The Crimson Petal and the White Read Online Free PDF

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 mam. 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 DON’T BANG DOOR, DRUNKARDS SLEEPING . (The publican likes a laugh, and he likes others to laugh with him. When he first put up that sign, he recited it to Caroline so often she was almost convinced he’d taught her to read. But soon enough she was confusing the please with the don’t, and the drunkards with the sleeping.)
    Follow Caroline inside, and you’ll notice there are no sleeping drunkards here after all. The Mother’s Finest is a couple of rungs above the lowest drinking-houses and, despite its waggish motto, has a policy of ejecting sots as soon as they threaten to brawl or vomit. It’s a solid, scrubbed sort of pub, all brass and poorly stained wood, with a variety of ornamental beer kegs suspended from the ceiling (despite not serving more than the one kind of beer), and a collection of coasters and bottle-tops on the wall behind the bar.
    Of the forty-nine eyes in the room, only eight or ten turn to observe Caroline’s entrance, for serious drinking and grumbling are the order of the day here. Those who do look at her, look just long enough to figure out who or at least what she is, then return to staring down into the gold froth on their bitter brown ale. By late tonight they may lust after her, but at this head-sore hour of morning the idea of paying for physical exertion lacks appeal.
    It’s a shabby crowd of men resting their elbows on The Mother’s Finest’s tables at this time of day; none of them exactly good-for-nothings, but certainly not good for much. Their coats and shirts have most of the buttons sewn on securely; the