She is an old woman, or badly preserved, or both. Dressed for going out of doors, bonnet and all, she is clearly not about to do so, stationed snug as a judge behind a narrow desk. The desk is strewn with snippets ofpaper, cuttings from journals. A pair of oversized dressmaking scissors snickers in her hand, paring away an almost substanceless rind of paper which slips over her knuckles and flutters into her lap. She looks up, stops scissoring, in honour of her guest’s arrival; carefully she disentangles the shears from her fingers and lays the gleaming metal to one side.
From head to hems she is decked out entirely in one colour: scarlet, which William has never seen on any other English woman in his lifetime. Her mouth, too, is painted the same hue, the hundred tiny wrinkles around her lips tainted, so that when she smiles in welcome the effect is disturbingly like a furry red caterpillar responding to stimulus.
At first William thinks she must be insane, a mad old witch compelled to make bizarrely manifest her status as a ‘scarlet’ woman, but then he detects a certain dignity about her, a self-possession, that makes him more inclined to think her attire is an elaborate joke. She wouldn’t be the first madam he’s met with her tongue planted in her cheek. In any case (he notices now) the scarlet is softened by one dissenting shade, that of the veil pinned back onto her bonnet. This is the same colour exactly as the Rackham Perfumeries emblem, the dusty pink rose.
‘Welcome to Mrs Castaway’s, sir,’ she says, white teeth seeming to revolve like cogs behind her cochineal lips. ‘I am Mrs Castaway, and these are my girls.’ She waves one hand vaguely about, but William cannot yet take his eyes off her. ‘The use of the room upstairs will cost you five shillings, though what happens there, and for how long, is for you and Sugar to put a value to. If you wish, there can be good wine waiting for you, for an additional two shillings.’
‘Wine, then,’ William says. Lord knows he has enough strong drink in him, but he doesn’t wish to impress the madam as tight-fisted. As he stumbles forward to pay (What fool placed the edge of a rug just there, where a man must put his foot?) he surveys the old woman’s body more analytically: she’s an ugly old bird, he decides. And ugliness is not what he came here to see.
Freed from Mrs Castaway’s spell, William is able to take in the rest of the room. Its giddying effect is not, he reassures himself, a symptom of his own inebriation: the whole parlour really is a grotesquerie. The framed prints, he notices now, all depict Mary Magdalen: a varied assortment of half-naked, half-clothed versions of her, repentant or otherwise, some of them painted by pious Christians, others sly caricatures intended as pornography. Dozens of replicas of that same expression of sad serenity, of renunciation of the all-too-wicked flesh, of surrender to a God who makes all other males redundant. Mary Magdalen in full colour, from Romish prayer cards; Mary Magdalen in black-and-white, from Protestant journals; Mary Magdalen with halo and without; Mary Magdalen large as the frontispiece of a penny magazine; Mary Magdalen tiny as a locket miniature. It’s like Billington & Joy in here!
In the armchair by the hearth, still ignoring everybody, sits the young woman William is later to know as Amy Howlett. She’s a compact thing, sloe-eyed and sulky, with pitch-black hair and a figure rather like … well, rather like Agnes’s really, packed into a smart if severe black, white and silver dress. He can see her face now; she is, shockingly, smoking a cigarette, without even the mitigation of a holder, and if she has any inkling that, in England at least, a man may more often have seen a penis in a woman’s mouth than a cigarette, she betrays no sign. Instead, frowning, she sucks, her eyes focused on the little glow-tipped cylinder of rice-paper and tobacco between her pretty fingers. In nonchalant defiance, she glances at him through a haze of smoke, as if to say, ‘So?’
Nonplussed, William looks away towards the hearth, and catches sight of the polished neck of a violoncello, poking up over the back of an armchair facing the fire. There’s a woman’s neck showing, too, and a skull’s-worth of mousy hair as thin as cobwebs.
‘Do play on, Miss Lester,’ says Mrs Castaway. ‘This gentleman appreciates fine things, I’m sure.’
Miss Lester’s head turns; she looks for William over the back of the armchair, her cheek resting on the antimacassar, her forehead wrinkled, her eyes deep-set in their sockets. But locating where in the world he might be costs her too much effort, and she turns again, back to the fire. The seesawing moan of the ‘cello resumes.
