At the Sign of the Sugared Plum

Extract

'To tell the truth, I was rather glad to get away from Farmer Price and his rickety old cart. He made me uneasy with his hog’s breath and his red, sweaty face and the way he’d suddenly bellow out laughing at nothing at all. I was uneasy, too, about something he’d said when I’d told him I was going to London to join my sister Sarah in her shop.

"You be going to live in the City, Hannah?" he’d asked, pushing his battered hat up over his forehead. "Wouldn’t think you’d want to go there."

"Oh, but I do!" I’d said, for I’d been set on living in London for as long as I could remember. "I’m fair desperate to reach the place."

"Times like this . . . thought your sister would try and keep you away."

"No, she sent for me specially," I’d said, puzzled.

"Her shop is doing well and she wants my help in it. I’m to be trained in the art of making sweetmeats," I’d added.

"Sweetmeats is it?" He’d given one of his bellows. "That’s comfits for corpses, then!"

He left me in Southwarke on the south bank of the Thames, and I thanked him, slipped down from his cart and – remembering to take my bundle and basket from the back – began to walk down the crowded road towards London Bridge.

As the bridge came into view I stopped to draw breath, putting down my baggage but being careful to keep my things close by, for I’d been warned often enough about the thieving cutpurses and murderous villains who thronged the streets of London. I straightened my skirts and flounced out my petticoat to show off the creamy ruff of lace I’d sewn onto it – Sarah had told me that petticoats were now worn to be seen – then pushed down my hair to try and flatten it. This was difficult for, to my great vexation, it stuck out as curly as the tails of piglets and was flame red. Nothing I wore, be it hat, hood or cap, could contain it. I pulled my new white cap down tightly, however, and tied the ribbons into a tidy bow under my chin. I hoped I looked a pleasant and comely sight walking across into the city, and that no one would look at me and realise that I was a newly arrived country girl.

It was a hot day even though it was only the first of June, and all the hotter for me because I was wearing several layers of clothes. This wasn’t because I’d misjudged the weather, more because I knew that whatever I didn’t wear, I’d have to carry. I had on then: a cambric shift, two petticoats, a dark linseywoolsey skirt and a linen blouse. Over these was a short jacket which had been embroidered by my mother, and a dark woollen shawl lay across my shoulders.

I’d been studying the people carefully as we’d neared the bridge, hoping that I might see my friend Abigail, who’d come from our village last year to be a maid in one of the big houses, and also hoping to see some great lady, a person of quality, so I could judge how well I stood against her regarding fashion. There was no sign of Abby, however, and most of the quality were in sedan chairs or carriages, with only the middling and poorer sort on foot. These folk were wearing a great variety of things: men were in tweedy country clothes, rough working worsteds or the severely cut suits and white collars of the Puritans, the women wearing everything from costly velvet down to poor rags that my mother would have scorned to use as polishing cloths for the pewter.

"That’s a fine red wig you’ve got there, lass!" a young male voice said, and I realised that I’d paused beside a brewhouse.

I turned indignantly on the speaker. "It’s not a wig. It’s my own hair!" I said to the two men – one young and one old – who were leaning against the wall, mugs of ale in their hands.

"And fine patches across your nose, too," said the elder.

I opened my mouth to say more and then realised that the youth and man outside the Gown and Claret were making fun of me.

"They’re not patches, William, they’re called sun kisses!" the first said, and they both roared with laughter.

I picked up my basket, feeling my cheeks go pink. I hated my hair, but even more than that I hated my freckles, and one of the first things I intended to do in London was to visit an apothecary and see what treatment the great ladies were using for their prevention. I pushed my nose into the air and moved on, only just avoiding a deep rut in the road full of all manner of foul-smelling muck. As I faltered, my foot slipped out of my wooden clog, but I regained my balance, picked up my skirts and carefully negotiated around the rut.

"Well danced, young miss!" called over the older man.

"It’s a young red bantum fresh up from the country!" said the youth, and I pretended not to hear. At home I was always being teased about my vivid colouring but I hadn’t thought I’d stand out in London, too.

"A spring chicken ripe for the plucking!"

"You mind a piece of old Cromwell up there don’t fall on you!" the first went on.

"An eyeball or an ear!"

Before I could stop myself I’d glanced up to the over-arching gateway to London Bridge, where there was a collection of human heads pierced by poles, and let out a small shriek of horror.

I heard further mannish laughter behind me and was annoyed for being so green, for I’d known well enough that the heads of felons were displayed on the bridge – and I’d even been to a public execution – so it should have been nothing to me. The thought of a piece of one of those heads, though, one of those mouldered skulls, falling as I passed underneath – well, I forgave myself that shriek.'