Fingersmith

  I found us places next to a woman holding a baby. I sat with the coat across my lap. Then I looked at the baby. The woman caught my eye, and I smiled.

  ‘Pretty boy,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he? Won’t sleep for his mother, though. I bring him on the ’buses and the bumping sends him off. We’ve been from Fulham to Bow; now we’re on our way back.’

  ‘He’s a peach,’ I said. I leaned in and stroked his cheek. ‘Look at them lashes! He’ll break hearts, he will.’

  ‘Won’t he!’

  Then I leaned back. When the next stop came, I made Charles get off. The woman said good-bye, and from the window, as the ’bus moved away, she waved. But I didn’t wave back. For, under cover of Charles’s coat, I had had a feel about her waistband; and had prigged her watch. It was a nice little ladies’ watch, and just what I needed. I showed it to Charles. He looked at it as though it were a snake that might bite him.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he said.

  ‘Someone gave it to me.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Give me my jacket.’

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘Give me my coat!’

  We were walking on London Bridge. ‘Shut up,’ I said, ‘or I’ll throw it over the side.—That’s better. Now, tell me this: can you write?’

  He would not answer until I had gone to the wall of the bridge and dangled his jacket over; then he began to cry again, but said that he could. ‘Good boy,’ I said. I made him walk a little further, until we found a man hawking papers and inks. I bought a plain white sheet, and a pencil; and I took Charles back to our room and had him sit and write out a letter. I stood with my hand on the back of his neck, and watched.

  ‘Write, Mrs Sucksby,’ I said.

  He said, ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  He frowned, then wrote. It looked all right to me. I said,

  ‘Now you write this. Write: I was put in the madhouse by that villain your friend—so called!—Gentleman—’

  ‘You are going too fast,’ he said, as he wrote. He tilted his head. ‘By that villain your friend—’

  ‘—so called!—Gentleman; and that bitch Maud Lilly.—You must make those names stand out.’

  The pencil moved on, then stopped. He blushed.

  ‘I won’t write that word,’ he said.

  ‘What word?’

  ‘That B-word.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Before Miss Lilly.’

  I pinched his neck. ‘You write it,’ I said. ‘You hear me? Then you write this, nice and big: PIGEON MY ARSE! She is WORSE THAN HIM!’

  He hesitated; then bit his lip and wrote.

  ‘That’s good. Now this. Put: Mrs Sucksby, I have escaped and am close at hand. Send me a signal by this boy. He is a friend, he is writing this, his name is Charles. Trust him, and believe me—oh! if this fails, I’ll die!—believe me as ever as good and as faithful as your own daughter— There you must leave a space.’

  He did. I took the paper from him and wrote, at the bottom, my name.

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ I said, as I did it; then I kissed where I had written, and folded the paper up.

  ‘Here’s what you must do next,’ I said then. ‘Tonight, when Gentleman—Mr Rivers—leaves the house, you must go over, and knock, and ask to see Mr Ibbs. Say you’ve got a thing to sell him. You’ll know him straight off: he’s tall, and trims his whiskers. He’ll ask if you’ve been followed; and you must be sure, when he does, to say you got away clean. Then he’ll ask what brought you to him. Say you know Phil. If he asks how you know him you’re to say, “Through a pal named George.” If he asks which George you must say, “George Joslin, down Collier’s Rents.” George who, down where?’

  ‘George Joslin, down—Oh, miss! I should rather anything than this!’

  ‘Should you rather the cruel hard men, the unspeakable things, Jamaica?’

  He swallowed. ‘George Joslin, down Collier’s Rents,’ he said.

  ‘Good boy. Next you hand him the watch. He will give you a price; but whatever price he gives you—if it be, a hundred pounds, or a thousand—you must say it ain’t enough. Say the watch is a good one, with Geneva works. Say—I don’t know—say your dad done watches, and you know them. Make him look a bit harder. Any luck, he’ll take the back off—that will give you the chance to look about. Here’s who you’re looking for: a lady, rather old, with hair of silver—she’ll be sitting in a rocking-chair, perhaps with a baby in her lap. That’s Mrs Sucksby, that brought me up. She’ll do anything for me. You find a way to reach her side, and pass this letter to her. You do it, Charles, and we’re saved. But listen here. If there’s a dark-faced, mean-looking boy about, keep clear of him, he’s against us. Same goes for a red-headed girl. And if that viper Miss Maud Lilly is anywhere near, you hide your face. Understand me? If she sees you—more even than the boy—then we are done for.’

