Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [53]
There was that bit of mirror she'd got from the house that burned down in Carrier Street. She powdered her face till it looked back at her from the glass, as white as chalk; she needed the full mask today. She reddened her lips and two spots high on her cheeks. Little worms of black hair escaped from her cap. Only cullies had ever called Mary beautiful. Come here, me beauty, they mumbled. And why should she have believed them, since they were only spurring themselves on, convincing themselves that this girl was worth the shilling? Mary was handsomer than some, though, she knew that much. And she was only tired, today; she couldn't be losing her looks yet, not at fifteen. She pulled on her crumpled felt slouch hat, breathed in to puff up her cleavage, and tried a dirty smile. But her dark eyes wouldn't join in.
Between the layers of damp cloth she found the little tinder-box. Not a brass farthing in it; Doll must have been down to the bone. Had the woman been starving, then, by the end, and would she still not pawn any of her friend's clothes? Mary felt her throat swell up as if she'd swallowed a stone. She should have known to trust her. And she should have seen past Doll's bluster about needing no one, her fine talk of liberty and every girl for herself. Mary should never have gone off and left her alone.
She replaced the box in the hole, though she couldn't have said why. The thud of boots on the stairs; only when the door crashed open did she turn. Mrs. Farrel's nose was even smaller than she remembered. The landlady shook her nest of keys like a rattle. As always, she was in full flow: '...and you can be telling your scar-faced crony that no one bilks Biddy Farrel and lives to boast of it!'
Mary gave her a cold stare, and then bent to scoop up her clothes.
Mrs. Farrel snatched a bit of lace from her hand. 'D'ye hear me, hussy? The cheek of ye, to come sneeviling in here in the night, removing property, with so much owing on it!'
'I owe you nothing.' Mary seized the lace.
It ran taut between them. 'Then the other hoor does, sure.'
Mary let go of the fabric. 'What's that to me?' she said after a second.
'Five days running she's after giving me the slip now, but I'll sniff her out, wherever she's hiding herself, so I will. You can tell her she pays up or I'll have the rest of her face cut off of her.'
A wave of nausea started in Mary's stomach. She had a feeling she was going to take this woman by the throat and press her thumbs in hard. 'Go look in the alley for your rent,' she could tell her then. But no, Mary wouldn't let anyone find Doll before she'd scraped together the price of her burial. She folded her arms tightly. 'What's the reckoning?'
A flicker of hesitation in the purple face. 'Ten shilling.'
'Damn me if it is!'
'Not a farthing the nasty drab give me for a fortnight. No, nor a month past,' added Mrs. Farrel, smoothing her oxblood skirt over her bulky improvers.
Was the woman lying? Please let her be lying. The thought of Doll, hungry for the whole month of December—'Half a crown for your trouble,' offered Mary coldly, reaching into the waist of her skirt to pull up her pocket.
'Half a crown up your arse.' There were specks of froth on the older woman's lips.
Mary shrugged and began stuffing her clothes into her bag, on top of her linen.
'Leave all that down where you found it now.'
'Every shred of it's mine,' said Mary softly. She kept packing at top speed. 'Whatever wasn't, you've flogged already, ain't you? Bet they're scattered across the stalls of Monmouth Street, all Doll's clothes.'
'Little I got for them, then, if they are,' spat Mrs. Farrel.
'What about her cameo bracelet? And her French cloak with the fur robings?' Mary edged across the room.
Mrs. Farrel extended herself across the door like a spider. 'There was nothing worth tuppence. Put down that bag now or I'll call