Diamonds & Dust

by Carol Hedges

  “How are you, dear child?”

  The Dear Child extends the requisite number of fingers.

  “I am well, thank you, Mrs Thorpe. And how are you, and Isabella?”

  Isabella Thorpe pinches her pale lips together, and gives Josephine a hostile stare.

  “We were just looking around the delightful emporia,” Mrs Thorpe continues. She always calls a shop an emporium; it elevates it – and therefore herself – to a higher status.

  “Have you told dear Josephine your exciting news, Bella?”

  Isabella gives her Mama a venomous look.

  “Isabella has a beau,” Mrs Thorpe trills. “George Osborne – such a nice young man. A military friend of Gussy's.” She pats Isabella's shoulder fondly. “We are all so delighted, as you can imagine.”

  Josephine makes congratulatory noises, noting as she does that the ‘we’ of the statement does not appear to include Isabella, whose face is currently frozen into a rictus of disgust.

  “And what about you?” Mrs Thorpe continues. “Have you made any decisions about your future? I inquire because Gussy was asking about you only the other day. The dear boy is very taken with you.”

  “Oh ... I ... am in the process of making many decisions.”

  “Not too many, I hope. And not without proper advice. Remember, Mr Thorpe and I are always available, should you require the guiding hand of long experience. You are still very young, my dear, and you should be spending your time enjoying yourself. Which is why we are here, of course. Come, Isabella, I spy bonnets!”

  Mrs Thorpe sails off.

  Isabella does not move. Instead she turns to face Josephine.

  “You did not see me!” she hisses, icicles hanging from her words.

  “Oh?”

  Josephine stares at her incomprehensibly. She does not have a clue what Isabella is talking about.

  “Did I not? When?”

  “Near the British Museum.”

  Light dawns upon the confusion.

  “Oh – you mean when you were with that …”

  Isabella shakes her head.

  “You. Saw. Nothing.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “No, you did NOT see. Just remember,” Isabella snaps, acid edging every syllable.

  Then in a spectacular ‘cut’, she spins upon her heel and stalks off.

  Josephine shakes her head in bewilderment. For goodness sake. What does it matter what she saw? Why does it matter? It is not as if she and Isabella are friends. Far from it.

  She makes her way down Regent Street to the omnibus stop in Piccadilly Circus.

  But her troubles are not yet over for the day, for barely has she stationed herself on the corner, when she finds herself accosted by a middle-aged man in a smart woollen topcoat with a velvet collar.

  “My poor dear child, what are you doing standing here upon this gloomy afternoon?” he inquires.

  Under his shiny top hat, the man has a thin, unhealthy angular face culminating in a grizzled moustache and a straggly beard. His eyes are sunk deep in baggy folds of skin. Josephine is tempted to say that it is none of his business, but for some unknown reason, he is regarding her with intense sympathy.

  “I’m waiting for a bus,” she says stiffly.

  The stranger goes on staring at her in a rather disconcerting fashion. Finally, he sighs deeply, and reaches into his topcoat.

  “I have in my pocket a small pamphlet that may change your unfortunate life forever,” he says. “May I beg you to accept it. I hope you can find someone to read it to you.”

  “What?”

  “And here, my wretched girl, is some money to buy yourself decent lodgings for the night.” He hands her the pamphlet, together with some coins, before melting into the crowd.

  She glances at the cover of the pamphlet.

  ‘Urania Cottage: A Home for Fallen Women’.

  Cheek! Who does he think he is?

  She turns over the pamphlet. There is a scrawled list on the back:

  Washing bill

  Buy fruit

  Flowers for Nelly

  New Title: No Expectations? Few Expectations?

  While she is puzzling over this, her bus appears in the distance. She stuffs the offending pamphlet into her pocket and prepares to board.

  ****

  London possesses a moral geography. The hours of day and night can almost be charted according to the shifting locations of prostitution. If Regent Street is its midday haunt, the Haymarket is its night-time locus.

