Family Pryde

By Kimbell Vincent

From mayhem to moguls, FAMILY PRYDE is the gripping, action adventure of escape and banishment from civilized Britain into the wild heyday of American expansionism. Through peril at sea, the horrors of Fenian terrorism and the craze of empire building, this epic struggle recounts the exploits of Edmond Pryde who, desperate and daring, forged a new empire by sheer force of will. This is the sweeping saga of a generation, from the crucible of the Hoxton slums to the heights of American industrial domination. There is revenge, the passion of the dispossessed, and the victorious but bittersweet homecoming of the vanquished. Throughout, this is the legacy of nation builders at their best. It is the vital quest that has made America great.

As you promised, this novel is amazing. I could not put it down. I would love to have the rest of your work. Your prose is exquisite and the story is gripping. I think you’ve done a great job. You have my highest, highest, highest recommendation. It’s very nice to meet someone who has written a terrific book.
Patricia Burke, InkWell Management.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kimbell Vincent
• Release date: Jan 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465885586

Kimbell Vincent

By age 16 Kim Vincent was captivated by the metaphysical. This fascination is still with him and shows up in his eight books. In his 30’s he was hosting home discussion groups and playing the organ in two different churches. By age 40 he had one of the largest collection of metaphysical books in Canada and had developed a 160 acre spiritual retreat which was attended by folks from all over the world. At the same time he organized university seminars and was featured on various radio shows and hosted a 33 week television series entitled “This Psychic World.” It was then that an editor from Doubleday came across some of his lecture papers and asked him to write an encyclopedia on parapsychology. That was almost 30 years ago. Once hooked, he has been writing ever since, during which time he had a construction business, a land development company, an architectural design practice, a vinyl window factory and a pewter foundry. The encyclopedia, updated and in a more popular style, is now available under the title GETTING REAL. A few years ago Kim was injured in a construction accident and is now confined to a wheelchair. According to Kim: “Things have not been dull. If I’ve got it figured right, I’m now on my third life, doing what I love most.”

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Eddie Deboss glanced furtively about the room. Then, certain no one was watching him, he marched his fingers across the newspaper on his mother’s lap. It was the London Illustrated News, dated 14 October 1862, a month old. Nearing the soggy patch at the center, his fingers curled as he prepared to pounce on the last piece of fish. He slightly winced as he gave his mother a fleeting look, seeking confirmation that she really didn’t want her share of the supper.

Charlotte’s eyes were half-closed.

Still unsure, Eddie nudged the piece of fish and watched it roll sideways, flaking apart on a black-on-white daguerreotype.

Suddenly, as if coming out of hiding, the face of a man leapt from the page.

Charlotte’s head slammed into the iron bed frame as she straight-armed herself, trembling with shock.

No, she gasped, It cannot be!

Her body began to shake, but her eyes never left the likeness.

The caption read: Messers Pettiwink, Potter and Fairchild are pleased to announce the appointment of Edmund N. Pryde to the …

It was Edmund Pryde all right, the poor likeliness of him made real by the mute, detached stare from the newspaper.

Eddie looked at his mother, his head askance. She was breathing funny, a kind of huffing sound. For a moment Eddie wondered if she had been trying to say something. Then his attention shifted to the hallway. Millie would be back soon. His mouth watered. Now! his mind commanded. Do it now, before it’s too late.

Eddie snatched the piece of fish and was about to cram it into his mouth when he stopped short, impaled by the wild shock in his mother’s eyes. Half-heartedly, he held the fish out to her, more aware than ever of the moist, warmth in his hand.

You really want it? he asked, weakly.

No response.

You sure? Eddie swallowed hard.

Blink.

That was answer enough. Eddie’s fleeting smile of gratitude ended with bulging cheeks. He stuffed his mouth to capacity, all the while keeping an eye on the door left ajar. If Millie caught him now she would make him spit it out. It had happened before. With jaws aching and his innards churning, Eddie gobbled the fish down, not a second to waste. Upon the last gulp he sighed raggedly, then his shoulders slumped as he rubbed his stomach. It hurt. But, then, it always did. Cramps were a part of life when there was never enough to eat. At age twelve and big for his age, Eddie’s appetite was insatiable.

