Emily called on her aunt. As usual she was shown to the
back parlour, what wasn’t usual were her curtains.
“They’re new, aren’t they?”
“Bought them with me commission. I’ve had me eye on them for
weeks now, and now I can see them all the time.” She stroked the maroon brocade fringe.
“Aunt?”
“That’s me. God help me.” Mrs Marshall poured them an ale.
“I’m in the family way,” Emily said.
“That happens when you’re married.” Mrs Marshall took a slug
of her ale, and waited for the, BUT.
“It’s not John’s.”
Mrs Marshall looked at her niece, “So you want what from
me?”
“It won’t be the first time, will it?”
“Want rid, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“How many weeks along are you?”
“Couple of months.”
“Well, that’s nothing, why not wait and see . . . ”
“Auntie, I just know. OK!”
“Why not palm it off on . . . won’t be
the first time either now, will it?”
Emily looked at her aunt. She didn’t miss a thing. “It’s not
John’s. I haven’t been with him for . . . ”
“Well, now, you’ve got time for that. Sleep with him. Done. Safe.”
“I already did that.”
Mrs Marshall swallowed her ale. “But you still want rid?”
“I do.”
“All I will offer you is gin, a hot bath, and soap.”
“Here?”
“Of course, here. But I’m not going inside you with no
hooks. I’ve done that before and the last time . . . ”
“That’s OK. I don’t want bits of metal shoved up me nethers
either. So when?”
Mrs Marshall gathered all the pots, pans, and kettle she
had, “You fetch the bath. No time like the present.”
Mrs
Marshall shaved slivers of carbolic soap into a ceramic bowl. “Right,
while I’m doing this, you go up the pub and fetch two bottles of gin.”
“Two bottles?”
“Yep. Large ones.”
