The Crimson Bed (26 page)

    Sometimes he felt he hated that bed. It formed some strange, silent, insuperable barrier between them. To his eyes, it was a huge monstrosity of a thing, making the room heavy, dark and enclosed so unlike Ellie's nature, which was open, free and bright.

    Why did she love this bed so much, why had she brought it here? He knew that it was a family heirloom, a survival since Elizabethan times. Frankly, he would have had the thing burnt. It seemed to have no place for him, or any man come to that. Ellie did not make him feel welcome in her bed. She had pleaded tiredness after Charlie's birth, and her latest excuse was that she had to keep Mary near her in case the child needed attention and it was true that Mary was a sickly child. It was a long time since he had enjoyed his conjugal rights. He had been too busy to think about it in the past but he thought of it now. His trip abroad had titillated and aroused him despite himself and he wished with all his heart that Ellie was there and that he could let out some of his masculine longings legitimately and properly with his own wife.

    However, she was not there and his whole body was in a ferment of aching, erotic longing. It seemed like a pain in his entrails, his testicles, his whole body and though he now went to his bed and relieved himself by hand a few times, he felt all the more afraid for he knew full well how unhealthy such practices were. It had been dinned in his head since his schooldays that selfpleasuring could lead to madness and illness. Thus, guilt and desperate desire spiralled around like a witch's brew and something thick, dark, and treacly was forming within him, creating an unhealthy state within his heart and soul.

    After a while, he could bear it no more. He had intended to stay longer in Paris so his London engagements would not commence until next week. Perhaps it would be a good idea then to take himself off to Oreton Hall the next day to see his wife and child. Dillinger would still be busy up north and then in London until Parliament opened again; a cheering thought. Fred never had any desire to see that man unless so obliged. As for Ellie, she would welcome him as a good wife should and his troubles would be over.

    In an effort to relax and sleep better, he began to dose himself with larger quantities of whisky in the evenings but to no avail. He just ended up with a hangover in the morning. He knew that of late his friend, Henry, also found it difficult to sleep and would sometimes stay up into the small hours, taking solitary walks about London, trying to exhaust himself and then sleeping fitfully until lunchtime the next day. Was he also falling into these bad habits? If only Ellie was there to keep him in a regular and sensible household routine. That was what Henry needed too, a good wife to keep him in order. It would do him good; cure his restless, driven spirit.

    He would have loved to go round to see Henry but his friend had taken himself away for a while to Cambridge and Fred suspected he was still hoping to find news of Rosie's whereabouts though what he would do if he found her, Heaven only knew. Fred then considered going to see Ford Madox Brown in Kentish Town but the Browns were in mourning, poor souls, having just lost their dear little son, Arthur, who had suddenly been taken ill and died. On top of that calamity, Brown was very straightened for cash and constantly sad and worried. That was not the sort of company he felt he needed just at present. He felt too glum himself.

    He decided to do something about it. Other men relieved their 'itch' by taking off in the evening and finding some pleasure and there was certainly plenty to be had in London. He had but to walk down Haymarket or Oxford Street and he would soon find that some gay flashily dressed creature would attach herself to him and offer her services. It had happened often enough and he had always shrugged these women off like unpleasant flies. Perhaps this time though, he would let her take him to her place and he would then surely feel better and not be a problem to his poor wife. She deserved a rest with a young child to care for but such women, they deserved nothing. They sold themselves for money.

    He debated asking a friend to accompany him but this was his own secret guilt. The path he intended must be trodden alone and in shame.

One night Fred felt especially restless and troubled. He walked about his empty house and garden for a while and considered venturing forth into the fields and lanes. As the evening drew on, he decided instead to take the tramcar into the city and stroll down by the river Thames. Leaving the tram at Hungerford Railway Bridge, he debated the idea of taking a penny steamer down towards Chelsea. There he might simply walk along by the riverside in the moonlight as he had sometimes done with Henry in their younger days.

