“Mabel O’Shaughnessy,” I said again.

Mrs. Smyth did not immediately recognise Mabel’s name, and it was little help to describe the way she looked. But when I told her what I knew of her past, and mentioned her Irish lilt, Mrs. Smyth began to nod.

“She was a repeat customer,” she said, unsmiling. “A stall in the Covered Market, you say?”

I nodded, looked down at my feet. The floor of the sitting room was covered in a richly patterned carpet.

“I didn’t think she’d survive the game,” she said.

I looked up. “The game?”

“Clearly it’s not why you’re here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I get two types of women knocking on my door,” she said. “Those who get around too much and those who get around too little.” She looked me up and down, took in every article of clothing. “You are the latter.”

“And the game?” I asked again, my hand going to my pocket to check I had a slip and pencil.

“The game is whoring,” she said, as if nothing worse than whist or draughts had crossed her lips. “There are players, like any game, though the dice are always loaded. When you lose you end up in gaol, the cemetery or here.”

She put her hand on my belly, and I jumped. When she began digging her fingers in, I tried to move away.

“Stay still,” she said, putting one hand in the small of my back so she could get purchase with the other. “Mrs. Warren’s profession, some call it, because of the play by Bernard Shaw. Do you like the theatre?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I was invited to the opening night of that one. Whores aren’t the only women who find their way to my door. I get my fair share of actresses too.” She stopped prodding and took a step back.

“I’m not…”

“I can see that you’re neither a whore nor an actress,” she said.

Then we stood there, silent. She was thinking, weighing something up. Finally, she let out a long breath.

“It’s quickening,” she said.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Quickening is the fluttering in your belly which means the baby has decided to stay.”

I stared at her.

“It means you’ve come to me too late.”

Thank God, I thought.

GAME

Prostitution.

“The game is whoring. There are players, like any game, though the dice are always loaded.”

Mrs. Smyth, 1907

QUICKENING

Stirrings of life.

“Quickening is the fluttering in your belly which means the baby has decided to stay.”

Mrs. Smyth, 1907