‘I’m sorry for your misfortune,’ the man said quietly, as if he had read my thoughts, and turned back to the game.
I drifted away from the crowd, feeling out of sorts and quite sorry for myself. Beyond the porch, the Palace Court had been built further out into the yard; more living quarters, I presumed, from the trails of grey smoke wafting up from the chimney. At the end of the building stood a sentinel’s box that I never once saw used save for pissing behind. It was quieter in this corner of the gaol, far away from the Tap Room and the Lodge. I could hear voices on the other side of the wall, the sound of hammering, men whistling and laughing as they worked. I felt a sudden crush in my chest at the thought of all those free men standing just a few paces away. Life flowed fast around this prison, like a river flowing round a boulder. I longed to jump the wall and swim away but it was no use – I was trapped. If I did not find some money soon I would die in here.
‘Mr Hawkins!’
I turned to see a plump, silver-haired woman leaning out of a window on the ground floor of the Palace Court. She whisked off her cap and flapped it at me. ‘There you are!’
I offered her a short bow, wondering how she knew my name. ‘Madam.’
‘Ahh, bless you.’ She laughed and gave a mock-curtsey in return, pulling up her coarse woollen skirts and twirling them about. ‘Moll said you were a gent.’
I drew closer. She had a broad, pleasant face but her complexion was poor, and her cheeks were pitted with old pox scars. It was a face one could read in a moment – guileless and open, but not foolish, with clever, greyish-blue eyes that missed nothing. ‘You’re a friend of Moll’s?’
She fixed her cap back on. ‘Does Moll have friends…? Come on in, my dear; I’ll serve you a pot of coffee on the house.’
Sarah Bradshaw’s coffeehouse was tiny, with rickety, mismatched old chairs and tables, but the floor was swept clean, the fire was blazing in the hearth and there were pots of fresh flowers on each table. Prisoners sat talking and drinking idly, wrote letters or read the paper. Gilbert Hand’s unlucky customer sat in one corner, weeping quietly. No one paid him any mind.
Over by the fire, a young maid in a light blue calimanco gown tended the cauldron, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Her face was flushed from the flames and damp straggles of red hair stuck to her cheeks. She paused, and poked them back beneath her cap, frowning with irritation. A chubby boy of about three years of age sat at her feet, gazing up at her in unfocused adoration, holding tight to a corner of her apron with one dirty little fist. I smiled, watching the girl for a moment. She was in a foul temper, clanging the pots and muttering curses under her breath. But she had a quick, capable manner I liked very much; she reminded me of the young maids who worked at the vicarage when I was a boy. I’d whiled away many happy hours in their company. A memory I’d buried long ago suddenly came back to me.
