The Bottle Stopper (2 page)

Maeve looked out of the window and watched the woman, now carrying only one boot, limp down the steps in her stockings.

She listened to the house for a while, but it seemed Uncle Lou had gone back to bed.

She collected the dustpan and brush from the kitchen, and swept up the broken glass as quietly as she could. She found old rags and mopped up the spilt water, turning her head away from the stench.

She unbolted the front door and retrieved the woman's discarded boot. She put everything into an old flour sack, and stashed it in a corner of the store room to dispose of later. Uncle Lou didn't like to wake to evidence of the night before. This way, they could all pretend it never happened.

When Maeve finished bottling for the morning, she found the front door wide open, and the shop filled with the smell of the slums. Uncle Lou was leaning on the railing outside. She stepped out next to him and looked down at the street below.

The wind pushed its way along the street, grabbing at women's skirts, and threatening to steal hats. It also carried with it the angry voice of a small, red-faced man. He threw his arms around above his head, screaming into the face of the young woman who ran the flower shop next door. The scene had drawn quite a crowd.

“She's getting evicted,” said Uncle Lou.

“Not paid her rent?” Maeve asked.

Lou nodded. “Times are hard.”

The landlord marched up the steps into the shop, reappearing with a bucket of flowers in each hand. Despite the woman's pleading, he deposited them both over the railings into the mud below. He went back into the shop, and came out with two more.

The woman sobbed as she watched her livelihood slap into the thick sludge.

Lou shrugged. “Landlord could rent that place ten times over. It won't be empty for long.” He patted his hand against the railing. “Just be glad this place belongs to me.”

Maeve looked up at him, searching his face for even a flicker of emotion. His expression didn't change. He'd inherited the property from his late wife, passed to her from her father.

Lou's father-in-law had cursed their marriage right up to the day he died, labelling Lou as a 'money-grabbing, lazy, good-for-nothing.' Lou hadn't relished the idea of taking over the old man's cobbler business, despite it having been there for almost half a century. The profession required too much skill, and too much hard work. But Lou's wife wanted to honour her father's memory, and refused any changes Lou proposed. It hadn't been long until she disappeared. The subsequent hunt had uncovered only her shoe, half buried in the silt of the river. Her death was assumed to be an accidental drowning, and everyone moved on with their lives.

Within two days, the cobbler's shop had reopened as an apothecary. Lou claimed the change was vital for his own emotional healing. The scent of the shoe leather held too many painful memories.

“Let's just hope a respectable business moves in,” Lou said. “We don't want some charlatan bringing down the reputation of The Wall.” He snorted, laughing at his own joke. He turned and went back into the shop.

Maeve sat down, dangling her legs between the railings. She watched the crowds disperse now that the excitement was over.

The florist glanced up as she passed by, her face swollen and blotchy, her mouth set hard. Women in Falside knew to let things go; hysterics usually ended in a one-way trip to The Compound. Even in the slums, they felt the gaze of the administration's eye.

Maeve remained there for most of the afternoon. When customers came, she kept her eyes on the floor as she had been told. She watched a workman remove the florist's sign from its ironwork bracket. When the sun sat low above the river, bathing Falside in the deep orange glow of evening, a wagon pulled up to the shop next door, dragging its wheels through the mud.

Maeve clambered to her feet and pushed the shop door open. “Uncle Lou, the new tenant is moving in.”

He pushed past her, and folded his arms across his chest.

A man and woman climbed out of the truck, dragging baskets and boxes from the back. Standing on a box, the man hung his sign from the empty bracket.

“A bakery,” said Uncle Lou. “Well, at least it's something respectable.” He huffed and disappeared back inside.

The woman returned to the wagon for more boxes. She looked up at Maeve and smiled brightly, and Maeve couldn't help but smile back.

3

Maeve packed the last of the bottles into the cart and dragged it into the kitchen. She closed the door to the storage room, and leant against it for a moment to catch her breath.

Lou appeared in the doorway, rapping his knuckles against the door. Maeve jumped.

“Are you out of bottles?” he asked.

Maeve nodded.