Soon he was licking his fingers, carefully, one by one, without having to hurry anymore. That was the best part. Until then, he had little idea what the fish even tasted like. That done, he returned his attention to the newspaper and began searching out the crumbs that clung to the damp spot where the fish had been wrapped. Boiled hake.

Only minutes before he had bounded in from the cold, as if trying to outrun the perpetual drizzle turned to sleet. Exuberant, his voice too loud, he had announced: Ol’ man Hubbins says it’s fresh this morning. And the News is what we ain’t seen yet.

On her way to the privy, Millie met Eddie at the door to the flat. She sniffed the paper bundle, wrinkled her nose, poked around a bit with a pinky finger hooked in the air and withdrew the largest piece. Then, without comment, she squeezed past Eddie and shuffled down the unlit corridor, the heels of her slippers slapping the uneven floor.

Old man Hubbins made his rounds about the same time every night. And every night, with the approach of dusk, Eddie would listen for the creak of his barrow, already imagining the aroma of the steaming cauldrons and the old man’s cry: Flounder. Haddock. Yarmouth herring. Three for a penny. At which point Eddie would jump up, eager for the coin that Millie would dole out with a long face.

Typically, the first question put to the costermonger had nothing to do with his wares: Is it the Times or the News?

Hubbins never failed to rise to the occasion. Feigning uncertainty, he would reply: Well now, I’ll ‘ave to ‘ave a see, won’t I? Whereupon he would make a show of sorting through the racks below his stove on wheels, the vapors from the bubbling pots closing over him as he bent down. Finally, rising with a sheet of newsprint in hand, he would always pose the same question: An’ ‘ow hungry might ye be?

Mitten on hand, with fingers sticking through, Eddie would proffer his meager change.

Aha! Hubbins preened, Tis hungry ye are for sure. Here then, will the News do?

The Times had few pictures. Sometimes, when the fish was wrapped in a copy of Punch, they would guess at the captions under the cartoons. But, most of all, they preferred the London Illustrated News. Everyone did. Most of the East End residents were unable to read or write and the pictures provided welcome respite for those who had forgotten how to use their imagination as a means of escape. Accordingly, a goodly supply of the News – no matter how out of date – assured Hubbins of many satisfied customers. It didn’t matter that the people were tired of the unvaried diet: they had no choice. Ever since the Rinderpest Plague that wiped out most of England’s livestock, the price of a joint was prohibitively high. So they had to settle for whatever the North Atlantic was willing to cough up: eel one day, sole the next, or whatever, just so long as it came wrapped right.

Eddie dabbed at the crumbs. His arm moving like a crane between the damp blotch and his mouth. Charlotte gazed on, her dilated pupils like black buttons, her mouth forming unintelligible words.

She whispered: Eddie, it’s him Eddie. Really it is! I couldn’t lie about a thing like this. Eddie, listen to me.

She had been like this for days. Nearly out of her mind, most of her conversations were garbled. The only real evidence that her brain continued to function was the occasional frantic look in her eyes, like now. They were the eyes of madness, her moments of true lucidity having become fleeting, uncertain things, as if her spirit was playing in-and-out-the-windows with her failing body.

Charlotte Deboss was dying.

She had been bedridden for a week now, ever since getting a coat-hanger stuck inside of herself. It had always worked before, but not this time. She had aborted all right, but she had hemorrhaged too. Much to Eddie’s dismay, there was blood everywhere, streaming down her legs, puddling where she stood in it wailing, and now in the bed where she lay in it, dying. Each day she grew weaker, her life-force ebbing. She appeared to get light-headed within the first few hours and then she slept a lot. After that she would roll her head back and forth on the pillow, fighting the need to sleep. I might never wake up, she exclaimed, terrified. On the third day she made a hysterical effort to tell Eddie, once again, all the things he needed to know. As always, she made him reiterate the promise she had extracted from him – had drilled into him – as a child.

