Do you recall that before the Queen Anne’s War there had been a terrible famine? Well, Shona’s income became crucial to the tidbits earned from begging. So in town she frequented the docks and alleyways and was more in demand on her back than on her feet. But I ain’t been told much of the bastard that sired me—excepting he was an Irish sailor who may (or may not) have been called Paddy. He gave me the tint in my chestnut red hair, the blue eyes that marked me Outsider, and apparently paid for his pleasure with a plundered gold doubloon. I was born, inconveniently, at the height of the picking season in a ditch at the edge of a strawberry field. And so was named Lolomura (for the red berries) but everyone knew me as Lola.
By the fifth harvest I was already earning my keep, charming the gentry with Romany ballads and prancing. And you never saw nothing like me—I was a proper little dazzler. I learned that the ladies paid well for tradition and the gents liked it best when I pouted and swayed. So I watched every lilt, every thrust of Ma’s pelvis, and before long my belly worked figures of eight. The nobs would comment on
dexterity
and
timing
, admiring the
artistry
and
rhythm
, but I spotted how men’s eyes were fixed on Ma’s nipples, and how they drew tighter breath whenever my little arse thrust backward.
Cousin Marko played drum, Stefan fiddled, while Uncle Bo rattled our urgent cup. Then when smog turned to darkness they would pimp my ma and horsy-back me home down potted lanes. But sometimes—when Shona grew sloppy—I had to accompany the punters and sit in the gloom as she slapped and moaned, guarding the payment with full attention so it wouldn’t be plucked from her gin-soaked daze. That, however, all stopped the night a jack-tar grew greedy and tried to have me too. As he pinned me beneath his stinking body Ma ripped his ear with the heft of a chair. See, she never married because some country squire spoilt her at fourteen (but she’d grander plans for me). Anyway, we left that john bleeding and screeching, and after that Uncle Yan took up watch. Yet there in the dust motes, there in the creaking, there in the candlelight as I sat and observed, I realized that men could be equally exploited—if you timed it before their throbbing fell limp.
Then around my tenth year came the blast of fate that changed things forever. We were camped for the season just below Chelsea when the snows started coating St. Paul’s in whiteness and the Thames froze so hard you could slide right across. Shona had the coughing sickness and was stuck to her bed for ages, so one particular Friday me and the minstrels set off to ply the Wayfarer’s Inn in Whitehall. Now, I ain’t one to brag—but Ma never danced any better than I did that evening. The discs in my hair caught the flickering light and gilded me bright as a rainbow trout. I twirled with abandon, my newly learned tambourine melding with the drum and fiddle—vigorous—bursting with ripening promise. As the frozen flakes stealthily covered the roadway the cesspools were cleansed in an icy shroud, but no one wanted to venture out in that wilderness so the men began drinking our hard-earned spoils. The gruffness grew louder, then the fiddle struck up again, and this time a discordant chorus spewed forth. The singing grew ever more lively and it soon became apparent that none of us would be leaving until morning, so the landlord finally shut the front door, took his money, then led his scrawny wife upstairs to bed.
The one remaining barmaid—their daughter Nance—beckoned me away from the noise. She asked, “Are you hungry, love?” I nodded. She smiled and whispered, “Come with me then.” I hesitated for just the briefest moment, glanced across at my merry brethren, and followed the smart young woman into the kitchen. We subtly looked each other up and down and I reckoned she wasn’t no way over nineteen. I saw a tough, perky brunette in a new deck of clothes and she seemed equally delighted with my appearance for she cut me a big chunk of ham and a slice of coarse bread. As I sat washing the supper down with milk she inquired, “What do they call you then, dearie?”
“Lola,” I replied.
“You dance well,” she flattered. I looked coyly away. “How old are you?” She was still smiling as she ran her hand over my cheek and stopped to admire my adornments.
I thought for a while and said, “Ten.”
Nance walked quietly over and closed the kitchen door so we would remain alone. She sat down across the wooden table and looked earnestly into my eyes. Weighing me up. Assessing.
“Are you still a maid?” she asked curtly. I didn’t know what she meant. She recognized the confusion and clarified, “Untouched . . . a virgin . . .” She tried, “Zuhno?”