“You need to get some more. There's a bug going around Falside and I'm only half stocked out there. I can't have important customers seeing my shop half empty.”

“Perhaps you can increase the price because of low stock.”

Uncle Lou moved quickly, grabbing her plaited hair and pulling her towards him. “I am increasing the price, you clever little thing, but I still need stock to sell. You do the labour, and leave the business planning to me.” He released her. “Now go out and get some bottles. And get me some small, pretty ones.”

Maeve rubbed her head, the ache beginning to spread through her skull.

She grabbed her cardigan from the back of a chair and pulled it on, carefully rolling up the left sleeve. She pushed her hands into the deep pockets, her finger finding the familiar hole in the lining.

Stepping out into the sunshine, Maeve trotted down to the steps and skipped over onto one of the planks of wood that served as a more desirable walkway than the bare mud. Through the drier months, the mud dried solid, ploughed into deep troughs and ruts, threatening to sprain or snap ankles with every step. In the wetter months, it served only to ruin clothes and steal shoes.

She ran along the planks with practised assurance. She could almost navigate The Floor with her eyes shut, and she knew all the best places to get bottles. The bars for  larger, plainer bottles, the delicatessen for tall, slender ones, the dispensary for unusually shaped bottles. But today, she would have to climb the rugged steps up to The Hope, where a small perfumery stood in Crick Lane.

Crick Lane was wide and bright, each shop flying a colourful canopy above its window. The shop doors had small, delicate bells above them, and they chorused together as women, with little better to do with their day, idly browsed in and out of them.

Despite being just a few months from her eighteenth birthday, Maeve was small and slight, looking no more than thirteen at best. She moved along the street completely unnoticed.

She slipped up a narrow alley beside the perfumery and leaned casually against a gate a few feet from the shop's back door. She knew the routine of everyone who worked there, and waited for the owner's daughter to sneak outside for a quick cigarette.

The woman appeared, nodding quickly to Maeve in a silent understanding of discretion. Women weren't given credits to buy cigarettes, nor were they supposed to idle in alleyways.

The woman lit a half-burned cigarette with shaking hands, and sucked on it as if it were the only thing keeping her alive. A voice sounded from inside and she winced, flicking the cigarette to the ground. She smoothed down her white apron, fixed a pin in her hair, and disappeared back inside.

Maeve wandered over and picked up the still smouldering cigarette. She placed it between her lips, the end greasy with lipstick, and sucked. Her mouth filled with smoke, and she coughed. She stubbed the cigarette out on the wall, adding to the speckling of soot marks, and dropped the butt into her pocket.

A man walked up the alley, his cap pulled low and his collar turned up to his jaw. He carried a waft of beer and urine with him. Maeve pressed herself against the wall, dropping her gaze to the floor. She held her breath as he passed. She glanced after him, and watched as he shook a blade from inside his sleeve. Maeve looked back at the ground, counting to forty before looking up again. The alley was empty.

Maeve exhaled, and turned her attention back to the perfumery.

Rising onto her toes, she peered through a small window into the dim interior. There was no one in the back room, and six pretty bottles stood on the counter.

As Maeve nudged the door open, a full range of scents reached her, ranging from delicate and floral, to heavy and spicy. She closed her eyes and breathed them in, imagining the exotic places each scent came from. She couldn't believe any of them were native to Falside.

She inched the door further open, and slipped into the cool room. She kept her eye on the door to the shop, and listened for the muffled voices beyond. Creeping across the flagstone floor, she lifted the bottles, one by one, and carefully lowered them into her pockets.

Looking around, she spotted half a cheese loaf. She wrapped it back into its paper, and tucked it under her arm. She took one last deep breath, trying to lock the smells into her memory.

As she slipped back outside, she heard the door to the shop open. She flattened herself against the wall and slid down into a crouch.

“Goddammit!” A man's voice.

The back door swung open, slamming into Maeve's knees, and shuddering back from the impact. Maeve bit her lip against the pain.

Four thick fingers wrapped around the edge of the door, and the man leaned out. A wrinkle of fat cushioned the base of his bald head. He looked up and down the alley, while Maeve held her breath behind the door.

