The Crimson petal and the white

REQUESTED NOT TO PLACE CIGARS ON

PURPOSE." William has no desire to smoke, but vapour issues from his person nonetheless: his damp clothing is beginning to steam. His skin prickles with sweat and his ample ears are, he knows, glowing red. How grateful he is when the serving-maid hurries back to him, bearing aloft a big tumbler of beer! She can obviously tell how thirsty he must be, bless her heart!

"Capital!" he exclaims above the song, then cranes his head around, wondering why the singing is growing louder: are there more tenors up there than he thought? But no, it's the Fireside regulars joining in.

"Swearing, yelling, all the throng," they croon, between sips of beer.

"With jest obscene and ribald song,

They pass the weary hours long,

Of a night in a London workhouse…"

You who, like William, are visiting The Fireside for the first time, may wonder: how can these revellers sing of horror in such jolly voices? See them tap their feet and nod their heads to the plight of the destitute-is no other part of them moved? Why yes, of course it is!

They fairly worship at the altar of pity! But what can be done? Here in The Fireside, no one is to blame (except perhaps God, in his infinite wisdom). Wrapped up in a good tune, poverty takes its place of honour amongst all the other sing-along calamities: the military defeats, the shipwrecks, the broken hearts-Death itself.

A little nervously William scans The

Fireside for female clientele.

There are plenty of women in the place, but all of them seem to be taken; perhaps Sugar is one of these, a worm caught by an early bird. (or should that be the other way around?) He surveys the assortment a second time, sizing up the physiques as best he can through the haze of cigar smoke and whatever else is in the way. None of the bodies he sees fits Sugar's description, even allowing for the fact that More Sprees may have stretched the truth.

William prefers to believe Sugar isn't here yet. That's good: his ears have stopped burning now, and should fade (god willing) by the time he has to make a good impression. He sips at his glass of ale, finds it so much to his liking that he pours it down his throat and immediately orders another. The serving-maid has a pretty body; he hopes Sugar's, when he uncovers it, is at least half as nice.

"Thank you, thank you," he winks, but she's already gone, serving someone else. Cos@i fan tutti, eh? William leans back, listening to the words of the tenor's next song.

"One day I'll dine on pheasants and grouse And cocktails in fine crystal glasses And roast pigs with apples stuck in their mouths And silver spits shoved up their arses…"

The Fireside regulars chortle: this one's the latest favourite from the bawdy sheet-music sellers of Seven Dials.

"Me spotted dick pu.in' will be such a size Four footmen will carry it in!

But for now I'll survive on porter and pies For me ship ain't quite come in."

"Oh!" the audience joins in,

"me ship ain't quite come in,

It's subject to delay;

Me ship ain't quite come in,

It's expected any day.

When me ship comes in, the grin on me chin Will never go away But me ship ain't quite-me ship ain't quite- Me ship ain't quite come in!"

William chuckles. Not bad, not bad! Why has he never heard of The Fireside before? Do Bodley and Ashwell know of it? And if not, how would he describe it to them?

Well… of course it's a few rungs below top class-a good few rungs. But it's a damn sight better than some of the sorry establishments Bodley and Ashwell have dragged him along to. ("This is the place, Bill, I'm almost sure of it!" "Almost sure?"' "Well, to be wholly sure, I'd have to lie down on the floor and study the ceiling.") The Fireside is innocent of anything too common: there's not a pewter mug in sight, but all good glass, and the beer is light and frothy. The floors are tiled rather than wooden, and there's no fake marble anywhere. Most tellingly of all, unlike the haunts of low men, it doesn't stay open all hours, but closes, demurely, at midnight. Which suits Rackham: all the shorter will he have to wait for his sweet Cinderella.

"Millie, me wife, will be chuffed with 'er life She'll change 'er name to Octavia There won't be no strife, no need for me knife In our smart new abode in Belgravia.

"We'll 'ave fat tums, we'll bring all our chums, I can't 'ardly wait to begin But I'm twiddlin' me thumbs in these 'ere slums For me ship ain't quite come in."

It's time for the chorus, and the regulars sing it with gusto. William merely hums, not wishing to attract attention. (ah, but didn't he once sing bawdy songs, in a louder and fruitier baritone than… Oh, sorry, you've heard that already…) When the song is over, William joins in the applause. There's a reshuffling of patrons as people stand to leave and others venture in the door.

