Wartime Wife Read Online Free Page A

couldn’t help hesitating. Her visitor didn’t look rich enough to possess such a fine cloth and she didn’t entirely believe it to be a gift. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so.
    Seeing her hesitation and guessing at the reason, Nellie Riley made a smacking sound with her lips and went on to explain. ‘It belonged to a lady’s maid up in Clifton. She ’ad a problem, you see. The master of the ’ouse was a bit too free and easy with her. Poor cow was beside ’erself and the dirty old sod denied all knowledge. Threatened to throw ’er out on the streets if she kept on accusing ’im. Wouldn’t pay a penny towards what ’ad to be done, so me dear, I took payment in kind plus five shillings he finally gave her when she threatened to tell ’is wife. But just look at it! What in the name of the Blessed Virgin am I going to do with a white tablecloth that size in my place in Old Market? It’s big enough to cover me place twice over. And it’s a shame to waste it, though it’s not that I’m that ’ard up, but seein’ as I don’t have no use for it…’
    Mary Anne fingered the soft whiteness while fighting the urge to bury her face in the crisply beautiful fabric, just like her own washing after a day of blowing in a stiff breeze. The prospect of turning a shilling couldn’t be overlooked, though there was nothing to gain by appearing too keen.
    She decided that Mrs Riley was as hard up as anyone and would do anything for an extra shilling; hence the damask cloth … and the dark liquid in the small brown bottle.
    Mary Anne pushed her personal worries to the back of her mind, hid how she really felt about the tablecloth and adopted the shrewdness for which she was famous thereabouts. ‘I can’t give you much.’
    ‘I’ll trust you to give me what it’s worth, and if you don’t then I can take it down Uncle Bob’s.’
    ‘Uncle Bob’s dead,’ said Mary Anne, referring to the foreign owner of the proper pawnbroker’s at the bottom of Bottle Lane off East Street where the three ball sign swung above a lopsided door. She didn’t know what his real name was. Everyone called him ‘Uncle Bob’. ‘His shop’s closed until one of his family takes over. I hear it’s a family member from abroad.’
    Mrs Riley made the sign of the cross over her scrawny breasts. ‘God rest his soul, poor heathen that he was. It won’t be easy for them to come quickly, foreign as they are. Polish or some such like and still over in them parts. There is a war on, though saying that, I can’t be waiting until someone turns up and I knew of your reputation. I know you won’t fleece me. Besides, who knows … if the syrup don’t work, you may be needing some closer attention so a bit of generosity won’t go amiss.’
    Mary Anne stiffened at the thought of the same needle that knitted a woolly hat or gloves also being used to terminate a pregnancy. She’d go down on her knees before sleeping tonight and pray the contents of the brown bottle worked. It took a lot of effort, but she swallowed her revulsion.
    ‘Five shillings,’ she murmured, taking her notebook and pencil from its home beneath the boiler. ‘I’ll need your details for my register.’
    ‘If you could hurry. It’s almost six.’
    Mary Anne jerked up from what she was writing. ‘Six? It can’t be!’
    It was, and her shrewdness turned to panic as a sudden hammering echoed through the house and out into the backyard.
    Mrs Riley nodded squirrel-like at the crack in the door towards the back of the house.
    ‘Sounds like yer old man’s home. Been down the Red Cow no doubt and now wantin’ feedin’.’
    Mary Anne bristled and pursed her lips. Henry was her problem. She wanted to say ‘Mind your own business,’ but she wanted Mrs Riley to leave and quickly. ‘Here’s your receipt.’
    A slim slip torn from the bottom of the notebook, the bottom corner numbered to coincide with the top corner, was swiftly exchanged for the five