“Goddammit!” he yelled again, and disappeared back inside. “How many times have I told you to lock that damn door? You'll pay for those bottles, girl.” After a moment, he yelled again. “Goddammit! And my bloody bread.”

Maeve stared at the floor, and slowly counted time away in her head. When her heart had returned to its usual rhythm, she pushed her hands into her pockets, wrapped her fingers around the bottles, and walked casually away.

She came back onto Crick Lane, and followed it to The Downs. She turned towards the stairs that would take her back to the slums. Then she stopped. She had no reason to hurry back.

She looked around her, opting for the security of another alleyway, this time running past the monastery, and joining The Downs to the large, open square of The Hide. The alley was dark and narrow, made even narrower by the boxes and crates that were piled there.

Maeve looked up at the small windows of the monastery, the stained glass scenes barely visible through layers of dirt.

Up ahead, a small door opened and a monk, dressed in his black habit, stepped out. Maeve froze, unsure what to do. She had never met a monk before and wasn't sure of the proper etiquette, especially when she had no business creeping around the back of the monastery.

She tucked herself in between the boxes as the monk looked up and down the alley. She held her breath against the acrid stench of rotting food and dead rats.

The monk tugged a woman into the alley. Her hair was matted, her unbuttoned dress revealing the ridge of her angular collar bone. Her skirt was hooked up on one side, revealing her laddered stockings, and her thigh above. A slum girl.

She grabbed the priest roughly, kissing him hard. His hand moved up to her blouse, slipping between the buttons, kneading her flesh.

She pushed his hand away and stepped back with a toothy grin. “Now, now, Father Harris. No freebies.” She held out her hand.

The monk pressed a few scrappy credits into her palm. She looked at them with a scowl.

“You know I'm worth more than that.”

“We both know you're not.”

She snorted, pushing the credits into her pocket. “I'll tell everyone.” She jabbed him with a bony finger. “Everyone will know what their church donations really pay for.”

“And who's going to believe a cheap whore?”

She snorted again and set off down the alley. She stopped and turned back to him. “My pimp's gonna get you.” She spat out a large globule of phlegm. “You'll be back.”

The monk shrugged. “Yeah, probably.” He stepped in through the door, and pulled it shut behind him.

Maeve slowly rose. Turning, she headed back the way she'd come, and set off for home.

4

Maeve loaded the last of the bottles onto the shop shelves, and clambered back down the step ladder. She stood back, and checked for any obvious gaps. On tip-toes, she shifted a few bottles around until she was satisfied with the display.

Lou strode into the room, pulling his coat on.

“I'm going out,” he said. Maeve could already smell alcohol on him.

She nodded, struggling to fold the wooden ladder. It slipped from her grip, slammed to the floor, and set all the bottles rattling.

“Careful!” Lou barked. He grabbed the ladder and stashed it behind the counter. “Try not to break anything while I'm gone.” He crossed to the front door and pulled it open. “Or I'll bloody break you.”

The bottles shook again as he slammed the door behind him.

Kneeling on the window seat, Maeve pressed her nose against the glass and watched Lou disappear into the darkness of The Floor. In her lap, she moved her fingers into an obscene gesture.

She switched off the lights and slipped out of the front door. She hurried down the steps to the street, and straight up those of the bakery next door.

The last few loaves, pies, and pastries were still laid out in the window, nestled into wicker trays and baskets. Maeve's mouth watered, and she swallowed hard. The sign in the door had already been turned to 'closed', but as Maeve pushed the brass handle, it swung open and she stumbled inside.

A woman turned to look at her. Her cheeks were red, and dusted with flour. Her hair had come unpinned and strands frayed around her face. She smiled broadly, her green eyes lighting.

“I'm afraid we're just closing,” she said. “But I'm sure I've time to serve one last customer. What can I get you?”

Maeve inhaled the scent of sugar and warm bread. As she closed her eyes to appreciate it without distraction, her head spun, and she realised how tired she was. She snapped her eyes open again.