Wartime Wife Read Online Free
Author: Lizzie Lane
luck, she should make that amount up within the next week or so with a few hocked items from women wanting to give theirmen a good send-off, or provide extra winter clothes before the war economy really started to bite. And even if she didn’t … well … the final outcome had to be worth it … if it worked, that is.
Mrs Riley spat on the pound notes before folding them in quarters and sliding them into the large bag she carried. Mary Anne tried to avoid studying the bag, but its purpose drew her more so than its details. Made of thick tapestry fabric with wooden handles heavily soiled with sweat and other stains she didn’t want to think about, the base bulged with what could have been balls of wool. The tip of a bone knitting needle pierced the tight bud of a stylised square rose. Along with the brown bottle, the needle was one of the tools of Mrs Riley’s trade.
‘Will it work?’ Mary Anne asked, carefully averting her eyes from the tip of the knitting needle. She wasn’t a fool and knew well what else it was used for. Pray God she wouldn’t need it to end her predicament.
Mrs Riley, infamous for helping women out when they were in that ‘certain’ predicament, jerked her chin high and nodded like a braying donkey. ‘Oh aye. A dollop in the morning, a dollop at noon and a dollop at night should shift it, me darling. There’s a good bit of Penny Royal in that, liquorice, senna and some old gypsy herbs that you wouldn’t know about.’
Mary Anne felt her stomach tightening as she nodded an acknowledgement. Her mouth was too dry for words. Penny Royal was one of the best things going for passing the unwanted from the body. It hadn’t worked so far, but perhaps the secret gypsy herbs might make a difference. Despite the feelings of guilt and shame, it was something she had to do. You’re too old to be expecting, she’d told herself after two months’ bleeding had been missed. A third month and the old familiar feelings of bloat, painful breasts and instinct confirmed that she was.
The liquid in the bottle glugged and gurgled as she rolled it around in her palm. Her thoughts were so involved with her ‘little problem’ that she hardly noticed the Riley woman was slow in leaving.
‘There’s one other thing before I go,’ Mrs Riley said, sniffing back a nostril of snuff while delving into the depths of her copious bag. ‘What will you give me on this?’
A snow-white tablecloth shone like the moon in the dim coldness of the washhouse.
Mary Anne’s eyes widened as she fingered the gleaming fabric as a thought came to her. The whiteness was dazzling; too white for the likes of Mrs Riley to have laundered and ironed.
‘It’s damask. Where did you get it?’
Mrs Riley’s smile revealed yellow, irregular teeth in a face as round as a suet dumpling. ‘You could say it was a gift – for services rendered.’ Her grin widened. ‘Even the toffs need my services; they did in the past, and they will now we’re at war with Germany again. There’ll be a lot of women enjoying themselves too much, their men away fighting and the few left behind able and willing to do them a service. Women gets lonely being left trying to make do with what the rations allowed, and I ain’t just referring to the food. Sometimes they’re left with a little problem, so they call for old Mrs Riley. So there you are! Best damask there is. Will you give me five bob for it?’
Mary Anne couldn’t take her eyes off it. She imagined it covering her table with a Sunday tea laid out on best china. Five shillings! It was worth far more.
Only rarely did she hope that someone never came back for the item they’d hocked. She’d lent money against everything from a tanner for a tin of pre-war sardines to two pounds for a wedding ring. But this was an exception. Mary Anne loved thelook and feel of good quality linens – and five shillings was such a tiny pledge. It had to be worth more than that.
‘It’s very fine …’
She
Mrs Riley spat on the pound notes before folding them in quarters and sliding them into the large bag she carried. Mary Anne tried to avoid studying the bag, but its purpose drew her more so than its details. Made of thick tapestry fabric with wooden handles heavily soiled with sweat and other stains she didn’t want to think about, the base bulged with what could have been balls of wool. The tip of a bone knitting needle pierced the tight bud of a stylised square rose. Along with the brown bottle, the needle was one of the tools of Mrs Riley’s trade.
‘Will it work?’ Mary Anne asked, carefully averting her eyes from the tip of the knitting needle. She wasn’t a fool and knew well what else it was used for. Pray God she wouldn’t need it to end her predicament.
Mrs Riley, infamous for helping women out when they were in that ‘certain’ predicament, jerked her chin high and nodded like a braying donkey. ‘Oh aye. A dollop in the morning, a dollop at noon and a dollop at night should shift it, me darling. There’s a good bit of Penny Royal in that, liquorice, senna and some old gypsy herbs that you wouldn’t know about.’
Mary Anne felt her stomach tightening as she nodded an acknowledgement. Her mouth was too dry for words. Penny Royal was one of the best things going for passing the unwanted from the body. It hadn’t worked so far, but perhaps the secret gypsy herbs might make a difference. Despite the feelings of guilt and shame, it was something she had to do. You’re too old to be expecting, she’d told herself after two months’ bleeding had been missed. A third month and the old familiar feelings of bloat, painful breasts and instinct confirmed that she was.
The liquid in the bottle glugged and gurgled as she rolled it around in her palm. Her thoughts were so involved with her ‘little problem’ that she hardly noticed the Riley woman was slow in leaving.
‘There’s one other thing before I go,’ Mrs Riley said, sniffing back a nostril of snuff while delving into the depths of her copious bag. ‘What will you give me on this?’
A snow-white tablecloth shone like the moon in the dim coldness of the washhouse.
Mary Anne’s eyes widened as she fingered the gleaming fabric as a thought came to her. The whiteness was dazzling; too white for the likes of Mrs Riley to have laundered and ironed.
‘It’s damask. Where did you get it?’
Mrs Riley’s smile revealed yellow, irregular teeth in a face as round as a suet dumpling. ‘You could say it was a gift – for services rendered.’ Her grin widened. ‘Even the toffs need my services; they did in the past, and they will now we’re at war with Germany again. There’ll be a lot of women enjoying themselves too much, their men away fighting and the few left behind able and willing to do them a service. Women gets lonely being left trying to make do with what the rations allowed, and I ain’t just referring to the food. Sometimes they’re left with a little problem, so they call for old Mrs Riley. So there you are! Best damask there is. Will you give me five bob for it?’
Mary Anne couldn’t take her eyes off it. She imagined it covering her table with a Sunday tea laid out on best china. Five shillings! It was worth far more.
Only rarely did she hope that someone never came back for the item they’d hocked. She’d lent money against everything from a tanner for a tin of pre-war sardines to two pounds for a wedding ring. But this was an exception. Mary Anne loved thelook and feel of good quality linens – and five shillings was such a tiny pledge. It had to be worth more than that.
‘It’s very fine …’
She
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