Remember, Eddie, she said, for the thousandth time, You’re better than they are. You’re no common stock. Not you. And don’t you let nobody tell you different. You come from quality, you do. You even walk like your father, a true gentleman he was. So don’t you pay no attention to that other thing. You hear me? You promise to remember what your mom tells you. Right?

Charlotte often ended by asking: Right? But the reference to the other thing negated it. As far as Eddie was concerned nothing was right at all, even though they never talked about it unless Millie brought it up.

Charlotte grimaced, then sent a bony hand snaking across the coverlet. Eddie never saw it coming.

Yeow! he recoiled, but too late.

Charlotte had him by the arm, her jagged fingernails digging in like talons.

I was hungry, Eddie blurted.

Charlotte’s finger nails went deeper, puncturing the skin above his wrist.

Instinctively, Eddie ceased to struggle.

Spittle drooled down her chin. Old before her time, Charlotte was haggard and gaunt, her mouth quivering, her pallid lips shaping the words he had to hear. The clamp on his arm tightened.

Eddie, she whispered, hoarsely, frantic now: It’s him!

Her eyes rotated upwards, curling into the edges of her brain. The grip on Eddie’s arm relaxed. He yanked himself free and slid down the side of the bed, crouching out of reach.

You hurt me, he declared, flatly, rubbing his arm.

He held his arm up for inspection as a slight trickle of blood ran down to the elbow. He dabbed at it, inquisitiveness overcoming the pain. He was about to touch his finger to his tongue when Charlotte began breathing funny again. Her chest rose higher and higher, only to collapse with a rattle. A temple muscle was twitching.

You all right, mom? Eddie asked, alarmed.

Nothing.

Hey, Millie! Eddie shouted.

A muted reply: Watch’er want? I’m busy fer chrissakes.

Mom’s trying to say something. You better come quick.

Well, tell’er t’hold ‘er bleedin’ ‘orses, ‘cause I ain’t done yet.

Eddie grimaced, knowing full well that to prod Millie further would only invite another slapping around. She was as free with her hands as she was with her consonants.

His shoulders slumped forward again. He nibbled at the clot that darkened his fingernail. It didn’t taste of much. Then, as he wondered about what Charlotte was trying to say, her oft repeated admonition came to him out of the past: Remember, Eddie, you promised me.

How could he forget?

He could not. It was only the reason behind it that got lost along the way. The tattered memories of childhood were little different from the rags he outgrew, no matter how painstakingly his mother tried to alter them to fit his needs.

Charlotte’s hand lifted from the newspaper and fell back again as if released by a trip-hammer. He stared at her, transfixed by the metronomic deliberateness of her fingers, each stroke making a deeper impression next to the face on the newspaper. Charlotte moaned.

Millie! Eddie’s voice was urgent.

Shut yer lil’ gob. I be comin’ already.

The privy door slammed once and then again. It was not an act of consideration, merely self-defense. Without running water, the floor and walls of the stall were coated with layers of accumulated filth. Bartlett, their landlord, had once remarked that it was the eighth wonder of the world that Millie could put up with it. The stench was enough to make a strong man weak in the knees. To make matters worse, there was no heat.