Leaning over his beer-glass, Rackham tries to keep track of anything in skirts, hoping to catch his first glimpse of the girl with the "hazel eyes of rare penetration". However, his own gaze must be more penetrating than he imagines, for when his eyes alight briefly on a trio of unattached young women, they rear up, all three, from their seats.

He tries to look away, but it's too late: they're moving directly towards him, a phalanx of taffeta and lace. They're smiling -showing too many teeth. In fact, they have too much of everything: too much hair spilling out from under their too-elaborate bonnets, too much powder on their cheeks, too many bows on their dresses, and overly flaccid Columbine cuffs swirling around their clutching pink hands.

"Good evenin', sir, may we sit down?"'

William cannot refuse them as he refused the sheet-music seller: the laws of etiquette-or the laws of anatomy-won't allow it. He smiles and nods his head, shifting his new hat onto his lap for fear it might get sat on.

One of the whores swings into the space thus vacated, and her two companions jostle for the remainder.

"A honour, sir."

They're pretty enough, though William would like them better if they didn't appear to be dressed for a box at the opera, and if their combined scent weren't quite so pungent. Pressed close together like this, they smell like a barrowful of cut flowers on a humid day; William wonders if it's a Rackham perfume that's responsible. If so, his father has more to answer for than parsimony.

Still, he reminds himself, these girls are better-looking than most, peach-firm and unblemished-more expensive, possibly, than Sugar. There's just… rather a surfeit of them, that's all, crammed into such a small space.

"You're too 'andsome to sit alone, sir."

"You're the kind of man as should 'ave a pretty woman on 'is arm-or three."

The third girl only snorts, outdone by her comrades' wit.

William avoids meeting their stares openly, fearing to find in those bright eyes the presumption, the insolence, of inferiors seeking to wrest control from their master. Sugar won't behave this way, will she? She'd better not.

"You flatter me, ladies," says

William. He looks away, wishing for rescue.

The closest whore leans closer still, her lips pouting open not far from his, and whispers loudly,

"You're not waiting for a man friend, are you?"' "No," says William, smoothing the back of his hair nervously. Does his tufty mop make him look like a sodomite? Should he have kept it long? or should he get it cut shorter still? God, will he have to shave his head bald before his indignity is subdued? "I'm waiting for a girl called Sugar."

All three whores erupt in a pantomime of offence and disappointment.

"Won't I do, ducks?"' "You've broke my 'eart, sir!" and so forth.

Rackham doesn't respond, but continues to gaze at the door, hoping to make clear to The Fireside's other customers that these women have no connection with him. The more he leans away, however, the more they push to be near him.

"Sugar, eh?"'

"A true connoisseur, you are."

Crude laughter erupts from a nearby table, making William wince. The tenor is having a rest from singing; is the humiliation of the hapless Rackham now to be The Fireside's entertainment? William casts his eye over the throng of patrons, and locates the folk who are laughing-but they have their backs to him. The joke is on someone else.

"What do you like, then?"' one of the whores asks, brightly, as though enquiring how he takes his tea. "Come on, sir, you can tell me.

Speak in riddles, I'll understand."

"No need," pronounces the closest one.

"I can see in his eyes what 'e wants."

Her companions turn to look at her, intrigued. She pauses with a music hall comic's sense of timing, then boasts simply:

"It's… a gift I'ave. A secret gift."

All three begin to laugh then, open-mouthed, indecent, and within moments their hilarity has escalated to the brink of hysteria.

"Well, what does 'e want then?"' one of them manages to demand, but the soothsayer, convulsed in giggles, has trouble replying.

"Hurm… Huhurm… Hum…"-wiping her eyes-"Oh-ho! You naughty, naughty girl-'Ow could you even ask? A secret's a secret, innit, sir?"'

William squirms, his ears once again flaming.

"Really now," he mutters. "I don't see that this is called for."

"Quite right, quite right, sir," she says and, to the delight of her companions, she mimes a furtive peek into William's hidden heart, then recoils in burlesque shock at what she spies there. "Oh no, sir," she gasps, covering her open mouth with slack fingers.

