‘Forgive me, sir,’ I said and made to leave. ‘It was foolish to ask.’
Outside I could see my father, his face red with rage, waving his arms and shooing me back.
‘Not so hasty,’ said the wine merchant. ‘If you would show me the book again…’ I could see where this was leading. A customer tried to enter the shop and the wine merchant said firmly that it was closed. ‘I will take the book in lieu of payment this time, Miss er, er…’
‘Truegood,’ I said, handing him the book.
‘The book and one kiss. But if the old devil runs the bill up again I will take from you the pleasure to be found in… in… this illustration.’ He showed me Plate Three. It was without doubt the dullest of all the illustrations to be found there: a man flattened out on top of his lady, his breeches round his ankles and only a small part of his carrot inside her. He looked in ecstasy; she looked bored.
I agreed to the wine merchant’s terms. So this was what it was to be a whore.
‘Seal the bargain with a kiss,’ he said.
I had never kissed an owl before but I imagine the wine merchant and an owl might have more in common than either would have expected. I pulled away for want of breath. He still didn’t let go and his hand found its way under my skirt and petticoat and I having nothing on that would stop his hand from further roaming it went straight to the point.
I eased myself away and left the order for the wine on the counter.
‘When he has drunk this,’ said the wine merchant, ‘I will be needing proper payment.’
I left him smelling the tips of his fingers.
By the time the wine had run out my father had gambled everything away.
It was the morning that the grandfather clock was removed that marked the end of my time in Milk Street. I had forgotten all about seeing the small boy trapped inside until Cook mentioned it.
‘Do you remember when you saw the boy inside the clock?’
‘Did you see him too?’ I asked, for she had never said.
‘I don’t know. It was so long ago. Perhaps…’
Two servants turned up with a cart to take away the grandfather clock. My father, drunk and maudlin, showed them upstairs to where the clock stood.
‘Handsome,’ said one of the men.
The other opened it to take out the pendulum and the weights and he was there, the small boy, curled up, cowering, waiting to be hit.
I held my peace, my heart beating, then my father said, more to himself than to anyone else, ‘I used to hide in there when I was a lad, to keep out the way of my father’s temper.’ He stopped, moved back in surprise, and was saved from falling over the bannister by one of the men.
‘Careful now, sir,’ he said.
‘Did you see that?’ my father asked. ‘Did you see that?’
I had seen.
‘See what?’ said the other man.
My father looked at me. ‘Did you see?’ he said. ‘Did you see the boy?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I did.’
‘It was me,’ shouted my father. ‘It was me – Samuel. Me…’
His eyes filled with tears.
Now, wouldn’t that make a rounded tale, sir, if finally my father had become regretful of how he had treated his one and only child? Perhaps in a pantomime such tales run round that way. Not in this one, I assure you.
Fowls in a Plain Way
Prepare the fowl for roasting and make a sauce with the liver, parsley, shallots, a bit of butter, pepper, salt and a little basil; stuff the fowl with it, and roast it wrapped in slices of lard and paper. When three parts done, take off the paper and lard-baste it all over with yolks of eggs beat up with melted butter, sprinkle crumbs of bread over it, in abundance, and finish the fowl to a fine yellow colour. Make a sauce with a bit of butter, one chopped anchovy, a few capers, a little flour, two spoonfuls of broth, nutmeg, pepper and salt; form a liaison like a white sauce and serve it under the fowl.
That evening, Mr Truegood held the last of his parties. He had been drinking his sorrows away most of the afternoon and by the time his gambling companions arrived, whatever rational thoughts his head might have possessed had long been pickled.
He shouted down to the kitchen that I was to serve his guests tonight and, if I didn’t, then the dress, the stockings and the rest of the clothes he had hired for me would be returned to Mrs Phelps’ shop. I knew well that come high tide tomorrow they would be gone anyway. When the bailiffs arrived to take Mr Truegood to the sponging house, at least Mrs Phelps’ clothes would be returned in a better state than I had found them. I had spent a great deal of time cleaning and mending the dress. The lace edging being good for nothing but cobwebs I had carefully removed it and wore the dress plain. The stomacher I laced tight causing my bosom to be pushed up high.
I had never before had to serve my father. It had always been Cook’s job, and mine was to clean up after him. Now I seemed to have inherited both ends of the leaky old donkey. If Cook had been conscious it might have helped, but she was out cold by the fire, a tumbler of gin beside her.
‘Tonight,’ declared Mr Truegood, ‘I will win it all back – every penny.’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ I said, ‘it would be best to leave off the cards.’
‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’
Seeing he was set to gamble away what little was left of nothing, I said no more.
The ragtag members of the Hawks’ Club turned up and sat crouched over their cards with such expression as if their very life would be judged by a winning or losing hand.
‘He is late,’ said a card player.
‘He will be here,’ said my father.
I went to the kitchen for more wine and brought up as well a board of ripe cheese that I had picked two maggots from, and bread on the cusp of turning green. Candles are a luxury that the bankrupt can ill afford and therefore the chamber had more of the dark about it than the light. So dark it was in fact that I did not at first see the newcomer seated at the card table. His clothes showed that he was a dandy and spoke of wealth that shone bauble-bright.
My father had started well and won ten guineas but, being born a fool, was determined to stay true to his origins and with the next hand lost all he had gained.
‘Come, I will play again,’ said my father.
‘With what, sir?’ said the dandy. ‘It appears to me you have nothing left to gamble with.’
‘I have that, sir,’ said Mr Truegood, pointing at me. ‘Thirty guineas is the rate for a virgin and she has never been touched.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Pox free, I promise you.’
‘If she is a virgin that goes without saying,’ said the young rake.
I thought this is how slaves must feel when they are brought to the market. My would-be seducer never once looked in my direction but with a shrug of his shoulders he agreed.
I