Eddie could hear Millie grunting as she weaved from side to side, following the cracks in the corridor floor. The concrete was covered over, as best able, with a collage of rugs of various shapes and sizes, all worn to the same color. Curiously, every year the cracks seemed to get wider. It was because of the Hungry Forties, when the plagues killed off Londoners at the rate of about four-hundred a day – scarlet fever, smallpox, cholera and a host of other diseases swept through the slums. The streets were littered with the dead: those that died where they slept, curled against buildings, as well as those who got chucked out of doors when the carts were too slow to prevent the smell from overcoming the fortunate survivors. The most difficult problem, actually, was merely a logistical one: What to do with all the bodies? With only two-hundred and eighteen acres of burial ground in all of London, the grave diggers had to resort to drastic measures. Typically, if there was a vacant lot with the slightest depression it got filled-in with bodies, one dumped atop the other. It was quick and more or less expedient, especially since many of the victims were orphaned children, urchins felled in the gutters. Street Arabs, they were called. As well, there were the nameless riff-raff for whom no relative would ever come forward to pay the undertaker, and there were few words spoken when the quicklime was spread about. All too soon, however, the populace realized that a grave error had been made, so to speak. Out of the common plots there arose a stench that carried twenty miles downwind. Soon, anyone venturing outside was dressed like a bandit in cologne drenched kerchiefs. Something had to be done. As a last resort, the mass burial sites were covered over with slabs of concrete. The relief was immediate. Out of sight meant out of mind, and human nature being what it is, before long buildings were being erected on the same locations, what with a free foundation thrown in. As often as not the buildings were three-story look-alikes, all brick and heavy. In winter the unstable foundations heaved. In the summer they settled again, leaving hairline cracks here and there. With each change of season it was the same until, finally, the cracks linked up and enlarged. Now, the broken concrete resembled an ice-floe upon a sea of bones and, through every crack, the decomposing mass sent a gaseous discharge so noxious that it coated the tongue with a sickly-sweet taste. But, in time, even that was taken in stride. They got used to it. That, and every other woebegone aspect of their drab existence.

But, never you mind, Millie would say, wagging a finger in the air, at least the buggers ain’t raised our rent.

Presently, Millie padded her way into the flat, her fingers tucked into the ends of her looping sleeves as she hugged herself for warmth. Her floor-length nightdress was stained in more places than could be counted. It was all she ever wore, except when it was time to go to work. Then, summer or winter, she donned a huge, black coat. She hated it, she often said, but it was the only coat that ever fit her properly. It was made in one of the Jewish sweatshops, a fact that could be spotted a block away. The Jews made all their coats the same way, with a one-piece lining sewn into the overcoat like a great bag. By the time Millie rescued it from a rag picker’s bin, the lining had already sagged below the tent-like hem. It was her hallmark and part of the reason the townsfolk nicknamed her Baggy Millie, or just plain Baggy. The rest of the reason, of course, was her enormous size. A standout among so many ample English women, she was one of truly majestic proportions, as she would put it, adding: God bless Queen Victoria.

As Eddie watched, Millie shoved the door aside and sagged against the scaling, enameled jamb. She inhaled deeply, making the most of the fresh air seeping through the holes in the foyer glazing. Once fashionable, several panes in the Edwardian glasswork were broken, the fissures stuffed with crumpled handbills. The few holes that were not plugged remained that way, the better to overcome the smell of urine and vomit at the bottom of the stairs. Head down, she lingered a while longer before committing herself to the stuffiness of the single room they shared. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she bounced off the door frame and entered.

As usual, her eyes were rimmed with red. The air in the room was fetid, imparting an oily feel to the skin, the result of fumes that puffed out the side of an old coke burner. Already myopic, Millie dabbed at her eyes with a hanky retrieved from her bosom. The gesture was a futile one: her eyes ran constantly. That, and the lumps under her eyes, made her appear to be in constant mourning.

From the edge of Charlotte’s bed, Eddie bided his time until he was sure of Millie’s mood. He knew enough to keep his distance. As often as not she would fly into a rage over the most trivial things, and the vacant blotch on the newspaper was hardly that. It stood out like an indictment, tempting fate. For the moment, however, Millie’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, which precluded anything to do with Charlotte, supposedly her best friend.

Millie looked tired, Eddie thought. But, then, she always did.

Longingly, Millie regarded the heap of tattered remnants that constituted her bedding. One day, she had promised to make it all into a fine quilt, when she had more energy. She sat down heavily, elbows on knees, her chins resting on pudgy hands as if having a lot to think about. She gave up a long, drawn out sigh and glumly shifted her gaze to the myriad patterns in the floor. The mental tracings were a common diversion.

Eddie fidgeted, finding it hard to bide his time until Millie took it upon herself to ask after his mom. Absently, he rubbed his arm where Charlotte had grabbed him. It was one thing to yell at Millie when she was on the throne, munching her supper, but quite another to provoke her when so close at hand.