  Just off the Haymarket, there is a sign hanging above a bar. It depicts a gaudily painted wagon piled vertiginously high with hay of a bilious hue. The sign tells you that the bar is called The Waggoner’s Arms, but everybody locally calls it Candy’s, that being the name of the owner.

  If you push open the door of Candy’s bar and step across the threshold, you will be greeted by the fragrant smell of beer and tobacco, and the lively hubbub of genial conversation. Here are gleaming brass fixings, big mirrors, and a roaring fire. Here the beer is served in glasses, not pewter tankards, and it arrives clear, with a good head on it.

  Pennyworth Candy is a broken-nosed, meat-fisted mountain of a man. Ex-prize fighter, ex-various other occupations (about which it is probably better not to enquire), he towers over most of the customers. He is helped behind the bar by a bevy of attractive barmaids in frilly aprons, who smile, and serve, and listen sympathetically to your life-story. Of course, they will forget every word of it as soon as you leave, but you won’t know that. It is that sort of bar.

  On Saturday nights, a small stage is erected in one corner, a battered piano is wheeled out from the back, and patrons of a musical bent are encouraged to strike up a tune and bawl out a merry song for the mutual entertainment of their fellow-drinkers. There is never any trouble. Pennyworth Candy’s reputation goes before him. It is said that when he enters a room, even the space gets out of his way. He is that sort of landlord.

  At Candy’s you are welcome to enjoy a quiet drink on your own. But you could also sit with one of the pretty young women who frequent the bar of an evening. Nice girls. Some used to be maidservants, until a ‘change of circumstances’ had forced them to quit.

  These girls are several notches below the likes of Lilith Marks, of course, but they are still a lot better than the bedraggled harlots, with their garish painted faces, who hang around outside and try to wheedle and drag you into the nearest doorway. As an added incentive, every girl is known personally to the proprietor, and is well-dressed and clean. They are all that sort of girl.

  If you like, after buying one of these beauties a few bevvies, you might be invited, for a modest fee, to visit them in their private apartment that is only a short step away, if you’d like to follow me, sir. Your choice. Or maybe not. No problem, sir. The night is still young, and there are plenty more where you came from.

  And right now, one of the pretty young women, known to her friends as Fanny, is entering the bar. She brushes the damp from her cheap coat, and approaches the shiny counter, where Pennyworth Candy is pulling a pint for a customer.

  “Wotcha Fan,” mine host greets her. “Glass o’ the usual?”

  Fanny’s usual is gin. She drinks it a lot. She holds out her hand for the glass, sips, then remarks casually,

  “Young lady outside as wants to see you, Penny’orth.”

  Several drinkers set their beer glasses quietly down upon their tables. Several sets of eyes swivel round to fix upon the landlord. Something of interest may be about to happen, possibly involving a tragic tale of betrayal and abandonment. They sit back in their seats, and await developments.

  Pennyworth Candy walks to the door of the bar and half-opens it. A brief conversation ensues. Then he ushers in a slender young woman dressed in black. She wears a plain black-satin trimmed bonnet, under which a riot of unruly red curls is struggling to escape. She is followed by a scruffy boy carrying a battered broom. He stares about him with wide greedy eyes.

  Pen
nyworth Candy calls to one of the bar-girls.

  “Poll, take the young ’un into the back and give him a good feed,” He sniffs the air. “And a dip in some ’ot water wouldn't come amiss.”

  He shows Josephine King to a vacant booth.

  “Something to drink, miss? What about a small glass o’ sherry-wine? Doll, sherry-wine for the young lady.”

  Josephine slides into the padded seat, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. She has never been in a bar before. The mirrors are confusing her sense of perspective, making the room seem bigger and more crowded than it actually is, and the noise is so deafening she can barely hear herself think. Also, she is aware that she is under the scrutiny of many pairs of curious eyes.

  Doll places a glass of sherry on the table. Pennyworth Candy folds his arms, and waits patiently for her to explain herself.

  “Believe me,” she begins cautiously, “I have never done anything like this before.”