"P'raps you'd better wait for Sugar after all."

"Don't take any notice of her, sir," says one of the others. "She talks tripe all day long. Now come on ducks, why not give me a try?"' She strokes her throat with her fingertips. "You wouldn't be getting second best, you know. I'm just as good as any of the Castaway girls."

William again casts a longing glance towards the door. If he leaps up and storms out of The Fireside now, will every man, woman and beast in the place hoot with glee?

"'Ere," says one of the girls, folding her arms on the table, framing (as best she can with her fashionably tight bodice) her bosom in her forearms. "'Ere, tell us about yerself, sir." The prankishness has abruptly vanished from her face; she's almost deferential.

"Let me guess," says the one who had seemed shy. "Writer."

The casually aimed epithet lands on William's face like a blow, or a caress.

What can he do but turn to face the girl, and, impressed, say "Yes"?

"An extrawdry life, I'm sure," opines the soothsayer.

All three whores are serious now, keen to make amends for ruffling his dignity.

"I write," elaborates William,

"for the better monthly reviews. I'm a critic-and a novelist."

"Cor. Wha's'name o' one o' yer books?"'

William chooses from among the many he means, one day, to produce.

"Mammon O'erthrown," he says.

Two of the girls just grin, but the shy one mummels her lips like a fish, silently testing whether she could possibly repeat such an exotic title. None of the whores is about to mention that The Fireside is infested with critics and would-be novelists.

"Hunt's the name," improvises

William. "George W. Hunt."

Inwardly, he cringes in shame, a four-legged creature in the shadow of his father's derision, a sham. Go home and read about the cost of manure! is the nagging command, but William quells it with a gulp of ale.

The most forward of the whores narrows her eyes pensively, as if bothered by a conundrum.

"And Mr 'Unt wants Sugar," she says. "And Sugar only. Now what, oh what, might Mr 'Unt… want?

Hmmmm?"'

Her nearest crony answers, quick as a flash.

"'Every might want to discuss books wiv 'er."

"Cor."

"Georgie got no critic friends, then?"'

"Sad life."

The beleaguered Rackham smiles stoically.

No one new has entered The Fireside for what seems like a long time.

"Nice weather we're 'avin'," remarks the least forward of the whores, out of the blue. "Not at all bad for November."

"If yer like snow and rain," mutters one of the others, idly picking up folds of her dress and making them stand up in little mountain peaks of serge.

"Special tastes, our Mr 'Unt's got, remember."

"All set for Christmas, are yer, sir?"'

"Fancy unwrappin' a present early?"'

Pink fingers pluck suggestively at a shawl, and William glances once again at the door.

"Maybe she won't come," suggests the boldest whore. "Sugar, I mean."

"Sshhh, don't tease him."

"You'd be better off with me, ducks. I know a thing or two about lidderature. I've 'ad all the great names. I've 'ad Charles Dickens."

"Ain't 'e dead?"'

"Not the bit I sucked on, dear."

"Dead five years or more. Hignorant, you are."

"It was 'im, I tell yer. I didn't say it was last week, did I?"' She sniffs pathetically. "I was no more than a babe."

The others snicker. Then, as if by a mutually understood signal, they all three turn serious, and lean their faces towards him, fetchingly tilted. They look just like yesterday's counterfeit "twins", with an extra sibling added, an inedible third scoop of gateau.

"All three of us together, for the one price," says the soothsayer, licking her lips. "How about it?"' "Awf-"' stammers Rackham, "awfully tempting, I'm sure. But you see…"

At that moment The Fireside's door swings open and in walks a solitary woman. A whiff of fresh air comes in with her, as well as the sound of wild weather outside, cut off in mid-howl by the sealing of the door, like a cry stifled under a hand. The pall of cigar smoke parts momentarily, then mingles with the smell of rain.

The woman is all in black-no, dark green. Green darkened by the downpour. Her shoulders are drenched, the fabric of her bodice clinging tight to her prominent collar-bones, and her thin arms are sheathed in dappled chlorella. A sprinkling of unabsorbed water still glistens on her simple bonnet and on the filmy grey veil that hangs from it. Her abundant hair, not flame-red just now but black and orange like neglected coal embers, is all disordered, and loose curls of it are dripping.

