Eliza Clark was born in Newcastle Upon Tyne and now lives in London. Her first novel Boy Parts was written after Clark received a place on New Writing North’s Young Writers’ Talent Fund and was published by Influx Press in 2020. Her second novel, Penance, will be published in July 2023, followed by short story collection She’s Always Hungry. Her writing embraces the socially unacceptable, and wryly explores themes of gender, power and violence.
‘She’s Always Hungry’
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‘Play it again, and I’ll gut you,’ said our Mary’s Samuel. He had his knife in my face, and he tried to slam the lid of the piano down upon my fingers. I pulled back my hands before they were crushed, like a hermit crab beneath a shoe.
The pub was lively tonight, but I did not feel lively. All the men were crammed into this small space – the pub had once been a cottage like any other in the village, and was not built to house us all. I was dragged along. I did not want to drink or play darts, or weep over lost brothers. So I played the piano. I played the only song I knew.
‘Mary Mountjoy’s Sammy doesn’t want his fishy,’ said Violet Fisher’s Daniel.
‘Our Kitty’s John has played that flaming song fifty flaming times, and I won’t hear it again,’ said our Mary’s Sam.
‘But it’s the only one I know,’ I said. I did not care for my cousin, who was rough and quick to anger. He did not care for me, because I was meek and mild – a mother’s pet.
‘Then let someone who can play properly have it,’ he said. Our Mary’s Sam pulled me up and away from the piano by the collar of my shirt. ‘Where’s Rosie Andrews’ John?’
Rosie Andrews’ John got up from his table with his pint and mean smirk. He played piano well, but he loved to prod a sharp stick into a soft spot. He opened the lid of the piano, and keeping his eyes to our Mary’s Sam, he played, and sang loudly.
Come here my little Jacky
Now I’ve smoked my baccy
Let’s have a bit of cracky
Till the boat comes in
‘Dance to thy Nanny,’ sang Rosie Andrews’ John. ‘Sing to thy Mammy,’ he was laughing, and the rest of the pub joined. We all laughed at our Mary’s Samuel. Our Mary’s Samuel went red as guts, and stomped to the door like he was leaving, knife still drawn. Then, at the sound of a snigger, he turned around and put his knife in Rosie Andrews’ John’s back.
So Betty Hardy’s David smashed a glass on his head, and he fell to the floor. We tied his hands and took him to the Mothers. We dragged him through the village, past all the little cottages. Some of our good women looked out from their windows and doors. They shook their heads but did not ask what we were up to. Men’s nonsense, they knew.
All the cottages were arranged in circles around the Mothers’ longhouse – our Mary’s Sammy was spared no dignity on his journey. We rapped on the door, and were greeted by Mother Perch – who was unmoved, and unimpressed.
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