Mrs. Engels by Gavin McCrea

you: smiling.
    â€œBut I’ve seen a man,” she says, “I’ve seen a man coming in and out.”
    â€œYou have?”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Burns, a man.”
    â€œOh, aye. Now that I think of it, there’s a man who lives here.”
    â€œBut he’s not Mr. Burns?”
    â€œNay, he’s not Mr. Burns.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œOh!”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œWho is he, then?”
    â€œHe’s Mr. Engels.”
    â€œMr. Angles ?”
    â€œEngels. Mr. Engels.”
    â€œIs he here now, this Mr. Engels?”
    â€œNay, he’s away from the house on business.”
    â€œAnd who is he? A lodger?”
    â€œNay, not a bit of a lodger.”
    Westpot simpers, understanding. “You’re not married, are you, Mrs. Burns?”
    â€œHe’s my husband, I just haven’t taken his name.”
    â€œYou can’t take a man’s name unless you’re wedded to him.” She turns to the others. “She’s not married.”
    â€œI’m his helpmeet is what, Mrs. Westpot.”
    â€œYou’re his—?”
    â€œShe said helpmeet. ”
    â€œShh, ladies, let’s try not to be rude.”
    They suck themselves in. Leech’s stays creak. Halls, so fascinated by the proceedings, forgets herself and takes up a slice of cake. Her eyes darting around for the next move, she feeds the whole thing in.
    â€œMrs. Burns,” says Westpot, “if you don’t mind me asking—” She hesitates.
    I meet her gander full force. I’ve naught to hide from no one. “Aye, Mrs. Westpot?”
    â€œWhat I was going to ask was, what business is Mr.—?”
    â€œAh!” Halls lets out a splutter, and now a gullet-bursting cough, and now the contents of her gob drops out— pat! —onto her lap. “Pepper!” she yelps. “There’s pepper on the cake!”
    Pumps—I could hear her ear scratch against the door the whole time and now I know why—shimmies in, calm as a cucumber. “You all right, ma’am?” she says. “Can I help you there?” She walks around, positions herself behind Halls, and serves out four slugs to her back.
    Stunned, I watch the scene, the perfect horror of it. And I’m still sat here, unable to move, while the women file out, crinolines crumpled, bunches bounced; and still now while Pumps fettles up the tea things.
    â€œThose were some bitches,” she murmurs to herself as she makes a pile of the plates. “They got what was coming.”
    Her behavior is a credit to those who brought her up. For she was raised in thoughtlessness. Reared to be someone who’d have none of the advantages. Just one more of the poor tattery children of Little Ireland. Like all of us, she would’ve seen much brutality within the circle. A crooked look would’ve caught her a larruping at the hands of her slack-spined father and rag-and-scram brothers. Her face and the bent of her back bear the marks of this ill usage. I can’t blame her for feeling angry and wanting to defy the laws of the wide world. I’ve been her. I am her.
    My punishment, so, is not the belt or the starvation. Nor is it the water pump or the locked door. Rather, it’s the needle.
    â€œCome and help me with the stitching,” I says to her. “Come, please, and salvage my efforts.”
    And she comes. And she looks at my work: a bundle of botched and broken thread like a wild shrub. And she bursts out. And I can’t help but join her. We hang off each other now and laugh till we’re sick.

X. A Free Education
    I’m not clever with the needle. I can’t keep my mind full on it. When it comes time for it—this hour after lunch is the usual, though I’m told some ladies can’t stop and have to have it torn from them at bedtime as a babby from the breast—but, aye, when the lunch is cleared and way is made for the buttons and patches, I’m