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.

[Blue Ivory]

Wow. You've done it again! Great work! The story was great when I hated the husband, and felt sorry for poor little Rosalie. But the ending was impressive! You're so great!

[redflutterby]

A twisted dark tale David...but not uncommon in those days where women were considered property and traded thusly. You always write with such skill...great poem!

[minisla]

Very dark David. Poor woman better off in the long run. Good imagery portrayed.

[TL Boehm]

This one was written with a darker, thicker ink than usual, Sir. Perhaps I was hoping for a fairy tale or at least a trouncing for Rosalie's irksome spouse. Sad to think that was her only release. Stellar lines in this piece though
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.

[Enid Blake]

I liked this one, its that touch of reality that makes it even more bleak. The apology at the end made such a cultural statement as well. I like the irony.

[Marie]

Poor Rosalie...but she's likely better off...

Aologizing to her husband even to the end...

[Keith]

What a sad tale describing the plight of the poor and abused. Set in old England but would apply anywhere. Brilliantly told as always.

[Tom]

Although this poem has many black comedy traits and is high in entertainment value, sadly it's a microcosm of a society frowned upon by middle & upper classes in the days of old, isn't this how Jack the ripper evolved? Sadly it still occurs nowadays!

Well crafted and penned once more David !

[wordwarrior]

Haha David, I love the part when he told her to leave her drawers on the floor. That verse had me laughing so loudly!
Oh and then I read that she dies and the smile is gone.
It is a sad tale of days gone by and maybe even today(I don't know)
I love the story, sad though it is and the rhyme and flow and imagery all wowed me.
Didn't like that husband at all, but she was doing what many had to do.
You brought the emotion through your words with amazing clarity, that I think we all feel like we were there.
Awesome writing!