Children of the Tide by Jon Redfern

free glasses of gin.
    Now on this damp March morning in Marylebone, one street west of Bedford Square, the older Grimsby sat at his dining room table. He blew on his tea in a saucer while Mrs. Grimsby, his wife and opponent for thirty-five years, clashed the hearth irons, mumbling to herself as to where the younger Grimsby had disappeared on this most busy, upcoming day.
    â€œAll the night and now all the morning,” Mrs. Grimsby repeated. “Gone, flown away like last January’s snow. What shall we do, Mr. Grimsby? Two funerals, at half three, then at half four, and no bill set out, and our mute boy ill and absent from duty. We are too old to manage all of this ourselves, too old, too much in need of a thoughtful child to lift our burden.”
    â€œ Lift , my good wife? I fear that occasion will never come to pass.”
    Below the dining parlour, in the entrance hall, there was sudden noise. A banging, a bumping. A door slamming, a voice snarling a profanity. Mrs. Grimsby went to the head of the stairs. The undertaker and his family lived above the shop, where coffins were made to order, shrouds sewn, and funerals orchestrated. Four black geldings were housed in the inner courtyard stable next to an ebony hearse.
    â€œThat you?” Mrs. Grimbsy hollered down the stairwell.
    â€œNo, Missus. ‘Tis the ‘Lord of Flies’ himself.”
    â€œWhere have you been, son? Your poor father and I have —”
    â€œFather is not poor, Mammy. Not a farthing gets past his tight fist.”
    â€œCome up for your tea, son. There is much to do.”
    â€œTo do? Toodle do?” A slumping sound, another profanity and a chair toppled.
    â€œShall I come down, Geoffrey? Shall I?”
    â€œMammy, leave me be.” Feet stumbling up the stairs, then an appearance. Mrs. Grimsby recoiled: her only son’s trousers were torn and splotched with street grime; his boots mud-speckled; his frock coat — a new purchase only last week — wrinkled with blotches of grease.
    â€œWhat is this? What has happened, son?”
    â€œFisticuffs.”
    Geoffrey Grimsby’s knuckles were bleeding. His beard was wild, uncombed. His ankles purpled with bruises on top of scratches. Worse, the younger Grimsby’s eyes were half-shut, his breath smelled of gin, and his entire body stank of the stable.
    â€œWhere have you been, young Geoffrey?” the elder Grimsby now asked, standing beside his wife at the top of the stairs. “He’s been in a fight,” Mrs. Grimsby said. “So he says.”
    â€œYoung Geoffrey, clean yourself now. Get into the crepe and dark gloves. We have business to attend.” The father reached out to take the son by the shoulder, but the son pulled back and started to laugh loudly, a laugh not completely dependent on the looseness of alcohol but one, instead, of a darker variety, a laugh of consequence betraying bitterness and defeat.
    â€œFather,” the son said, trying to stand at attention. “I shall take myself to my dressing chamber and not delay you nor the dead any longer.” He patted his frock coat. “Milord,” grunted the younger Grimsby, “I have waylaid my purse — money, cards ’n all. Dear, dear.”
    With these words the young Grimsby made a valiant attempt to walk forward but then, with no warning, fell flat to the floor and began to snore. Mrs. Grimsby, having leapt to her feet when her son collapsed, wiped a tear from her eye. Such continuing behaviour often inspired her to fits of weeping. But it had not always been thus. Young Geoffrey had once been such a kind and gentle man. Yes, she could admit, he’d been spoiled as a child; but once he had attained responsible adulthood he had, for the most part, been a cooperative and agreeable man to have living as a bachelor under the family roof. What was it now, she wondered. Had it been only three years since he had begun to change? He refused to confide