Maureen JENNINGS - Under the Dragon’s Tail

Yet another yawn rippled up his throat. The morning had been quiet and the only report he’d had to do was complete. A cabbie was charged with galloping his horse along Queen Street. He said he hadn’t, that the horse had got the bit between his teeth, but two witnesses swore they’d heard him crack his whip. The case would go before the courts.

There was a tap on the wall outside the cubicle. Because the space was so small he’d done without a door and the entrance was hung with a reed curtain. He could see the outline of Constable George Crabtree looming on the other side.

“Yes?”

Crabtree pushed aside the clacking strips.

“There are two ragamuffins out front, sir, with some story about their mother being dead. They can’t rouse her they say.”

“Dead drunk?”

“It’s possible, sir, but they do seem quite as cared. Say she’s gone stiff.”

Murdoch stood up, welcoming the diversion.

Number-four police station was not the largest or busiest in the city but it maintained law and order over a diversified area. To the west and north were gracious homes on wide, tree-lined streets such as Church and Gerrard. To the east and south were run-down row houses, workmen’s cottages, small businesses, and manufacturers’ properties. Most of the crimes that elicited charges were for petty theft or drunk and disorderly conduct. Without exception these misdemeanours occurred in the east side.

Murdoch followed Crabtree to the main hall of the station. A high counter divided the room in half, on one side the upholders of the law, on the other their uneasy charges. Two boys were sitting close together on the wooden bench that ran around the far side of the room. They were barefoot and dirty.

“Hello, young masters, what’s the problem?” Murdoch asked.

“She’s dead, sir, stone dead.” The older boy who spoke was scrawny, smelly, and ill-dressed. His eyes were badly crossed and this inability to meet a direct gaze made him seem shifty. His words tumbled out. “She didn’t get up in the morning, see. No sign of her. I thought she might just be feeling under the weather so I took her in some tea. There she was on the floor, stiff as a poker.”

“Hold on. Who’re you talking about? Who’s dead?”

“Our mother, Mrs. Dolly Shaw. You’d better come see, sir.”

“Where is she?”

“In the parlour. She’s stiff as a board,” he said again.

“Your mother, you say?”

“She’s not really our mother, I mean not blood, but we’ve always bin with her, haven’t we, Freddie?”

He nudged his companion, who nodded vigorously. This boy was a quadroon, with dusky skin and light brown curly hair, very tangled. He kept his eyes to the ground except for quick anxious glances at his companion.

“And what’s your relationship to each other?”

The older one looked puzzled. “I dunno, sir. I suppose we’re brothers.”

Murdoch didn’t think that was biologically possible given how different they looked, but he didn’t comment. He took out his notebook and pencil from his pocket.

“We’ll come take a look. Where do you live?”

“Over on River Street, corner of Wilton. Number one-thirty-one.”

“Your names?”

“I’m George Tucker, this is Alfred Locke.”

Murdoch squatted down in front of the quadroon boy.

“Cat got your tongue, Alfred?”

He shook his head, shrinking back into the bench.

Murdoch straightened up.

“Let’s go and see what’s up, Crabtree.”

“Shall I fetch the coroner, sir?”

“Not yet. We’d better find out what’s happened first. I’ll ride on ahead on my wheel. You bring the boys.”

“Please, sir, can we come with you? We can run real fast, can’t we, Freddie?”

Murdoch gazed at their worried faces and relented.

“All right. Come on. But I warn you I’m a scorcher.”

They both smiled a bit.

In spite of what the boy had said, Murdoch had doubts that the woman was really dead. More likely passed out from too much jackey.

Annie could hear her sister moving about in the next room and she opened her eyes reluctantly. Sleep was a warm cocoon she wanted to stay in, and as consciousness returned the memory of the previous night inched closer like a poisonous spider that had been waiting for her to move.

She sat up, squinting her eyes against the bright sun trying to squeeze around the edges of the old velvet curtains at the window. There was a band of dull pain pressing behind her eyes.

“Mildred? Millie? What are you doing?”

Her sister answered from the kitchen. “I’m making tea.”

“Good. I could do with that.”

“There isn’t enough for two.”

Selfish tit, thought Annie.

“I don’t mind if it’s weak. Add more water.”

Tentatively she swung her legs out of bed and waited, testing the level of pain in her head. A whet would be far better than a spot of cat-pee tea but there wasn’t any. She had finished the bottle last night when she got home. She’d sat in the dark kitchen while Millie snored softly in the bed. She would have drunk herself into oblivion if there’d been enough gin but there wasn’t.

Moving slowly, she pulled the chamber out from under the bed and squatted. Millie came in carrying a tin tray. She didn’t look at Annie but plunked the tray on top of the washstand, pushing aside her sister’s stays, which were draped there.

“Tea’s finished, so’s the bread.”

“Can’t you–”

“No. There’s no more tick.”

Her face was sullen and Annie could feel her own anger rising. Ungrateful bint. She got up from the pot and Millie handed her one of the cracked cups, took the other, and sat on the one chair by the bed. Annie inspected her cup, half-filled with insipid tea, held it in both hands, and took a cautious sip.

“Ugh, what’d you do, wave a tea leaf at it?”

“Don’t drink it if you don’t like it.”

“What’s up with you?”

“It’d be nice for once to have a bit of money. You took all of it.”

“Sod it, Millie, I had to pay for the medicine, didn’t I?”

“What medicine?”

“What medicine? My ear lugs must be plugged up.”

She put down her cup, and opened the drawer of the washstand.

“Here.” She thrust a brown paper bag at Millie.

Reluctantly Millie opened it.

“What is it?”

“Those are special herbs.”

“Where from?”

“A woman of my acquaintance.”

“How d’you know they’ll work?”

“They will, believe me.”

For the first time, Millie looked directly at her sister, caught by her tone.

Annie shrugged. “Never mind that now. Come on. No sense in dawdling. You have to stew the whole lot in boiling water for half an hour, then you drink two cups every two hours until – well, until it works.”

Millie put the bag on the washstand and averted her head.

“I’m not going to do it.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m not going to do it.’ Do we have a choice, my lady?”

Her sister began to weep, sniffy infuriating cries.

“I want to keep the baby.”

“Then what? You’ve already bin warned. One more day off and you’ll get canned.”

“I was sick. I couldn’t help it.”

“And when the kid’s sick and can’t help it, do you think the boss’ll understand? Bloody hell, Millie, you’re a nickel girl, if that. They won’t hold no job for you. And don’t think you can count on me to watch the squawler.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t consider it.”

“What then?”

Millie swallowed hard.

“I could put it up for adoption. There are lots of decent people who haven’t been able to have a baby of their own. Rich people.”

Annie slapped her hard across the face and Millie screamed out.