Just as he begins to wonder what these peculiar people would do with his unconscious body if he were to fall to the floor, William is much relieved to feel Sugar’s hand slip into his. She squeezes once, to bid him come.
Mounting the stairs, William feels his ears burning red, his brow prickling with sweat. His bladder aches with every step, his balance is not the best, his vision requires regular eye-blinks to clear the gathering mists. Time is running out on his sexual coup.
‘My room is the first upstairs,’ whispers Sugar at his side. She is lighting their way with a candle; her posture is ramrod-straight and her arm holds the spear of wax without a tremble. The receding song of the ‘cello provides the melody to the rhythm of their footfalls.
William, glancing back downstairs to make sure he is out of the madam’s earshot, mutters, ‘Your Mrs Castaway is a queer fish.’
He has quite forgotten the claim made by the Drury Lane ‘twins’, that Mrs Castaway is Sugar’s own mother, though if reminded he would probably dismiss it as whores’ claptrap anyway.
‘Oh, very queer indeed,’ agrees Sugar with a smile, and sweeps her skirts over the last steps and onto the landing. ‘Try to think of her as a sort of Janus in red taffeta, and this door as… well, whatever door you most dearly wish to go through.’ She opens it wide and beckons him across the threshold.
William sways after her, blinking sweat from his eyes. If only he could turn her off for just a few moments, like a machine, while he took the opportunity to wash his face, run a comb through his hair, empty his aching bladder. Mercifully, Sugar’s bed-chamber is bright and airy, free of that waxy smell which so sickened him in Drury Lane. Higher-ceilinged than most upstairs rooms, it is lit by gas rather than candlelight and, though there’s a fire glowing in the hearth, there’s also a blessed whiff of fresh, ice-cold air filtering through from somewhere.
As soon as he has cast off his coat and waistcoat, William heads for the bed, a queen-sized and much augmented edifice much more impressive than his own at home (that is, the one he sleeps in, not the conjugal one in what’s become, over the years, Agnes’s private bedroom). Sugar’s has a canopy of green silk mounted on it, an awning fit for a king. The drapes hang slightly parted, gathered in with golden cords, and all around the base is a sumptuous valence in a (sadly) unmatching shade of … what would one call it?… mint. A shame. He looks across the room at Sugar, who stands by the door still, hesitating to remove her gloves, waiting for his approval or the lash of his tongue. He smiles, signalling that she needn’t fret; he’ll overlook the mint valence. It’s a mere hiccup of taste, a regrettable touch of ‘make-do’, no doubt forced upon the house by economy. Even in this, he and Sugar are soulmates of a kind: why, think of the humiliating hat he would have been wearing, if he’d met her only a few days earlier!
‘Everything to your liking, Mr Hunt?’
‘It will be,’ he grins, narrowing his eyes meaningfully, ‘soon enough.’ He reclines on the mattress, tests its firmness and softness with his elbows. Thirty seconds later he is fast asleep.
To fall asleep in the bed-chamber of a prostitute, unless you are the prostitute herself, is, as a general rule, either impossible or impermissible.
Rackham has, in the past, been roughly taken in hand and brought to orgasm or, if that wasn’t practical, to the brothel’s back door and discharged into the chill of the night, shoved towards his own bed, however far away that might be.
Yet, Rackham sleeps on.
Sugar does not sleep with him. She sits at an escritoire near the window, fully dressed (though she
has removed her gloves), writing. Her cracked and peeling fingers grip the pen tight. A journal not unlike a business ledger is scratched quietly, with long silences between certain words.
Rackham snores.
Just before dawn, Rackham wakes. He is sprawled on his back, his head sunk unpillowed into the soft surface of the undisturbed bed. He cranes his head further back, looking up towards the bed-head. Alarmingly, another man stares back at him, a wild-eyed, tousle-haired fellow reaching towards him across the sheets, keen (it would seem) to recommence abominable acts.
William sits up with a start, and so does the stranger. Mystery solved: the entire bed-head is a massive mirror.
The bed’s drapes have been fully drawn, veiling him inside. Just as well: to his shame and consternation, he finds that his trousers are sodden with urine. This is what’s woken him — not the emission from his bladder per se, which must have happened hours ago, but a maddening itch in his clammy groins. He peers into the mirror again, compiling a mental inventory of the damage. He doesn’t seem to have vomited, nor is he queasy now. His head throbs considerably less than he expected (The Fireside’s ale must agree with him — or perhaps he’s still drunk … What time is it? Why the devil hasn’t he been expelled?). His hair has come loose again, standing up from his scalp like greasy sheep’s wool. He digs into a trouser pocket for a comb, finds only a tangle of sopping undergarments.
