The Journal of Dora Damage by Belinda Starling

rangy dog looking for somewhere to spray.
    ‘Mrs Damage? Weally, a pleasure. It’s you who’ll be owin’ us, then. Wo’ you got?’
    ‘I beg your pardon? Who are you?’
    ‘Now I be beggin’ yewer pardon. Skinner’s the name.’
    ‘Mr Skinner.’ I had heard that name before, but I could not remember where. ‘And you are?’
    ‘Acquain’ance of yer ’usband’s. We’ve been, ah, workin’ togevver, of sorts. ’E owes me. So you owe me nah.’
    ‘Why? What’s happened to him?’
    ‘I’ll let ’im tell ya that. But if ya want ’im back you gotta pay up. So I say agin, wo’ ya got?’ And then I remembered. Skinner
     was the most feared money-lender south of the river.
    ‘Have you kidnapped him?’
    ‘Naaa-ow. Dahn’t be so silly.’
    ‘I’m not paying you a penny until I speak to Peter.’
    ‘So ya got some, then?’
    ‘I’m not saying that.’
    ‘Well, you better ‘ad. Cos I can waise a bill o’ sale on this place tomowwa,’ he sneered, ‘but fwom what I can see, there
     ain’t enough tat in ’ere to make it worth the auctioneer’s fees.’
    ‘What does he owe?’
    ‘Fifty pahnd plus sixty per cent in’rest.’
    ‘Fifty! And sixty! He would never have signed to those terms! Why, he could have got a bank loan at seven per cent!’
    ‘It’s all here, in ’is own ’and. Wanna wead it?’
    ‘No, I do not. I shall take you to the magistrate.’ I started towards my shawl, gliding cautiously so that the coins in the
     purse at my waist would make not a chink and betray their presence.
    ‘Aa-aww, is that how you treat a chawitable man?’
    ‘Charitable! Why, you, you bully! You’re nothing but a crook, and a brute!’ I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders.
    ‘No, not me, Miss. I’m a vewitable philanthwopist. Ask anyone up this stweet. Anyone who’s been in any way embawwassed . Like yer old man was. Go on, look, here’s ’is own note of ’and.’
    And I scanned the grubby paper he was holding, and read that a bill for fifty pounds was to be discounted, to be taken up
     quarterly in increments, with increasing interest, and saw the lawyer’s seal, and the terms laid out, and Peter’s signature
     at the bottom.
    ‘This is my vocation, miss. I became a money-lender aht o’ the goodness o’ me ’eart. Sammy Skinner, Good Samawi’an, at yewer
     service. Come nah, I’m a lot prettier than the tallyman who’ll be comin’ in to give ya a good dunnin’ if ya don’t pay me.’
    ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr Skinner, but I don’t have any money to give you. You will have to deal with my husband
     when he returns. You will let him return, I trust? He won’t be able to pay you if he can’t work, so it’s in your best interests to let him go.’
    ‘Do me a favour, Miss, and pay me nah.’
    ‘I said, I have no money.’
    ‘Forgive me laughin’, miss,’ he said, almost peacefully, ‘but we both knows yewer tellin’ little porky pies. I can ’ear it,’
     he whispered, ‘chinkin’ away, under yer skirts. Are you tellin’ me I don’t know the sahnd of money when I hear it? Wouldn’t
     be a good money-lender if I didn’t, nah, would I?’
    I stood still, and looked at him in horror, and felt Lucinda looking up at us both.
    ‘Come on, then,’ he cooed, like a hungry man trying to get a chicken from a dog’s mouth. ‘Give it up. There’s a good girl.’
     I put my hand to where my purse hung at my hip beneath my skirt, but did not put it inside. ‘Come on, girl. Or do I have to
     go in there an’ get it for ya?’
    And so my hand slipped inside my skirts, and I untied the ribbon securing it, and made to tip the contents into my hand, when
     I saw Skinner shake his head.
    ‘Just give it to me. None a’ this cahntin’-aht nonsense. I need it all.’ And with that, he snatched it out of my hand, tipped
     its meagre innards out, flung the empty purse on the floor, and then he was gone, and with him my eight shillings.
    I think it was fair to say