The Journal of Dora Damage by Belinda Starling Page A

that now, after the visitation from Samuel Skinner, having been too proud to ask for support, I
     had reached the point where desperation overcame pride. So the next morning, one of those awful ones when the water had frozen
     overnight in the pans, I left Lucinda with Agatha Marrow for as long as I dared, where I knew at least her stomach would be
     filled, and then in and out, in and out, my toes first took me back to the pawnbroker.
    I waited in the booth while the man attended to a poor fellow whose face betrayed more misery than I dared to imagine. He
     handed over a blanket with a look of such sorrow it were like he were giving away a child, and took away a shilling for it.
     I wanted to run after him and check he had at least one more blanket left at home, but it would have served no other purpose
     than to make myself feel better in the face of his tragedy, and I feared the answer would have been no besides.
    ‘My flat-iron, how much?’ I asked as the door closed behind me.
    ‘Four pence.’
    ‘Four? But with the ha’penny gone to get me over the bridge that leaves me with next to nothing! I need at least sixpence!’
    Still the man shook his head. ‘Then you’ll have to give me something else.’
    ‘But I only want sixpence! Surely you can do a flat-iron for that?’
    ‘I have twenty flat-irons back there,’ he said, waving his hand at the storerooms behind him. ‘All of ’em got four pence,
     nothing more. Here you go, here’s a thrupp’ny bit and a brown.’
    ‘But I need a tanner!’
    ‘So, what else you got?’
    ‘Nothing on me.’
    ‘What about that ring?’ He gestured towards my finger.
    ‘No! I can’t! That’s my wedding ring!’
    The man shrugged and turned away. I thought about going home, to get my own blanket, or one of Peter’s waistcoats, which might
     raise nine pence, but I needed to get north of the river this morning, and I feared further delay would condemn me forever
     to the pile reserved for prevaricators and no-hopers.
    ‘Please don’t go! Help me! Raise me sixpence for the iron, and I’ll bring it all back, I promise.’
    ‘Not a hope, miss. I’ve heard it all before. Give me the ring, an’ I’ll give you what I think. If you redeem it soon enough,
     the old man might never know.’
    And so I took off my wedding ring and handed it over. I looked down at the clammy white dented band it left behind on my skin,
     and waited for him to deliver his verdict.
    ‘Three shillings.’
    ‘You evil man! It’s worth at least a crown! Do you spit on my husband’s name?’
    ‘Which is?’ he asked, raising a pen.
    ‘Damage,’ I said meekly. ‘Peter Damage, two Ivy-street, Lambeth,’ as he filled out the ticket and handed me over the three
     silver coins.
    Then in and out, in and out, my toes took me north across the marshes where the mud-larks – the tide-waiters, the beach-pickers,
     whatever name you want to give them – were wading over the shallows of the Thames in the rain for fragments of iron and wood,
     their children swimming alongside them waist-deep in mud, toes searching for lumps of coal and what-have-you dropped by the
     barges, to sell for one shilling per hundredweight. I scanned them for signs of Jack’s family, and indeed, for Jack, for the
     Lord knew how else he might be spending his days and earning his living while he was not at Damage’s. And then I approached
     Waterloo Bridge, and gave a ‘Good day’ and a shilling to the toll-keeper. I waited for my eleven pence-ha’penny change and
     the clicking of the turnstile, then went through onto the bridge.
    And then it was that I needed the in and out, in and out of my frozen toes more than ever to carry me forward. Once through
     the toll-gate, the hansom cabs picked up speed as if to make up for lost time, and I felt that if I lost the momentum of my
     pace I would be whipped over the side by one of them, or by the vicious wind itself, and over I would go to my icy, smelly
     doom. But I knew