Hope - Lesley Pearse [77]
It was the clowning that really won Betsy over. Gussie would do fantastic funny mimes, twisting his rubbery face to portray emotions and different kinds of people. One night he did a little act while people were queuing to get into the theatre in King Street and they roared with laughter, throwing nearly two shillings in pennies and halfpennies to him. Even his name, Augustus Pomfrey, made Betsy laugh; she said it would make an excellent name for a fat alderman, but was ridiculous on a small, skinny boy with hair the colour of carrots. But then, she found she laughed a great deal with Gussie, for despite his small stature she felt sort of protected and comfortable with him. He might not be able to fight off the many men who tried to have their way with her, but his presence deterred them. And in turn she protected him from the thugs and ruffians that she’d grown up with.
Six years on they were inseparable, an indomitable unit, but not lovers. Betsy had eventually traded her virginity to a sea captain for the princely sum of five guineas, but the experience had put her off men. Gussie, with his brotherly affection and total loyalty, was the only male she trusted completely.
‘She’s quite a little lady,’ Betsy said thoughtfully. ‘Hurt as she is, she thanked us real nice. When those shiners have gone I bet she’ll be real bonny.’
‘You ain’t thinkin’ of taking her down to Dolly’s!’ Gussie exclaimed.
‘’Course not, whatcha take me for?’ Betsy replied indignantly. Dolly owned a bawdy house in King Street.
‘So what are we going to do with her?’
‘We don’t have to do nothin’ with her. I jest feel sorry fer her. It won’t kill us to take care of her for a day or two till she’s mended, will it?’
Gussie shrugged. He knew once Betsy’s mind was made up about something, nothing would change it. ‘I’d best light the fire then so we can dry her clothes, then I’ll go out and get us something to eat.’
Betsy sat on the floor by the fire after Gussie left, but she kept glancing round at the sleeping girl. Her whole face was purple and black with bruising, swollen flesh completely covering her eyes. But as she’d helped her take off her sodden dress, the girl had clutched at her stomach, and Betsy guessed she’d been punched and kicked there too.
Men beating women was an everyday occurrence around here. It was equally common to see people weak with hunger. Young girls and boys flocked into Bristol every day in the hopes of finding work, and unless they had a character from a previous employer, almost all of them ended up dead, defeated or criminals.
Betsy didn’t normally help anyone. The one thing she’d learned right from the age of eight when she saw that house burn down with her mother, father and Sadie inside, was that it was a tough old world. You had to look after yourself, be quicker, more cunning, braver and smarter than anyone else, for if you just dropped your guard for a moment then someone would do you down.
So she couldn’t quite understand what it was about this girl that had made her want to help her.
Looking at her clothes drying round the fire, she could see they were well made. Plain cloth, but the stitching was as small and neat as some she’d seen on gowns in the market that had once belonged to rich women. Her undergarments had impressed Betsy too, for apart from the mud splattered around the hems of her petticoats, they were very clean and dainty.
The girl’s face was too distorted and swollen to tell if it was a pretty one, but her hair was black and glossy, and where she wasn’t bruised, her skin was smooth and very white, not mottled and rough like so many women’s round here. Her hands were proof she’d spent years in