Other Sides: 12 Webfiction Tales

Dalston Junction by Meilin Miranda

Hackney Central, London, 1898

It always amused Amelia to see Margaret's little round glasses steam over when she peered into the teapot. She herself had strong eyes, the only way in which she was stronger than Margaret, she mused. She returned her thoughts to the letter in her hand. "Another answer to our advertisement," she said. The handwriting jumped its lines, as if the writer had trouble controlling the pen, and ink blots spattered the page. "No lack of sad cases this week."

"So much the better for us," said Margaret, taking the letter. "Boy," she read aloud. "Three weeks old. 'Discretion called for.' Perfect." Margaret linked her hands behind her back and stretched. "Damnable corset, I'll never get used to it. Have you taken the last one's clothes to the pawn shop yet?"

"No," sighed Amelia. "I'll sort them over tea, shall I." A drooping, brown paper bundle tied with limp string stood on the trestle table. Margaret took up the tray sitting next to it, laden with the tea things, and strode through the kitchen door. Amelia tucked the sad package and her enormous pink challis shawl under her arm, and trailed after.

Once in the comfortable sitting room, she opened the package, thin hands moving among the tiny garments: two dresses; several flannel waists; two caps knitted in fine wool; miniscule shoes that shook in her trembling palm. "Shouldn't we ought to burn these? The pawn shop's bound to get suspicious at some point."

"Then use another one. There are only several dozen in London," said Margaret. The dull gold signet ring on her right hand clinked against the porcelain tea things as she reached for cake. "We need the money for housekeeping. The money's the whole point."

Amelia examined the fine seams of a little dress of pale blue fine wool. Expensive fabric for a baby dress. Such care taken in the stitching. She wondered about the mother who'd made these things for her child. Amelia had only seen the woman for a few minutes, but fingering the dress brought a closeness she shouldn't allow herself. "Pity the wee one won't ever wear them."

"Somebody's 'wee one' will." Margaret fixed her companion with a pinched eye. "I often wonder why you're here, Amelia. You're far too soft-hearted."

Amelia's fingers hovered over the sugar bowl. Two lumps? One? "I like babies." None.

"You spend minutes with them. I do all the disposal work. I don't see how it matters," snorted Margaret between bites of cake.

"I don't suppose it does," murmured Amelia. She folded the tiny clothes into a neat pile, set the tiny shoes atop them, and drank her tea.

Later, she would obediently re-wrap the bundle in different paper and trot down the street. She would wish for the great pink shawl around her meager, gray-wool-clad shoulders; she was always cold here despite the layers of clothing. She would pawn the little bundle, and bring the money back to Margaret for housekeeping. Fastidious, records-obsessed Margaret would put the pawn ticket in her little basket full of tickets.

But now, Amelia threw the brown paper wrapper, the one with the baby's name on it, into the fire. It flared briefly, then flew into ash.

##

They met the girl from the advertisement the next day at the Dalston Junction rail station. She was a miserable snip in a rusty black coat; her breath came in wispy threads in the cold air. She carried a tiny pink baby, snugged against the chill until only his bemused eyes and flat little nose peeked from the wrappings. "Aah," cooed Margaret, "and who's this, then?"

"Manfred," the girl said, so low that Amelia strained to hear her over the station's clamor.

Amelia reached to take him, but Margaret intervened. "Manfred, hello, Manfred!" she said, plucking him from his mother.