A Little Death by Laura Wilson Page B

cried her eyes out when William left, but I never tried to comfort her—I had enough troubles of my own. So then she used to say, ‘You don’t care, Ada, you’re glad he’s gone,’ and ‘You were always jealous,’ and that sort of thing. It got on my nerves. There’d be times when I’d nearly burst out and say something, but then think better of it and stop myself; and she’d start up again and it was like that day after day, the moment we were alone she’d start up saying these things. I felt so needled with it I didn’t know what to do and, of course, one night it had to come out. I was so tired I’d barely managed to drag myself up the stairs and as soon as I’d shut the door she started with William this, William that, William the other, sitting there with her hair all over her shoulders looking like a tragedy queen. Well, I just turned to her and said, ‘Don’t talk nonsense. Williamwasn’t ever gone on you, you dreamed it all up by yourself.’ The moment it was out of my mouth I wished I’d never said it, but it was too late.
    She never said a word, just blew out the candle and got into bed. Then she said ‘I know’ and I heard her give a little gulp, like she was crying.
    I felt like such a devil, I leaned over and patted her shoulder and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.’
    She was turned away from me, but she said, ‘No. I wanted it to be true about William, but it wasn’t. So don’t say you didn’t mean it when you did.’ I didn’t know what else to say and after a minute she said, ‘Get back in bed, Ada. Go to sleep.’ Not in a nasty way, but like she was suddenly dead tired. Of course I never had a wink; I was turning it over and over all night, whether she’d ever speak to me again.
    But I needn’t have worried because the next night we had a good old talk, the first we’d had for months. I felt bad because I didn’t need to say what I had. If she wanted to believe William liked her, where was the harm? It was pride that made me say it, because really I wanted her to know that William was keen on me. But I was too much of a coward to tell her that, so I said the other thing. Ellen told me, ‘I’m not going to stay here much longer.’
    I couldn’t think what she meant. ‘Why, where are you going?’
    ‘I’m leaving here. My mother’s written and told me she’s poorly so I’m going home to look after her.’
    I said, ‘Oh, that’s terrible.’ I didn’t know much about Ellen’s family, except that she had a lot of brothers and sisters, more than I did.
    She said, ‘I’m glad I’m not staying here.’
    I said, ‘Is it because of William?’
    ‘No, it’s because of Mr. Lomax. Drinking.’ BecauseEllen had spotted it right away and at first I thought she was making up a story, but when it turned out to be true she never once said ‘I told you so’, which she could have, easy.
    So that night I asked her, ‘How did you know about Mr. Lomax before anybody else could see it?’
    She said, ‘Because my father was a drinker.’ You could have knocked me down with a feather—I’d never heard anyone say such a thing before, a secret thing about themself or their family. I felt it was a great honour for me that she was telling me about it, because with those things, nobody ever talked about them. Ellen said, ‘He used to come rolling home every night and clobber my mother, and if any of us young ones got in the way or made a noise, we’d get it too. When I sent my wages home I used to pretend it was something else, because if he got to it before my mother did, it would be straight off to the pub and she wouldn’t see a penny.’ Then she said, ‘I was so frightened when I saw him hit my mother, but I knew if I did anything he’d start on me. When he died I was glad, because he couldn’t hit her no more. Honestly, Ada, I’ve seen too much of that, drinking, and I wouldn’t stay here if you offered me double the wages.’ And she meant it. ‘I may not