her doorway.
There was something about that woman that made Bridget nervous. The girls she’d call names at any time, but Winnie was a different matter.
Despite the way she limped, she had handsome features and an imposing presence. For a start she was a good six inches taller than Bridget.
They held each other’s challenging gaze. It was Bridget who buckled and asked Winnie how she was.
Winnie said she was fine.
Hatred boiled like a suet pudding in Bridget’s mind, a pudding that had boiled since that bastard Joseph Brodie ditched her for a foreigner from Naples.
Wrapping her arms across her pancake breasts, Bridget crossed the road, a devious and potentially lucrative plan forming in her mind.
The fact that Winnie was regarding her with contempt went unnoticed. All that mattered was getting her final revenge on the Italian whore and her daughter. And what better revenge was there than to make the girl a whore?
She adopted all the charm she possessed.
‘Winnie. If you would like to come over to my place, there’s a little business I’d like to discuss in private.’
Winnie was disinclined to enter the scruffy little house on the other side of the street. Still less was she inclined to discuss business with this disgusting wreck of a woman.
Women that knew Winnie professed that she could read people like books, and as it was with books, she liked some but was unimpressed with others. Bridget Brodie fitted into the latter category.
She nodded. ‘Lead on.’
Bridget, that boiling pudding of an idea spurting steam in all directions, almost skipped across the road.
Once Winnie was inside, she closed the door though didn’t stray too far from it.
Winnie’s gaze swept over the poor furnishings, the smoky fire, the attempts by someone to prettify the place with homemade paper flowers gathered in a plain clay pot.
‘It’s about Magda,’ hissed Bridget, the pupils of her eyes resembling the heart-of-glass marbles. ‘She’s of an age to go out and make a living and being the daughter of a whore – an Italian whore as a matter of fact – I think the best place for her is with you. For a price. Of course.’
Bridget did not possess the perceptiveness of her neighbour from across the road, so she could neither notice nor evaluate the cold, hard look Winnie was giving her.
‘And what does your niece think of the idea, Mrs Brodie?’
‘Call me Bridget.’
Winnie decided to do no such thing.
‘Is she willing?’
‘Oh, I dare say you can beat the willingness into her. What else is a girl like her to do with her life? All she has are her looks and the wantonness passed down from her mother.’
Bridget paused.
The moment she saw that pink tongue lick over those yellow teeth, Winnie knew what she was going to say next.
‘As with all apprentices, I take it there will be an indenture to pay. As I’m her next of kin, I would be the one to hold that indenture – in safekeeping you might say.’
In times past when Reuben had controlled her life, Winnie might have agreed to the plan. As it was she had of late been nostalgic and regretful about that time. If only her daughter had lived. If only Reuben hadn’t been the man he was. If only the doctor hadn’t refused to come – except for an exorbitant fee.
So many ‘ifs’ she thought. So many things that might have been.
In her dreams she saw the young woman that her daughter would have grown into. Dark haired, flashing eyes – perhaps grey eyes – like her own.
Magda was so like her.
‘Mrs Brodie …’
‘Bridget.’
‘Mrs Brodie. I hear what you say, but I find it difficult to understand. You are offering me a member of your family into a life that is – for those of us who take it up – the start of a road to nowhere. It’s a hard, cruel life Mrs Brodie, yet you are willing to hand me Magda knowing full well what will happen to her; the softness, the youth hardened with experience into nothing more or less than a cynicism about
There was something about that woman that made Bridget nervous. The girls she’d call names at any time, but Winnie was a different matter.
Despite the way she limped, she had handsome features and an imposing presence. For a start she was a good six inches taller than Bridget.
They held each other’s challenging gaze. It was Bridget who buckled and asked Winnie how she was.
Winnie said she was fine.
Hatred boiled like a suet pudding in Bridget’s mind, a pudding that had boiled since that bastard Joseph Brodie ditched her for a foreigner from Naples.
Wrapping her arms across her pancake breasts, Bridget crossed the road, a devious and potentially lucrative plan forming in her mind.
The fact that Winnie was regarding her with contempt went unnoticed. All that mattered was getting her final revenge on the Italian whore and her daughter. And what better revenge was there than to make the girl a whore?
She adopted all the charm she possessed.
‘Winnie. If you would like to come over to my place, there’s a little business I’d like to discuss in private.’
Winnie was disinclined to enter the scruffy little house on the other side of the street. Still less was she inclined to discuss business with this disgusting wreck of a woman.
Women that knew Winnie professed that she could read people like books, and as it was with books, she liked some but was unimpressed with others. Bridget Brodie fitted into the latter category.
She nodded. ‘Lead on.’
Bridget, that boiling pudding of an idea spurting steam in all directions, almost skipped across the road.
Once Winnie was inside, she closed the door though didn’t stray too far from it.
Winnie’s gaze swept over the poor furnishings, the smoky fire, the attempts by someone to prettify the place with homemade paper flowers gathered in a plain clay pot.
‘It’s about Magda,’ hissed Bridget, the pupils of her eyes resembling the heart-of-glass marbles. ‘She’s of an age to go out and make a living and being the daughter of a whore – an Italian whore as a matter of fact – I think the best place for her is with you. For a price. Of course.’
Bridget did not possess the perceptiveness of her neighbour from across the road, so she could neither notice nor evaluate the cold, hard look Winnie was giving her.
‘And what does your niece think of the idea, Mrs Brodie?’
‘Call me Bridget.’
Winnie decided to do no such thing.
‘Is she willing?’
‘Oh, I dare say you can beat the willingness into her. What else is a girl like her to do with her life? All she has are her looks and the wantonness passed down from her mother.’
Bridget paused.
The moment she saw that pink tongue lick over those yellow teeth, Winnie knew what she was going to say next.
‘As with all apprentices, I take it there will be an indenture to pay. As I’m her next of kin, I would be the one to hold that indenture – in safekeeping you might say.’
In times past when Reuben had controlled her life, Winnie might have agreed to the plan. As it was she had of late been nostalgic and regretful about that time. If only her daughter had lived. If only Reuben hadn’t been the man he was. If only the doctor hadn’t refused to come – except for an exorbitant fee.
So many ‘ifs’ she thought. So many things that might have been.
In her dreams she saw the young woman that her daughter would have grown into. Dark haired, flashing eyes – perhaps grey eyes – like her own.
Magda was so like her.
‘Mrs Brodie …’
‘Bridget.’
‘Mrs Brodie. I hear what you say, but I find it difficult to understand. You are offering me a member of your family into a life that is – for those of us who take it up – the start of a road to nowhere. It’s a hard, cruel life Mrs Brodie, yet you are willing to hand me Magda knowing full well what will happen to her; the softness, the youth hardened with experience into nothing more or less than a cynicism about
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