The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery (10 page)

Anna wipes off the spoon and sticks it into another jar containing a thick golden paste.
 

‘Lanolin,’ the boy murmurs, as though to tick off the list of required ingredients. He likes the smell of it. It makes him think of the countryside, that exotic place far away from London, far from the grime and poverty of the slums, so far that he had never seen it and probably never will.

She hands him the spoon and he stirs the paste into the oil, scrapes the remains off with the oak stick, and keeps mixing and stirring until all the lanolin is dissolved.
 

Meanwhile, Anna places several empty jars into a row, picks up a small sieve, places it next to Barry, and asks, ‘How does the calendula look?’

‘Looks ready. All limp and mushy,’ he answers and, upon her approving nod, begins pouring the warm liquid into the jars, straining calendula petals and three pale bee larvae that had perished in the honeycomb. Within the hour, the mixture will harden to a smooth paste.
 

Anna tightens the lids. ‘Tell your mother that if she wants to put the paste on the inside, she should use only little of it. But she should use it several times a day until the burning is gone. And this…’ She fills a small paper bag with camomile blossoms and selects a jar with ribwort leaves in honey. ‘…is for the girl with the cough. Make camomile tea with this honey and take care she drinks it and no one takes it from her.’

The boy nods, then makes to leave, but his hand hesitates over the doorknob. Anna knows that gesture. She points to the key on the dresser and says, ‘Don’t let the hag know.’ The
hag
being their secret word for the landlord’s wife.

Barry pockets the key and slips out the door.

Later that night, she’s woken up by his back pressing against her warm feet. And as so often, she thinks of sending him away to his own mattress, of telling him to stop behaving like a beaten-up dog. But then she lets it go.

Before she falls back asleep, another thought brushes her mind — she has to ask Barry’s mother about Poppy.

Scotty

T
wo old women inhabit the stone steps of Short’s Gardens’ workhouse. A broken jug, a teapot, and a layer of rags protecting their hides are their only possessions. One of them wears a hideous grey waterproof, fastened tightly around her tall frame. The other huddles underneath a checkered shawl of feeble texture, a wheezing infant in her arms, his head pressing against the warm patch of skin underneath her chin. The young boy is the child of a former fellow Crawler. Being the only one of the female trio who’d had the luck to obtain an occupation, she entrusts the boy to the old woman each day from ten o’clock in the morning to four in the afternoon so she can scour pots and pans at the coffee shop on Drury Lane. In return, the two old women receive boiling hot water to soak their second- or third-hand tea leaves.

No one knows whether Scotty wears anything underneath her waterproof, and no one quite wishes to obtain precise information on that particular topic. Yet — depending on the observer’s own state of poverty — the muddy, nondescript substance hanging loosely around her calves might eventually be categorised as under-clothing.
 

She looks down at her bare ankles and feet peeking freely from underneath her waterproof’s skirt, and she can’t remember when she’d lost her shoes. Otherwise, her mind is as clear as it can be, for she never drinks a single drop of beer or gin. At the moment, she wishes she could get the taste of mould off her tongue and the odd metallic scraping out of her throat. She sighs when she thinks of the meals she’d cooked for herself and her husband — good meals, with cabbage and, at times, even pork chops. Her mouth waters and she swallows. Mould and metal are still not washed away.

Her gaze slides down to her hands — swollen, red, and smarting from constant exposure to sun and rain, heat and cold, and she wishes they were cut, blistered, and sore from hardest labour instead.
 

At least it’s summer, she tells herself. Even the small boy in her friend’s arms appears to be able to live a little longer.

When the church bells strike four in the afternoon, a small wave of energy washes through the pair of beggars, lets them sit more erect while their eyes flicker expectantly towards Drury Lane.

Only a few minutes later, a woman in her twenties approaches. All Scotty and Betty focus on is the small package the woman holds in her hand. Both scoot a little closer to the doorstep’s edge and wipe their hands in anticipation.

‘Here,’ she says, holding out the package and throwing a weary glance at the sleeping child.
 

While the two old women devour the scraps of old bread, the younger grabs pot and jug, dashes back to the coffee house, fills the vessels with boiling water, and returns to Short’s Gardens a few moments later.

Hot beverage is exchanged for a sleepy child. Then, the world of Crawlers and that of a woman with a flimsy roof over her head separate for today.

When the sun sets, Scotty and Betty lean against one another for support and warmth. Should one stir, the other will wake from her dozing. Neither of them has slept undisturbed for as long as they’ve called these doorsteps their home. Neither of them has ever missed the newest news in St Giles, either.

The clopping of hooves so late at night is unfamiliar enough for Scotty to crack her left eye open. She pokes her elbow into Betty’s ribs, but the so unkindly addressed only grunts dismissively.
 

Scotty moves her hindquarters closer to the doorstep’s edge and her neck a little father from the warming waterproof to peek out onto the street.

Some fifty yards away, a cab stops. A man alights who doesn’t belong, but isn’t a stranger, either.