  He swallowed again. He put the note on the bed, and sat and looked fearfully at it. He practised his piece. I stood at the window, and watched, and waited. First came twilight, then came dark; and with the dark came Gentleman, slipping from Mr Ibbs’s door with his hat at an angle and that scarlet cloth at his throat. I saw him go; gave it another half-an-hour, to be sure; then looked at Charles.

  ‘Put your coat on,’ I said. ‘It’s time.’

  He grew pale. I gave him his cap and his scarf, and turned up his collar.

  ‘Have you got the letter? Very good. Be brave, now. No funny stuff. I’ll be watching, don’t forget.’

  He did not speak. He went, and after a moment I saw him cross the street and stand before Mr Ibbs’s. He walked like a man on his way to the rope. He pulled his scarf a little higher about his face, then he looked round, to where he knew I stood behind the shutter.—‘Don’t look round, you fool!’ I thought, when he did that. Then he plucked at his scarf again; and then he knocked. I wondered if he might run from the step. He looked as though he would like to. But before he could, the door was opened, by Dainty. They spoke, and she left him waiting while she went in to Mr Ibbs; then she came back. She glanced up and down the street. Like a fool, he glanced with her, as if to see what she looked for. Then she nodded, and stepped back. He went in, and the door was closed. I imagined her turning the latch with her neat white hand.

  Then I waited.

  Say five minutes passed. Say ten.

  What did I suppose would happen? Perhaps, that the door would open, Mrs Sucksby come flying out, with Mr Ibbs behind her; perhaps only that she’d go to her room—show a light, make a sign—I don’t know. But the house stayed quiet, and when at last the door did open, there came only Charles again, with Dainty still behind him; and then again, the door was shut. Charles stood, and quivered. I was used by now to his quivers, and think I knew from the look of this one that things were bad. I saw him look up at our window and think about running.—‘Don’t you run, you fuckster!’ I said, and hit the glass; and perhaps he heard it, for he put down his head and came back across the street and up the stairs. By the time he reached the room his face was crimson, and slick with tears and snot.

  ‘God help me, I didn’t mean to do it!’ he said, bursting in. ‘God help me, she found me out and made me!’

  ‘Made you what?’ I said. ‘What happened? What happened, you little tick?’

  I got hold of him and shook him. He put his hands before his face.

  ‘She got the letter off me and read it!’ he said.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Miss Maud! Miss Maud!’

  I looked at him in horror. ‘She saw me,’ he said, ‘and she knew me. I did it all, just as you said. I gave the watch, and the tall man took it and opened its back. He thought my scarf was queer, and asked if I’d the toothache. I said I did. He showed me a pair of nippers, that he said were good for drawing teeth. I think he was teasing. The dark boy was there, burning paper. He called me a—a pigeon. The red-headed girl didn’t give me a look. But the lady, your ma, was sleeping; and
I tried to reach her side, but Miss Maud saw the letter in my hand. Then she looked at me, and knew me. She said, “Come here, boy, you’ve hurt your hand,” and she got hold of me before the others could see. She had been playing cards at a table, and she held the letter under the table and read it, and she twisted my fingers so hard—’

  His words began to dissolve, like salt in the water of his tears.

  ‘Stop crying!’ I said. ‘Stop crying for once in your life, or I swear, I’ll hit you! Tell me now, what did she do?’

  He took a breath, and put his hand to his pocket, and brought something out.

  ‘She did nothing,’ he said. ‘But she gave me this. She took it from the table where she sat. She gave it to me, as if it might be a secret; and then the tall man closed the watch up and she pushed me away. He gave me a pound, and I took it, and the red-headed girl let me out. Miss Maud watched me go, and her eyes were like eyes on fire; but she never said a word. She only gave me this, and I think she must have meant it for you but, oh miss! you can call me a fool, but God help me if I know what it’s for!’

  He handed it over. She had made it very small, and it took me a moment to unfold it and know what it was. When I did, I held it, and turned it, then turned it again; then I stood gazing stupidly at it.

  ‘Just this?’ I said. Charles nodded.

  It was a playing card. It was one of the playing cards from her old French deck at Briar. It was the Two of Hearts. It had got greasy, and was marked by the folds she had put in it; but it still had that crease, in the shape of her heel, across one of its painted red pips.

