Ivy emptied her handbag onto the faded bedspread: two wallets, a ration book, and a wad of fivers. She’d been working the railways for three months now, sex and shame her weapons of choice.
That nice young man, he’d been a proper gent. Remembering, she took a slug of whisky from the chipped cup. He’d make a good catch, for someone like the girl she used to be. Who was she kidding; that bent bookie was more her type.
As she tossed the young man’s passport onto the bed, Ivy tipped back her lovely chin and laughed long and loud.
M J Lewis ©2015
It’s a glorious spring day, the tulips are bloomin’ gorgeous and I’m turning to grimy 1950s Britain for some sleazy crime. It was that Jennifer Pendergast wot made me do it, it were her picture. And that Rochelle, she’s the real mastermind behind the Friday Fiction Gang, honest guv. If you want the rest of the stash you’ll have to click here, if you dare. Oi! That’s’ my real hair when you’ve finished.