Scotty rubs the goop from her eyes and watches the gentleman cross Drury Lane. He approaches a girl. Scotty knows that girl, too. Although this one’s new here, everyone knows her story. It’s written in her face, as not to say
carved
.

Hmm
, is all Scotty thinks when the gentleman and the girl disappear into a house. One cough later, Scotty retreats to her companion’s side to lean her head onto the sharp contours of Betty’s bony shoulder.

Scarred

I
t’s been a long and hard day at Guy’s Hospital and Anna has been yearning for her bed since the moment she peeled off her male masquerade and slipped into skirts and shirt. Despite her tiredness, a question keeps burning in the pit of her stomach, and so she begins searching the streets for Sally.

At the corner to Mercer Street, she finds her talking to a potential customer. Anna waits for the pair to disappear behind a billboard. After a few moments, they emerge. He drops a coin on the pavement and walks away. How odd. Had she not asked him to pay her in advance? Sally wipes herself with her skirts, bends down, and picks up her fee. Anna decides that it’s now or very much later.

‘Hello, Sally,’ she calls and approaches. The other woman gifts her a listless stare. ‘I have a question. It’ll take only a minute.’

‘What did the boy do now?’ Sally asks and spits a glob of what might or might not be saliva on the pavement.

‘No. No, he’s a good boy. But you know that. I wanted to ask you about a girl. She had a room at Fat Annie’s, but now works on the street. She has an injury, a long and fresh cut from the corner of her mouth up along her cheek.’ Anna gestures with her finger.

Sally looks left and right, and, to be certain, over Anna’s shoulder, too. But no lonely man is in reach to serve as an excuse for not being able to stand here and chat.

‘She’s been working the area for what might be three or four days now. Very dumb one. Was asking all kinds of stupid questions.
Where can I sleep? What am I supposed to do now?
’ Sally’s voice is mocking and high. ‘Everyone knows she didn’t want a cock in her mouth. I told her to stand at the corner over there…’ She waves up Little White Lion Street towards the urinals at Seven Dials. ‘…and when the next one comes, charge twenty pounds for her innocence. Can’t ask for more with that face.’

‘Is she still working here?’

‘Course she is. Just wait. She’ll show up sooner or later.’ Then, Sally scratches her head. And scratches, and scratches. She pulls a few strands of hair from her scalp, is about to inspect them for infestations of whatever species, but then thinks otherwise. Her company might not be keen to watch the popping of lice between two fingernails.

‘Come to think of it… I haven’t seen her last night.’

‘What about this man who fancies running his knife over women’s skin?’

Sally waves dismissively. ‘I don’t believe he did this to that girl. He’s a fine one, he is. An artist, he told me.’ Her eyes are getting a little glassy.

‘Does he pay well?’

‘Twice as much, and doesn’t even want to—’ She cuts herself off; her focus shifts to the other side of the street.
 

Anna turns. The large silhouette waves a hand, then pretends to be busy with the contents of his trouser pockets.

‘He doesn’t even want to do what, Sally?’

‘Fuck. He doesn’t want to fuck. Only when I have my period. Never hurt anyone, just tickles with that blade of his.’ She shoves past Anna and walks towards yet another man spotted in not-too-far a distance. She wiggles her hindquarters and whistles a tune.

Anna huffs and crosses the street.

‘Hello, Garret. Sally is busy at the moment.’

‘I wasn’t waiting for her,’ he grumbles.

She rubs her brow and sighs. ‘I know. I was trying to make a joke. It was a stupid one, I’m sorry. I was angry, but not at you. Would you walk with me a little?’

Garret’s shoulders seem to sag a bit, his feet heavy when he walks next to Anna. ‘I’m reading
Frankenstein
,’ he says.
 
It sounds as if the words stumble out of his mouth, unplanned.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Hmm.’

She doesn’t ask any more, knowing he’ll speak if he wishes to.

They reach her house, and he comes to a halt a few steps away from her door. His brow is furrowed. ‘Somehow… I don’t know. This story…’ His hands go hiding behind his back. ‘Did you ask me to read it for a reason?’

‘I thought you might like what she writes. What’s wrong with this particular story?’ she
 
says, wondering what makes him so reluctant.

‘Hmm.’ He nods. ‘I thought you wanted to tell me how much I remind you of the creature.’

Stunned, she scrutinises his expression, his words, and posture. ‘Why would you think that?’

His face darkens. ‘Because I scare you, or repel you. Perhaps both.’

A large lump closes her throat. She doesn’t dare to step closer, to take his hand to comfort him. She tries words, instead. ‘I think the creature is the only beautiful person in the whole sad story.’

He tips his head and gazes down at her. To test his theories, he takes a step forward. And another one. He sees her muscles tense up. ‘There. Fear,’ he says softly.

‘Does it have to be fear when I avoid your touch? Can it not simply be disinterest?’

He steps back and nods, but a moment later, he shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe it. But…you are a woman who knows what she wants. Good night, Anna.’ With that, he turns and walks away.