Ahhh! Now I understood. Had I opened my legs for some fat, drunken punter? I blushed and turned my head.
My response seemed to please her for she gave me a lump of cheese and said excitedly, “How would you like to do a special dance for a gentleman friend of mine?”
I had no idea she was procuring me for some dissolute toff to deflower. And so I considered her proposition. “I ain’t sure. . . .”
“There’s lots of money in it. Pounds and pounds,” she promised.
Pounds and pounds? Just for dancing? It all sounded a bit fishy. But just then I heard Uncle Bo call my name so I stood up to excuse myself. As I was leaving she hissed, “If you want to get rich, come back when they’re sleeping. Wait for my signal. It’s only a short way across town and he’ll treat you like a proper little lady.” She winked and added, “It’ll be worth five quid to you. . . .”
Five pounds? I gasped. That was more than we’d seen all year.
“What about my kin?”
“They’ll be snoring like dogs before long.”
“But I need music. . . .”
“It’s all right, love. He has his own
instrument
. . . .”
I wasn’t sure because I’d never danced to a piano before. So I asked, “Can’t I just . . .”
But she shook her ringlets and confided, “It’s a private party. But don’t worry, duckie, I’ll be there too—you’ll be safe as houses with me.” Her friendly smile bathed me in comfort while the vain side of childishness convinced me that I truly was an exceptional dancer. I could make my sick ma proud.
Sometime during the witching hour the tavern fell into a stupor and gradually—one by one—the eyelids closed. Nance appeared at the kitchen door and when she silently motioned me over I picked my way around the sleeping bodies and headed toward the candlelight, carrying my outdoor boots. Only after she had shut the door did I notice a strange man standing by the chimney breast.
“This is Bertie,” Nance told me. “He works for the gentleman I mentioned before.”
The well-mannered servant removed his hat and feigned a small nod. I felt honored by such charming attention. No one had ever bowed to me before! I didn’t see nothing suspicious about him so I replied with a tiny curtsey. He grinned at his accomplice and said, “She’ll do fine, Nance—if you’re sure she’s fresh.”
“Fresh as a daisy,” the young woman flashed back. “I know how to spot a good mark.” The man nodded and held out a thick velvet cloak that I needed little encouragement to wear. I’d just got my boots tied when Nance picked up a tankard that was resting on the table and said, “Here, love. Drink this.” It looked like ale, and the milk had made me thirsty, so I readily downed the draught.
“What is it?” I thought to ask after I was nearing the bottom. The sediment tasted gritty and a little sour.
Bertie also showed some concern but Nance waved him back with her hand and confided, “Just a touch of snuff to help her relax.” They carefully swaddled me against the cold and together we left through the back door and entered the alley. The streets were so white and empty. We walked awhile toward Westminster, three sets of footprints gradually fizzling to nothingness as they filled up with plump, dewy flakes. Nance chattered encouragement all the way there promising, “No harm will come to you.”
We stopped in front of a beautiful house that opened on the third knock. Bertie said to Nance, “She’s waiting upstairs. Room Three. I’ll meet you outside when you’re done.” I wasn’t really conscious of their prattle because I ain’t never seen nothing like this place before. There were ripe velvet drapes tied by ornate gold cords. Fancy tasseled rugs. Pictures. Fine blooms in gilded vases. Wonderfully elegant furniture, and paintings of angels and birds on the ceiling. It might have been Hampton Court itself.
A richly dressed lady appeared from the drawing room with a glass of wine in her hand. She said, “Welcome, my dear. It is so good of you to come. Here, this is for you.”
She said quietly to Nance that I looked like I needed a drowse. I was overwhelmed by all the attention so I graciously took the drink. Having never tasted fine wine I didn’t know what to expect but immediately my head began to feel queer and my body turned light and floaty. I was worried I might mess up my dancing steps but they urged me to finish the tainted draught and so I did. And then they nudged me upstairs.
“How do you feel?” Nance inquired sympathetically.
“I . . . I’m woozy. . . .”
“Then let’s get you seen to,” she said. And she led me into Room Three.