Eddie glanced out the solitary window. It would be dark soon. He noticed the curtain and smiled inwardly. It was the only truly white thing in the room. It was stiff and it was a joke – on them. Ever since the year of the Great Stink he had watched his mother rinsing the curtain through a solution of chloride of lime. Still wet, it was hung in place to dry. Next to the River Thames, in the Houses of Parliament at Westminster, it was the same. It was believed that the drenched curtains would render the putrid air more breathable. Now, with winter coming on, the people of London emitted a collective sigh of relief. Optimistic to the end, it was Bartlett who pointed out that, when compared to twenty years earlier, nobody had a right to bellyache anymore, what with the death rate dropping to a mere fifty-thousand a year. Unfortunately, however, half of the dead were slum children, of which only one in five would ever see his sixth birthday.

Eddie recalled when their landlord would sit on the steps with him, scratching his head with the stem of his pipe, a far away look in his eyes.

Yes sir, it was hard times we had then. But, you know, in the end it didn’t matter how bad it got. After a while you get used to it. You do, you know. Even with the grisly dead a-lying helter-skelter all about, there were those who looked on the bright side, the more for the rest of us and all that.

Bartlett laughed, waving his pipe through the air. He smoked it upside-down, a habit from his sea-going days.

It’s a curiosity of human nature, I suppose. When I was on the whalers nobody ever talked about the cesspool here. No, siree. Home was merry-old-England, upper crust and all that. And the further from home the louder we proclaimed it. Still do for that matter. He concluded with a cryptic observation that was typical of him: If you ask me, though, the main reason we Brits are a sea faring nation is to get away from the damned place.

Eddie mulled over the things that Bartlett told him, at the same time remembering Charlotte’s rationale: You never mind him, she would caution, wagging a finger, home is where the heart is and here we be stayin’.

There the matter ended, for such as it was, with inflation licking at their heels, it would take a veritable earthquake to make them budge. Be it ever so humble, the dosshouse was home, tuppence a day and no questions asked, with Sunday free if they paid a week in advance. For that they got a single room on the ground floor, with water-stained plaster all about and two off-the-floor beds, one for Millie and one for Charlotte. Eddie slept in the middle, on the floor, keeping an eye on both of them, as Millie often teased.

It was the color of Eddie’s eyes that prompted Millie’s humor. One was blue, the other brown, heralding back to Charlotte’s side of the family it was said, but the other thing, their secret, was never mentioned unless Millie brought it up. Millie was the only outsider who knew the truth about Eddie, with the exception of a certain navvie, a railroad worker who passed in and out of their lives two years earlier.

The French-Canadian had jumped ship in Liverpool and found work laying track, along with hundreds of displaced Irishmen. In his off-time he hung around the docks, or else the gin-houses of Hoxton. That was were Charlotte found him, just one more in an indistinguishable line of faces. Customers all. Among the many, Eddie had reason to remember him. A swarthy man with a seaman’s toque, and a mess of teeth that resembled a steam engine’s cowcatcher, he was the one who told them what their name meant: Deboss. Deboss. He repeated it several times, screwing up his face in thought. Then his eyes lit up. Dat’s French you know.

Eddie and Charlotte shook their heads in unison.

What’s it mean then? Millie asked, sensing the moment.

Afterwards, Charlotte often said she wished that she had never met the man, and just as frequently Eddie would catch her staring at him, wonderment written on her face.

Later, it was Millie who put it most succinctly: I could have told you, dearie, she said with an air, The little bastard is cursed, that’s what. Plain and simple.

After that, whenever Eddie would look to Charlotte for reassurance, his appeal was wasted. Although she never said as much, he could tell that she feared it was true. The pain in her eyes said it all, as did the times when she looked away, averting his questioning gaze. It left him feeling ashamed, his head hung low, unable to comprehend what he had done wrong. In the end, the curse was made real only because he believed it. It followed him around like a shadow, never totally real, but there all the time just the same, the proof of which was his eyes, the distracting colors confirming that the other thing must also be true, just like the navvie said.