    What was this inexplicable, mysterious pull of the magical Thames? It had drawn the Romans there so many hundreds of years ago. They would certainly not recognise their little encampment now. As always, Fred felt a shiver pass over him as he glanced up at the dark, silent warehouses that always seemed to watch him with those expressionless window-eyes. Though he knew that the night watchmen would be there at this hour, probably nodding asleep before their little fires, feet upon a chair, the buildings exuded a dark loneliness that fitted his mood. The clunking of the barges and the slapping of the water in the wharves did nothing to dispel it. There was a strange, eerie atmosphere. The echoing silence, the sense of flickering ghostly beings in the shallow pools of gaslight made him feel nervous.

    He was not a coward by any means. He did not fear an attack and knew he could defend himself if such a thing ever happened. It was hard to describe what he did fear. It was something incorporeal, inexplicable, and menacing. It had no shape or form. It flitted in and out of his heart.

    He longed for some sort of company. Instead of taking his walk along the riverbank, he found his feet moving in the direction of Cremorne Gardens. Visiting these pleasure gardens in the daytime with Ellie and his mother was charming and perfectly respectable. But now that the blanket of night had fallen over everything, a new population came forth just as bats and nightowls and other creatures came forth when daytime animals and birds were all a-roost. This population rustled with silks and satins and floating laces; rare night birds were these, night peahens searching for their cocks.

    Paying his entrance fee, he strolled into the Gardens and felt a comfort from the brightness of the lights, the sound of music and voices, the ebb and flow of humanity about him. Taking a table near the bandstand, he ordered himself a bottle of wine and sat, tossing back glass after glass as if he was dying of thirst. He watched the milling throng who frequented various sideshows, kiosks, temples, gaped at
tableaux vivants
, played at the American bowling saloon or strolled about the lake and by the river gleaming silver in the shimmering gaslights. It was a fresh and pleasant evening and couples walked amongst the fine elms and poplar trees that adorned the gardens or simply gathered in laughing, singing, drunken groups.

    'Feelin' lonely then, mister?'

    He looked up to see a fashionably dressed young woman with long dark ringlets cascading about her face. She had taken off her bonnet and held it in her hand by the ribbons. Her clothes were expensive, pretty and colourful but overloaded with ribbons and lace. He held her glance, almost curiously, as if wondering why she addressed him of all people. She tossed her curls and said pertly, 'I think you'd like a bit of company, now wouldn't you? You can pour me some wine too if you like.'

    She sat down unbidden and put her gloved hand about his, gently prising his half-full glass away from him and then drank it down swiftly with an air of relish, all the while, looking at him with a laughing, merry, inviting look.

    He smiled at her suddenly and called over the waiter.

    'Bring another bottle and another glass,' he said.

    'That's more like it. What a gennulman!'

    They drank in silence for a while, watching as a sudden dazzling and noisy display of fireworks lit the sky.

    'What's your name?' asked Fred, refilling her glass. He felt oddly at ease with the girl as if all the usual elegant courtesies need not be adhered to or bothered about. It was simply a man and a woman together, getting to know one another.

    'Jessaline Putterill.'

'That's a pretty name. And you're a pretty girl. '

'Not so bad yerself. What's your monniker?'

Fred laughed and said 'It's... George.'

    'Oh, Georgie-Porgie eh? Only you ain't... not porgie anyway. But maybe you kiss the girls and make 'em cry?'

    She had taken her gloves off and laid them with her hat, blowing on her fingers to cool them down. Fred smiled to himself. No lady would ever do such a careless, casual thing, would rather die of heat than take off gloves and bonnet. Now she reached over and stroked him on his cheek, pulling his beard teasingly. She was such a very young thing, surely no more than fourteen or fifteen, still a little girl in some ways. He felt no desire for her; she was far too young and far too thin. But she was company at least and merry company too. Something about her seemed oddly familiar, something in the glance of her dark eyes. Had he seen her before when strolling with his friends in Cremorne Gardens? It was unlikely but not impossible.

    He wondered if Henry would think her enough of a stunner to paint. She certainly had a mass of long, dark hair. Her mouth though was rather thin and mean, her cheeks too gaunt. She
was
pretty and there was a certain sweetness and refinement in her despite her chosen calling. She was still young enough not to have lost either her youthful bloom or to have gained the look of tired corruption that some of the fancy women wore. But there was nothing unusual or interesting about her to a painter's eye. However, she might pass for an angel with her nice profile, a white robe on her.

