You wake at dawn to somebody pounding on your door. ‘Open up! That’s an order!’
You get to your feet, feeling stronger than before. Just before you make it to the door, though, you hear the same voice say, ‘Seems they’re right – nobody alive in there. Same as the last house, poor blighters.’
You open the door to the astonished face of a constable who was, it seems, preparing to break your door down with one shoulder.
‘I’m alive,’ you croak, watching the horror spread over his face as he takes in the sight of you. ‘Ma’s dead, though.’
A lump rises in your throat as you say it aloud for the first time. May the Lord take me home, you remember her voice saying, and tears prick at your eyes.
‘You’re naught but a child,’ he observes. ‘Where’s the rest of your family?’
You hang your head. ‘I only had the one sister, and she died. My da’s in prison. He’s a good man, though,’ you add hastily. ‘He just—’
‘He’s pure as the virgin snow, I’m sure,’ drawls the constable. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you don’t like the tone of his voice. ‘Right then, milady, it’s off to the poorhouse with you.’
‘What?’ Shock floods your veins. You’ve heard rumours of the poorhouses, packed to the rafters with orphans, the unwanted human detritus of London: they’re not much more than storage houses for cheap labour, and they’re pits of crime and disease. ‘I can’t go there! I’m staying here!’
‘Like hell you are. This property don’t belong to you, miss, and you don’t have a choice in the matter.’
But that’s the thing – you do have a choice. It wasn’t your choice to survive the smallpox, nor your ma’s to die from it, but you’ve got your life now, and where there’s life, you tell yourself again, there’s hope. There must be.
If you shut the door in the constable’s face and lock him out, go to scene 3.
If you try to slip past the constable and into the street, go to scene 4.
Bang! You slam the door in the constable’s face before you have enough time to think about the world of trouble you might get into. This is your home, and no one’s going to take it from you.
You hear a roar, and look down to see four fat, pink fingers wedged in the door. The constable must have put his hand out to stop you, and you have slammed the door shut on it. You’re in for it now.
There is a splintering crash as he kicks the door open, and you retreat to the corner of the room as he advances on you, his face pink as a boiled ham, clasping his broken fingers and swearing like a trooper.
‘You bloody vermin! Poorhouse too good for you, eh? Thought you’d prefer a quick trip with a short stop? That’s what you’ll get, then, and may the devil take you!’
Your heart is in your mouth – he means to hang you by the neck! In front of all those onlookers at the gallows, who watch and jeer and laugh.
With his good hand, the constable grabs you by the collar. You wriggle, but he’s too strong. ‘Take me to the poorhouse, please!’ you beg. Even there would be better than gaol.
‘Too late for that now,’ snarls the constable. ‘But you won’t have to worry, my pet,’ he goes on. ‘They tie the ladies’ legs together before they fall, so that no one can see your knickers flashing while you kick and die like a fish on a hook! Oh, it’ll be a proper dignified death you’re going to, for assaulting a constable at work!’
The last thing you see as you’re dragged from your home is Ma’s body lying covered on the bed, and right now you almost wish you’d died of smallpox in your own home too – better than the terrifying prospect of the gallows in front of Newgate Prison.
In this matter you have no choice. Go to scene 12.
You duck, and then wriggle past the constable’s knee and through the doorway, dodging his thick arms. The constable blows a shrill whistle behind you and gives chase. Your bare feet slap the cobblestones, and some local boys laugh and point as you streak down the street. You’re still weak from the smallpox, but you’re amazed at how fast you can go once fear starts pumping through your veins.
As you glance behind you, you hear a soft thump and your world goes white. Suddenly, you are lying on the ground, entangled in somebody’s wet washing. You hear angry shrieks from the washerwoman and the huffing of the guard as he closes in on you and grabs you by the scruff of your neck. The local boys are laughing fit to wet themselves. You murder them with your eyes as you are dragged away.
You feel small as an ant as you are led up to the face of the poorhouse, which towers above you like a red cliff, its small windows reflecting the grey sheen of the sky.
You’re thrown into a room with some other young women, who sit around a pile of old rope, unrolling and teasing out the fibres with their fingertips. Some of them have a blank look in their eyes, as if they’ve lived a thousand years on earth and nothing would surprise them anymore. Others seem bright and almost obstinately cheerful, commenting and laughing as they work. They’ve still got a bit of the fighting spirit in them, Ma would say.
You think of Ma’s bright eyes, determined to the last. I won’t let this place beat me, you think.
‘Well, would you look at this lambkin. A strong wind would blow her away!’ says the nearest woman.
‘Tsk, her face is a sight, though – enough pox scabs on the lass
