Jam and Roses by Mary Gibson

playing alley gobs, and set off up Arnold’s Place, towards Dockhead, vaguely aware of Ronnie Rockle and Barrel falling in behind her. She registered Rosie and Mrs Knight poking their heads out from their doors as she passed, and thought she heard them call a warning, but nothing could distract her from the slow burning rage which had begun to rise from the pit of her stomach and was now grabbing at her chest. Her breath came in shorter gasps and by the time she passed Holy Trinity Church, the rage had reached her throat. She glanced at people going in for confession; she would not be joining them today. A couple of nuns from the convent came towards her, habits flapping in the sharp breeze, like two black-winged crows. They smiled at her. They’d once been her teachers, the ones she’d made nightgowns for in sewing lessons. But she looked through them without acknowledgement, darting suddenly across the road, narrowly missing a tram, then turning right towards the Swan and Sugarloaf.
    There was a pub on every corner at Dockhead; the old man had plenty of choice, but the Swan was his favourite. The pub was now heavily cloaked in river mist. Milly blinked, but her eyes wouldn’t clear. It was as if the mist had seeped behind her eyes and, almost unseeing, she gripped the brass handle, flinging open the pub door.
    It was a smoke-filled, beery cavern, packed with men in flat caps, who were already well into the Saturday ritual of drinking away their week’s wages. None of them interrupted their drinking to turn round. She stood in the doorway, letting the freezing wind that whipped up from the river blast its way into the warm fug.
    ‘Put some wood in the bloody ’ole!’ a young man barked, glaring at her.
    When she continued to hold the door open, more and more faces turned towards her. She recognized some of the men she’d travelled to Kent with, on Pat’s lorry. There was Sid, and Harry, reaching up for the pint on top of his piano. Then she spotted the old man, his back towards her, holding a pint of bitter. He was loudly recounting some joke, surrounded by mates from the tannery. She was struck by how jovial and carefree he seemed. None of her mother’s pain had touched him. His features, though bloodshot and drink-befuddled, lacked their domestic scowl; he could almost be taken for an amiable man. It was his laughter, the laughter she never heard at home, that finally caused her building rage to burst free.
    ‘You bastard, get out here!’ she roared at him. Now every head snapped round. Pints halted mid-sip, conversations stopped and mouths opened. He was almost the last to turn. A look of bewilderment changed, chameleon-like, to embarrassment, as a purple blush suffused his face.
    ‘What the fuck d’you want?’ he slurred, turning unsteadily to face her.
    She didn’t answer. Instead, using his drunken surprise to her advantage, she charged, barrelling through the crowd. Men jumped out of her path, beer spilled over her, as, head down, she launched herself straight for his midriff. She had grown taller than he was in the last year and was much quicker on her feet. His glass crashed to the floor as he doubled over, winded, gasping for breath. She bent her knees, bringing up her fist as she did so, to connect with his jaw in a satisfying crack that sent him spinning.
    ‘You ever...’ she grabbed his jacket, spun herself round like a discus thrower and using muscles built up hauling seven-pound jam jars, flung him towards the door, ‘hit my mother...’ and he sprawled flat on the beery sawdust as she aimed a kick at his backside, ‘again...’ His head cracked the edge of the door. ‘An’ I’ll kill you!’
    She brought her booted foot up under his midriff, sending him clean through the door and out into the street. Her breath came like a serrated blade, in jagged bursts, as she bent forward, hands on thighs. Almost spent, she became aware of the crowd surrounding her on the pavement, some cheering her