Remember Me - Lesley Pearse [161]
‘I think it’s myself I’ve lost faith in,’ she said with a sigh.
‘That is very understandable,’ he said, his dark eyes softening with sympathy. ‘Newgate tries to destroy all that comes in through its doors. But you must fight against it, Mary. Look around at the women who sell themselves for a glass of gin, the men who would steal a man’s boots while he sleeps, and remind yourself you are not one of them. You, because of your courage and forbearance, have captured the hearts of a nation. Each day people ask me how you are, they press money into my hands for you.’
‘They do?’ Mary said in surprise, and then her eyes narrowed. ‘So where is it?’
Boswell chuckled. ‘I’m keeping it safe for the time when you will need it. It wouldn’t be wise for you to have it here, but I jot every penny down, and when you are released it will go towards lodgings, clothes, food and transportation to wherever you wish to go.’
She nodded, taking heart that he had said ‘when’ rather than ‘if’. ‘Can you tell me how many more weeks before I know for sure?’
Boswell shook his head. ‘I can’t, Mary. I’m doing everything I can to force the hands of those with the power to get you released. I can do no more.’
After Boswell had left, Mary went to the tap-room in search of the men. Despite her aversion to the place, she was loath to wait alone in the cell for their return.
As always, the fumes of cheap spirit, tobacco and human odours almost knocked her back as she opened the door. The room was small, a cellar-like place with grey stone walls which felt cold and wet to the touch. It was lit by a smoking lantern and the only furniture was a couple of rickety benches. Fresh air only came in via the door, but the regular drinkers appeared to have adapted to the smog-like conditions.
It wasn’t as crowded as it normally was, perhaps because gaol fever was raging on the common side. But there were still around sixteen men and four women, two of whom Mary thought might be recent arrivals as she hadn’t seen them before. One of them, gaudily dressed in a purple and blue striped dress, was perched on a man’s knee, letting him fondle her breasts as she swigged at a bottle.
As always when she had occasion to come in here, Mary’s stomach churned. It wasn’t that she disapproved of people drinking here or anywhere else – drink was just as valid a way of coping with being in prison as prayer was. But the tap-room seemed to bring out the very worst in people. They boasted, they whined, they tore other people’s characters to shreds. Sexual fumbling, often with a running commentary from the perpetrator, was a regular occurrence. She had come in here once to see a man push a woman off his lap, having just completed the sex act, and another man grabbed her and used her too, while people applauded him.
Plots against unpopular prisoners were hatched in here as well, and as jealousy was usually the reason behind most of the vicious attacks in Newgate, Mary often feared for herself and her friends.
‘Mary, my little darlin’!’ James exclaimed as he saw her in the doorway. ‘Come and have a drink with us!’
James had undergone a quite dramatic change since their arrival in Newgate. The notoriety, his ability to read and write, and his natural charm had set him apart from the other prisoners almost immediately. But his image had been further enhanced by the stream of ladies who came to visit him. In smart new clothes, clean-shaven and with his hair neatly trimmed, he now had the persona of a member of the Irish aristocracy. He could never be called a handsome man, with his big forehead and nose, but he wore the new clothes with style, and his humour and warmth were very attractive.
Mary’s heart sank when she saw his face flushed by drink and the way he staggered as he moved towards