Deboss is a French name, he explained, from across the Channel, I bet.

Charlotte was intent on the man’s every word.

Who knows? she blurted, smiling at Millie: Maybe I’m royalty or somethin’ and don’t even know it.

The Frenchmen paused, dramatically, and when he continued there was a devilish gleam in his eyes.

You say Deboss, but I bet it was De Bossu before the English corrupted it. He spelled it for them, little realizing that it made no difference. It means a bigness, he explained, You know, he gestured with his hands. But they did not know. The way he pronounced his words left them wondering what a big Ness was.

The navvie gave them the benefit of another toothy grin. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

It is what you call a humpy. See?

Humpy? Charlotte wrinkled her nose. Then comprehension drained the color from her cheeks.

You mean a hun... a hun—? She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Banging his knee, the Frenchman said it for her.

Dat’s de word, by gar, a hunchback!

Charlotte reacted as if slapped, then shuddered as if shaking off a chill. In the next instant she was staring at Eddie as if seeing him for the first time, her expression one of fear. It was Millie who rescued her, coming in on cue: Him, maybe, Millie sneered, inclining her head in Eddie’s direction, But sure as ‘ell not you, dearie.

Me? Eddie piped, Me?

O’course you, stupid. Who else? Millie spit the words at him, adding: Did you ever hear of a hunchback woman? No, siree, you ‘ave not. So there it is, then. It has to be you.

Millie looked at the stranger, finding all the vindication she needed in his slow nodding.

It never occurred to Eddie that he had never seen a real hunchback of any kind, although, admittedly, everyone had heard stories. Suddenly, irrationally, his mind was flooded with visions of ogres, all distorted like himself. Half of him rejected the idea, but the other half was defenseless.

Soon after, the stranger faded into the night, his parting guffaw lingering in the dark like a bad dream. In his own perverted way the navvie had gotten more satisfaction than he paid for. It would be something to laugh about when, once again, he gave in to the call of the sea.

For Eddie, however, it was a different matter. He wasn’t laughing at all, not then and rarely after.

In the days following the Frenchman’s revelation, Charlotte would often gape at him until curiosity got the better of her.

C’mere, she would order.

Obediently, Eddie would go over to his mother and turn around without being asked. Up would go his shirt, along with probing fingers. Frequently, Charlotte and Millie took turns, comparing their observations in the process. Throughout the ordeal, he would hold his breath until hearing the pronouncement: Nope. Not yet, anyway.

Invariably, it was Charlotte who defended Eddie and Millie who was the realist: You better prepare yourself, dearie, it’s just a matter of time you know. Then she would add: You might as well face the facts.

For Eddie, facing facts meant living in constant dread. The nights were the worst. Each time he fell asleep it was with the fervent hope that he wouldn’t have grown any bigger by morning. Then, upon awakening, his first impulse was to see if he had. It was, as Millie affirmed, a curse to be sure – the awful truth, as she put it. It wasn’t long, however, before he was too smart, or too self-conscious, to get undressed when they were looking. To do so only invited another series of pinches and jabs between his shoulder blades. In the meantime, while they sometimes forgot about it, he never did. Nor did he doubt Millie’s flat-out wisdom: It’s just a matter of time you know.

Then, one day, Eddie discovered that he had run out of that precious commodity too. Time, for some reason, no longer mattered, for by then his eyes had become the only proof needed to confirm that the other thing must also be true. Accordingly, he came to accept the fact that he was indeed deformed, a true hunchback even if it didn’t show – yet. The feeling was like being the carrier of contagion, of some kind of disease. His eyes, their strange coloring, his bigness for his age, all of it served to confirm the worst, thereby making it all true by default. Like it or not, he had become a kind of genetic throwback to some mad bell-ringer in France.

With this realization Eddie’s life changed, as if life in the slums wasn’t hard enough, and he suffered in more ways than anyone would ever know. So it was, that by age twelve, he was but the semblance of the light-hearted boy that might have been. Instead, he was overly quiet, a deep thinker and introverted, and constantly afraid of the one thing he had no control over: growing up. It no longer mattered that the hump had failed to materialize physically, because, just as surely, it had deformed him in other ways.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

Millie grunted. Soon it would be time to go to work. Glumly, she glanced across the room at Charlotte. She seemed to be sleeping.

