I’m thinking now, I shouldn’t have
been so forthright. I should’ve
simpered out my love like my
sisters did – those two stupid girls
with their names like diseases.
‘Course it all turned to custard
in the end. I might’ve stopped it
from happening if I’d been less
mouthy. I get it from him you know,
that pig-headed stubbornness.
You should have heard him roar.
I’d been his darling, the one he
doted on. I think now they were
jealous. He wanted everyone
to jump when he said jump. No
wonder he booted me off to France.
I held my head up high then, proud
that France still wanted me, without
a dowry. But my face was burning.
I never even looked back – till now
He’s changed. The storm sucked
it out of him, what my sisters
hadn’t already stolen. He’s on
his knees now, wittering on in his reedy
voice about birds and a cage and something
about singing. But it doesn’t look good.
Sometimes the things you do for the best
turn out to be the worst, in the end.

Carol Markwell