    'Wot you lookin' at me like that for?' demanded Jessaline, rather put out under the scrutiny.

    'Wondering if you might do as an artist's model.'

    She set down her glass and looked at him speculatively.

    'I could tell you was a gennulman straight off. An artist! That geezer isn't out just to fuck, I thought. 'E's lonesome and sad.'

    'Well, you're right in a way.'

    'Course I am. I can tell what's what. 'Ad a good teacher, me. She taught me all I need to know about the punters.'

'Aren't you a bit young for this... this way of life?'

    'I was a kitchen maid for a bit but that was boring. I 'ated all the washing and black-leading and cleaning. All hours you 'ave to work and not a minute's rest. No thanks. And me mistress, she was a right nasty bitch while the master couldn't keep 'is bleeding 'ands off my bum. I wanted to make a bit more of my life. My pal said she was sick of it all too and meant to take to the game. She'd already been at it on the sly and 'ad enough put by so we set off together and took some rooms near Lambeth and do the rounds 'ere in the Gardens or at Vauxhall,' Jessaline stretched out her legs after her speech and patted her curls, a thoughtful expression on her young face.

    'Sue... that's my pal... she does the 'Aymarket too but I don't like it there,' she continued, 'I like to be out 'ere. Sue didn't want us to go in a bawdy 'ouse either. Says we'll be like slaves if we get caught up with that. They keeps an eye on you night and day and won't let you even walk out for a minute but you 'ave to 'ave a watcher with you to mind you don't run away. Not for us – oh, no, free spirits, we are! My pal's clever.
She's
clever. When I've made enough, I shall marry some smart bloke and start a pub with 'im and live in comfort, that's what I'll do.'

    Fred laughed a little at her air of determination. In a way, he rather admired her for her boldness, her desire to take life and mould it to her own need. All the same; to be a prostitute. That was awful. That she wanted to escape a life of drudgery was admirable but surely she might be employed in doing better work.

    'So,' he said, 'would you like to do modelling for some gentlemen artists? Or is that too much like hard work for you?'

    'No, no... that would be good. I could earn some extra then. I suppose they'll want a bit of... you know... a bit on the side, an' all?' She actually blushed a little. Despite her racy air, she was just a child and the confidence not so real after all. Fred felt for the girl. She was still so raw, so naïve. How could men take advantage of such a young child? How would she be in a few years time, worn by degradation? He rather doubted that the rosy future she painted for herself would ever transpire. More likely she would succumb to disease and poverty.

    'My friends are gentlemen,' said Fred. 'No, they will not expect you to do anything other than sit for them and be a good girl. If I introduce you, I expect you to behave.'

    'I can be'ave as good as gold,' she said a little sulkily.

    'Would you like to be a model, then?'

    'Would I? Course I would! You a painter then?'

    'Well, of sorts. It's not for myself. But if you are willing and punctual and ready to behave yourself, then I might recommend you to a friend or two.'

    He thought of Annie Miller whom Holman Hunt had rescued from entering into just such a life. Annie had turned out very well and was quite a nice young lady now; maybe Hunt might even marry her, after all, having now forgiven her for her peccadilloes. Unless, of course, she followed the path of the erstwhile Rosie Gamm whom Henry still mourned and searched for throughout London. Could he, Fred, rescue little Jessaline and make something of her? He might even find someone who would like her enough to wed her some day and make her a respectable woman.

    He didn't know why he felt an interest in the girl but he did. Something about her appealed to his better nature and he felt a genuine desire to help her.

    She put down her wineglass now and looked at him so trustingly that he wanted to take the child to sit for Gabriel Rossetti there and then. However, Gabriel would not be a good idea as his mistress Lizzie was not in the mood for seeing any other women at their chambers just now. Anyway, Jessaline wouldn't appeal to Gabriel. She was too thin. He decided on a few other artists of his acquaintance who might be pleased with her looks.