The possibility of being released from my bonds filled me with excitement and hope. Moving my body to the right hand side of the bed put a painful strain on my left ankle but slackened the rope around my wrist and made it possible for me to get part of it onto the sharp splinter. Holding it by the tips of my fingers, I moved it backwards and forwards in the hope of tearing one of the strands. A good hour passed before I felt something give. My fingers were losing their strength and I had to rest for a while before I was able to continue with my labours.
Some hours later I had sawn through most of the rope and was straining with all my might to break free. Mad with anger and fear, I threw the whole weight of my body about the bed in a desperate struggle and suddenly rolled over onto my left side when the torn rope snapped under the strain. Exhausted and exhilarated, I wasted no time in loosening the knots that bound my other limbs.
When I got off the bed my knees buckled under me and I lost my balance several times before I could pull my skirt up to my waist and stand upright. Walking around the room, swinging my hands around, brought the blood back into my arms and legs again. I was overjoyed to be on my feet but my spirits were soon dampened when I tried to open the stout oak door. It was firmly locked and wouldn't budge an inch.
My hopes of freedom dashed to the ground, I gave vent to my anger by kicking at the door until my toes hurt. I went berserk, throwing a small table against a wall and hammering a wooden chair on the floorboards until it fell to pieces. I picked up a leg that had come off the table when it crashed against the wall and hit the door repeatedly with it until all the energy went out of me and I had to sink to the floor exhausted.
Panting for breath, I looked at the table leg, eyes glazed with tears of despair and thought of the dwarf coming back to get me. Picking up the table leg I swiped at the door, resolved to put up a fight to the death rather than let him ravish me again.
Sitting with my back to the wall I fell asleep and awoke with a start just before nightfall, sweating at the thought that he might have got in while I slept. Standing behind the door I waited for his return. The room was in complete darkness when I heard his footsteps on the stairway. With my heart thumping in my chest and my legs trembling, I raised the heavy leg high above my head as the key went into the lock, and held my breath in fearful suspense.
He pushed open the door and cleared his throat as he was about to close it. It was the sound of a dry cough that followed which directed my aim. Summing up all my strength I brought my wooden bludgeon swishing down with such a force that it must have cracked his skull open when it hit his head. Emotions of fear, hatred and vengeance flooded my mind, drowning all reason and sanity. In a fit of madness I repeatedly hammered the dwarf until, in a hot sweat of exhaustion, I pitched forward onto the battered body, gasping for air.
After a little while I struggled slowly to my feet. It felt like moving in a dream where everything seemed vague and shadowy, arousing no interest or curiosity. Pulling the door to, I locked it and dropped the key into the waters sloshing around under the river wharf. I have only a hazy memory of walking with quiet, timid steps along dark back-alleys, emerging into the gas lit Strand and ascending the stairs to my room with heavy feet.
Dirty and dishevelled and feeling dreadfully weary, I undressed leaving the clothes to lie where they had fallen. With soap and water the foul filth of the dwarf was scrubbed from my skin. Dropping onto the bed I pulled the cover up over my head and floated uneasily on the surface of a fitful sleep.
Awakening at daylight, shaking with a fever which consumed my flesh in waves of heat, I quenched my thirst with two glasses of water and returned to bed to fall into a deep sleep that held me fast until late the following afternoon. My first thoughts were of food for pains of hunger gnawed my innards. Rising from bed much refreshed, I quickly dressed and went into the streets to look for a seller of hot meat pies who traded nearby. As I approached his stall I searched my skirt pocket for coins to discover that there was only just sufficient money to purchase two pies.
The first pie tasted a treat and I wolfed it down before you could say Jack Robinson. As I hurried back to the house, street vendors were lighting their oil lamps against the dark shadows of nightfall. Looking at the remaining pie which I had intended giving to my two mud larks, the temptation was too much and with greedy hunger I ate half the pie before getting to my room. The tearful face of Peter looked up at me as I opened the cupboard door. The sight of his pitiful skinny little body and shrunken cheeks made me flush with shame that I had only half a pie to offer him. He was like a ravenous animal as he stuffed the remains of the pie into his mouth. It disappeared down his throat in no time at all.
“Ave yer got anyfink else?' he asked hopefully. 'We 'aven't 'ad nuffink to eat for nearly free days.'
'Where is Polly?'
He didn't answer, so I asked him again where his sister had got to.
'She's gorn ter get some money so we can eat.'
'Where?' I asked.
A broffel 'ouse in Windmill Street.'
Stunned, I looked at him in astonishment, 'I don't believe you. That's a terrible thing to say about your sister. You shouldn't tell lies like that.' it's not a lie-it's true, I tell yer. I 'eard 'er askin' a girl where it was. Polly's gorn there now. She won't be back till late and she's bringin' me some food.'
He was obviously speaking the truth but it didn't make sense. What sort of work would a girl of eleven be doing in a brothel, I asked myself? Whatever the work, it was no place for a girl of her age and I made up my mind to fetch her straight away before any harm was done.
I knew Windmill Street was near the Queen's Theatre so it didn't take me long to find it, but none of the buildings looked like a whore-house. I'd never been in a place of that sort, which didn't help much, and I couldn't see me knocking on a door and asking is this a brothel?' It was then I remembered a house in Tottenham Court Road where police were stationed. They would know the whereabouts of the brothel.
The policeman immediately showed concern when he heard I was seeking a girl of eleven who was thought to be in a brothel. He left me for a moment and returned with a police inspector, a thick-set, pugnacious, good looking man, who wanted to be assured that the girl was not yet twelve.
'Oh yes,' I answered. 'It was but three weeks ago that Polly told me it was her eleventh birthday. What difference does it make whether she is twelve or eleven?'
The inspector drew himself up. 'All the difference in the world, my dear. It's against the law for a man to have carnal knowledge of a girl under the age of twelve.'
'Do you mean to say it's alright for a man to sleep with a girl at that young age?'
'You shouldn't be surprised, young lady. I can detect some American in your speech. Am I right in thinking you have spent some time in that country?'
'Yes,' I answered, 'but what's that got to do with it?'
'Well… in some states of America the age of consent for girls is as low as seven years.'
'Seven years?' I echoed. 'It's too horrible to contemplate. What I want to know is can we do something about Polly?'
'If she's under twelve we can run Ned Dawkins into jail tonight, have no doubts about that. He has been too cunning for me up to now. I have visited his house three times but to no good purpose. He's got all his girls trained to answer that they are over twelve years old. That way he is on the right side of the law and I can't touch him.'
'Who is Ned Dawkins?' I asked.
'Ned is the whore master of the house you are looking for in Windmill Street. His pimps are everywhere, handing out little cards to gentlemen. “All the girls are under fifteen-fresh and clean-disease free” it says on the cards. He is an impudent villain who laughs behind my back every time I question his girls. I would like to get him behind bars and I'll do just that tonight, if your Polly tells me she is eleven. You will have to come with me to point out which is Polly.'