stretched and came to the window. 'Madam, between you and me is a great gulf fixed: your honour, mine, and that bloody great drop down there. I wish you and your friend richer pickings tonight than my old carcase.'
He bowed, reached for his bottle, and went back to his chair.
'Well,' said Dorinda, 'he put it nice.'
Penitence wrested the girl's hands from the shutters and banged them to. 'H-how c-cccc-could you?'
Dorinda's mouth was twisted 'Let him know he's neighbour to a cat-house right away,' she said. 'Gentlemen like him, they get that look when they find out. So I tell 'em. And ballocks to them.'
Again that unsuspected vulnerability, and this time complicated with self-punishment. The girl had declared herself a
whore on the principle that, being attracted, she must kill the likelihood of attracting. She thrust her face towards Penitence's. 'Fancy him yourself, do you?'
She most certainly did not. But it rankled that such a man should think her a whore. When Dorinda went, she wondered if she should go back to the window and explain. Prithee, sir, I am no prostitute.
She practised it. 'Prithee, sir, I am no prostitute.' It was a peculiarity of her affliction that when she was alone she did not stammer. The 'p's came out in beautiful puffs of sound.
But the statement hung ludicrous in the air, and how much more ludicrous would she appear as she heaved out the terrible syllables in delivering it from her window. Pri-prri-pri, pro-ppro-pro.
Damned if she did; damned if she didn't.
She got angry. Who was this busking mountebank to pity her, either as stutterer or strumpet? What did she, whose soul would be saved on the Day of Judgement, care for the opinion of one who would be sucked, screaming, into the Pit?
A beautifully enunciated, soul-endangering phrase spoke itself into the attic, alarming its utterer even as she uttered it. 'Ballocks to him,' it said.
Chapter 4
Mondays were Bills of Mortality days. On Mondays Peter Simkin took himself, an ink pot, a quill, a ruler and paper into the vestry of St Giles's church and copied from its register of births, marriages and deaths the names of those who had died in his parish in the previous seven days, and why.
He drew lines for the columns, then checked through the register list for the deaths to write them down in alphabetical order which, since death did not come alphabetically, meant arranging them on a slate before he could make the final fair copy. His comfort lay in the fact that all over London, parish clerks like himself were going through the same procedure, though St Giles's parish, being overcrowded, poorer and more frequently visited by death than others, involved greater work for less pay than theirs.
Like the rector, he was ashamed by the number of times he had to write 'Pox' in the column detailing the cause of death.
Usually the job took him not quite an hour. On this first Monday of April it took him nearer two. He counted the number of deaths again. Thirty-one. Usually they averaged out at nineteen. He went to the vestry door and called in his rector to show him the list.
'I know,' said the Reverend Boreman. 'It's been a bad winter.'
'Eight fevers,' Peter pointed out. 'A deal of fever.'
The Reverend Boreman shrugged. They were dependent on what the Searcher told them. 'And how many with the pox this week?'
Embarrassed, Peter Simkin moved his eyes. Following them, the Reverend Boreman looked over to a dark corner of the vestry where a prim figure sat under the choir surplices. She was here again. Peter Simkin had told him she was inhabiting the Cock and Pie, in which case she'd be cognizant with the word 'pox' by now, even though she was not, again according to Simkin, taking part in its raison d'etre. He was even inclined to believe it; in that Puritan get-up she could inspire lust only in the religiously deranged. He nodded 'Mistress' and received a frigid curtsey in reply.
'The cold,' he repeated. 'Things will improve now
He bowed, reached for his bottle, and went back to his chair.
'Well,' said Dorinda, 'he put it nice.'
Penitence wrested the girl's hands from the shutters and banged them to. 'H-how c-cccc-could you?'
Dorinda's mouth was twisted 'Let him know he's neighbour to a cat-house right away,' she said. 'Gentlemen like him, they get that look when they find out. So I tell 'em. And ballocks to them.'
Again that unsuspected vulnerability, and this time complicated with self-punishment. The girl had declared herself a
whore on the principle that, being attracted, she must kill the likelihood of attracting. She thrust her face towards Penitence's. 'Fancy him yourself, do you?'
She most certainly did not. But it rankled that such a man should think her a whore. When Dorinda went, she wondered if she should go back to the window and explain. Prithee, sir, I am no prostitute.
She practised it. 'Prithee, sir, I am no prostitute.' It was a peculiarity of her affliction that when she was alone she did not stammer. The 'p's came out in beautiful puffs of sound.
But the statement hung ludicrous in the air, and how much more ludicrous would she appear as she heaved out the terrible syllables in delivering it from her window. Pri-prri-pri, pro-ppro-pro.
Damned if she did; damned if she didn't.
She got angry. Who was this busking mountebank to pity her, either as stutterer or strumpet? What did she, whose soul would be saved on the Day of Judgement, care for the opinion of one who would be sucked, screaming, into the Pit?
A beautifully enunciated, soul-endangering phrase spoke itself into the attic, alarming its utterer even as she uttered it. 'Ballocks to him,' it said.
Chapter 4
Mondays were Bills of Mortality days. On Mondays Peter Simkin took himself, an ink pot, a quill, a ruler and paper into the vestry of St Giles's church and copied from its register of births, marriages and deaths the names of those who had died in his parish in the previous seven days, and why.
He drew lines for the columns, then checked through the register list for the deaths to write them down in alphabetical order which, since death did not come alphabetically, meant arranging them on a slate before he could make the final fair copy. His comfort lay in the fact that all over London, parish clerks like himself were going through the same procedure, though St Giles's parish, being overcrowded, poorer and more frequently visited by death than others, involved greater work for less pay than theirs.
Like the rector, he was ashamed by the number of times he had to write 'Pox' in the column detailing the cause of death.
Usually the job took him not quite an hour. On this first Monday of April it took him nearer two. He counted the number of deaths again. Thirty-one. Usually they averaged out at nineteen. He went to the vestry door and called in his rector to show him the list.
'I know,' said the Reverend Boreman. 'It's been a bad winter.'
'Eight fevers,' Peter pointed out. 'A deal of fever.'
The Reverend Boreman shrugged. They were dependent on what the Searcher told them. 'And how many with the pox this week?'
Embarrassed, Peter Simkin moved his eyes. Following them, the Reverend Boreman looked over to a dark corner of the vestry where a prim figure sat under the choir surplices. She was here again. Peter Simkin had told him she was inhabiting the Cock and Pie, in which case she'd be cognizant with the word 'pox' by now, even though she was not, again according to Simkin, taking part in its raison d'etre. He was even inclined to believe it; in that Puritan get-up she could inspire lust only in the religiously deranged. He nodded 'Mistress' and received a frigid curtsey in reply.
'The cold,' he repeated. 'Things will improve now