recipe. Tried, tested, proved. Stick to the facts. He gripped the handle of the pan, tilted the welter of meat and beer from side to side, sluicing the skidding carrots and onions with juice. Where was the pepper? This needed pepper.
The Walworth Beauty Page 16