Free Down Weaver's Lane by Anna Jacobs Page A

herself humming as she hemmed one of the dresses, then sent Emmy upstairs with a jug of warm water to wash and change. Afterwards she showed her helper what needed doing, but by noon she was tired, so easily did she run out of energy nowadays, and had to rest quietly on the sofa while the child bustled around the house, working steadily and only needing to be told once how to do a task.
    As the afternoon wore on and the shadows lengthened across the street, Tibby said reluctantly, ‘I think you’d better go home now, dear. You can keep the dress. I’ll finish shortening the hem of the other one for you tomorrow.’
    Emmy hesitated, looking down at herself. She had never owned clothing that was not stained and torn before and was tempted. But she knew what would happen if she took the dress home, so she shook her head. ‘I can change into it when I come in the mornings, ma’am. I’d rather not take anything home.’ She saw her new mistress looking puzzled and confessed, ‘I’m afraid my mother might pawn it if she needed money. She just takes the first thing that comes into her mind when she’s short.’ With a blush she added, because she knew already that this kind lady would not scorn her for it, ‘She drinks gin sometimes, you see, and then she can behave very foolishly.’
    ‘That must be hard for you, dear.’
    Emmy nodded. She hated even the smell of gin.
    ‘Very well. We’ll keep your things in the little bedroom at the back of the house and you can change into them every morning.’
    At the door Emmy hesitated then said in a rush, ‘I did enjoy myself today, Mrs Tibby. I hope I’ve given satisfaction.’
    ‘You have given me great satisfaction with your work and I’ve enjoyed your company, too.’
    In fact, the place felt quite empty when the door closed behind Emmy. And far too quiet. Tibby didn’t know who was doing the other the bigger favour, she or Emmy, just that she had felt happy and useful today for the first time since her husband’s death.
     
    Two weeks later, George came round to see Madge late one night. He hammered on the door of their room and when Madge recognised his voice, she staggered across to open the door to him, still fuddled by the gin she’d drunk after her last visitor had left.
    Emmy rolled out of bed at the first sound of his voice and slipped on her dress, grabbing a shawl and blanket ready to go and sit on the stairs, It had been a cold wet day, for all it was June, and she could not help shivering. She tried to slip past George, but he laughed and caught her, pawing at her.
    ‘She’s young and firm, Madge, and her titties are starting to grow,’ he taunted, and found himself suddenly attacked by feet, fists, nails, anything Madge could hit him with.
    For a moment he stood there in shock, then his expression turned nasty. But as Madge swung even more wildly, missed and sat down on the floor with a thump, his mood changed again and he threw back his head to roar with laughter. He went on for so long that someone in the room next door banged on the wall and yelled at them to shut up.
    ‘You look after your own, at least,’ he said, hauling Madge to her feet and pulling her into his arms. ‘I like that in a woman. No need to defend your cub against me, though. I have better things planned for her when she’s old enough, as I’ve told you.’
    Outside on the landing Emmy heard what he had said and shuddered, wrapping the blanket more closely around herself and leaning her head against the wall. She wished the stairs were not so draughty. And she’d rather tramp the roads than do that, especially now she’d experienced another sort of life.
    It seemed a very long time until he came out again, his clothing in some disarray now. He stared at her, frowning. ‘Have you nowhere better to go when your mother’s working?’
    Emmy shook her head, holding the blanket more tightly around herself.
    ‘What about that old woman you work for?’ he asked, swaying on his