Farewell To The East End

learn nothing. Can’t even treat a simple case of stomach cramps. Inflammation of the intestines, I calls it, dear. Going up or going down, it makes no difference, the intestines has a lot of work to do, and they get inflammation. Now what you need is some of my special stomach cramps mixture, dear. My own remedy, known only to myself. My dear deceased mother, who was a wise woman as ever there was one, passed the secret on to me on her death-bed. “Don’t let anyone get it off of you,” she says as she was dyin’ like. “It’s more precious than gold,” she says. “Them doctors don’t know nothing about it,” she says, and then she expired, leaving me with the secret.’
    Mrs Prichard wiped her eye and sniffed sadly as she went over to a counter. She took several bottles off the shelves, and with a measuring glass and a great deal of care, and with one eye shut, squinting against the light, she filled a bottle. Hilda was most impressed.
    ‘That will be two guineas, dear, and worth ten of anyone’s money, I can tell you. Now take a tablespoonful night and morning for five days. It will make the stomach cramps worse at first, but that is a sign that the potion is working, so don’t stop taking it, will you, dear? It’s got to get worse afore it gets better. If you don’t get any bleeding, come back to me next week. My dear mother left me on her death-bed with other secret remedies for stomach cramps, known only to myself.’
    Mrs Prichard pocketed the two guineas. Smiling and solicitous, she showed Hilda to the door.
    ‘Now remember, dear, this is for stomach cramps. Mrs Prichard treats all sorts: headaches, migraines, ingrown toenails, flatulence, tennis elbow and stomach cramps. If anyone asks you, this potion is for them stomach cramps, which you ’ave been suffering of.’
    Hilda took the potion as directed for five days. The taste was so revolting that it made her retch with each dose, and the pain in her stomach was intense. The third day she developed violent diarrhoea and vomiting, and spent most of the night in the outside lavatory. She sat curled up with pain on the rough wooden seat, trying not to cry out as the fluid poured from her. This’ll get rid of it, she thought, and good riddance. In the morning she looked hopefully for signs of blood – but there were none. For three more days she put up with the pain and nausea and diarrhoea, trying to pretend to Bill and the children that nothing was wrong, but by the sixth day she was forced to admit that it had all been to no avail. She had lost no blood. She was still pregnant.
    Hilda felt weak and shaky when she returned to Mrs Prichard, who in contrast looked splendid. Her hair had been newly dyed and was piled up on her head in layers of curled sausages. Her make-up was even thicker than before, and her lips and fingernails were a vivid red.
    ‘Oh, my dear. These naughty cramps. Sometimes they really have to be swept away with a new broom. My dear mother always used to say that, if the cramps don’t go with the old trusty broom, you’ve got to get out the new. Now it’s up to you, dear. Do you want me to get out my new broom to sweep them clean away? I will have to come to your place, of course. Can’t be done here. I ain’t got the premises. And my daughter will have to come with me. I need her as my trusty assistant, you understand. And there must be no one around, no children nor husbands nor nothing like that, you understand? The decision is yours, dear.’
    Hilda gulped, and felt sick.
    ‘Will it hurt?’ she murmured.
    ‘Hardly a prick, my dear. I will give you a potion, my mother’s secret mixture what she gave me when she was a-dying. It numbs the senses.’
    ‘Is there no other way?’
    ‘If the potion for cramps don’t work, my dear, it means it’s a real sticking, stubborn sort of cramp, and the only way is a new broom.’
    ‘All right. When can you do it?’
    ‘Wednesday morning. And it’ll be twenty guineas. Ten guineas now, and ten when I’ve done. You won’t regret a penny, my dear.’
    Hilda went to the post office and drew out twenty guineas from the War Time Savings Account she had guarded so carefully to buy new furniture when she and Bill got their new place. She returned to Mrs Prichard, who took the money with ‘You won’t regret a penny, my dear. Till Wednesday.’

    Hilda spent the next few days in an agony of doubt and indecision. Had she done wrong? Should she go through with it? She could