  “No. I kind of guessed that,” the barman says drily. “You don't look like the sort. And you don’t talk like it neither. But you've come ter the best place, my girl; I’ll see you right. Now, the first thing I has to ask is: do you ’ave your own gaff, or do you want ter rent one of the upstairs rooms?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “And I'll be quite ’onest with you: there are some gentl’men who'll go for ladies in black – particular if there’s whips and suchlike involved, and you’ve certainly got the right hair for it. But you don’t strike me as that type, so you might like to think about getting some new clothes before you starts. Unless you want to attract that sort of customer, of course.”

  Josephine stares at him in horror.

  “Why do you think I am here?”

  Pennyworth Candy gives a sigh, followed closely by a world-weary shrug.

  “Well, at a guess: you caught the eye of the young master of the house. Am I right? His ma found out. You was turned off. No wages, no character, no place to go. Yeah – it’s not fair, and it’s not right, but you ain’t the first, my lovely, and you certainly won’t be the last. Most of the girls here has a similar tale to tell.”

  Josephine turns bright pink. She is speechless with embarrassment. When her composure returns, and her colour goes back to normal, she explains the actual purpose of her visit.

  The barman hears her out in silence. Then he shakes his head slowly from side to side.

  “Sorry, miss. You’ve had a wasted journey. I can’t help you. Look around you. This is my place now. This is what I do. I don’t know how you got my name, or who gave it you or wot they said, but I ain’t in that line of work anymore.”

  “But you used to be,” she persists.

  He shrugs.

  “Yeah, I used ter be, for a while. Like I used ter go toe-to-toe bare-knuckle twenty rounds in the boxing ring. There’s a lot I used ter do that I don’t do any more. Learned the error of my ways, you might say. And I ain’t about ter put myself on the wrong side of the law for some young woman I’ve never met who just walks in off the street and asks me.”

  He rises, and signals to one of the barmaids.

  “Fetch the lad out of the back. We're done ’ere.”

  Josephine stares at him.

  “Please Mr Candy, won’t you reconsider?”

  But Pennyworth Candy is already making his way back to the bar, taking with him her best and last and only hope.

  “Well, thank you very much,” she calls after his departing back, folding her arms and glaring at him defiantly. “My beloved late father always used to say that we were put on this earth to help one another. It’s a shame that doesn't seem to apply to you.”

  Chin in the air, and back-ramrod straight, she marches towards the bar door, making absolutely no eye contact with anybody. She has just reached the door when a huge heavy hand is laid upon her shoulder and she is spun round.

  Pennyworth Candy is standing right behind her. He is breathing heavily, and there is a strange wild look in his eye.

  “You say that again,” he says hoarsely. “And this time say it ter my face, so as I can hear you loud and clear.”

  Absolute silence falls. Quickly followed by an epidemic of foot-shuffling and throat-clearing, as the occupants of the bar suddenly discover a communal interest in the contents of their glass, or the unusual whorl and striation patterns upon the surface of the tables. Meanwhile the street-sweeper, now cleaner and replete, secretes himself behind one of the barmaids.

  Pennyworth Candy’s eyes are still fixed upon Josephine’s face.

  “Go on,” he commands. “Say it.”

  She does.

  “Now tell me your name.”

  She does.

  “And your pa – tell me his name.”

  She does.

  The big man staggers back, as if he has been struck a mighty blow.

  “I knew it had ter be him. You said it exactly like he used ter say it. And I must’ve heard him saying it a hundred times or more when I was growing up.” He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “So, your pa was Reverend Amos King, was he? God bless ’is memory. I was one of his Bermondsey Bible boys. Two nights every week I'd be dahn that church hall with the other lads, studying the Good Book. Then when we was done, we’d pack everything away, and your Pa’d teach us how ter box.

  “He used ter say boxing was a discipline and it’d keep us out of trouble when we grew up. And he was right. That’s how I got going in the boxing game. Started winning fights locally, then decided ter go Up West, see if I could make a living in the ring. And I did too, a nice living. Bought this pub from the winnings. All thanks to your Pa. If it wasn’t for him, who can say where I’d of ended up?”