God Almighty, how is he going to get out of this?
He crawls to the foot of the bed, peeks through a gap in the drapes. A cast-iron stand is right outside, cradling a pewter ice bucket. The neck of a full wine-bottle rests against the rim, re-corked with the screw still in. On the floor, well out of his reach, lies the waistcoat that contains his watch. He can even see its silver chain, trailing out of the flaccid fob-pocket. (If this had been France, he wouldn’t be seeing that chain, he has to admit.)
Where is Sugar? He holds his breath, listening hard. All he hears, apart from an unidentifiable scratching, is the sudden rustle of the hearth’s contents, the sound of unstable half-burnt coals and embers collapsing.
Only one wall is visible through the slit in the veil. Fortunately it’s the one with the window in it, offering valuable clues to the time of night. The panes are almost opaque with frost — thick frost such as accumulates over many hours. Beyond the frost, the sky is black and indigo, or seems so in contrast to the undimmed interior. The curtains stir almost imperceptibly: despite the freeze, Sugar has left the window open just the tiniest crack. But where is she? William leans further forward, nudging the fabric with his nose, insinuating one eye into the open.
Sugar’s room is … homely. The walls are simply painted, a uniform flesh-pink as opposed to the rococo excesses of the parlour downstairs. A few small, framed prints, much faded from exposure, hang at strategic intervals. The furnishings are decent, comprising a freshly upholstered couch, two armchairs that don’t quite match, and (he pushes his face further forward still) an escritoire complete with pens, inkwell, and …(he blinks in disbelief) Sugar herself, hunched over, lost in concentration.
‘Ah … forgive me,’ he announces.
She looks up, lowers her pen, and smiles — a disarming, companionable smile. She’s dog-tired, he can tell. ‘Good morning, Mr Hunt,’ she says.
‘Oh Lord …’ he sighs, awkwardly running his hands through his hair. ‘What … what time is it?’
She consults a clock beyond his range of vision. Her own hair, he suddenly notices, is absolutely glorious, a lush corona of golden-orange curls: she has taken the trouble to brush and shape it while he slept.
‘Half past five.’ She pouts roguishly. ‘If anyone else is still up, they’ll be much impressed by your prowess.’
William moves to dismount from the bed, then stiffens, blushing. hardly know how to tell you this. ‘I … I have …suffered a most regrettable, a most shameful loss of …ah … control.’
‘Oh, I know,’ she says, matter-of-factly, getting to her feet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it for you.’
She pads over to the hearth, where a kettle has been gently simmering on a grate above the embers. She sloshes a brilliant arc of steaming water into an earthenware tureen which, by the sound of it, is already partly filled, and carries it over to the bed. The skin of her hands, he notes, is dry and cracked, like peeling bark, yet the fingers are exquisitely formed. Michelangelo fingers, ringed with an exotic blight.
‘Take your wet things off, please, Mr Hunt,’ she says, kneeling on the floor, her skirts spreading out all around her. The tureen is almost brim-full of sudsy liquid, a sea sponge bobbing around in it like a peeled potato. Apparently Sugar has been waiting for this moment.
‘Really, Miss Sugar,’ William mumbles. ‘This is quite beyond …How can I possibly expect you–’
She looks up at him, half-closes her eyes, shakes her head slowly, mimes the swollen-lipped supplication: ‘Shu-u-u-sh.’
Together they manage to remove his trousers and underbreeches. The sharp stink of stewed piss wafts up, inches from Sugar’s nose, but she doesn’t flinch. For the all the effect the stench has on her unblinking gaze, her serene brow, her secret half-smile, it might as well be perfume.
‘Lie back, Mr Hunt,’ she croons. ‘Everything will be set to rights soon.’
With the utmost gentleness, she washes him while he reclines, astounded, on the bed. A touch of her rough-textured knuckles is enough to make him part his legs wider, as she dabs the warm soapy sponge into his groin. She frowns in sympathy, to see excoriation in the clefts.
‘Poor baby,’ she murmurs.
