I met her in a pub in Cable Street. What was its name, now? I can't remember, but it was the sort of pub you'd find the likes of us in. She was singing, along with a crowd of other people, while a blind beggar played the fiddle. She was smiling, but I could see from her eyes that she was frightened. But then everyone was. We didn't dare go out to work, but we would starve if we didn't. We were in a bind all right.
"A-rovin' a-rovin', since rovin's been my ru-i-n, I'll go no more a rovin' with you fair maid..."
I joined the singing crowd and sang along. Eventually my eyes met hers, and I smiled at her. She seemed relieved to see a face that was genuinely friendly, and the fear in her eyes dimmed a little, to be replaced by shyness. Shyness – the likes of us? But she was young, if I was any judge. Ours is not a trade which encourages youthfulness to stay, unless it be painted on, but there was something about her which spoke of a childhood amongst green meadows and cornfields, rather than the warren of streets and dirty alleys between Shadwell Dock Stairs and the Tower. After the song died down, half-finished, and the beggar had moved on to another knot of people, hoping for more largesse, I pushed through the dispersing crowd and went up to her.
"Haven't seen you in these parts before," I said.
"Nah, I'm usually at work over Ratcliff way," she answered. "But I live not far away from 'ere, and I don't like walking all that way, not these days." She shuddered a little, and I put an arm round her shoulders.
"You want to watch out, though," I said. "I don't mind, but there's some of the other girls as would turn a bit nasty over someone new on their patch. Some of them have got protectors who can get rough too."
"I ain't half as afraid of them as I am of HIM!" she said, not naming "him" of course, but giving another little shudder. I didn't have to ask who she was talking about. Everyone was talking about "him". Everyone was afraid, especially girls of our kind. "The Peelers can't do nothin'. They're just chasin' their arses round and round. Every time you go with a customer you're in a cold sweat in case it's him. The sailors are all right – they 'ave a laugh and a joke – it's the gentlemen I can't stand no more. They seem to 'ate themselves. They call me dirty names, and I'm used to that, but it's themselves they seem to hate, really. I keep wonderin' about each one – could this be HIM?"
Deep thoughts, girl, for one such as us. I motioned her to wait, got a couple of mugs of gin from the bar, and we went over to a corner to sit. We watched in silence for a while, as the pub crowd thinned and thinned. He face became drawn, as she began to face the time when she would have to walk home. I took her chin between my forefinger and thumb, and turned her face towards me.
"Look here, girl," I said. "You're in a funk, and no mistake. See, if it'll make you feel better, come home with me. I've got room enough for two for the night. We'll be safer together. What do you say?"
"I'd rather be in me own gaff," she said. "I don't think I could sleep in a strange bed."
"All right then. I'll walk along with you – see you home."
She thought about that for a while, and then said, "Would you stay with me? I know it's a funny thing to ask, but would you?"
"Of course I will. Don't you worry now."
She told me where she lived, and I said we would walk back past my own place, and I'd pick up a few things first. I could see the relief on her face when it was all agreed. The fear in her eyes dwindled to almost nothing, and I couldn't resist giving her a hug. I perched my hat on my head, and buttoned up my coat, she threw her shawl round her shoulders, and we stepped out into the night.
If we had looked round, we would have seen the pub as a vague pool of yellow light, growing dimmer and more indistinct the further we walked into the dark and the fog. Sounds behind us became more muffled, to be replaced by others – sudden footsteps as a shape lurched towards us, by us, past us, or the drip of running water somewhere. There was the occasional wordless shout, or a cackle of harsh laughter. Familiar objects, such as horse-troughs, cast looming Brocken-spectres, menacing. She clung to my arm and held herself close. I liked the warmth of her side against mine, and I put my hand over hers.
At my place I left her very briefly in the doorway, while I went inside for my bag. "Hurry!" she called from outside. We resumed our winding journey through the pea-souper. She hurried me along, and our breathing became harsh and quick, in the damp, foul air. We were practically running by the time we reached the door to her lodgings. She fumbled with the key, opened the door, and all but pushed me inside, slamming it behind us, and leaning her back against it, panting. Then she laughed, a brittle laugh of relief.
There was hardly any light in her lodging. What little there was came from the embers of a fire in the grate. I made out her silhouette as she went over to it, attacked it vigorously with a poker, and put a few more lumps of precious coal on it. Then she lit a lamp. She looked round and spread her hands out before her.
"It's not much but it'll do," she said. "I can call it 'ome anyhow."
