Jasmine's Place Issue No. 16 - August 2015 | Page 10

next day, armed with our satchels of
leaflets, we set out for the village
again. Our reception at the tavern
was no warmer than it had been
before, and we suffered discourteous
ripostes that should never sully any
maiden’s ears.
“Drink reduces men to such uncouth
beasts, just as Commander Mavis
said,” sighed Cora.
I sighed, too, wilted by our failing
campaign. I could be digging
potatoes, a more prosperous
endeavour than harvesting
recalcitrant sinners. “Let’s go home.”
Wearily, Cora agreed.
Would Commander Mavis forgive us
for deserting our post? Would God?
In front of the grocer’s, next to the
tavern, a man sat on a bench.
“Halfpenny for half a man?” he called
out.
Cora seized the opportunity. “How
loathsome, begging to support your
sin. You will spontaneously combust
while your wife languishes for want
of meat.
It was then I saw the empty and slack
trouser leg.
“You will die of dropsy,” Cora
continued. “Become a cold-hearted
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JASMINE'S PLACE
murderer.”
“Cora,” I hissed, tugging at her
sleeve.
“Jennie, this man is prime for
conversion. See how he lowers his
eyes?”
“I am sorry, sir,” I said, hoping to
soften Cora’s impassioned words.
“‘Tis fine, lass. I know the fever of
combat.”
“But, sir, you beg funds for drink!”
Cora insisted.
“You presume unkindly, lass. ‘Tis for
daily bread. I’ve no wife to cheat. No
work, due to leaving this leg in the
mud of France.”
Finally noticing his impairment, Cora
had the grace to blush. I found a
penny in my satchel and gave it to
the man.
“King George,” he said, peering at
the coin. “I fought for him. And God.
And for you, lasses. ‘Tis the same
with many men yonder. ‘Tis they
who ensured your freedom to stroll
these streets in safety and sleep in
peace.”
Humbled, we hung our heads.