The Crimson petal and the white

TWO

All along the burnished footpaths of Greek Street, the shop-keepers are out already, the second wave of early risers. Of course they regard themselves as the first wave. The grim procession of slop-workers and factory drudges Caroline looked down on from her window, though it happened only a few hundred yards from here less than an hour ago, might as well have happened in another country in another age.

Civilisation begins at Greek Street.

Welcome to the real world.

Getting up as early as the shop-keepers do is, in their view, stoic heroism beyond the understanding of lazier mortals. Any creature scurrying about earlier than themselves must be a rodent or an insect which traps and poisons have regrettably failed to kill.

Not that they are cruel, these industrious men.

Many of them are kinder souls than the people you came here to meet, those exalted leading players you're so impatient to be introduced to. It's just that the shop-keepers of Greek Street care nothing about the shadowy creatures who actually manufacture the goods they sell. The world has outgrown its quaint rural intimacies, and now it's the modern age: an order is put in for fifty cakes of Coal Tar Soap, and a few days later, a cart arrives and the order is delivered.

How that soap came to exist is no question for a modern man. Everything in this world issues fully formed from the loins of a benign monster called manufacture; a never-ending stream of objects -of graded quality, of perfect uniformity-from an orifice hidden behind veils of smoke.

You may point out that the clouds of smut from the factory chimneys of Hammersmith and Lambeth blacken all the city alike, a humbling reminder of where the cornucopia really comes from.

But humility is not a trait for the modern man, and filthy air is quite good enough for breathing; its only disadvantage is the film of muck that accumulates on shop windows.

But what use is there, the shop-keepers sigh, in nostalgia for past times? The machine age has come, the world will never be clean again, but oh: what compensation!

Already they're working up a sweat, their only sweat for the day, as they labour to open their shops.

They ease the tainted frost from the windows with sponges of lukewarm water and sweep the slush into the gutter with stiff brooms. Standing on their toes, stretching their arms, they strip off the shutters, panels, iron bars and stanchions that have kept their goods safe another night. All along the street, keys rattle in key-holes as each shop's ornate metal clothing is stripped away.

The men are in a hurry now, in case someone with money should come along and choose a wide-open shop over a half-open one. Passers-by are few and often queer at this hour of the morning, but all types may stray into Greek Street and there's no telling who'll spend.

An embarrassment of produce becomes available to Caroline as she walks towards The Mother's Finest; it's offered up to her in an indecent manner by the shop-keepers who, having thrown open their strongholds, now busy themselves selecting the most tempting wares to display on the footpaths outside. It's as if, having unlocked the cha/y of shutters and doors, they can't see the point in maintaining any shred of modesty. Trays of books are shoved into Caroline's path, some of the volumes laid salaciously open to show off their colour plates.

Stuffed manikins hold out their stitched hands, imploring Caroline to buy the clothes off their backs. Heavily curtained windows disrobe without warning.

"Morning, madam!" yelps more than one of the men as Caroline hurries by. They all know she's no lady-the mere fact that she's up at this hour makes that clear-but then they aren't exactly gentlemen of business either, and can't afford to scorn custom. Acutely aware how many rungs lower they are than the grand proprietors -never shop-keepers-of Regent Street, they'll as gladly sell their buns, boots, books or bonnets to a whore as to anyone else.

Indeed, there is an essential similarity between Caroline and the shop-keepers of Greek Street who woo her: much of what they hope to sell is far from virgin. Here you may find books with pages made ragged by a previous owner's paper-knife; there stands furniture discarded as outmoded, still bold as brass, still serviceable, and cheap-daring anyone fallen on hard times to fall just a little farther. A nice soft landing, ladies and gents! Here are beds already slept in-by the cleanest persons on earth, sir, the very cleanest. (or perhaps by a diseased wretch, whose corruption might yet be lurking inside the mattress. Such are the morbid fantasies of those whom bankruptcy, swindles or dissolution have brought so low that furnishing their lodgings fresh from Regent Street is no longer possible.) In much more dubious taste still are the clothes. Not only are they all reach-me-downs (that is, made for nobody in particular) but some of them have already been worn-and not just once, either. The shop-keepers will, of course, deny this; they like to fancy that Petticoat Lane and the rag-and-bone shop are as far beneath them on the ladder as Regent Street is above.

But enough of these men. You're in danger of losing sight of Caroline as she walks faster, spurred on by hunger. Already you hesitate, seeing two women ahead of you, both shapely, both with black bodices, both with voluminous bows bobbing on their rumps as they trot along. What colour was Caroline's skirt? Blue and grey stripes.

Catch her up. The other whore, whoever she is, won't introduce you to anyone worth knowing.

Caroline has almost reached her goal; she's fixed her eyes on the dangling wooden sign of The Mother's Finest, a blistered painting of a busty girl and her hideous main. One last obstacle -a stack of newspapers skidding onto the footpath right in front of her-and she's picking up the irresistible smell of hot pies and fresh-poured beer, and pushing open the old blue door with its framed motto, PLEASE