The Painted Lady

One

This is my favourite part, and I wait for it from behind the curtain.

For most it's the money; the cold, silver shillings are always so soothing as they're pressed into the palm. They're a penny pie and a couple of gritty, salty oysters, and a hot bath instead of a cold one from the washhouse on the corner of Whitechapel High Street. They're a new petticoat, or an undershirt. They're enough to keep the landlord happy – for a while. For most.

But this is my favourite part. The moment that I step out from behind the mottled, velvet curtain and I draw every eye in the crowd. They're wondering what my secret is; what surprise I'm hiding beneath the silk robe I've wrapped my body in like a gift. A third tit, perhaps. Or a dead twin hanging from my hip. I know that I shouldn't – that it's a sin – but as I peer through the holes in my black, lace veil I enjoy the crowd's curious gaze.

I cross the splintered stage-boards and step into the light of the limes; I can feel their heat across my bare legs and ankles. I loosen the belt of my robe and play with the tassels as The Doctor begins tonight's performance.

'...Und now, ladies und gentleman,' he announces as I stop and stand beside him, 'For your interest, I present to you a young lady I found on my travels while I was studying the tribes of the Sandwich Islands.'

I try not to roll my eyes. He loves the sound of his own voice; I've even caught him practicing once or twice to get it just right.

'She is the daughter of an English nobleman – a relative of your Queen Victoria, no less – who was sent to become governor of those islands. But, disaster struck when their boat was shipwrecked in a hurricane. Both father und daughter washed up on the shore of The Forbidden Isle – under the mercy of the bloodthirsty Kaua Tribe.'

The crowd gasps and murmurs.

The Doctor circles me. 'They executed her father but the chief – as he looked at her pale skin, blue eyes und fair hair – he took pity on her, seeing in her the snow goddess Poli'ahu,' he says, brushing his fingers through the waves of blonde hair reaching down my back as he strolls behind me. He sweeps them over my shoulder. '...The tribe worshipped her for a whole year, preserving her virtue but painting in indelible ink every inch of her snow-white skin from nape to navel with the flowers und vines of their island home... until I rescued her und brought her safely home to England...'

It's a rotten lie, of course. A whole tapestry woven miraculously from a single thread; the only ship I've ever sailed on is the steamer that sails the muddy waters between London Bridge and Limehouse, and as much as I wish that my father were dead – skinned and cooked in a pot by cannibals – he's still very much alive. I doubt there's a single flower on my body that is native to The Sandwich Islands, and as for the Doctor? The Eminent and Distinguished Doctor Harland Featherstone, Professor of Anatomy and Anthropology and Collector of Human Absurdities – isn't even a real doctor, let alone a German one. He bought his tweed morning coat and waistcoat second hand on Petticoat Lane, his pocketwatch came from a Pawn Shop in Spitalfields – the scratched silver case engraved with the name Harland Featherstone. He even grew a beard to look more distinguished, and wears a pair of spectacles on the tip of his nose that he picked up off the floor of an omnibus.