Tommo & Hawk (50 page)

'Don't touch me, ya bastard!' She shrugged my hand away and started to beat her fists against my chest. How sweet and clean she smelt as she hit me, the magpie jumping up and down in its nest as if it were about to fly away, wanting no part of her temper tantrum.

I began to laugh at this, then I held her tight. 'I care about you, Maggie!' I said, surprised at my own words but also liking the bold sound of them.

'Leggo o' me, ya shit!' Maggie yelled, then started to weep against my chest. I stroked her hair carefully so as not to disturb the magpie. After a little while she pulled away. 'Bet I look a proper mess, don't I?' She sniffed and, taking a small handkerchief from her handbag, wiped her big blue eyes.

'By Christ, no. You're beautiful.' I held her by the shoulders and looked down at her.

She laughed and then began to sob again. 'Oh, oh, ya bastard! Ain't nobody said that ever before!' she bawled. 'It ain't true, you silly bastard, but I loves ya for it.' She sniffed and laughed and cried a bit, then laughed again and finally dried her eyes. Then she tilted her head and asked, 'Friends?'

'Friends,' I repeated solemnly.

*

And that's what we've been ever since - friends. Almost every afternoon we have a drink or a chat at the Hero of Waterloo, with no more said of me sharing her bed. Thinking of Maggie has nearly driven my worries about Tommo from my mind, and I am smiling as I enter the bar to meet her again.

Today Maggie is scrubbed of all her paint and dressed in a grey gown and black shawl, neat and clean. By contrast to her appearance most afternoons, she looks decidedly modest, and might easily be mistaken for a servant girl on her day off, except for her hair, which still sports the magpie sitting in its nest.

'Don't you look fine,' she says with a grin, after greeting me with her usual kiss. 'Has you eaten?'

I shake my head.

'Ya must be starvin', darlin'! Come on!' She leads me out of the pub and we stroll down to a chophouse just the other side of the Cut. I have never been here with Maggie before, though they all seem to know her and greet her most cordially. A young lass wearing a mob cap and an apron comes up and Maggie gives her a hug.

'This be Florence. Flo, this be Hawk.' Maggie's got a smile like the proverbial Cheshire cat. 'What's ya think, eh?' she says to Florence.

Florence looks up at me and brings the tips of her fingers to her lips and giggles. 'Crikey, Mags, you gorn an' done it proper this time, ain'tcha?' she says.

'You betcha!' Maggie exclaims. 'One hundred per cent black magic! I told you so, didn't I?'

Flo giggles again and runs off.

I follow Maggie to a table and Florence soon reappears with a loaf of bread and two large soup plates, spoons and a ladle. She sets our places, trying all the time not to laugh.

'Don't be stingy now, Flo, Mr Black Magic 'ere takes a whole heap o' feedin',' Maggie instructs and then laughs. 'And, by crikey, he's gunna need all the strength he's got!'

'Is Florence your friend then, Maggie?' I ask.

'More like me little sister. Stopped her from cruisin' when she were twelve, and saw that she and her folks got work 'ere instead. Tom, the grocer's son, is gunna marry 'er.'

Just then Florence returns carrying a large pot of stew which she places on the table. 'Me papa reckons if the nigger can eat it all, it's 'arf price on yer tab, Maggie,' Flo winks. She looks at me, wiping her hands on her apron. 'He wants to know how tall ya is, Mr Hawk?'

'Seven feet and one inch, last time I was measured,' I reply. 'It isn't always convenient.'

'And it's all in proportion!' Maggie laughs, happily. 'The parts what can't be shown to an innocent little girl like you be just as big, I'll betcha!'

Flo's eyes grow large with surprise and she runs from the room back into the kitchen, where we can hear her laughing fit to burst.

'Maggie! You must be careful!' I admonish her, thinking how lucky I am to be black so that she can't see my own embarrassment. But still, I love being with her! Here I am in the middle of this noisy chophouse with a pot of stew in front of me and suddenly I realise that I love Maggie Pye. I sit stock still.

'C'mon, darlin', eat yer tucker! I got big plans for you after this, what will have yiz grinnin' like a butcher's dog!' Maggie leans over and, with the back of her hand, strokes the side of my cheek. It is so lovely I want to cry.

But even in love, I am ravenous and Maggie keeps filling my plate from the pot of mutton stew, which I must say is delicious. Soon enough, the pot is empty and I'm full as the governor's prize pig.

'Come, Hawk,' Maggie says, finally. 'I lives upstairs. Time to make yiz a nice cuppa tea!'

