by Iris Cole
If she wanted to survive her first night here, she needed to prevent herself from succumbing to exposure. And it was already so bitterly cold; the icy wind whipping under her skirts and biting through the fabric of her trousers. Though that was not the only thing that was likely biting her. Her skin felt as though it was ablaze, prickling and itching uncontrollably, until she had half a mind to rake her nails across every part of her flesh, tearing herself to ribbons as long as it made the itching stop.
At last, feeling as though her dignity had taken enough of a battering for one day, she found a somewhat sheltered doorway and sat herself down. Here, at least, she could rest her aching legs for a while.
Huddling into the shadows, she settled her chin into the dip between her raised knees and tried not to shiver too much as the wind whistled past. She stared out at the street beyond while she massaged the chicken-like skin between her thumb and forefinger, in an attempt to stave off her growing hunger.
Dolly had always taught her to do that when her stomach was rumbling, though she had no idea if it actually worked, or if it was merely a distraction technique.
Dolly? Bill? Can you hear me? She did not expect them to speak back, but it comforted her to think she was holding a conversation. What do I do if I can’t get home? What do I do if I find myself stuck here?
She supposed the answer was obvious—she would have to find work of some kind and try to create some kind of life for herself here, until she could find a way to get home. The notion terrified Clary.
No-one would take her seriously as a nurse or a healer, looking the way she did, and she had no experience of any other kind of work.
Her gaze drifted to a swaying beggar, perched on the top step of a doorway opposite. He had his hands out, though Clary was fairly sure he was asleep.
Her stomach lurched: what if she became like him? What if she had no choice but to beg for her survival?
Or what if I am forced to do something worse? Clary thought of Mary, from Seven Dials, and the gaudy, streaked blush of greasepaint on her cheeks and lips. There was always work to be found, if a young woman was willing to sell the only thing she had left. And Clary doubted the men who paid for such services would be perturbed by bruises on a woman’s face. Indeed, she feared they would probably take it as an invitation to add their own.
She shuddered, but not just from the cold. No matter the depth of her desperation, she did not want to end up selling herself here. There had to be another way, though perhaps her mind would change when she no longer had a single coin in her pocket.
As the cold in her veins shifted to a strange, almost comforting warmth, she wondered if she would even have to worry about tomorrow.
Dolly used to tell her that when a person was freezing to death, their bodies would feel warm before death claimed them. Perhaps, it was coming for Clary sooner than she had expected.
I’ll just… rest my eyes awhile, she thought distantly, as she leaned her head up against the stone doorway and let her eyelids close.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Clary jolted awake to the sensation of hands upon her. Panic ricocheted through her stifled lungs as she struggled to open her weighted lids. Even when they were open, it took a moment for them to adjust to the darkness of the street, lit only by the anaemic glow of flickering lampposts.
At first, she jumped to the assumption that someone was trying to rob her, for the touch was gentler than a shake… smarting of sly fingertips. However, as she turned to face her would-be thief, she was surprised to find a pale-faced woman smiling at her with cracked front teeth that made her grin appear lopsided.
“Be at peace, girl. I’m not here to harm ye,” the woman said, settling back into a furtive crouch. “I saw ye sleepin’ here and was tryin’ to wake ye before the cold could creep in and kill ye. I seen it enough times. But see, me auld mammy always told me it weren’t good to shake someone out of a slumber when they’re frozen, else it might stop their heart beatin’. I weren’t trying naught funny with ye.”
Clary’s jaw felt numb, her mouth refusing to cooperate as she tried to force words out of her stiff lips. “You… weren’t trying… to… steal from… me?”
The woman chuckled. “Lord, no. I’ve got light fingers, I’ll grant ye that, but I don’t take from other women. I figure we’ve got enough to deal with, without us all turnin’ on each other.”
She had an accent that reminded Clary of Dolly, and the sound of it struck a melancholy note in Clary’s chest. For a moment, she had forgotten where she was, and just how far away this city was from home.
“Hey, what’s them tears for?” the woman reached over and brushed one away from Clary’s cheek. “If ye start that out here, they’ll turn to ice on yer skin.”
