The Grind

2. It’s not that bad, it’s worse

2

IT’S NOT THAT BAD, IT’S WORSE

In an attic room above the store, a young girl sighed despondently and gave up brushing her hair. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Long auburn hair curled around her slender neck. Despite the dim light, her green eyes sparkled. She flicked her head proudly then tucked a stray ringlet behind her delicate ear.

I’m still young, she thought. Still pretty.

Green eyes stared back at her.

It is so, she thought.

She took a deep breath, leant in slightly closer to the glass, and exhaled. Half-heartedly, she smeared rouge across her lips.

I’m starting to look a little bit older, though, she admitted to herself. Colder, she suggested cruelly.

She wiped carefully at the corner of her eye, and her mind raced away with the idea, deriving a little harmless pleasure through portraying herself as the cold b***h in some epic struggle.

My heart don’t care like it used to, she admitted to herself. I’m ready for change.

She often had internal disagreements. She really could start a row in an empty room. Perhaps a fiery temper was the price to be paid for her Irish beauty. She tried to keep her emotions in check but it was hard.

She smiled sweetly at her reflection, a picture of feminine subservience that completely disguised what she really felt.

You’re tired of pretendin’. That’s it, ain’t it? her inner demon taunted.

She ignored that train of thought and instead applied eyeliner with greater concentration, trying to focus on the night’s work ahead.

Moonlight brings out the best in me, she told herself, not quite believing it.

She tried not to think about the past, as she knew that dwelling on such thoughts had a detrimental effect on the way she looked towards her future. But it was all wound up into one jumbled mass. The past would not go away so easily. It refused to be conveniently unravelled from the here and now. From what might be. So she gave up trying and reminisced, allowed past regrets to enter the fray.

I never got a chance, she thought darkly.

As it so often did, her mind drifted straight back to her childhood, to the very day she’d realised she would not be returning to the family home ever again. She couldn’t. She had no choice. She was no longer welcome.

How could he? Such a cruel thing to do. To your own child, your own flesh and blood! At the worst possible time of year! Wouldn’t even let me say goodbye!

She stopped applying make-up. She glanced at herself. Her lips had tightened, the green in her eyes had turned almost black. Her jaw was jutting forward. Anger raced through her veins. She looked away again, took a deep breath, then looked back. She smiled professionally at her reflection, radiating innocence and light as she picked up the little bottle beside her and took a hefty swig of laudanum.

She smiled again. She was always practising her false smile and her misleading remarks.

Think about the future, she told herself.

Her forays into the adult world had started so suddenly, she’d had no time to prepare. So she’d developed a shield to keep people at bay. It had seemed her best option. Then, after a while, she was lonely, desperate for a friend.

A man? her inner voice suggested.

She stopped applying eyeliner again as she paused to consider the possibility.

My lips have forgotten the feel of a true kiss, she decided, returning to her make-up. They’re all the bleedin’ same in the end, anyhow, she reminded herself.

Another summer was over now. Last week’s soldier had turned out to be the latest in a long line of broken promises. He wasn’t coming back, it was obvious. Mary avoided making eye contact with herself again. She applied make-up in the dusty, cracked mirror. Deep down, she knew time was running out. That destiny was closing in. She resumed brushing her hair, pretending it wasn’t so. Pretending she had other options.

But she knew it was pretence. The terrible things her eyes had seen no longer affected her as they should. Nowadays, a callous, cold girl stared back at her in the mirror. She had nothing to lose, something had to give.

So, she privately admitted, so it’s time. She looked up again, smiling now and raising an eyebrow.

Everything changes from here on in! She tried to stop the train of thought, but it was impossible. It was exciting. I’m ready! she silently vowed.

In the deepest depths of her heart, she felt cold. Even Jack the Ripper didn’t concern her, barely merited a moment’s thought. She had bigger concerns, life-changing matters on her mind.

God, I could do with a drink, she thought, but for now, the show must go on.

She smiled and no one would have ever known it was forced. She stood up and stretched before smoothing down the folds of her long, ruched skirt. She exhaled deeply, glanced at her reflection once more, and turned away.

It’s not so bad, she told herself, remembering the days that had led her to Dorset Street. So I run with the devil now, she conceded. So what? God abandoned me, I had no choice. Anyway, it’s not so bad; I’m alive, I’m surviving.

Yes, Mary, Yes you are! She smiled slightly, knowingly.

Mary Mullen was of Irish descent but she’d been born in Pratt Street, Camden Town. Her father’s self-importance was pacified by being head teacher of the local primary school.

Mary’s mother had found time to raise seven children, keep their little house spotless and make sure no shame ever landed on her husband.