Eddie, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the bed, still waiting.

Let ‘im wait, Millie mumbled, squinting in the gathering gloom as she eased herself back onto a pillow.

Eddie’s gaze wandered to the sacks suspended on wall pegs opposite. There were jars of food scraps in one, important tatters that went by the name of clothing in the next, and what-nots in the third. Above that, a wooden shelf was a-clutter with bottles, rusted tin pots and, at the end, a stack of empty Lucifer match boxes for smaller things. So long as one refrained from looking under the beds, it could be said that the room had its own air of neatness. After all, they were ladies.

Charlotte’s breathing was labored.

Eddie looked from his mother’s slack face back to Millie, wondering if she gave a tinker’s damn one way or another. Probably not, he concluded. Typically, all Millie really seemed to care about was herself. She never did anything she didn’t have to. Eddie loathed her, but he had enough sense to come across as being indifferent.

About an hour after nightfall, Eddie watched Millie going through the routine of prying herself off the bed. It began with a rocking motion that ended with a grunt as she lurched to her feet. After an affected yawn, Millie took a gin bottle from under her pillow and drained a third of it before swaying to a slice of mirror taped to the wall. Indifferent to Eddie’s presence, she proceeded to undo the buttons on the front of her nightdress. Eddie knew what was coming next. He suppressed a grin as Millie went through her usual evening ritual.

With a blubbery roll of her shoulders she sent the gown slithering to the floor. Barefoot upon the mat and as naked as a baby whale, Millie gave herself the critical once-over. First she stretched her head from side to side, pulling at her chins as she examined herself in the broken glass. Satisfied to that point, she cupped a monstrous breast in each hand – her pride and joys.

Eddie resisted a snicker as he recalled Bartlett’s idea of heaven: Walking barefoot on an acre of tits.

She let them flop.

Shifting her weight, Millie leaned towards the mirror, one reflected breast looming like an archer’s target. She tweaked the bulls-eye, making it hard, then slightly smiled, as much to say: That’s better. Then came the hard part. Screwing up her face with determination, Millie plunged her fingers into her midriff and grabbed a hefty roll, comparing it to the results of the night before. Looking down, she nodded sadly, obviously disheartened that at age thirty-five it was a losing battle.

But, life must go on, eh dearie? Millie winked at the mirror, recovering her dignity. The fly-specked apparition winked back, a friend of sorts. Then, as if an afterthought, she turned to regard Charlotte: Poor Charlotte… then she hastened to the more difficult aspects of dressing for the night. With one leg in the air for counterbalance, Millie leaned over and pulled her pantaloons out from under her blankets. Yard by yard they came free, a sail-makers dream except for the rip at the crotch. Grumbling encouragement to herself, with thighs jiggling, Millie made her way into them, inch by festooned inch, tugging all the way. Shortly, with the top of the garment lost in the folds at her waist, Millie had accomplished a minor miracle. Then, with her spade sized patch of pubic hair more or less concealed – it wouldn’t do to flaunt – she about faced and plodded over to Eddie and Charlotte, seemingly oblivious to the sway of her melon-like bosom.

Millie stood with hands on hips, as knock kneed as ever and barked: What’d she say then?

Eddie dropped his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

Eh? Millie glowered. I’m talking t’you, smart aleck.

Eddie cringed, half expecting a cuff on the ear for nothing at all. It was the booze.

Charlotte moaned, saving him.

Millie approached the bed and leaned over, dripping with attentiveness.

What is it, honey?

About the same time she spied the greasy spot in the middle of the newspaper. The cod-like fish, although barely enough for one, had been intended for three.

Slowly, Millie rotated her head to fix Eddie with her most malevolent stare, her jaw grinding.

Eddie cowered, automatically bringing an arm up to fend off the blow that was certain to follow.

What’s that? Millie