Clary flinched at the unexpected touch. “Who are… you?” She opened and closed her mouth in an attempt to disperse the numbness.
“Name’s Alwyn Coyle.” The woman put out a hand. “And who might ye be, eh?”
Clary took the proffered hand and shook it. “Clary O’Shea.”
“Ah, there’s an Irish name if ever I heard one! Another from the motherland, eh?”
Alwyn grinned cheerfully, though there was a slight slurring to her words and a sourness to her breath that suggested the cheer was not entirely part of her natural demeanour. Rather, it was gin-given.
Clary shrugged. “I was… um… adopted by an Irishwoman.”
“As if we’ve not enough wains of our own!” Alwyn rocked back and forth, licking her lips as though they were perpetually dry. “Well, an adopted Irish is as good as a born Irish in my eyes, me girl. And we Irish look out for one another.”
Clary huddled closer into the doorway. “I’ll be all right on my own.”
“Pfft, aye, if yer only wish is to end up in a mass grave.” Alwyn reached down for something in the gloom beside her and produced a ceramic jar—the kind Clary had seen other women drinking from. “Have ye a sip of this, and ye’ll feel warm before ye know it. Once ye’ve thawed out a bit, ye can come with me, and I’ll sort ye out.”
Clary eyed the jar, before shaking her head. “No, thank you.”
“It’s a poor woman’s medicine, me girl. Take a sip.” Alwyn pushed the jar closer to Clary’s face. “While ye’re drinkin’, ye can tell me what ye’re doin’ here.”
Clary gazed at the woman in confusion. She was angered for the intrusion, but yet somehow grateful for the woman’s refusal to steal from her, and show her some kindness.
“I’ve wandered these streets often enough of a night, and I’ve never seen ye before.” The old woman continued, “And I don’t forget faces, so either ye’re new here or ye’ve been cast out, and now ye don’t know what to do with yerself. Whichever it is, it must’ve been bad if ye’re tryin’ to end yerself by sleepin’ in a doorway on a night like this.”
Though Clary did not want to drink from the ceramic jar, she found her hands reaching for it before she could stop herself. After all, she had not drunk or eaten anything since yesterday, and even this potent liquid—bearing the nickname of Mother’s Ruin for a reason—seemed tempting to her parched throat.
Carefully, she brought the jar to her lips and took a deep gulp. The gin hit the back of her throat in a rush, the bitter taste making her face twist up in a grimace as she battled between swallowing the liquid and fending off the violent cough that threatened to bring it back up.
Alwyn smiled. “Ye’ll get used to the taste.”
Eyes streaming, Clary finally managed to swallow the gin, and felt it slide down her throat and into her belly.
A curious, warming sensation followed, though it was not the same as the warmth that had flooded her as she had fallen asleep. This was… pleasanter, somehow, as though someone had wrapped a blanket tightly around her.
Before she knew it, she was taking another deep gulp and, sure enough, the taste was not so foul the second time. Nor did she feel the urge to cough as she drank it down.
“Feel better?” Alwyn prom
pted.
Clary nodded, wiping her lips on the back of her hand. “A little.”
“I told ye. It’s a poor woman’s medicine. When there are wains cryin’ all hours of the night, and a pair of lovers growlin’ and groanin’ on the other side of the wall, that’ll knock ye out in no time,” Alwyn said: her coarse words making Clary’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Now, which is it? Are ye new arrived or did ye get booted out of someplace fancy? I can’t tell what ye look like beneath all that bruisin’ on yer face.”
Clary sighed and took another sip to bolster her courage. As the warmth spread further through her veins, and a dizzy, relieving sort of lightness filled her head. She told Alwyn who she was, and where she had come from, and how she had come to find herself in this doorway, in a city she did not know.
“And now, I don’t know how I’m going to get back,” Clary concluded.
Alwyn gave a low whistle and nudged the gin jar. “Then ye’d best keep sippin’ that. Sounds like ye need it more than I do.” She paused. “But looks to me like I found ye at the right moment.”
