Mary was only half listening, still feeling dizzy at her good fortune. 'I'm one now! Blimey! Fancy that, I'm a clerk!' Mary decided that she had never been quite as happy in her life.
And then the gatekeeper's words sunk in… then they done this most curious chant… summink about a monkey… The fog had cleared a little, though it was still not possible to see beyond a few feet. The chill returned to Mary's bones and she felt terrified to leave the gateman's side and enter the ghostly gloom of the docks.
She was about to ask if she could remain in the sergeant's hut until the fog lifted when he said cheerily, 'Go on, then, orf you go, miss. See you tomorrow! Mind your step now, men workin', lots of rope lyin' about.'
Mary had hardly walked for more than a minute when she felt the presence of people about her, fleeting shadows darting in front and to the side of her, boots scuffing on the wooden surface of the dockside. In the distance she heard the deep bray of a steamer groping its way up the Thames and the rattle and screech of cranes and winches and chains as they lowered cargo into and brought it out of invisible hatches. She was afraid to call out, thinking that the shadows about her might be dock workers. No noise other than fog-muffled footsteps came from the darting shapes around her, each of which seemed to be consumed by the mist before she could properly focus upon it. Somewhere a whistle blew three short peep-peeps, its shrill sound fattened by the thick air. A suffocating fear rose up within her and she felt the need to flee, though the fog was much too thick for her to attempt to do so. Then, so low that she thought at first she might have imagined it, she heard the hum of male voices and as suddenly the dark shapes looming formed a circle about her and the hum rose and rose and the monkey chant began: Mary, Mary, Bloody Mary Who does her sums on bead and rack Go away, you're too contrary You're the monkey, bloody monkey You're the monkey on our back!
Mary froze, her throat constricted by terror. From within the thick fog strong hands grabbed at her and she was thrown to the ground.
She heard the clatter of her abacus as it landed somewhere near by. A scream rose within her, but a rough hand clamped down on her mouth. She felt a boot sink into her side, then another and immediately thereafter hands were everywhere as they tore at her bodice and skirt and grabbed at her legs, wrenching them apart. An excited, panting voice said into her ear, 'Scream and you die, Bloody Mary!' Then the hand was removed from her mouth and the weight of the first man thrusting between her legs pressed down upon her.
As each male completed and withdrew from her supine body he gave her a vicious kick or slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. Some loosened the phlegm in their throats and spat into her face.
Mary lay helpless, whimpering like a small wounded beast, her eyes wide open, though seeing nothing, the vile spittle running down her face and neck. She felt nothing, but the weight of the men pummelling her and the rasp of their foul breath was lost in the whirling confusion of shock. Even when they struck or kicked her, though she felt her body jar, no feeling followed.
She lay completely still while a dozen or more men mounted her. Then, with the chant continuing, they seemed to stop and her arms were torn roughly from where she held them stiffly to her sides. Strong hands stretched her arms out as though in a crucifixion, with the palms pressed flat against the wooden surface of the dockside. Two dark shapes pushed down on her, each with his knee pinning a shoulder and hand pressed down upon her wrists.
The shapes now stood in a dark circle, hovering over her, the yellow fog swirling about their heads. Two men stepped forward from the circle and stood to either side of her and as the chant rose, 'Mary, Mary, Bloody Mary…' they stamped down hard, crushing both her hands under the heels of their boots. The terrible pain cut through Mary's half-delirious state and a scream rose in her throat which was again cut short by the free hand of one of the men squatting to the side of her head. One after another the chanting men broke from the circle and stamped down upon her hands. Long before the last of the men had stamped and ground his heel into the broken and bloody flesh and bone, she had mercifully lost consciousness.
Despite her terror and revulsion, Mary would eventually overcome the physical invasion of her body. What broke her spirit was the wanton destruction of her beautiful hands. When the bones eventually knit she was left with blackened claws which more closely resembled those of an aged monkey.
