why I come. This’ll take it all, and then maybe more. But we gotter know. We gotter put a stop ter it.”
“To what, Mrs. Hopgood?”
“Me ’usband, Tom, ’e runs a fact’ry, makin’ shirts and the like …”
Monk knew what the sweatshops of the East End were like,huge, airless places, suffocating in summer, bitterly cold in winter, where a hundred or more women might sit from before dawn until nearly midnight sewing shirts, gloves, handkerchiefs, petticoats, for barely enough to feed one of them, let alone the family which might depend on them. If someone had stolen from Tom Hopgood, Monk for one was not going to look for him.
She saw his expression.
“Wear nice shirts still, do yer?”
He looked at her sharply.
“ ’Course yer do!” She answered her own question with a surprising viciousness twisting her mouth. “And what do yer pay for ’em, eh? Wanner pay more? Wot d’yer think tailors and outfitters pay us for ’em, eh? If we put up our prices, we lose the business. An’ ’oo’ll that ’elp? Gents ’oo like smart shirts’ll buy ’em the cheapest they can get. Can’t pay more’n I can, can I?”
He was stung. “I presume you aren’t looking for me to alter the tailoring economy?”
Her face registered her scorn, but it was not personal, nor was it her principle emotion, far more urgent was the reason she had come. She chose not to quarrel with him. The reason she had come to him at all, defying the natural barrier between them, was a mark of how grave the matter was to her.
Her eyes narrowed. “ ’Ere! W’os the matter wiv yer? Yer look diff’rent. Yer don’ remember me, do yer?”
Would she believe a lie? And did it matter?
She was staring at him. “W’y d’yer leave the rozzers, then? D’yer get caught doin’ summink as yer shouldn’t ’a?”
“No. I quarreled with my supervisor.”
She gave a sharp laugh. “So mebbe yer ’aven’t changed that much arter all! But yer don’t look like yer used ter … ’arder, but not so cocky. Come down a bit, ’aven’t yer.” It was a statement, not a question. “ ’In’t got the power yer used ter ’ave, not w’en yer was slingin’ yer weight around Seven Dials ’afore.”
He said nothing.
She looked at him even more closely, leaning a fractionforward. She was a very handsome woman. There was a vitality in her which was impossible to ignore.
“W’y don’t yer remember me? Yer should.”
“I had an accident. I don’t remember a lot of things.”
“Jeez!” She let out her breath slowly. “In’t that the truth? Well, I never …” She was too angry even to swear. “That’s a turn up if yer like. So yer startin’ over from the bottom.” She gave a little laugh. “No better’n the rest o’ us, then. Well, I’ll pay yer, if yer earns it.”
“I am better than the rest, Mrs. Hopgood,” he said, staring at her levelly. “I’ve forgotten a few things, a few people, but I haven’t lost my brains or my will. Why have you come to me?”
“We can get by … most of us,” she replied levelly. “One way an’ another. Least we could, until this started ’appinin’.”
“What started happening?”
“Rape, Mr. Monk,” she answered, meeting his eyes unflinchingly and with an ice-hard anger.
He was startled. Of all the possibilities which had flickered through his mind, that had not been one of them.
“Rape?” He repeated the word with incredulity.
“Some o’ our girls is gettin’ raped in the streets.” Now there was nothing in her but hurt, a blind confusion because she did not see the enemy. For once she could not fight her own battle.
It could have been a ridiculous subject. She was not speaking of respectable women in some pleasant area, but of sweatshop workers who eked out a living laboring around the clock, then going home to one room in a tenement, perhaps shared with half a dozen other people of all ages and both sexes. Crime and violence were a way of life with
“To what, Mrs. Hopgood?”
“Me ’usband, Tom, ’e runs a fact’ry, makin’ shirts and the like …”
Monk knew what the sweatshops of the East End were like,huge, airless places, suffocating in summer, bitterly cold in winter, where a hundred or more women might sit from before dawn until nearly midnight sewing shirts, gloves, handkerchiefs, petticoats, for barely enough to feed one of them, let alone the family which might depend on them. If someone had stolen from Tom Hopgood, Monk for one was not going to look for him.
She saw his expression.
“Wear nice shirts still, do yer?”
He looked at her sharply.
“ ’Course yer do!” She answered her own question with a surprising viciousness twisting her mouth. “And what do yer pay for ’em, eh? Wanner pay more? Wot d’yer think tailors and outfitters pay us for ’em, eh? If we put up our prices, we lose the business. An’ ’oo’ll that ’elp? Gents ’oo like smart shirts’ll buy ’em the cheapest they can get. Can’t pay more’n I can, can I?”
He was stung. “I presume you aren’t looking for me to alter the tailoring economy?”
Her face registered her scorn, but it was not personal, nor was it her principle emotion, far more urgent was the reason she had come. She chose not to quarrel with him. The reason she had come to him at all, defying the natural barrier between them, was a mark of how grave the matter was to her.
Her eyes narrowed. “ ’Ere! W’os the matter wiv yer? Yer look diff’rent. Yer don’ remember me, do yer?”
Would she believe a lie? And did it matter?
She was staring at him. “W’y d’yer leave the rozzers, then? D’yer get caught doin’ summink as yer shouldn’t ’a?”
“No. I quarreled with my supervisor.”
She gave a sharp laugh. “So mebbe yer ’aven’t changed that much arter all! But yer don’t look like yer used ter … ’arder, but not so cocky. Come down a bit, ’aven’t yer.” It was a statement, not a question. “ ’In’t got the power yer used ter ’ave, not w’en yer was slingin’ yer weight around Seven Dials ’afore.”
He said nothing.
She looked at him even more closely, leaning a fractionforward. She was a very handsome woman. There was a vitality in her which was impossible to ignore.
“W’y don’t yer remember me? Yer should.”
“I had an accident. I don’t remember a lot of things.”
“Jeez!” She let out her breath slowly. “In’t that the truth? Well, I never …” She was too angry even to swear. “That’s a turn up if yer like. So yer startin’ over from the bottom.” She gave a little laugh. “No better’n the rest o’ us, then. Well, I’ll pay yer, if yer earns it.”
“I am better than the rest, Mrs. Hopgood,” he said, staring at her levelly. “I’ve forgotten a few things, a few people, but I haven’t lost my brains or my will. Why have you come to me?”
“We can get by … most of us,” she replied levelly. “One way an’ another. Least we could, until this started ’appinin’.”
“What started happening?”
“Rape, Mr. Monk,” she answered, meeting his eyes unflinchingly and with an ice-hard anger.
He was startled. Of all the possibilities which had flickered through his mind, that had not been one of them.
“Rape?” He repeated the word with incredulity.
“Some o’ our girls is gettin’ raped in the streets.” Now there was nothing in her but hurt, a blind confusion because she did not see the enemy. For once she could not fight her own battle.
It could have been a ridiculous subject. She was not speaking of respectable women in some pleasant area, but of sweatshop workers who eked out a living laboring around the clock, then going home to one room in a tenement, perhaps shared with half a dozen other people of all ages and both sexes. Crime and violence were a way of life with
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