Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [41]
‘ Virtutis est domare quaecuncti pauent,’ read Ben slowly.
He turned to Ashdown, hoping for enlightenment, and, to his astonishment, the sailor translated, looking down at the ground as though in fear. ‘”It is a virtue to subdue those before whom all go in dread”,’ he said, his face set into a frown.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Ben.
Ashdown fixed him with a miserable glare which made him shrink. ‘Because I have been shut up in there, my friend.
’Tis the Tugthuis. The House of Correction.’
Ben felt suddenly humbled and wanted to offer some words of comfort to Ashdown, but the sailor merely grinned and patted him on the shoulder. ‘But come, lad. Are we not on pleasure bent?’
Ashdown marched off ahead, cackling and in high spirits, though Ben detected a strong desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fearsome Tugthuis.
Polly sat down heavily on the bench by the bar of Kemp’s inn.
After her initial enthusiasm, she had been systematically worn down by a whole day of disappointments. First, she had great trouble locating the inn among the maze of filthy, decrepit buildings which made up the city. It would be a good thing for one and all, she thought, when the Great Fire came and cleared all those slums away. Then her questions about the men who had captured her had been met with blank incomprehension and then downright hostility from the surly customers.
She had asked to speak to the landlord but was told he was unavailable and his wife denied the inn even possessed an upstairs room, never mind had guests there.
Dejected and alone, Polly had traipsed off and spent another fruitless day searching for her missing friends. She had eaten well, at least, after finding a few of the coins from Ben’s purse rattling around in the pockets of her cloak. She had found a stall selling oysters and gorged herself on a dozen or so. They were delicious, salty and fresh with a hint of nutmeg and thyme. She topped this with several hunks of good brown bread and now she was back at the inn, washing it all down with a kind of hot toddy that took the edge off her loneliness.
The place was noisy with the clatterings and clangings of pots as food and ale were dished out to the rough clientele.
Men with foamy beer dribbling down their beards and on to their collars were laughing and shouting, occasionally taking the chance to grab at a passing girl.
Polly glanced anxiously across the crowded room at the little niche recently occupied by her and Ben. It wasn’t safe for her to remain here alone.
Suddenly, and to her own great surprise, she began to cry.
Looking down at her dress to avoid prying eyes, she heaved a great sigh and let the hot, salty tears drop on to her lap. She wanted nothing more than to be away from this place. To see Ben, Jamie, and the Doctor again.
Her next breath came out as a ragged sob and she hastily wiped her eyes. What was wrong with her, for goodness’
sake? Couldn’t she even manage one day alone?
She thought of what her old friend Rosie would say now.
They had both worked in an office in Bond Street what seemed like an eternity ago and had become great pals. The older Rosie, tall and striking with a jet-black twenties-style bob, was heavily involved with the fledgeling Women’s Liberation Movement and had taken Polly under her wing, transforming the shy young girl into something of a swinger.
Polly could picture Rosie now, looking at her the day she had left to become Professor Brett’s secretary at the Post Office Tower. Rosie had given her a big hug and then held her out at arm’s length. ‘Let me look at my monster,’ she’d said, with a sad smile. ‘Yes. You’ll do.’ Then they’d walked together arm in arm to the entrance to the great shining new building. ‘You keep your chin up, girl,’ Rosie had said.
‘Remember, you can manage on your own. I know you can.’
Polly let the images of that warm day wash over her – the flashy cars and ozone