For an instant she quivers, irritably, like a dog, then regains her composure. Turning to the bar, she greets the publican, unheard over the clamour of conversation, and raises her arms to lift her veil. Sharp shoulder-blades writhe inside wet fabric as she bares her face, unseen as yet by Rackham. There is a long stain of wetness all down her back, shaped like a tongue or an arrowhead, pointing down towards her skirts.

"Who's that?"' asks William.

The three whores sigh almost in unison.

"That's her, ducks."

"Go to it, Mr 'Unt. 'Appy criticisin'."

Sugar has turned, and is scanning The Fireside for a place to sit. The boldest whore, the soothsayer, stands up and waves, motioning her over to William's table.

"Sugar dear! Over here! Meet… Mr 'Unt."

Sugar walks directly to William's table, as if it was her destination from the first. Although she must be responding to the whore's hello, she doesn't acknowledge her, and sets her sights on Rackham alone. Almost within arm's reach, she calmly regards William with those hazel eyes which, as promised in More Sprees in London, do indeed appear golden-at least in the lights of The Fireside.

"Good evening, Mr Hunt." Her voice is not overly feminine, rather hoarse even, but wholly free of class coarseness. "I don't wish to interrupt you and your friends."

"We was just leavin'," says the soothsayer, rising and, as if on strings, pulling up her companions with her. "It's you 'e's after."

And with that, gathering their surplus of taffeta together, they retreat.

Don't bother even to glance after them; they are persons of no consequence (is there no end to them?), and they have outlived their use. William stares at the woman he has come for, unable to decide whether her face is annoyingly imperfect (mouth too wide, eyes too far apart, dry skin, freckles) or the most beautiful he has ever seen. With every passing second, he is closer to making up his mind.

At his request, Sugar sits down at his side, her wet skirts rustling and squeaking, her upper body smelling of fresh rain and fresh sweat. She has been running, it seems-something that no reputable woman would ever, ever do. But the flush it has brought to her cheeks is damned attractive, and she smells divine. Several locks of hair have come loose from her elaborately styled fringe, and these sway in front of her eyes. With a languid motion of one gloved hand, she gently pushes them aside, to the furry edges of her eyebrows. She smiles, sharing with William the rueful understanding that there is a limit to what one may hope for once one's plans have gone awry.

The state she's in is certainly unladylike, but in all other respects she radiates surprisingly good breeding. And yet … a breed of what? She could be the daughter of foreign royalty, deposed in an unexpected revolt, driven through midnight forests in the pelting rain, head high, regal even while hair swirls round her face, shoulders erect while a wounded servant fusses to cover them with his fur-lined coat… (do bear with William, if you can stand it, while he indulges himself a little here. He read a lot of racy French novels in the early Sixties when he was supposed to be studying the defeats of the Hittites.) Sugar is starting to steam, a faint halo of vapour rising from her bonnet and outermost ringlets. She cocks her head slightly to one side, as if to ask, Well, what now? Her neck, William notices, is longer than the high collar of her bodice can hold. She has an Adam's apple, like a man. Yes, he has decided now: she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

To his bemusement, he's made shy by her demeanour; she appears so much the lady that it's difficult to imagine how he could possibly soil that status. Her long, lithe body, beguiling though it is, only complicates matters, as she wears her attire like a second skin, seamless and, by implication, irremovable.

The way he phrases his dilemma is this:

"I don't know that I deserve this honour."

Sugar leans forward slightly and, in a low tone, as if making a comment about a mutual acquaintance who has just walked in, says,

"Don't worry, sir. You have made the right choice. I'll do anything you ask of me."

A simple exchange, murmured above the babble of a crowded drinking-house, but was there ever a marriage vow more explicit?

A serving-maid comes to deliver the drink Sugar ordered at the bar. Colourless, transparent and with scarcely any bubbles, it can't be beer. And if it's gin, the perennial favourite of whores, William can't smell it. Could it possibly be… water?

"What am I to call you?"' wonders William, resting his chin on his locked hands the way he used to do as a student. "There must be more to your name than…"

She smiles. Her lips are extraordinarily dry, like white tree-bark.

Why does this strike him as beautiful rather than ugly? It's beyond him.

