She got as far as the corner of Osborn Street, where she was grabbed by a passing woman, causing her to stumble and fall against the wall. It was Ellen Holland.
‘Polly? Where you off to at this hour?’ said Ellen. ‘Polls? Jesus, how much have you had?’
Ellen knew Polly liked to drink too much, but didn’t they all? Ellen sometimes shared a bed with her, was familiar with her bad and good habits, but on this occasion she was a particular mess.
‘I’ve had it, and spent it, three times over, Ellen,’ Polly said and burst into laughter.
‘What? What have you had?’
‘My bed! I spent it all. I’ll be back, so can you tell him… can you tell him not to let my bed go? I’ll be back… Tell him not to give my bed away.’
‘Did you not hear the clock?’ said Ellen. ‘It’s struck two. What time did you think it was?’
‘I don’t know. I’m lost, I think.’
‘What do you mean, lost? You know where you are.’
‘It’s all gone to me. I won’t have a bed now, will I?’
‘Oh, Polly, come back with me.’
Ellen tried to pull her back towards Wilmott’s, but Polly yanked herself free and fell against the wall again.
‘No, I’ve done all that. Not a penny from no one. I won’t play the idiot again, not tonight.’
‘You going to be all right?’
‘Course I am.’
Polly peeled herself off the damp brick wall and stumbled off into the sobering rain. She half registered the worry on Ellen’s face and it had irritated her. Worry, guilt, sorry, all cheap and all too easily thrown about when it was a few pence that was needed.
She staggered on up Buck’s Row, steadying herself on the small fences outside the cottages with their neat little hedges and clean steps. It wasn’t that cold. She was searching for a gap between stairs or a yard door where she could nestle down and hide until the morning. There was no one about. It was pitch black. She was so occupied looking for a spot, she’d not heard the footsteps approaching from behind. Maybe this man would be good for a penny or two? Perhaps her luck hadn’t run out after all.
13
In the early hours, I was woken by the sound of the front door slamming, the floor creaking and the rapid fire of feet along floorboards. I sat bolt upright, a jolt surging through me, and strained to listen to the furious whispers just outside my bedroom. I thought it had to be burglars and that I was about to be robbed and murdered in my own home. I sprang out of bed and on my toes watched a wavering light coming from under the door, shadows moving amidst it. Then I noted a familiar resonance to the voice, and my body collapsed like a paper bellows with relief.
‘Thomas?’ I called out.
The murmurings outside fell silent, and I swear that even the light stopped flickering, as if it too was holding its breath.
‘Thomas!’ I called out again, bolder this time.
Still nothing.
I fumbled for the matches by my bedside, and the footsteps dispersed. We were in a race against each other. I lit the candle and flew across the floor like a banshee, nightgown billowing behind me. My first thought was he had brought another woman home, as he had brought me, that he was secreting his mistress in the freezing attic and somehow sneaking her out when they were done. I wanted to know what she was. Maybe an exotic bird, all orange hair and black feathers. My insides boiled from fear to fury. How dare he bring back his new whore and play with her above my head? He would curse us both with a disease.
When I tore open the door there was nothing but darkness. My candle blinded me. The only sign that someone had been standing there was the unsettled dust now swirling in circles. I stepped out into the corridor and waited for my eyes to adjust. There was a creak to my left and I turned my head and held up my candle. Thomas was standing with his back to me, halfway up the attic stairs.
‘Thomas, what are you doing?’ This time there would be no denying what I could see with my own eyes.
‘Go to bed, Susannah. I must be up for work in the morning. I have to sleep,’ he said, and made to continue up the stairs.
‘No, you don’t! Where is she?’
I ran to him and grabbed the sleeve of his coat, while trying to keep the candle away from my wild hair. The arm of his coat was wet to the touch with what I thought was rain.
‘Dr Lancaster was speaking to me, Mrs Lancaster. Only me.’ It was Mrs Wiggs at the top of the main staircase behind us.
It was unsettling to see her in her nightgown. She looked much younger with her hair in a long plait over her shoulder, her gown as pale as her skin. She had a candle in one hand and a water jug in the other. She was staring down at my wet hand, so I glanced at it too. When I turned it over, it was bright red, bloodied. I looked to Thomas, who was facing me now.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
Then I looked at Mrs Wiggs, who had her eyes on the floor. I knew something terrible had happened, and they had already agreed in whispers that it was to be kept from me. I felt frightened of them both then, and backed away, towards my bedroom door.
‘I don’t know what has happened, but shall we not pretend I don’t recognise blood when I see it,’ I said, and took another step in the direction of my room.
Mrs Wiggs moved forward to speak, but Thomas rushed down the stairs and stopped her with a raised hand. Then he came
