Cockles and Mussels--Traditional Victorian Version

“Cockles!” she cried, “and mussels, too! Live! Come an’ get ‘em, cheap! Alive!”

The crowd parted around her, turning a thousand blind eyes to the dirty face and roughened hands of poverty. Young men glanced her way, and glanced again, for she was not unpretty; yet they went on their way, too aware of the social restrictions and too embarrassed of the virtue of young ladies to even sidle up to her on the pretense of purchasing a periwinkle or two. She wiped sweat from her brow, causing two of the more aristocratic women in the crowd to wrinkle their noses at such a coarse gesture. Molly didn’t mind, as she had no use for the rich unless they were buying her wares, which happened rarely--well, lately, any money coming in was rare.

As one who had worked hard since the day she had enough coordination to gut a fish, Molly had never been waif-like, instead browned and muscled like any of the working poor were. With her sales becoming few, then fewer, and her father too old to work in the sun any longer, she was quickly achieving the pale, thin look many young girls were striving for. And the young men looked at her more often now--attentions she found flattering, though ultimately unappealing: she’d rather have her health any day.

Rubbing a hand against her concave belly, she carefully navigated her way through of the river of people and found a convenient doorstep out of the vengeful sun’s rays. Allowing herself to spend two pence on a hard, stale roll seemed a small sacrifice against eating raw shellfish once again.

The door opened and a “Get off me step, you scum!” along with the inevitable kick quite literally booted her out of the house’s shade.

She sighed and winced as the small of her back grated against the stone stair; the heavy shoe had caught her in just that curve of her spine. Picking up the handles of her cart again, she started down the dusty road, yelling until her throat hurt and her voice was hoarse, gravelly.

Molly was not one to sicken easily, but lately she had felt rather ill and hadn’t any idea how to counter it. Her father had never held with doctors, and she herself felt uncomfortable with baring herself to any sort of ‘professional’. She had lived on the streets, or just off of them, her entire life; professional had always had a second meaning after a little girl, running through the streets, was presumed to be crossing territories. No real lasting harm was done, but the memories of various pointy objects of a questionable nature--mainly shoes--caused her to shiver slightly and rub the back of her head. It was rather like sympathy pains, with the sympathy directed toward her younger self, she reflected as she ignored the pain in both stomach and throat and walked along toward the docks.

She looked around and, upon seeing no one looking her way (barring the occasional vague glance of one who was not really paying any attention at all), hauled her cart and herself across to the docks. She immediately straightened, pretending to know what she was doing; well, actually, she knew exactly what she was doing, so perhaps she was merely pretending she was allowed to do it.

Molly sauntered down to the edge of the pier, walking casually alongside the edge, until she reached a place hidden between two of the larger boats. She slid out of her skirts, and slipped into the water with an equally smooth motion; her pale, thin underdress clung to her. The salt water was freezing, but it felt almost good against her unpleasantly hot skin. The gentle waves lapping against the dock rocked her as well, somehow calming her stomach rather than inciting it to further mutiny. Her eyes closed--the water was becoming less and less cold, she could almost go to sleep . . . .

Molly shot up and over the splintery boards of the pier, wriggling into her clothes, wringing her dark hair out as she hurried. Numbness and a distinct desire for slumber were the first two signs of when to get out of the water--her cousin had drowned in such circumstances, and Molly was not wont to follow his example.

But she remained uncomfortably hot and clammy, her lips chapped and her throat scratchy. Something was . . . not right; and she didn’t know how to fix it.

The sun was setting, and quickly. Molly was startled: she hadn’t noticed how quickly the day had gone by, desperate as she was, doggedly marching back and forth, crying her throat horse in praise of her own stock. She decided it wasn’t worth it, tending the rest of her shellfish overnight; she threw them back haphazardly, distracted by the twin pains in her head and throat. When the wheelbarrow’s chipped and scarred bottom was visible, she again wiped her hand across her brow, braced her shoulders and tugged .

Straining what was left of her muscles, Molly dragged the barrow back to its resting place; her father had worked out a deal with the bakeshop across the street long ago--the shop allowed them to rest their equipment behind the building, they didn’t hassle its customers. Not that they would have anyway, for it was too far from the shore for any likely prospects, but, as her father used to say, “What a bakerman don’t know cain’t hurt him.”

Molly, exhausted, sank down beside the cart, resting her head on it--the wood still cool from its cargo, or cooler than her head, at any rate. She let her eyes close: just for a moment, mind you, she’d get up and go to her father at any moment . . . .

They found her the next morning, still in that position; head against barrow, a slight, whimsical smile on her face. Her slim, near-bony fingers clutched at one last mussel, the dark shell cutting into her palms. Her hair was damp with sweat, and the women nodded to each other; the fever had gotten her in the end, it seemed. They led her father off, his face stiff with grief, and threw Molly into the sea, at rest with her cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh--in the spirit, if not in the flesh.