For the remainder of her life, whenever Mary looked down upon her scarred and crooked hands, she would hear the monkey chant and see the dark shape of hate in the swirling, sulphur-coloured fog around her, on a day which had promised, upon leaving fat Mr Goldstein with his perambulating, merry-go-round chair, to be the happiest of her twenty-one years.
Chapter Four
Towards noon the fog had cleared sufficiently for two dock workers to discover Mary hunched in a dark corner, moaning. At first they thought her some drunken slut, her swollen face and broken lips the result of some gin brawl in the nearby and notorious public house, The Ship Aground, and so passed her by as they pushed their loaded barrow from a ship's hold to a nearby warehouse. Finally her continued and pitiful moans caused them to stop and examine her dark corner more closely. It was then that they observed that her skirt was wet with blood and saw her broken fingers pushed through the beads and bars of her abacus.
'Goldstein!' Mary groaned. 'Goldstein.' The two men lifted her as gently as they could onto the barrow and wheeled her to Mr Goldstein's warehouse where they accosted the gatekeeper. 'She keeps callin' name o' Goldstein, ain't that yer gov, sergeant?' Sergeant Lawrence nodded, then bending over Mary's body took in at once the nature of her injuries. 'Jesus Christ! The sharks, the bloody sharks got her!' He helped them lift Mary from the barrow and laid her down outside his hut.
Mary, who had long since given up any thought of God, would later in her life ponder on whether it had been divine guidance which had taken her to Mr Goldstein's gatekeeper. For at the great Battle of Waterloo he had been seconded as sergeant to a platoon of stretcher bearers.
The veteran soldier sent the yard boy to the warehouse and the lad soon returned with a large bottle of oil of tar and a length of used canvas. Whereupon the sergeant tore strips from an old canvas sail and soaked them in a solution of oil of tar. He bound Mary's hands in the Waterloo manner, as was done when a cannoneer had burnt or lost his hands from a breech explosion, binding the hands together in a single parcel of coarse cloth.
'She needs a bone-setter or 'er 'ands ain't gunna be no good no more,' the gatekeeper said to those gathered around, then he lifted his chin and pointed to the twisted abacus beside Mary, 'no more Chinee counting contraption for the likes of 'er, ain't a bone what's left straight in them fingers, nor one what ain't broke!'
'Bone-setter? Ja, zis is gut!'
Mr Goldstein in his coat and top hat suddenly stood bottle-shaped beside the gatekeeper. He opened his dumby and from it withdrew a five pound note. 'You must be fixink!' he said to the gateman. 'You get better this younk lady.'
Mr Goldstein bowed stiffly to where Mary lay whimpering on the dockside.
'Such a pity, so schnell for vorkink sums! Accht! Maybe she can be vun day chief clerk, now finish, ticht, ticht.' He bowed formally again. 'Aufwiedersehen, Miss Abacus.' Then turning on a precise little heel he allowed the coachman to hand him up into the waiting carriage.
Mr Goldstein's five pound note paid for the bone-setter and ten days in hospital plus several bottles of physic of opium to kill the pain of her mutilated hands. This left Mary a pound over which would allow her to live for two months in one of the foul netherkens in Rosemary Lane, existing on a single tuppeny meal each day. Though the tar oil had prevented infection, for some reason Mary's hands remained a peculiar blackened colour. They had been too badly damaged for the bone-setter to repair properly and when some movement eventually returned to her fingers, they were twisted and bent, like the tines of a tin fork, and hideous in appearance.
As soon as she could stand the pain Mary began once again to practise on the abacus. She would work on it for six years before she would once again regain her old skills, although the beauty of her movements was gone forever.
The six years which passed were not good ones. It was not long before Mary was standing on a street corner as a lady of the night. But other prostitutes ganged up on her, chasing her away. Mary moved on to meaner and meaner streets until there was no pavement or doorway left on which she could safely ply her trade. Eventually she was forced into a brothel.
Mary had still not learned to hold her tongue. When she was intoxicated she had even more difficulty