“What do you mean?” Clary did take another sip, longing to feel more of that delicious warmth swimming in her concave, ravenous stomach, if only to stop it from gnawing terribly.
Alwyn grabbed Clary’s hand. “I’ve a place ye can sleep for the night, and a place ye can find work tomorrow. Drink up, me girl—looks like it ain’t all doom and gloom for ye.”
She gave Clary’s hand a firm squeeze. “I can’t offer ye the coin to get to where ye want to go, but I can give ye a way to make it for yerself, and once ye’ve got it… I’ll wave ye off home meself.”
With the gin already taking hold of Clary’s sensibilities, making the grim world of Manchester’s filthy, still-crowded streets seem less awful, she saw no danger in following this complete stranger.
If she had only had her wits about her, she might have refused the gin.
She would have refused the offer of work in favour of remaining steadfast in her resolve to find passage back to London. But her wits had abandoned her; the dregs of her awareness floating away on a tide of imminent inebriation. And, suddenly, staying here did not seem like such a bad idea. Though, perhaps, when morning came and her fogged mind cleared, she would think otherwise.
But, by then, it would be too late.
Chapter Fourteen
Awakening to the din of bawling children and the harsh shouts of frustrated mothers, Clary had no recollection of where she was or how she had come to be there. Blinding sparks erupted behind her eyes, as pain splintered between her temples. Even the dim light of the crowded lodgings was not nearly dark enough for her to be able to open her eyelids without unleashing a fresh bout of agony inside her skull.
Her parched throat begged for something refreshing, but as she pawed around the dusty, hard floorboards at her side, she found only the gin jar and the remnants that sloshed inside.
Memories flooded back of her being brought here by Alwyn, who now slept soundly on the floor beside her, oblivious to the screams and screeches of the women and children around them.
Clary realised they must have drunk most of the jar between them, though she could not fathom how she had managed to sleep in such conditions.
Perhaps Alwyn was right—maybe it is a poor woman’s medicine. And, right now, I am a poor woman, whether I like it or not.
She patted her pockets and gasped in alarm, finding that she only had tuppence left. Had someone stolen from her while she slept? Her eyes glanced at the gin jar, and a vague recollection returned to her: she had purchased another, which she had shared with Alwyn and, possibly, a few of the other women here.
The woman opposite her saw Clary wake from her lethargy. “Keep drinkin’, girl,” one harried looking mother urged, from a bedroll opposite. “Ye’ll feel better again in no time. Hair of the dog that bit ye.”
Clary frowned, not quite understanding the idiom. But she did understand her unbearable thirst and, as there was nothing else to drink but the remaining liquor, she lifted the jar to her lips and downed the rest. It swilled uncomfortably in her stomach for a moment, making her think she might be sick.
Then, quite miraculously, it seemed to settle, like the sea calming after a tempestuous storm.
The woman smiled, as she brought a baby to her breast and let it suckle. “Ye see; I told ye. It works every time.”
Clary mustered a weary smile. “Where am I?”
“Salford. Alwyn brought ye here last night.” The woman nodded to Clary’s pocket. “In case ye were wonderin’—we didn’t rob ye. If ye’re to stay here, ye have to pay yer way. Ye gave a week’s rents to the landlord last night, so all ye’ve to do now is keep payin’ on time, and ye’ll not get kicked out onto the street. Though, when this is yer other choice, maybe the street don’t seem too bad.”
Clary gave a confused nod. “Everything is a bit… hazy.”
“Aye, it will be, but once ye’re used to the stuff,” she picked up her own jar of gin, “ye’ll not know how ye coped without it. It won’t even give ye headaches anymore, after a while.”
Clary eagerly tipped the last few drops from her jar into her mouth, though it did little to dispel the arid thirst. It was more like a temporary relief, made more tolerable by the comforting warmth that slithered through her limbs, ironing out all of the sore spots and cricks in a body that had slept on the hard ground, with nothing but a sack for a coverlet.
