Under the Dragon’s Tail

Is that all it had been? A bit on the side? When she had first seen John at the church meeting, he’d seemed so handsome with his brown eyes that bespoke intelligence and energy, his mouth that seemed to want to turn up at the corners in merriment. He wasn’t tall, but straight-backed and smart in his black serge suit and dashing striped four-in-hand. She was sitting across the aisle from him, and catching her eye, he’d smiled with frank appreciation. That Sunday she was wearing the new fur-felt hat that Annie had given her at Christmas. She’d been doubtful about the blue satin bow but she was glad now she’d given in to Annie’s scolding and worn it. She could feel that the cold winter wind had whipped a tint into her normally pale face. She hoped it hadn’t done the same to her nose.

In the other room, Annie stirred, muttering unintelligibly to herself, but she didn’t wake. Millie wet the edge of the towel and rubbed hard at her cheeks and neck. She had to try to get into work today. She’d been forced to take two days off already this month because she felt so ill. One more and she’d lose the job. But the smell of the fermenting malt made her ill and faint. At first she hadn’t eaten anything, hoping that would help. Then one morning, the woman who sat beside her at the long table leaned over and without preamble, but kindly, said, “You should eat something, dear, a crust of dry bread is the best. It always helped me.” Milly had blushed, terrified at being found out.

She went over to the cupboard and took down the tin where she’d stashed the heels of bread. She forced herself to nibble on one of them. What was going to become of her? John had been so cold, so angry, when she and Annie had gone to the house. Because Mrs. Pedlow had told him to, he’d brought them into the kitchen and given them each a glass of lemonade. But ungraciously, wanting them gone. They hadn’t stayed long. Just time enough for Annie to give him a piece of her mind.

“We’ll see you on Sunday,” Annie said. “And I expect you to have the banns called right away.” Her voice was harsh and contemptuous, which had turned John even more sullen. Seeing that, Millie cringed. She herself wanted only to appease him.

She sat down at the table. Annie’s supper plate wasn’t washed, and the sight of the caked egg made saliva fill her mouth. She waited, sweating, until the nausea passed. The brown paper bag was still sitting where Annie had left it. What if she took the herbs? Tentatively, she ran her hands over her own breasts. Already they were swollen considerably, and the nipples were tender and sore. She remembered vividly Mrs. Reilly’s pregnancies, the discomfort, the constant complaining. Both Millie and Annie had looked after the youngest ones as they came along, but the truth was Millie had often left them to cry untended in the soiled cradle. Annie had been better, almost always, tender and loving.

Millie felt a rush of tears. She knew that without this one under her apron there was no reason for John to marry her and that thought was unbearable. She shifted restlessly in the chair. He’d seemed so much in love at first, showering her with dizzying attention. For a few weeks, he had been content to escort her home after church but then he began to hint this was not enough. One Sunday, she invited him in for tea, knowing Annie was not at home. They were sitting on the rickety couch that was jammed against the wall in the kitchen and he had slid to the floor, buried his face in her lap and with muffled voice had professed his love. He was beside himself with desire, he said. Did she love him in the same way? He thought she did, hoped beyond hope that she did. She couldn’t speak, only touch his head as tentatively as if it were a burning coal. He kissed her then, so ardently she felt faint. And filled with joy she had never before known.

The next week, however, he avoided her eye and even though he walked her home, he was remote and unsmiling. She begged him to tell her what was wrong, to forgive her if she had offended him. Reluctantly, he told her. He was going mad with desire. He could neither eat nor sleep. If she loved him, she would show her love and give herself to him as a wife, in God’s eyes if not the world’s. Otherwise, he said with a sigh, he could not bear the pain a moment longer and he would be forced to break off their friendship. Sick with fear, she had agreed and, that very day, invited him into the shabby bedroom. Once there, she succumbed and was overcome with shame as her own ardour and yearning swept away through her body. He had liked that, he said, liked her passion. However, after they’d had connections four or five times, he confessed he was promised to someone else. He didn’t love the other woman, a family promise, but he had to honour it. He had wept, caressing her until she was on fire and again and again she capitulated.