I follow Maggie upstairs to her home. She has two rooms and when she opens the door on her landing, I am almost forced to crawl into a small kitchen with a hearth. Even when I am seated at her small table, the ceiling is not much higher than my head. But Maggie can stand up straight and, as I look around, I see that her home is as neat as a pin. Everything is scrubbed clean, with pots and pans hanging from the wall and a flower pot on the window sill. A grey striped tabby, which she tells me is called Sardine, hops off the window sill and comes a-meowing the moment it sees her. Maggie feeds the cat with a scrap of stew meat she has brought from downstairs. Then she puts the kettle on the hob and lights a set of twigs and a bit of coal she's obviously made up earlier.

Now I'm starting to feel nervous. I don't know what's going to happen after the cup of tea, or what Maggie has planned, and I don't know how to behave. I'm not willing to tell her that I am almost a virgin, either. I well remember what happened that wonderful night with Hinetitama. But it may be nothing like whatever might happen with Maggie, should she decide to take me to her bed chamber.

Besides, Maggie has often made jokes about having her way with me, and I am not sure she isn't just joking.

I know what I would like to happen, but I'm not sure how to proceed even supposing Maggie wants to. I would like to treat her like a proper lady and not a tart, but is that what she'd expect? It's impossible for me to think of Maggie as a tart. She says she is one, but I can hear the sadness and longing for something else in her voice.

Suddenly I have a picture of Mary tucking Tommo and me into bed when we were little uns. 'I loves you, Mama,' Tommo says. Mary looks at the two of us and a tear rolls down her cheek. 'That's all I've ever dreamed of, Tommo,' she says softly and then kisses us. 'Just remember, all a woman ever wants is to be truly loved.'

'Are you truly loved by Ikey?' I ask. Mary smiles but doesn't say anything.

'Course not!' Tommo exclaims. 'Mama loves Mr Emmett!'

'Hush, Tommo! Don't you ever say that. Mr Emmett be a married man!' Mary admonishes him, but we both see that she's gone beetroot in the face.

Well, I now say to myself, I truly love Maggie. I know this is stupid, and that I barely know her. Yet I feel something which I suppose will some day prove foolish and young but now seems certain. If folks knew of it they'd probably laugh. Other men would no doubt wink at each other, thinking that only a callow youth could fall for a whore. Despite all this, Maggie makes my head spin. She makes my heart so happy that I don't even think of Tommo when she's near. Maggie claims me completely and I am besotted. She fills my being and even if I should try to cast her out of my thoughts I cannot.

How should I behave, then? 'Hawk, you are a gentleman.' Mary's words, which she has said so often to me, come into my head. 'Not a toff, not thinking yourself special, or putting on airs, pretending you be a true merino, which you ain't, but a true gentleman.' I have always tried to live up to my mama's words - Mary, who has seen and been everything but who wants me to be a gentleman. I sense there is something of Mary in Maggie, and perhaps it is this in her which I so dearly love already.

Then I have a shameful thought. Can a gentleman, even mama's sort of gentleman, love such a woman as Maggie? Hinetitama was different, a Maori princess, a ghost in the night. Maggie is so rudely alive, so loud and truthful and coarse. If Hinetitama were the shadow cast by the moon, Maggie is the blazing sunlight, every inch afire. Yet underneath, I sense, she is sad and wistful.

Perhaps I imagine all of this, I think now. Perhaps I should concede to Ikey's theory that there's no such thing as a good whore. What I do admit is that Maggie is altogether too much for me and I don't know what to do next. I feel like a bunny that should bolt down its burrow while there is still time!

Maggie has put the kettle on the hob and brings me a cup of tea. The cup is dainty and my big clumsy fingers can hardly grasp the handle. The tea is of the best quality and she has served it black with a slice of lemon. It is not sweetened, which I am unused to, but I find that it soon cleans my palate of the fatty mutton stew.

'Would you like a bottle of ale?' she asks. I am surprised at her voice, for it is suddenly shy and softer in tone. It is as though here in her home, she can be a different woman. 'Fetch you one from the pub on the corner, won't take a minute?' she volunteers.

I shake my head gently and she comes over and sits on my lap. A woman has never sat on my lap before and I am immediately overcome by the consequences. A terrible boldness grows between my thighs, as Maggie holds me tightly and kisses me all over my face and neck. I feel her sweet lips touch mine, demanding I should open them. And then, her tongue is inside my mouth! My whole body is aflame, and I find my arms encircling Maggie, drawing her ever in towards me. We kiss, she like an angel and I most clumsily. I think I must burst through the fabric of my breeches. She must, I am sure, feel the hardness under her buttocks, and she squirms about on my lap until I think I shall faint with the pain and the ecstasy of it.