  I held it, and remembered sitting with her in her parlour, springing the pack to tell her fortune. She had worn her blue gown. She had put her hand before her mouth. Now you are frightening me! she had said.

  How she must have laughed about it, later!

  ‘She’s making game of me,’ I said, my voice not perfectly steady. ‘She has sent me this—you’re sure there’s no message on it, no mark or sign?—she has sent me this, to tease me. Why else?’

  ‘Miss, I don’t know. She took it from the table-top. She took it quick, and there was a—a wildness, about her eye.’

  ‘What sort of a wildness?’

  ‘I can’t say. She looked, not like herself. She wore no gloves. Her hair was curled and queer. There was a glass beside her place—I don’t like to say—I think it had gin in it.’

  ‘Gin?’

  We looked at each other.

  ‘What shall we do?’ he asked me.

  I did not know.

  ‘I must think,’ I said, beginning to walk about. ‘I must think what she’ll do. She’ll tell Gentleman—won’t she?—and show him our letter. Then he’ll move, very quick, to find us. They didn’t see you come back here? Someone else might’ve, though. We can’t be sure. We’ve had luck on our side, so far; now our luck’s turning. Oh, if only I’d never taken that woman’s wedding-gown! —I knew it would make a bad fortune. Luck’s like the tide: it turns, then gets faster and can’t be stopped.’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ cried Charles. He was wringing his hands. ‘Send the lady her gown back, can’t you?’

  ‘You can’t cheat luck like that. The best you can do is, try and outface it.’

  ‘Outface it?’

  I went to the window again, and gazed at the house.

  ‘Mrs Sucksby is in there now,’ I said. ‘Won’t one word from me do it? When did I ever let myself be frightened by John Vroom? Dainty I think won’t harm me; nor Mr Ibbs. And Maud sounds muddled by gin. Charles, I’ve been a fool to wait at all. Give me my knife. We are going over.’

  He stood, open mouthed, and did nothing. I got the knife myself, then took him by his wrist and led him from the room, down the slippery staircase. A man and a girl stood at the bottom, quarrelling; but their voices faded and they turned their heads to watch us as we went by. Perhaps they saw my knife. I had nowhere to hide it. The street was blowing about with gusts of grit and paper, the night still hot. My head was bare. Anyone who saw me now would know me for Susan Trinder; but it was too late to care. I ran with Charles to Mr Ibbs’s door, knocked on it, then left him on the step while I stood aside with my back to the wall. The door was opened after a minute, just an inch.

  ‘You’ve come too late.’ It was Dainty’s voice. ‘Mr Ibbs says—Oh! It’s you again. What now? Changed your mind?’

  The door was opened a little further. Charles stood, and licked his mouth, his eyes on Dainty’s. Then he looked at me; and when she saw him do that, she put out her head and also looked. Then she screamed.

  ‘Mrs Sucksby!’ I cried. I made a charge at the door, and Dainty went flying. I caught Charles’s arm and pulled him into the shop. ‘Mrs Sucksby!’ I shouted again. I ran to the hanging baize curtain and knocked it back. The passage beyond was dark, and I stumbled, and Charles stumbled with me. Then I reached the door at the end, and threw it open. There came heat, and smoke, and light, that made me wink. I saw Mr Ibbs first. He had come half-way to the door, hearing all the shouting. When he saw me he stopped, and flung up his hands. Behind him was John Vroom, in his dog-skin coat; behind John Vroom—I saw her, and could have cried like a girl—was Mrs Sucksby. At the table, in Mrs Sucksby’s great chair, was Maud.

  Beneath the chair was Charley Wag. He had begun to bark at the commotion. Now, seeing me, he barked more wildly and beat his tail, then came and rose up before me to give me his paws. The row was awful. Mr Ibbs reached forward and seized his collar and quickly jerked it back. He jerked so hard, Charley was almost throttled. I flinched away and lifted my arms. The others all watched me. If they had not seen my knife before, they saw it now. Mrs Sucksby opened her mouth. She said,

  ‘Sue, I—Sue—’

  Then Dainty came running in behind me, from Mr Ibbs’s shop.

  ‘Where is she?’ she cried. She had made her hands into fists. She pushed Charles aside, saw me, and stamped. ‘You’ve got some cheek, coming back here. You bitch! You have just about broke Mrs Sucksby’s heart!’

