After the main course was served and eaten, Mercy sang a song for me, which she said was story enough:
I took her about the middle so small
And laid her on the green;
And in tying of her Garter,
The like was never seen.
She opened her legs so wide
That I slipt in between.
Sing fall down, lay her down, down a, down a good.
And in tying of her Garter,
She lost her maidenhead;
I care not a pin for that said she,
It stood me in little stead.
For oftentimes it troubled me,
As I lay in my bed.
Sing fall down, lay her down, down a, down a good.
And when I had had my will of her,
I took her up again;
I gave her kisses twenty,
And she gave me the same;
Then she away for Highgate,
And I for London town.
‘More,’ I said. ‘Oh, sing us more.’
‘No,’ said Mercy. ‘Only fools are full of humour and wit and I have little of either, but I have a present for you.’ She rang the bell and a servant brought in a tall dome wrapped in paper. ‘Open it,’ she said.
I had never had a present in my life, and I’m ashamed to say that I burst into tears.
She kissed me on the lips and said softly, ‘Don’t be a noodle.’
Once the paper was removed, I stared at it at first in wonder and then became perplexed for it was a birdcage, and in it a white parrot with cheeks of lime green sat on a perch, swinging back and forth.
‘This is for me?’ I said and opened the cage door.
‘Careful, Tully,’ said Hope, ‘it could fly away.’
Mercy said nothing. The moment I put my hand in the cage I knew the poor bird was dead.
‘There’s no need to worry. It will never fly,’ I said, closing the cage door and feeling more disappointed with my gift than I should have.
‘It has been stuffed and preserved,’ said Mercy. ‘I had it sent from Paris. The great courtesan Madame Eugenie has one.’
I wasn’t sure that I wanted this stuffed bird whoever had one, but nevertheless I thanked her. It felt to me that Mercy was trying to say something with the cage and its lifeless inhabitant. I put the cage on the floor and wished she hadn’t given it to me.
Queenie started her story:
‘By chance I was a flower girl, by chance I was deflowered and by chance I did well. But youth doesn’t last for ever and I wasn’t going to end in the gutter sucking on the gin bottle, the tit of mother’s ruin, as I had seen many do before me.
‘With the money I had saved I opened my first bawdy house just off the piazza at Covent Garden. I kept clean girls and for several years I made a good living. My mistake was that I accepted IOU notes. Your father – or not your father – fell into the category of those who didn’t pay in cash and owed me a healthy sum of money. I had more of those notes from him than from any of my other customers.
‘One night the house was broken into by a party of rakes, bursting with more wine than a pig’s bladder. They demanded that each should have one of my gals. I said not unless they could pay. Not one of them had a farthing on him and, furious at being denied, they took to breaking all they could see. A neighbour called for the constable and I was arrested for running a disorderly and indecent house. The gentlemen too were arrested but, one of them being an earl, they were released.
‘The judge was not so lenient towards me and he sent me to Newgate. I tell you this for a tuppence worth of tar, it is not a jail any man or woman wants to be in. The only way to survive was to pay handsomely, and I did just that for a clean cell and all the other trappings. My jailer was a greedy bastard. He wanted money all right, but he wanted what lay under my petticoats and I wasn’t showing him my garter. In my heyday I was a high-class whore, not one that a cheap, poxy bastard of a jailer could afford – as I told him.
‘He said he had ways to make me reconsider and I took that to mean he was going to take me by force.
‘I put up a terrible fight the night he came for me. He dragged me from my cell and took me through the stink of that babbling Tower of Babel down to where the air was even more putrid. He opened a cell door and threw me in. I remember thinking that only my father had ever treated me as badly as this and if the jailer touched me again I would kill him just as I should have killed my father. Even whores have their pride, Tully.
‘“You’ll be screaming to be let out,” he said as he locked the door. “Tomorrow you’ll wish you’d been nicer to me. A night spent in here has sent grown men mad with fear. In the morning you’ll be the same.”
‘“Never,” I shouted. “I have courage – blood red courage!”
‘His footsteps and his laughter disappeared. Gradually I became aware of a pile of rags moving across the floor. I wasn’t about to let a heap of rat-infested rags have the better of me. I stood up tall and said, “I am Queenie Gibbs of Covent Garden and I am not afraid.”
