Sunday Best

‘We haven’t the money for bread, my love,

We haven’t the money for tea,

You’d best get dressed in your Sunday best

And go down to the docks for me.

There’s plenty of sailors round the town

Who have just come in from the sea,

They’ll spare five shillings a head, my love,

You only need two or three.’

 

So Rosalie went to the old wood chest,

To change, as she always did,

Slipped off her shabby old cotton dress

And shook, as she lifted the lid,

Her muslin dress was a shade of grey

That had come third hand from a sale,

Next to a whale-bone corset that

Laced up, made her face go pale.

 

They’d only been married the year before

When he’d sworn he would care for her,

But most of his money had gone on drink

And the Dollymops at the fair,

He never had kept enough for the rent

When the landlord came, to pay,

‘It’s time that we used what assets we have…’

He’d grinned, in that crooked way.

 

‘Make sure that you pull your bodice down,’

He said as he tightened her stays,

‘You need to be showing some cleavage, but

Make sure that the blighter pays!

Just leave your drawers on the bedroom floor

You’ll not be needing them there,

The quicker they’re in and out, my love,

The less that you’ll have to bare.’

 

They walked together along the street,

He to the Wayside Inn,

While she went on to the alleyways

That were always so dark and grim,

He’d wait for her ‘til she’d done the deed

Then she’d meet him back at the bar,

And hand whatever she’d earned out there

In the clutch of many a tar.

 

She’d steel herself and would go quite numb

At the thought of those clumsy hands,

The leering faces, the coarse remarks

For the rent, and a pot of jam.

The other women would glower at her

If she pitched too close to their stall,

Was pushed in alcoves and spread on bins

And stood, her back to the wall.

 

She would have left, but her folks were dead

So there wasn’t a place to go,

And he would have thrown her out in the street

If ever she’d whispered ‘No!’

London was full of the fallen ones

Who were shunned, as she would be,

For only a Madam would let her in

To be used, continually.

 

Her husband sat at the Wayside bar

‘Til it closed, and bundled him out,

With still no sign of his Rosalie

He was mad, and grim at the mouth.

He headed down to the alleyway

When he saw the bobbies there,

They were standing over a pile of rags

And a tangle of auburn hair.

 

‘You can’t come on, there’s a murder done,’

Said the sergeant, raising his hand,

A croak came up from the pile of rags,

‘Oh dear, that’s my old man!’

She stirred and murmured before she died

Sunk deep in a bleak distress,

‘Oh John, I’m sorry, the sailor lied,

And the blood has ruined my dress!’

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Okay! Now this one really evoked the emotions. Anger towards her sloth of a husband, and sadness that even in the end, she was more concerned about him than she was about herself. I can only feel sympathy for her. I hope she haunts him into the grave.

[Sheila Kline]

Oh David...............how could you write this and have the poor dear get killed in the end? I would rather Rosalie have pulled the old "dastard" in as her fare and told him now you pay me for all you've done when you sent me out to be every man's hon. At least he'll have to find a way to pay the rent now - but will probably just get another one to do his bidding!
You never cease to amaze me, even though I don't always like the way the poem ends!

[Mic]

I'd so wanted her to run off to sea, kill the jerk, just disappear...but knew you'd have something else in mind, David. Excellent write, as always!

[Raya]

Oh my gosh!!! That is so grim, but so beautifully written. The story kept me captivated the whole way through and the ending just made me so sad for the woman. Absolutely well done!!! :) keep writing!!!