The bed-sheets beneath him are soaked, so she nudges him to wriggle further up. Then, with a brushed cotton cloth wrapped around one hand like a mitten, she mops and dabs him dry. Nothing escapes her attention, even the ticklish hollow of his umbilicus. His penis she squeezes gently in her soft cottony palm, progressing in tiny increments as if its sheer length calls for a measure of patience.
‘Really, Miss Sugar …’ he protests again, but he has no words to follow.
‘No “Miss” needed,’ she corrects him, tossing the cloth aside. ‘Just Sugar.’ And she lowers her face to his perfumed belly and kisses his navel. He gasps as one of her knuckles pushes between the powdered cheeks of his arse, gently corkscrewing into him. A moment later, she lays her cheek on his thigh, hair sprawling all over his stomach, and secretes the whole of his sex into her mouth. Once she has it there, she lies still, neither sucking nor licking: just still, as if keeping him safe. All the while, she massages his anus, using her free hand to stroke his belly. His prick grows hard against her tongue, and when it’s nestling snug she begins to suck, placidly, almost absentmindedly, as a child might suck its own thumb.
‘No,’ groans William, but of course he means the opposite.
Minute upon minute she lies on his thigh, milking him, slyly inserting her middle finger into his anus, deeper and deeper, pushing past the sphincter. When he comes, she feels the contractions squeezing her finger first, then clamps her lips firm around his cock as the warm gruel squirts into her throat. She swallows hard, sucks, swallows again. Slowly she extracts her finger, sucking still, sucking until there’s nothing left to suck.
Later, the two of them discuss remuneration.
Dawn is on the horizon, a tarnished halo over Soho. The first horses are passing along Silver Street, their harnesses jingling, their hooves drubbing on the cobbles. Inside Sugar’s bed-chamber, the gas-lamps are beginning to cast the faintly unreal hue so characteristic of artificial light when a natural alternative lies in wait. A subtle haze of steam is rising from a dark wad of male clothing, suspended on a rack near the fire.
The owner of those trousers and the owner of that rack are engaged in polite dispute over what the night’s transpirations, considered in toto, have been worth. Rackham is inclined to be generous; he fears he has imposed on her while he slept.
‘A man needs his sleep,’ demurs Sugar. ‘And it would have been cru
el to condemn you to the streets in such a state. Besides, I occupied myself quite usefully while I was waiting.’ ‘You were waiting?’
‘Of course I was waiting. You are a very interesting man, Mr Hunt.’
‘Interesting?’ William can scarcely believe his ears.
She smiles, exposing pearly-white teeth. Her lips are red now, no longer so dry. ‘Very interesting.’
‘Nevertheless I feel I must pay you for the time I lay here like a drunken fool. And for my disgraceful … incontinence. Unintentional though it was.’
‘Whatever you wish,’ she concedes graciously.
But Rackham is unable to divide the night’s events into discrete services; to categorise them thus cheapens them somehow. Instead, gauchely, he fingers a number of coins out of his purse, heavy coins of a greater value than some of this city’s inhabitants — say, the denizens of Church Lane — ever set eyes on.
‘I — is this enough?’ he asks, conferring the silver pieces into her palm.
‘Exactly right,’ she replies, closing her hand. ‘Including a little extra’ (she winks) ‘for the sleeping.’
Outside, something massive is being delivered to the rear of a shop. Weary male voices chant ‘One, two, free!’, followed by a chain-clanking thump. William walks over to the window, naked from the waist down, and tries to descry through the frosty panes what’s happening out there, but he can’t make it out.
‘You know,’ he muses, ‘I haven’t even seen you naked.’
‘Next time,’ says Sugar.
He knows he ought to go home, but he’s loath to leave. Besides, his trousers may not be dry yet. Solemnly, to buy another few minutes, he examines the prints on Sugar’s walls, dawdling past them as he might at a Royal Academy exhibition. They are pornographic, depicting eighteenth-century gentlemen (his father’s grandfathers, so to speak) contentedly fucking the harlots of their day. The men are amiable duffers, ruddy-faced and fat; the women are plump too, with Raphael breasts, puff sleeves, and faces like sheep. Phalluses twice the size of his are shown entering freakishly extruded vaginas, and yet the effect is no more erotic than a Bible illustration. In Rackham’s judgement, these pictures are (what’s the word he’s looking for?)… feeble.