A Cuppa Tea and an Aspirin by Helen Forrester

on the mantelpiece and the equally well-polished brass fire irons in the whitened hearth, not to speak of the worn green velvet chair on the other side of the hearth. It was a room beautiful enough to dream about.
    She must, she realised, be in the O’Reillys’ living room, which she knew lay behind the windowed door at the back of the counter. The window was always discreetly lace-curtained so that people in the shop could not see into the living room, butthe O’Reillys could see if anyone had entered the shop.
    Suddenly she wanted to cry. Two big tears slid slowly down her face to join the cold water already there.
    John O’Reilly slipped between her and the hearth. He had a big brown teapot in one hand which he filled from the boiling kettle.
    â€˜There now,’ he said, and she heard the plunking sound of his putting the teapot down somewhere behind her.
    The wet cloth was removed from her forehead, and Annie said in an anxious hiss, ‘John, take this out and throw it in the yard – lice.’
    The humiliation of the remark made Martha’s tears run a little faster. Who didn’t have lice? No matter how much you used Mary Margaret’s lice comb, the wretched insects were there again in a day or two. And who could afford to waste paraffin by rubbing it in your hair, to really kill them?
    Annie O’Reilly came into focus. She held a mug of tea in one hand and a couple of biscuits in the other. Martha looked at her through tear-filled eyes.
    â€˜There, there, Mrs Connolly. Don’t take on so. You just fainted, that’s all. You’ll be all right in a minute. Now, have a sip of tea. I’ll hold the cup foryou.’ Careful not to touch her guest’s shawl, Annie O’Reilly tipped the mug gently against Martha’s lips.
    Martha dutifully sipped.
    It was marvellous tea. Strong, with plenty of milk and lots of sugar. She tried to steady the mug herself, as she drank eagerly. When it was emptied, she said, ‘Thank you, Annie. It were lovely.’
    Annie’s shrewd little blue eyes weighed up her patient, and she said with real kindness, ‘Take these bickies, while I pour you another.’
    While Martha smiled slightly and then stuffed both biscuits into her mouth, her hostess went to get the promised second cup of tea.
    Martha leaned back in the chair. Her own unadmitted hunger welled up in a tremendous pain inside her. For the moment, it outweighed her fear at having nothing for Patrick’s or Brian’s breakfast, and her awful apprehension that little Number Nine could die very easily if he did not have, at least, some more milk. He and the other children must be fed somehow, even if she had to steal from the very people who were being so good to her.
    When Mrs O’Reilly returned with another cup of tea and a plate holding two big slabs of stale bread and margarine, Martha felt very guilty at her sinful thought of theft.
    Annie O’Reilly said to Martha, almost apologetically, ‘I thought you ought to eat something solid before you face the cold again.’
    Martha looked at the offering on the plate. Her first instinct was to say with pride that she really did not need it.
    But I do, I do, she cried inwardly. I can’t bear it any more – and, somehow, Annie has sensed it.
    Humbly she mumbled thanks and took the plate from her.
    Annie watched, fascinated, as Martha broke the slices of bread and crammed them into her mouth with both hands. The woman must be starving.
    As, with her toothless gums, she ground up the last piece, Martha said apologetically, ‘Ta ever so. I was fair clemmed. It’s been a long day.’
    Annie smiled slightly. Hunger and cold at the same time was something she remembered suffering in her own childhood, after her father had been called up for the Great War: it had been a while before her mother could find a job with a living wage. But she had never been physically filthy as the women in Court