The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [65]
“Ain’t no omnibuses pass ’ere, dearie,” she said sarcastically. “And wi’ a face like yours, it’s about all yer gonna catch.”
Gracie lifted her chin, looked around, then straight at the woman. “Like you done, eh?”
“I’ll get my share, yer cheeky bitch,” she said without malice. “But you won’t get enough to feed a rabbit. Yer look like yer ain’t ’ad a decent bite in years, there’s no flesh on yer bones, poor little cow. Men don’t want a starveling wi’ no bosom and no ’ips.” She pulled a face. “Less they’re bent in some way. Yer should be careful—them ones can turn nasty—’cos they ain’t right in the first place.” She shrugged. “Anyway, this is my patch, an’ I don’t take to poachin’ kindly. Even if I didn’t see yer orf, there’s my pimp wot will.”
Gracie felt a shiver of fear and excitement. She took a shaking breath and let it out slowly.
“I dunno about bent ones …” She put a heavy doubt in her voice. “I don’t take nobody wot gets nasty. I mean”—she stared at the woman—“there’s nasty—an’ nasty, if yer gets wot I mean?”
“Oh.” The woman looked ashen in the glimmer of distant gaslight anyway, so it was hard to tell if her color changed, but there was a slackness of fear in the hang of her mouth. “I don’t mean nuffink like the ’Eadsman. Gawd ’elp us—’e ain’t bothered any o’ us. Guess it’s geezers wot ’e’s after.”
“I don’t want any part of ’im!” Gracie said with a dramatic shudder, which was not entirely assumed. Standing here on the path under the windswept trees in the dark, with the chill air eating through her shawl, and only the faint chain of gaslights in the distance, fear did not have to be imagined. “I don’t want ter be with a geezer wot rubs ’im up the wrong way. ’E’d ’ave ter do us too, just ’cos we seen.”
“Yer right,” the woman agreed, moving a step nearer, as if somehow their sheer physical closeness could be some sort of protection against the violence.
“D’yer reckon as there’s some sorts as’d be ’is meat?” Gracie asked with as much innocence as she could manage. Actually her voice was shaking anyway, so her expression was marred from the start.
“Like wot?” The woman stared along the path towards the shadows in the distance. “Maybe there’s a spot o’ trade comin’ our way. Don’t you mess me up, yer fourpenny scrap rabbit, or I’ll mark yer so nobody’ll want yer.”
Gracie drew herself up to spit back that she would not demean herself, then remembered just in time her new role.
“I gotter live,” she said plaintively. “You’ll do all right. Yer pretty …”
The woman smiled mirthlessly, showing dark, stained teeth.
“Crawly cow,” she said, but without rancor this time. “Well, one thing’s fer sure, I got a lot more’n you’ll ever ’ave, poor bitch. I’ll do this for yer, if ’e fancies yer, which ain’t likely, yer can ’ave this one. An’ if I see yer on my patch again, I’ll do yer.”
“I’ll get meself a man,” Gracie said defiantly.
“A runner?” The woman laughed. “ ’Oo’d wanter run yer, yer ain’t worth nuffink.”
“Yes I am. There’s gents wot likes ’em little, like kids!” Gracie knew this from tales she’d heard from less reputable relatives when they had not realized her childish ears were so sharp, before she first went to work for Charlotte.
“There’s all sorts,” the woman agreed with disgust. “There’s them as likes yer ter talk dirty to ’em, them as likes yer ter cuss summat rotten an’ pretend as yer ’ates them, them as likes ter be told orf like they were kids ’emselves—an’ there’s them as likes ter ’urt yer. Yer wanter watch for them—some o’ them gets real ugly. There’s one around ’ere wot likes ter beat girls up pretty bad, real vicious bastard ’e is, big geezer, but speaks ever so soft like a real gent, minds all ’is manners, then beats yer black and blue. Real bad one, ’e is. Ain’t no money worth that. Yer want ter stay clear o’ the likes of ’im.”
Gracie swallowed and found her throat so tight she