“Ma, Ma, Ma!” a sharp voice called, making Clary turn. A young girl of about nine crouched over Alwyn, shaking her by the shoulders. “Ye’ve to get up, Ma, or ye’ll be late!”
Clary frowned at the girl. “Alwyn is your mother?”
The girl looked up with a surprisingly cheerful smile. “Aye, but she’s always like this. Sometimes, I feel like the ma.” She chuckled and resumed her attempt to wake up the deeply slumbering woman.
“Did I meet you last night? I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise Alwyn had a child.” Clary rubbed her throbbing temples, trying to make sense of her disjointed, fuzzy memories.
The girl nodded eagerly. “Me ma said ye’d just arrived in Manchester, and we were to treat ye like family. I’m Dora, in case ye forgot. Ye weren’t too sharp yesterday, but I’ve seen worse. At least ye just fell asleep instead of causin’ chaos, like some others in here.” She did not point out anyone in particular, but a few of the other women shot her disapproving looks.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Clary said, observing the young girl’s ashen face, protruding cheekbones, and cracked lips.
Dora wore a thin, dirtied shift which looked as though it had been darned to the point where hardly any of the original fabric remained, with her collarbone poking starkly out of the top. Meanwhile, her thin arms tensed with what little muscle they had left as she tried to shake her mother awake.
Dora sank back into a sitting position as Alwyn finally stirred. “Ye’re to come with us today, Miss Clary,” the girl said. “Me ma and I work up at the cotton mill, and there’ll be a place for ye there, too. Me ma says the overseer ought to pay her extra for all the workers she gets in, but he never does.” She picked up a different jar of gin and passed it over to Clary. “Though ye might want a bit more of this before we go, to get ye properly awake.”
Clary did not feel it polite to refuse, and she was so terribly thirsty, that she took a big gulp of the harsh liquor before she had even realised what she was doing.
In truth, perhaps she was also keen to have more of that warm, numbing sensation overwhelm her senses, so she would not have to think of all the hardships and challenges that had brought her to this city in the first place.
I’ll go back to London soon, she told herself, as she took a sneaky second sip.
If I can make money here, keep a roof over my head, and get to the docks to check if Captain Dunbar’s ship has come in, then maybe this journey won’t be completely futile.
Somehow, the gin had not just addled her memories of the night before; it
had also sapped her of any motivation to stick to her previous plan.
Indeed, though she thought about the Saint Pancras Female Orphanage for a moment, and what the matron might think when she did not arrive, she no longer experienced any impetus to return to the docks that day and beg for passage. It was a humiliation she did not want to repeat, and the liquor had made her somewhat stubborn.
Why should I get spat at and insulted again, when I can just… stay for the time being?
She touched the bruising upon her face and winced slightly. Maybe, she would just linger in Manchester until it had healed.
After all, she reasoned she would have a much greater chance of persuading sailors and captains to let her aboard their vessels if she looked prettier.
It all depended on whether their perception of her beauty outweighed their fear of bringing a curse down upon themselves, but she could deal with that later.
“Ugh… ye’re a bad influence, Clary O’Shea.” Alwyn sat up and rubbed her eyes, her hair as matted as a bird’s nest. A moment later, her hand came down to stroke a swollen belly that Clary had entirely missed last night. It seemed Alwyn did not only have one child, but she was due to have another one. And, by the looks of her, she could not have been more than a few months away from giving birth.
Clary’s mouth fell open. “You’re with-child?!”
“Much as I wish this were the result of gluttony—aye, I am.” Alwyn smiled. “Ye’re not one of these pious sorts who thinks a woman shouldn’t sip a bit of gin while she’s growin’ a wain, are ye?”
Clary hesitated. “I don’t know enough about it,” she replied, trying to remember if Dolly had taught her anything about such things. “Where I used to work, I contended more with children than with their mothers.”
All of a sudden, a ripple of interest made its way around the crowded room that served as “home” for at least six or seven women, from what Clary had been able to decipher in her bleary state. And that was not including the gaggle of children who were presently running amok, nor the babes-in-arms who were suckling at their mothers’ teats.