Chapter 2, Part 2: In Which We Find People In Unexpected Places

[kateohara.livejournal.com]

A little later on the same day, darkness having fallen and the working day for many having drawn to a close, we find ourselves in the Tavern of Hell, a most disreputable public house on Silk Road, frequented by dock workers and common women. Yet for all its roughness, its bark may be greater than its bite, for the people can be very welcoming, the ale though cheap not at all unpalatable, and a hot pie may be bought for near-to-nothing. And at least it is not that great bane of English life, the gin palace! How soulless they are, for all their ornamentation. No board games are played, no snacks eaten, whilst in your friendly local tavern the humble workman may bring in his teatime chop to be grilled whilst he drinks a pint of ale. It is simple inside, rough hewn tables and chairs on a wooden floor. There is a good sized fireplace. Newcomers are expected to take the draughty seats by the door - you have to earn your way into being welcomed into the cosiest spots. But who is this, sitting at a table in an alcove? Mrs Kate Minola! It is surely a surprise to see her here, for although she is a madam she has such refined manners...

I sip my hot wine-and-water and eat a piece of bread and butter, reading a dog-eared copy of the Illustrated London News. It is quite a new paper, and one of the few the tavern bothers to hold - The Times, with its Tory views, is not always popular here. In truth, the political viewpoints of the two are not so different, but everyone enjoys the illustrations in the News. There are some holes in the paper where pictures have been cut out - I glance at the bar and see that someone has tacked up an illustration of the Duke of Kent.

It is an odd thing, the friendship I have found here. When I first came to Silk Road, I certainly never came to the tavern, even though it is so close to where I live. I had fallen a long way, but I felt that even so I was a businesswoman and I was trying to be respectable. The working class women do not worry about that so much, and they are respectable in their own way; but I did not want to shake off my gentility. One evening, however, a patron of my house hit Marianne in the face. When I came home and found her crying, I at once stormed off to the tavern, where I was told he'd drunkenly weaved his way. I told him that I would never let him set foot in my house again, and he flung his beer over me. A moment later he was flung out onto the street by two men I'd never met but who seemed to know who I was, and the barmaid passed me a towel and made me sit by the fire until I was dry. They liked it, I think, that I cared about my girls; and I realised that it's one thing to be respectable, and quite another to be a snob. And so I come here from time to time, on quieter nights, and I always find a warm welcome. I was lonely so long, I believe I am quite glad of it.