  The big man looks her up and down, an expression of wonder on his face.

  “I knows who you are now. You’re Little Jo, ain’t you? Exactly the same red hair as your pa.’Course you was only a tiny child back in them days. And here you are, large as life, all growed up.”

  Pennyworth Candy snaps his fingers.

  “Moll, bring us some of the best French brandy. Two glasses. And see we ain’t disturbed. I got business to take care of.”

  ****

  Sometime later, Josephine and Oi leave the bar and enter the flickering fairyland of the Haymarket at night. It is several hours since they first passed through its streets, and now glitter and gaiety hold sway.

  Amusement and pleasure is the business of the crowd. It is carried out in supper-rooms, music-halls and theatres, as well as down dark alleyways and in secret drug-dens and doorways.

  They burrow through the crowd, occasionally having to advance sideways to avoid the promenading women, all stylishly decked out in bright colours, who might be mistaken for respectable females but for the calculating eyes that stare boldly out of painted faces, scanning every passing male with practised expertise.

  “Keep your ’ead dahn, and walk fast,” Oi advises.

  They have almost reached Shaftesbury Avenue when a noisy gang of young men in military dress force their way through the crowd. Leading the gang, his eyes wild, his face flushed with drink, is George Osborne.

  He carries a wine bottle in his hand, which he is using as a kind of battering-ram to clear a path through. Josephine is forced to press herself flat against the nearest wall to prevent being hit on the back, or knocked headlong into the gutter.

  “Tally ho boys!” George Osborne shouts as he rushes by, brandishing the bottle. “Onwards to Mrs Frost’s! Keep up at the back!”

  A familiar fat figure lumbers past her, breathing heavily. For a fleeting second their eyes meet, and a flicker of recognition passes between them. Then Augustus Thorpe, gay blade about town, disappears into the noisy crowd.

  “Never trust a soldier, that's my advice.”

  Josephine turns. A young woman has just emerged from a doorway. It is Fanny, the girl from Candy’s bar.

  “I never goes with anything in a red coat. Not if I can ’elp it,” she remarks. “They likes it rough, and the
y don’t like paying for it after.”

  “Oh!” Josephine feels the colour rising to her cheeks.

  “And that one out in front – George Osborne, Master Georgie-Porgy, we all call ’im – he’s the worst of the bloody lot,” Fanny continues. “He glassed up one of my friends so bad she had to go to ’orspital. Scars still not healed properly. And the girls say he ain’t clean – if you know what I mean.”

  “No ... really ... I—”

  Fanny stretches herself.

  “I’m just off for a tipple – done some good business tonight, so I reckon I deserves a night cap afore I turns in.” She jingles some coins in her hand, gives Josephine a friendly nod, and saunters back towards Candy’s bar.

  ****

  Lord and Lady Hartington’s Christmas Costume Ball.

  Just the thought of it sends frissons of delightful anticipation down the well-bred female spine. It is the event of the Winter social calendar. Anybody who is anybody in the upper echelons of London society expects to be there. And if you are not there, well, you know exactly who and what you are, and so does everyone else.

  In houses all over London, mantelpieces have already been cleared to give the gold-leaf invitation cards pride of place. Each year a different theme is chosen. Prizes are given for the best, the most original or the most amusing costume. The supper table, courtesy of the Hartington chef, is to die for, and my Lord and Lady manage to secure the services of the best musicians in town to play for the dancing and evening entertainments. (This year it is rumoured that the great Mandolini has been persuaded into performing her Tosca.)

  After the ball is over, my Lady, who unfailingly carries out her duties as hostess despite her physical disabilities, will quit the palatial Hyde Park mansion for warmer and healthier climes, not to reappear until Spring peeps over the windowsill.

  The theme of this year’s ball is Venice in Carnival, and dressmakers and mask-makers have been summoned from every corner of the city to discuss costume designs. Bribery is taking place on a vast scale. Mendacity stalks every boudoir. The trouncing and outdoing of one’s friends and contemporaries is an integral part of the whole affair.