Talk Vomit

By Heather D Haigh

Dabbing her eyes with the same kerchief at every funeral, the old fraud. Dressed in a fur-trimmed coat and gloves to match her name, to match her heart, some would say—depending how well they know her. She puts on a civilised front.  Course, I have to do the same. How low will I go?

Way down. Like Mr Rawson, just lowered into the frozen sod. 

Doctor Moray gives Mrs Black an arm to lean on. With his ratty little face—all points, whiskers, and beady eyes—he consults his prayer book like he gives a toss about God or the poor bastard they’re burying. 

I’m no better. They bought my soul when they gave me a way to keep a roof over my head. I wait on them and their so-called friends. Tend to their needs, like she taught me.

It was me that served tea in a gilt-trimmed china cup to Rawson. Me that slipped in the crystals. Me that stood witness while he keeled over, and the doctor called the undertaker and signed it all off as natural. 

Not that Rawson was any great loss—with his gaze that oggled where it shouldn’t and his hands that grabbed where they hadn’t been invited. Still, I never planned on being party to doing the old goat in. It had something to do with the papers Mrs Black got him to sign, but I asked no questions.

Like I ask nothing about the strange plants Mrs Black grows in her garden, nor about the cherry pips she gets me to dry in the cooling oven then grind in a pestle and mortar, nor about the white powder she tells me to put down for the rats—and keep some aside.

Like I never ask about the visitors who waste away before my eyes while she comforts them with another brew, and the doctor prescribes another tonic. Nor about the ones who become right agitated, pacing the floor, eyes glassy, arms and legs stiff as wooden Bobbies. Not my job. Doctor Moray’s on hand, after all.

You’d think I’d hate the pair of them. But I can’t bring myself to. Not since they gave me extra hours. Lord knows, I need the money, and the work’s a change. Not just up at the big house anymore, but in a long low brick building, marred with soot—tucked away down Little Lane. Behind the knacker’s yard and The One-Eyed Mare – old coaching inn that’s more of a sawdust and gin place now. Sells a good pumped ginger beer, too.

I’d never seen so many brats. Didn’t know there were that many orphans in England. The place stinks of boiled cabbage, custard and disinfectant. Disinfectant especially in the hospital wing. Full of white-faced, pencil-thin, clammy little kids coughing up their guts. 

Doctor Moray says they’re lucky to have lasted this long. Thanks in part to Mr Rawson’s recent donation. They engraved his name on a plaque that’s going up on the wall along with the all other benefactors that Mrs Black’s charmed along the way. 

There’s a wee ginger-mopped lad, goes by the name of Tommy. He’s strong enough to go back to the main huts now and he’s to play out with the other bairns. Doctor says he needs to work on running about and filling his lungs. Tommy’s right glad to be leaving that hospital wing on his own two legs, even if they are a bit wobbly.

Mrs Black’s getting tired now. Slips off the mourning veil, revealing the bloodless crepe of her face, runs trembling fingers through the smoky wisps on her head—shorn after an outbreak of lice. Gives me a self-conscious half-smile, ‘Never could stand vermin.’ 

She drops the scrap of black lace into my waiting hand.

END

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