Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [37]
Something would turn up, for her and Doll both. You never knew. There was no use worrying over a future that might never happen, because the end could come as quick as a wink. The other night a warm wind had blown up and the sign of the Blue Lion fell down on Tilly Denton's head. Caesar had been her bully-man; he buried her handsome enough, as the girls agreed, and they all made sure to be at the graveside, as a mark of respect. (Not to poor Tilly, so much as to her pimp; you wouldn't do him an insult if you valued your skin.) But a decent burial wouldn't be much consolation, Mary thought, if you were snuffed out as quick as a taper.
The cough came with the first frost in October. Mary ignored it. Soon it was her constant shadow, pressing on her chest when she walked uphill, nagging at her on and off all day, raising its voice at night. 'Shut your mouth,' moaned Doll, tugging the edge of the mattress round her head.
Mary's voice had always been deep but it was huskier and darker now, with a hint of a growl. It made some cullies nervous. She tried to smile instead of speaking.
It was going to be the worst winter in years. All the signs said so: birds, berries, the fortune-tellers' coffee-grounds.
The Magdalen was Doll's idea. Weren't they all? 'Mary, old muck-mate,' she remarked one day, 'you'll not last the winter.' They were walking the Drury Lane beat, curtsying to gentlemen actors and pursing their lips at everything in breeches. Where Mary's skirts were tucked up on one side as the mark of the trade, cold wind dug in. She doubled over with a whoop and hawked up blood, red and yellow against the slithery mud of the street. Ugliness covered the world. She stared down at the mess, as if divining her future.
Doll stood over her, hands perched on hips like hungry birds. 'You ought to take that to the Magdalen Hospital, so you should.'
'I'm not so sick I'd risk my life in a hospital, thank you,' gasped Mary.
'It's not a real one, lack-wit,' said Doll with a snort. 'That's just the name. It's meant for getting young chits off the town before they end up raddled old jades like me.'
Mary grinned back at her, wet-mouthed.
'Think of it!' said Doll. 'Free bed and board through the worst of the winter. Liz Parker went in like a bag of bones and came out fat as ham.'
Mary tried to speak, and started coughing again. When she finally caught her breath she said, 'Doll-Doll, I'm no penitent.'
Doll's eyes rolled, and she jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the theatre behind them on Drury Lane. 'So you ain't picked up nothing about acting, all those times I took you to the play?'
The wind rose, and Mary pulled her taffeta scarf over her mouth. She turned for home.
Doll ran along beside her. 'You can't say I'm not right.'
'I'll think about it,' whispered Mary, holding in her cough.
'You'll do it. I'll see you do. If I don't, may my next sleep be my last,' finished Doll triumphantly.
Mary stopped and looked at her hard. 'And what about you?'
'What about me, then?'
'What about the rent?' Mary didn't know how else to put it. 'Mrs. Farrel's no liking for Misses. She'd put you out soon as look at you, if you fell behind.'
Doll's gaze was icy. All of a sudden her face was an inch from her friend's. Mary tried not to look at the scar, frilled like lace, dusted with powder. 'Don't you fret about Doll Higgins, dear heart. Never needed you in the first place, did I?'
So on the first Thursday morning in November, Mary wiped off every trace of paint before she set off—her stomach in a reef knot—to walk right across the city to Whitechapel.
'Night-night,' mumbled Doll from her pillow.
Mary didn't know what to say. She stood in the doorway, and waved her hand, but Doll's eyes were shut.
Mary'd never gone quite so far out of her home beat before. She had to ask the way to the Magdalen Hospital