I was surprised to see a nurse there, but she looked kind and motioned for me to sit on the ornately carved bed, and so I obliged. She felt my forehead and wrist and announced, “She seems healthy enough. No fever.” She removed my wet boots and gently rummaged under my costume. I grew nervous as she prodded and messed, and was alarmed when she started touching my privates, but she told me that she was a midwife and that this was her job and that everything would be fine if I just relaxed.
“Virgo intacta,”
she proclaimed. The lady slipped something to Nance and the nurse then urged me to take another glass of wine. I heard the midwife mutter to the women, “Poor little mite. She’s so small, it’s really going to hurt her.” I guzzled the wine to block out the sounds. She added, “If she’s torn, bring her back and I’ll patch her up best as I can.”
I think that was the moment I finally realized my fate. I struggled to get up from the bed but my eyes swam dizzy and as strange hands grasped under my arms, everything dissolved in a sepia daze. I came round a short time later to find myself being transported in some kind of cab. Nance was stroking my cheek murmuring, “It’s all right, duckie. Everyone does it. And better to get rich than give it for free to some vagabond.” The wheels and the whispers soothed me back to slumber and the next time I awoke I was back on a strange squashy bed. I struggled to squeeze my eyes into focus, suddenly conscious of a headache that felt like a tar drum pounding and thrumming my skull. I groaned.
Nance appeared out of the gloom and commanded, “Drink this.” I tried to refuse but realized I couldn’t move. My hands and feet were strapped to the four posts of the bed. I yelled. Loudly. Nance looked down into my face and said, “Go ahead—bawl your lungs out! This house stands in its own grounds and with the thick stone walls and shuttered windows no one can hear you.” She lifted my head and made me drink more laudanum. “The servants are at the far end but they wouldn’t hear nothing anyway on account of the double carpet and heavy drapes.”
I made a cursory study of my body that had been plucked naked and apparently washed clean. “Why . . . Why are you doing this. . . ?” I stuttered.
“Money, duckie. It ain’t nothing personal. I get paid half. . . .”
“I . . . I thought you were my friend.”
Nance shook her head, smiled vaguely, and said, “We are mates. You do this for me and we’ll get along just dandy.” Then she warned, “But if you make any trouble you won’t get nothing. Understand? So be a good girl and do as he bids.” The young woman readied herself to leave. She said, “I’ve got to get back home now before I’m missed.” And I never saw her again.
A few moments later a tall man entered the room cloaked in urgency and shadow. I heard him lock the door and pocket the key before he dropped his robe and stood naked in front of the bed. I stammered, “Sir . . . could . . . could I have another cup?”
He shook his head and lulled, “Not yet, my dear.” He stared through fish-dead eyes and said, “I want to hear your screams.”
The next thing I remember I came around on top of the chilly bedding. My bonds had been unfastened and the monster was dozing beside me. Every patch of my body felt bruised and itchy, dirty and sore. As quietly as possible I slid to the floor and wended my way to the door. It was still locked. I hurried to the windows. They were all shuttered tight and I realized I was to remain his prisoner. I was about to search for the key when the beast yawned, reentered consciousness, and said, “Come back to bed. You can go a second time now because it is only the first one that counts.” I started crying with great heaving sobs. The bloody streaks sticking the tops of my thighs told me I was forever ruined. But the well-spoken man in a patient tone said, “There is no use in crying, my dear. What has been done cannot be undone.” I sucked my cheeks together, trying to restrain the tears because my anguish seemed to further excite him, and it was sickeningly apparent he was readying to teach me new horrors. He came toward me but the touch of his flesh was repulsive, and before I knew what was happening I was screaming and clawing like a feral cat, slashing and rending his face. He jumped back. Startled. I snarled and spat and bit and hissed and backed him into a corner. A terrified look turned his face to slate and he began shouting for help that never arrived. The man fended my teeth off with one hand, but the other took hold of my swinging hair and tugged with all his anger until he had me pinned to the floor. The golden ornaments tore free and cartwheeled across the room. Then he knelt on my breastbone until I could barely whimper and began punching my cheeks and chin. Over and over—pounding and smacking—until the rising fog deadened all feeling.