  ‘Keep off me,’ I said, waving my knife. She looked at it in astonishment, then fell back. I wished she hadn’t; for there was something awful about it. She was only Dainty, after all. The knife began to shake.

  ‘Mrs Sucksby,’ I said, turning to her. ‘They have told you lies. I never—They had me—him and her—locked up! And it has taken me all this time—all this time, since May!—to get back to you.’

  Mrs Sucksby had her hand at her heart. She looked so surprised and afraid, it might have been her I was pointing the knife at. She looked at Mr Ibbs, and then she looked at Maud. Then she seemed to come to herself. She took two or three nimble steps across the kitchen and put her arms about me, tight.

  ‘Dear girl,’ she said.

  She pressed my face against her bosom. Something hard struck my cheek. It was Maud’s diamond brooch.

  ‘Oh!’ I cried, when I felt it. And I struggled away. ‘She has taken you from me, with jewels! With jewels and lies!’

  ‘Dear girl,’ said Mrs Sucksby again.

  But I looked at Maud. She had not flinched, or started, at sight of me, as the others all had; she had only—just like Mrs Sucksby—lifted her hand to her heart. She was dressed like a girl of the Borough, but her face was put back from the light, her eyes in shadow—she looked handsome and proud. Her hand was trembling, though.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, when I saw that. ‘You shake.’

  She swallowed. ‘You had much better not have come here, Sue,’ she said. ‘You had much better have stayed away.’

  ‘You can say so!’ I cried. Her voice was clear, and sweet. I remembered hearing it, now, in my dreams at the madhouse. ‘You can say so, you cheat, you snake, you viper!’

  ‘Girl-fight!’ cried John, with a clap of his hands.

  ‘Hey! hey!’ said Mr Ibbs. He had taken out a handkerchief and was wiping his brow. He looked at Mrs Sucksby. She still had her arms about me, and I could not see her face. But I felt her grip grow slack
as she reached to take the knife from my hands. ‘Why, he’s a sharp one, ain’t he?’ she said, with a nervous laugh. She put the knife gently on the table. I leaned and snatched it up again.

  ‘Don’t leave it,’ I said, ‘where she might get it! Oh, Mrs Sucksby, you don’t know what a devil she is!’

  ‘Sue, listen to me,’ said Maud.

  ‘Dear girl,’ said Mrs Sucksby again, over her words. ‘This is so astonishingly queer. This is so—Only look at you! Like a regular—ha, ha!—soldier.’ She wiped her mouth. ‘What say you sit down, now, and be nice? What say we send Miss Lilly upstairs, if looking at her upsets you? Eh? And there’s John and Dainty: let’s ask them, shall we?’—she jerked her head—‘to slip upstairs, too?’

  ‘Don’t let them go!’ I cried, as Dainty began to move. ‘Not her, not them!’ I waved the knife. ‘You, John Vroom, stay,’ I said. And then, to Mrs Sucksby and Mr Ibbs: ‘They’ll go for Gentleman! Don’t trust them!’

  ‘She’s lost her mind,’ said John, rising from his chair. I made a swipe at the sleeve of his coat.

  ‘I said, stay!’ I cried.

  He looked at Mrs Sucksby. She looked at Mr Ibbs.

  ‘Sit down, son,’ Mr Ibbs said quietly. John sat. I nodded to Charles.

  ‘Charles, stand behind me, by the door to the shop. Keep them from running to it, should they try.’

  He had taken off his cap, and was biting the band of it. He went to the door, his face so pale, in the shadows, it seemed to glow.

  John looked at him and laughed.

  ‘You leave him alone,’ I said at once. ‘He has been a friend to me, more ever than you were. Mrs Sucksby, I should never have got back to you, without him. I should never have got free of—of the madhouse.’

  She put her fingers to her cheek. ‘Helped you so far as that, did he?’ she said, with her eyes on Charles. She smiled. ‘Then he’s a dear boy; and we shall be sure to pay him out. Shan’t we, Mr Ibbs?’

  Mr Ibbs said nothing. Maud leaned from her chair.

  ‘You must go, Charles,’ she said, in her clear, low voice. ‘You must go from here.’ She looked at me. The look was strange. ‘You must both go, before Gentleman comes back.’