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Go shoppingFrancine marched past the grocers on Spa Road, past the station, towards the Thames. It was spring, but you wouldn’t know it by looking around. A stiff breeze blew the scent of the ships towards her. Wheat for the mills, pickled herring, tea… and over it all, the smell of humanity. The dirty clattering stomach of the British Empire.
As she went along Tooley Street, a man smiled at her. “Hullo Sweetheart!” His skin was pale with some kind of sickness. Lifting her head, she walked faster.
[private]Jane didn’t know her letters, but she’d described the place perfectly. ‘Black basement door on ‘ibernia Wharf, a low one. By the Jolly Caulkers, if you know it Mum. She’ll sort you out, whatever you want, Mum. Anything.’
Carts lumbered by, piled with sacks, the steaming flanks of horses on either side of her. Men shouted. Everywhere you looked, there were signs of the most desperate poverty. Curtainless windows, cracked walls, mouldy pumps, barefoot children.
Hibernia Wharf had the mucky salty smell of the Thames. In the nearest doorway sat an old woman, her jacket a bundle of rags. Her face was grained with dust, her eyes were blank. Filthy feet with black toenails stuck out from the bottom of her skirt. Pitiful – and repulsive.
Francine slowed her pace. Oh please, she thought, let it not be this creature. Then, a few yards along, she saw the door. Ancient steps led down to an archway so low that even a child would have needed to stoop.
She hurried past the woman gladly. Taking a deep breath, she put one foot on the first step. Suddenly she noticed how tight and heavy her clothes were. She’d bought a new hat last week, a stunning blue swoop which framed her face with feathers. Her hair was pinned tightly underneath and, under the hat, her scalp began to prickle wildly.
She ran down the last few steps and knocked on the door, which was loose. A foetid smell wafted up to meet her.
The door swung outwards, making her step back. Behind it, the basement was dark and empty. For a moment, Francine thought the draught had blown it open. Then she saw a flicker by the floor. A rat as big as a casserole dish was sitting on the flags staring up at her.
A woman’s voice called out, “Please come down.”
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, Francine saw the second staircase. She felt the hairs on her neck rise into gooseflesh. The air was cold and stale.
She thought of her sop of a husband, and she was brave again. Anything was better than living in that tomb, Myrtle Villas. Light glimmered from the bottom of the stairs. She walked towards it.
She’d expected candles, or at best, oil lamps. Certainly not gas like they had in Myrtle Villas. But she was wrong. The steps curved around a corner and opened out into a stone chamber. Pools of light mottled the walls – the work of electric bulbs.
“Do you like them?”
Francine started. The end of the room was in shadow. One side had a chaise longue, and lying on the chaise was a woman. “Oh I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed.
“I adore my lamps,” the woman said. “They’re so wonderfully modern. Do you like modern things?”
“Yes.”
The woman got up. She was tall and wore a flowing gown like an actress. She stepped into the light, revealing lots of naked shoulder and neck. A plait swung down her back in bohemian style. She held out her bare hand. Her skin was as white as blancmange and smooth as steel. Francine took it.
The soft fingers were tipped with sharp fingernails.
Francine’s mind was racing. What an extraordinary scene. What an elegant woman! What a fine rug – so very Nouveau! Surely the woman had arranged the contrast on purpose. All this opulence was meant to startle and disconcert. Well it worked. Unconsciously, she frowned, and resolved not to part with a single farthing until AFTER the result…
Yes, the result. She didn’t even know what result she wanted.
The woman still held her hand. “I’m Cynthia.”
“I’m Mrs. Fallwell…” she paused. “I mean… you may call me Francine.”
“What beautiful gloves, Francine. May I see one?”
To her astonishment, the woman – Cynthia – gently pulled the fingers free from her right glove. Her skin brushed against Francine’s wrist and, as it did, her whole body jolted. It was as if a strong magnetic force had passed through them.
“Gracious they’re French! What fine leather. Who bought them for you?”
“Edwar– My husband.”
“I see.” Cynthia handed it back. “And what can I do for you, Francine?”
“I– well – I…” Suddenly she wanted to cry. She frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Sit down.” Cynthia led her to the chaise, and sat next to her. “How did you know to find me?”
“Jane, my maid. She knew about my marriage. She said you could solve my problem.”
Cynthia glanced across, her eyes flashed like a mirror. They looked more like a cat’s eyes than those of a woman. “But the problem,” she said. “What is the problem?”
Francine took a deep breath. “My husband. He’s weak.”
Cynthia nodded. “It is the failing of men.”
“I mean – when I told him I didn’t love him – he started crying. Crying!”
Cynthia blinked.
“He’s simply unmanly. I should never have married him. But I was twenty-six; all my friends were wed…”
She smiled sympathetically. “How easy and simple if he were to drown.”
Francine flinched. “No.” she said quietly. “That’s not fair. I just want my freedom again.”
“There’s divorce…” she crossed her long legs.
“He would never agree. And then there’s the shame. I’m no scarlet woman.”
“But you would live alone? You have money?”
“A little…”
“Then all is well.” Cynthia soothed. “You deserve better, Francine. A woman of your character, your extraordinary boldness. You are bold, aren’t you?”
“Y-yes.”
“So am I.” Cynthia looked at her sharply. “I can see past that bourgeois hat, Francine. Take it off for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see your hair. Is it as long as mine?”
Her eyes flickered up and down, taking in the dress and shoes. Francine took off the new hat and unpinned her hair. It felt exposed lying across her back. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I’m solving your problem. There’s just one more thing. The child.”
Francine shook her head. “No. No children.”
An eyebrow was raised. “You shared a bed?”
“Sometimes. In a fashion.”
“Fashion enough.” she touched her belly. “Under those stays,” she said. “A baby.”
Francine’s mouth fell open. “But – “
“Even the weakest man can manage that.”
Francine was silent. There had been changes recently: discomfort, sickness… But surely she was not a mother? “I’m not ready!” she said. “I can’t. I won’t. Not with Edward.”
“Now, now.” Cynthia patted her belly again. “ She will be a beautiful baby. Leave everything to me. You trust me?”
Francine paused. In the silence, you could hear the screeching of rats.
Cynthia started to laugh. “Or maybe not. But I can solve your marriage problem. Come here.” She put an arm around Francine’s shoulders and pulled her close, baring a set of razor-sharp teeth. Her breath smelled of rotten meat as she leaned in to bite.
Edward Fallwell never married again. In 1902 he became a catholic priest. He cared for the poor and desperate for the rest of his life, sharing in their sorrows.
Myrtle Villas was bombed in 1943.
Edward Fallwell died in 1950.
The docks have closed.
Hibernia Wharf was demolished. On the site is a very nice Cafe Nero.
But, there are still plenty of rats.[/private]
This story was first published on www.be-a-better-writer.com.
Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle has been published in a number of obscure but classy magazines. She loves Millwall football club, Lou Farrow’s pie and mash shop, Albin’s funeral directors, and digging around in sewers. If you want a story about these topics (or anything else, she’s not too fussy) please email her on vanessa_woolf@hotmail.com.