‘A face emerged and a cold sweat came over me for I was looking into two staring, lifeless eyes. I bent down, lifted the rags from this half-dead man and gave him a little of the gin that I kept in my petticoats for warmth and courage. I helped him to sit up. It took me a moment to realise that the eyes were painted on the creature’s eyelids. His real eyes were as black as a jailer’s night, his face white. Once unwrapped, I could see that his clothes were filthy but of quality. He didn’t say a word, and I thought, well, neither will I. So he sat there on the stone floor and I stood. It was blooming freezing.
When finally he spoke it made me jump.
‘“Do you like the dark, madam?” He said it slowly as if each word caught on his throat.
‘“On the whole,” I said, “I prefer the light – the better to see my companions.”
‘Instantly the cell was illuminated. I kept hold of my nerve and he watched me.
‘“Is that to your satisfaction, madam?” he asked.
‘Refusing to be impressed, I said, “A bed, chairs. A table perhaps.”
‘What I tell you now is no fib. In a moment that cell had a bed, a table and chairs that would have graced a fine house. I burst out laughing and thought, either I have jail fever, or this man is a sorcerer of exceptional talent.
‘He asked if I would help him to a chair on account of his only having one leg.
‘“If we have to sit here,” I said, “let us have wine and bread.”
‘And there on the table was a loaf of bread and a carafe of wine.
‘I took a mouthful, thinking it would be air, but that night we became as pissed as lords. I lay down on that bed of fine linen too drunk to reason – something I don’t usually do – and woke to find the sorcerer aroused and, having no objections, willingly let him take me.
‘Now here’s the rub: I have had many lovers, some fitted me better than others, but I’d not had one like him. I have more trouble than some to reach that melting moment and often it eludes me altogether. He took his time, waiting for me. Never had I reached it with more abandon than I did that night.
‘In the morning the cell was back as it was and my companion gone. I asked the jailer who he was; I even paid him to tell me but all he would say was that the devil was in Newgate Prison and I had spent the night with him.
‘After my stint inside I decided to sell the bawdy house and travel to Paris – I had enough money to do it with some style.
‘There I was invited to the house of an old lover and after dinner we went to the theatre to see a magic show. There was no one there who was anywhere near as spectacular as the man I had shared the cell with.
‘My host whispered that the next act was a Mr Crease, that he had been one of the greatest magicians of his day, but when he lost his dog Shadow, he had lost his gift.
‘The moment I saw him I knew he was the man I had spent the enchanted night in Newgate with. He was taller than I remembered and most beautifully dressed in a long coat of dusty green and pinks. My host was right. The show was disappointing for there was none of the magic that I had witnessed in the cell. But I sent my card backstage and asked if Mr Crease would call on me.
‘I had gone to bed when my maid woke me to tell me that a gentleman urgently wanted to see me. I went into the sitting room and to my surprise Crease was there.
‘“Forgive me, madam,” he said. “You saw a mundane show tonight. I work better with a private audience. I have no desire to perform in public but the truth is I need the money.”
‘I offered him tea and he said it was unnecessary. His stiffness in manner I presumed came from his concern to find me in that city and a fear that I might let slip where I had met him. I assured him he had no need to worry and his secret was safe with me as I hoped mine was with him. I had started to say some silliness when he stopped me.
‘“I am not of this world,” he said. “And I little trust those that are. I love them even less. You are different. Why are you different?”
‘“I do not know,” I replied.
‘“Did you believe in the bed, the chairs, the wine, our love-making?”
‘I told him that I did, that I had tried to find him but with no success.
‘“Do you believe in me?” he asked.
‘I said I did.
‘“Then,” he said, “you must give me every last penny you own, for if you are to build your fairy house you will need a king’s ransom.”
‘As I had never told him my dream I asked him to explain himself.
‘“You want to build a brothel that is the most unique in London, with the finest decor, the finest chef and the finest courtesans. Are you brave enough to take the gamble?”
‘And here’s the strangest part: I gave him everything I possessed, including my jewellery. Only when he had left did I realise I hadn’t asked him what I was gambling on. I waited twelve days, by which time I believed myself truly ruined. I couldn’t even pay my hotel bill and felt myself to be a royal fool. Just when I was at my lowest, my maid brought me a parcel. I opened it to find more money than I had ever seen before.
‘I stood up, shaking, speechless, as Crease entered the room.
‘“Shall we build the fairy house?” he asked.’