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| Jubbergate | |
| By zmbbw | ||||||||
| 18 December 2007 | ||||||||
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Speak, if only to yourself. Speak when the sun beats down on your gin-sopped brain. Speak when you’re high on your brother-in-law’s sex. Speak when you’re pummelled by George’s Methodist fists. Speak to hear your voice however tiny. Speak to feel free.
“September 20th, the year of our Lord 1880. Baby Emma’s first birthday.” George graced breakfast, Emma held awkwardly like a soiled marrow in his arms. “We have much to be grateful for. Lord make us truly grateful. Amen.” “Amen.” Isabella oyez-ed her Amens like a common barrow-boy, her righteousness as public as York’s sewers. “It’s mutually beneficial,” was all my father had to say about my marrying George. He’d mumbled his consent one winter’s evening in the shadows of a flickering oil lamp; any views I might have had batted aside like the flame caught in a draft. They shook hands over brandy and cigars – not his best cigars. Isabella moved in with us before their glowing butts had faded and I was pregnant before the ashtray was emptied. “Thank you sister,” George said passing Baby Emma to Isabella. Until next year I thought. “Samuel will be along at eleven to set up,” he said snagging a sausage with a fork and me with a look. “I’ll mind the store ...” “No!” he interrupted. “It’s a family business. We’ll have a family portrait. Sunday-best.” At eleven we arranged ourselves below the freshly painted sign, the steps still leaning against the window. Wells Brokers, 9A Jubbergate. “I’ll take Emma,” I reached out. “No I think …” “Isabella! I’ll take my daughter. Please.” George’s nod fell lightly. When Samuel's flash exploded in grey smoke Isabella was simmering beneath her bonnet, George was just simmering and Baby Emma flung her voice into the sky.
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