"Sugar is all there is to my name, Mr Hunt. Unless there's another name you particularly wish to know me by?"' "No, no," William assures her.

"Sugar it is."

"What's in a name, after all?"' she remarks, and raises one furry eyebrow. Can it be that she's quoting Shakespeare? Coincidence, surely, but how sweet she smells!

The Fireside's tenor has resumed warbling. William feels the place becoming warmer and friendlier; the lights seem to burn more golden, the shadows turn a rich dark brown, and everyone in the great room seems to be smiling bright-eyed at a companion. The door swings open frequently now, admitting smarter and smarter folk. The noise of their arrivals, the chatter, and the singing which strains to soar above it, grows into such a din that William and Sugar must lean close to one another's faces in order to converse.

Gazing into her eyes, which are so large and shiny that he sees his face reflected, William Rackham rediscovers the elusive joy of being William Rackham. There is a will-o'-the-wisp of behaviours, alcohol-fuelled and fragile, that he singles out as being his true self, quite distinct from the thickening physical lump he sees in the looking-glass every morning. The mirror cannot lie, and yet it does, it does!

It cannot reflect the flame-like destinies trapped inside the frustrated soul. For William ought to have been a Keats, a Bulwer Lytton, or even a Chatterton, but instead is transmogrifying, outwardly at least, into a gross copy of his own father. Rare indeed are the moments when he can illuminate a captivated audience with the glow of his youthful promise.

He and Sugar speak, and Rackham comes to life. He has been dead these past few years, dead! Only now can he admit that he has been underground, hiding in fear from anyone worth knowing, deliberately avoiding bright company. Any company, in fact, in which he might be tempted or called upon to… well, let's put it this way: what is audacious promise in a golden-haired youth can be mocked, in a man with greying sideboards and an incipient triple chin, as mere gasbagging. For a long time now, William has made do with his internal monologues, his fantasies on park benches and the lavatory, immune from the risk of sniggers and yawns.

In Sugar's company, however, it's different: he listens to himself talk, and is relieved to find that his own voice can still weave magic. Wreathed in the subtle haze of steam rising from her, Rackham holds forth: fluent, charming and intelligent, witty and full of sensibility.

He imagines his face shining with youth, his hair smoothing itself out and flowing like Swinburne's.

Sugar, for her part, has not a fault; she is scrupulously respectful, gently good-humoured, thoughtful and flattering. It's even possible, thinks William, that she likes him.

Surely her laughter is not the sort that can be faked, and surely the sparkle in her eyes-that same sparkle he inspired in Agnes long ago -cannot be counterfeited.

And, to William's surprise and deep satisfaction, he and Sugar do converse about books after all, just as the whores mischievously predicted. Why, the girl's a prodigy! She has an amazing knowledge of literature, lacking only Latin, Greek and the male's instinctive grasp of what is major and minor. In terms of sum total of pages she seems to have read almost as much as he (although some of it, inevitably, is the sort of piffle written for and by her own sex-novels about timid governesses and so forth). Yet she's well-versed in many of the authors he holds in high esteem-and she adores Swift! Swift, his favourite!

To most women-Agnes among them, unfortunately-Swift is the name of a cough lozenge, or a bird to be worn stuffed on their bonnets. But Sugar… Sugar can even pronounce "Houyhnhnms"-and God, doesn't her mouth make a pretty shape when she does! And Smollett! She's read Peregrine Pickle, and not only that, she can discuss it intelligently-certainly as intelligently as he could have done, at her age. (what is her age? No, he dares not ask.) "But that's not possible!" she protests demurely, when he confesses that he hasn't yet read James Thomson's The City of Dreadful Night, even now, a full year after its publication. "How terribly busy you must be, Mr Hunt, to be kept from such a pleasure so long!"

Rackham strains to recall the literary reviews.

"Son of a sailor, wasn't he?"' he ventures.

"Orphan, orphan," she enthuses, as if it were the grandest thing in the world. "Became a teacher in a military asylum. But the poem is a miracle, Mr Hunt, a miracle!"

"I'll certainly endeavour to find time… no, I shall make time, to read it," he says, but she leans close to his ear and saves him the bother:

"Eyes of fire," she recites in a throaty whisper, loud enough nonetheless to surmount the singing and the chatter all around them.

"Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire;

The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death;

Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold:

But I strode on austere;

No hope could have no fear."

Breathless with emotion, she lowers her eyes.

"Grim poetry," comments William, "for such a beautiful young woman to have as a special favourite."

Sugar smiles sadly.

"Life can be grim," she says.

"Especially when fit companions-like yourself, sir-are difficult to find."

William is tempted to assure her that, in his opinion, More Sprees in London has not praised her accomplishments anywhere near highly enough, but he can't bring himself to say it. Instead, they talk on and on, about Truth and Beauty, and the works of Shakespeare, and whether there is any meaningful distinction to be made nowadays between a small hat and a bonnet.

"Watch," says Sugar, and, with both her hands, pushes her bonnet well forward on her head. "Now it's a hat! And watch again…" -she pushes it well back-"Now it's a bonnet!"

"Magic," grins William. And indeed it is.

Sugar's little demonstration of fashion's absurdity has left her hair even more disordered than before. Her thick fringe, quite dry by now, has tumbled loose, obscuring her vision. William stares, half in disgust, half in adoration, as she pouts her lower lip as far as it will go and blows a puff of air upwards. Golden-red curls flutter off her forehead, and her eyes are unveiled once more, mildly shocking in how far apart they are, perfect in how far apart they are.

"I feel as though we're courting," he tells her, thinking that it may make her laugh.

Instead she says very solemnly, "Oh, Mr Hunt, it so flatters me that I should inspire such treatment."

This last word hangs in the smoky air a moment, reminding William why he came here tonight, and why he sought out Sugar specially. He imagines afresh the treatment he was raring-still is raring, damn it-to mete out to a woman. Can he still ask that of her? He recalls the way she said she would do anything, anything he asked of her; re-savours the exquisite gravity of her assurance…

"Perhaps," he ventures, "it's time you took me home and… introduced me to your family."

Sugar nods once, slowly, her eyes half-closing as she does so. She knows when simple, mute assent is called for.

It is, in any case, almost closing time.

Rackham could have guessed this even without consulting his watch, for, on The Fireside's stage, the singer is sharing a heaving chest full of sentiment with the last tipsy patrons. The patrons bray in approximate unison with his warble, a beery confraternity, as serving-maids remove empty glasses from slackening grasps. It's an old song, a rousing bit of doggerel almost universally (if the universe is considered to extend no further than England) sung at pub closing time:

"Hearts of oak are our ships,

Jolly tars are our men:

We are always ready,

Steady, boys, steady,

We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again!"

"Last drinks, ladies and gentlemen, please!"

William and Sugar winch themselves out of their seats; their limbs are stiff from too much conversation. Rackham finds that his genitals have gone to sleep, though a faint galvanic tingling between his legs reassures him that the anaesthesia will pass away soon enough. In any case, he's no longer in a mad hurry to perform feats of lascivious heroics: he still hasn't asked her if she's read Flaubert…

Sugar turns to leave. The burden of rainwater having wholly evaporated, during the course of the evening, from her dress, she looks lighter in colour, all in green and pale grey.

But sitting so long on her wet skirts has pressed anarchic pleats into them, crude triangles pointing up towards her hidden rump, and Rackham feels strangely protective towards her for her ignorance of this, wishing he could get Letty to iron Sugar's skirts for her and make them neat, before he removes them once and for all. Made awkward by these feelings of tenderness, he follows her through The Fireside, stumbling past empty tables and unpeopled chairs. When did all these people leave? He didn't notice their departures. How much has he drunk? Sugar is erect as a lance, walking straight towards the exit without a word.

He hurries to catch up, breathing deeply of the air she lets in as she opens the door.

Outside in the streets, it's no longer raining. The gas-lights glow, the footpaths shine, and most of the hawkers have retired for the night.

Here and there, women less beautiful than Sugar loiter under yellowish lamps, sour-faced, commonplace, and surplus to requirements.

"Is it far?"' enquires Rackham as they turn the corner into Silver Street together.

"Oh no," says Sugar, gliding two steps ahead of him, her hand trailing behind almost maternally, the gloved fingers wiggling in empty air as if expecting him to seize hold like a child.

"Close, very close."