I am beyond thinking when Maggie stops kissing me. Drawing back, she looks into my eyes. 'Come, darlin', into Maggie's nest.' She rises and takes my hand. I am afraid to stand up for the straining in my breeches, and am most grateful that the ceiling means I must remain stooped over as she leads me through into the other room. Here the ceiling is a little higher but not by much, and I am amazed at what meets my eyes.

I have never seen a whore's bedroom before, but this is unlike anything I have heard described by my companions at sea. Maggie has created a veritable Aladdin's cave in her tiny attic room.

The first thing that comes to mind is the 'palace o' purest pleasure' which Ikey and Mary once possessed in London. It was, Ikey told me, filled with Persian carpets, silks, brocades and erotic statuary, so that it resembled nothing so much as a maharaja's harem. But Maggie's boudoir has not entirely been taken over by the notion of titillation. There is a certain warm homeliness here as well. The room is very pretty, with lots of shiny bits, satin cushions and brocade curtains and a carpet, all in red. But there are white lace half-curtains to the single attic window, just like Mary's at home. It is the bed, though, which commands my attention and which I now observe with a mixture of purest terror and delightful anticipation.

Maggie's bed nearly fills the room and I cannot imagine how it could have been brought up here, unless it arrived in pieces and was built in the room. It is a large four-poster of the best cedar, resplendent with a red canopy, silk tassels hanging from each corner. There are no blankets, only red silk sheets and cushions to match. Lying at the centre, propped up against one of the cushions, is a golliwog doll with his round black rag face, red jacket and striped pants.

Maggie scoops the rag doll up into her arms. 'See, Hawk, I always were partial to darkies! Many's the night I've slept with him in me arms.' She holds the golliwog up so that its face is looking into hers. 'Ain't no secrets between us, is there, Golly? We've been lovers a long time now, hasn't we?' She shakes the doll's head so it appears he is agreeing. 'You can watch us, you're a good boy,' she says to him and props the doll against the bottom of the bed.

Maggie turns and smiles at me. 'Truth is, when I holds Golly in me arms and pleasures meself, he's the best fuck I've had all day.'

I'm shocked at this admission, which somehow seems more coarse said in this pretty room. But I'm also excited at the vision it brings to mind. I can see Maggie's slim little body naked as she hugs her little black Golly to her lovely breasts, her urgent finger stroking her pretty pussy as she arches in pleasure.

Maggie has removed her shoes but she is still dressed when she jumps onto the bed. She crosses her legs beneath her and pats the mattress. 'Come sit, Hawk,' she smiles.

I am still half-stooped over and I sit on the bed beside her, hoping she won't see my erection, though I don't know how she can miss it. It feels like a tent pole sticking up beyond my nose, a great tent of lust rising from my groin.

'Maggie, I haven't had, er, much experience of women,' I stammer. 'You know, making love to them,' I say, deciding I should come clean before she finds me out for the duffer I am.

Maggie laughs and stretches up to kiss me on the cheek. 'I ain't had much experience of loving neither, Hawk.'

'What do you mean?' I am surprised.

'I'm a whore, darlin', not a cheap whore, but a whore. I've been fucked 'undreds o' times, thousands, but ain't nobody's never made love to me.' She kisses me again and asks softly, 'You going to make love to me, Hawk?'

Maggie has the end of my belt and now she pulls against the buckle to loosen it. Then she turns me around and draws my blouse up over my head so I'm sitting with only my much-loosened breeches on. She throws my blouse on the floor beside the bed, and then suddenly yells, 'Oh me Gawd!'

'What? What is it?' I try to rise from the bed but Maggie has grabbed me by the shoulders from behind and has buried her head against my shoulder. She turns my head to look at her.

'Who done that?' she asks.

'What?' I ask, still mystified.

'Yer back! Who done that to yer back, Hawk?' A tear rolls down her cheek.

'It was a flogging on a whale ship, but it was long ago,' I tell her, not wishing to distract her from other things. She is stroking my back and kissing the scars which run like old wickerwork from my neck to my waist. I confess it is a wonderful feeling, Maggie caressing and kissing my back. I want to throw her on the bed and rip her dress off and make love to her. But I don't have the courage.