Mary’s siblings, without exception, had dutifully taken on their mother’s way of dealing with the world. She couldn’t have been prouder of any of her children. All except one; Mary. She wasn’t particularly proud of Mary.

The girl had done nothing but question and argue since anyone could remember. Mary had, predictably enough, fallen in with the wrong crowd. She’d started to brush up against the law. As a consequence, the decent, god-fearing neighbours had shunned the whole family. Something had to be done. Her father’s hard-won standing in the community could not be jeopardised by the antics of one little girl.

In his mind, he didn’t really have a choice. Reputation was everything and the girl simply would not be told. Conformity seemed beyond her capabilities.

Mary could see him now in her mind’s eye.

“If you won’t do as I say, you will pay the price, young lady,” he had threatened. The memories still hurt deeply, yet she continued to revisit them.

“God help me, girl, this is your final warning. As long as you live in my house, you will obey my rules!” he’d thundered.

She’d taken his words as little more than hot air – until she had come home late one evening to find the front door wouldn’t open. She had twisted the handle back and forth, practically on autopilot, whilst it dawned on her the door must be locked.

Her youthful bravado vanished with the realisation that she was being excluded. Deliberately barred from the family home. For the first time in her life, panic gripped her tightly. With trembling fingers, she had picked up a small stone and tossed it at the bedroom window, hoping to waken one of her sisters. There was no movement, so she had thrown a second stone. This time, the curtain had moved, the window had opened and her father’s head had appeared. He had said, and she could still recall the exact words, he had said,

“Go away, you aren’t welcome here!”

The memory of it still affected her deeply. Caused her to screw up her face, made her eyes narrow and her lips purse.

“Where should I go?” she had asked with her bottom lip trembling, but he had already shut the window.

She had banged on the door with tears rolling down her cheeks for a full five minutes. Then she’d stood on the doorstep listening, as the silence from within the house taunted her. Finally, she was forced to accept nobody was coming to let her in.

Stunned, confused, repentant and frightened, she had crept around to the back of the house and curled up with a smelly tarpaulin covering her feet and lower body. She had lain there shivering and worrying about the unknown. She almost fell asleep at one point but that was when a rat ran across her legs, after which sleep was out of the question. She worried and fretted until dawn. Then she had rolled the tarp, hidden it in case she needed it later and slunk reluctantly away.

As morning stretched further away from dawn, her hunger pains became impossible to ignore. She had decided to walk to the market, desperately hoping she’d find something to eat.

For the next few nights, she’d returned to the filthy tarpaulin at the back of the house. On the evening of the third day, as she trudged back from the market, her father had passed her in the street. He hadn’t even given her a sideways glance. She sobbed herself silently to sleep that night.

In the morning, when the chill early temperature forced her rudely awake, she was all cried out. She hated them all and the expression she wore suggested as much. Rage would become her companion in the days ahead, nullifying any need or desire to analyse her predicament in a mature fashion.

As the days turned into weeks, she drifted further and further from Camden Town, drawing away from the place she had always called home. She filled her time by moving aimlessly from Islington to Shepherd’s Bush and all points in between. She’d traipse from one market to the next. Traders would turn a blind eye as she rummaged through the empty crates and packaging.

She’d pick out the edible parts of whatever mush she found and defend it like a banshee should anyone else get too close.

Some days her feet were so sore that walking to market was out of the question and she would be forced to rummage through any bins close to hand. It was dangerous in the nicer parts of town, where the residents made sure the threat of the poorhouse was all too real. Eventually, predictably, she’d wound up in the East End.

Mary was fifteen. She’d decided she was plenty old enough to be making her own way in the world. Screw her father, screw the lot of them.

Meanwhile, back in Camden Town the prospect of being disowned in such a permanent way had put the fear of God into her remaining siblings.

Mary had always been adept at forcing her will on others. Yet those squabbles had been no more than petty, childish affairs. Now she was alone on the mean streets, her daily battles became much more serious.

She cultivated a hard shell for the world. Wore her scowl permanently. She would generate unreasonable bursts of anger at anyone who tried to get too close. Her eyes showed she was without hope. Clearly, it was wise to give her a wide berth. Hopeless people were unpredictable, best avoided and everyone in the East End knew it. So Mary managed to stay unmolested, the price for which was constant loneliness. She held her head high, oozed bravado, whilst inside she was angry all the time.

One of these days, I’m goin’ to get a life! she silently repeated as, yet again, she walked down an empty midnight road, her senses on high alert.

She repeated the phrase constantly as she wandered night after night through the darkness. Her mantra helped. It enabled her to block out the grim surroundings, the reality of her predicament. Daydreams of revenge also helped greatly.