The Making of 'Madam Geneva'

Words by Christine Collinson

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

She slaps down a grubby coin onto the polished counter. Mr. Snell swipes it at once, adds it to the bulging pocket of his apron. “There you go, ma’am.” The jug’s put before her, another one. Her eyes try to fix on it. Eyes already red-rimmed, hand already shaking as she lifts it to her mouth.

Mr. Snell had taken a delivery in late, from a new chap down the way. This batch was a bit cheaper, but only just a bit. He doesn’t know why and he didn’t ask. Perhaps a little more acid, perhaps a little turpentine. “It’s good stuff, make no mistake,” the man had said, grinning like a victorious bounty-hunter. He’d tapped a barrel and nodded purposefully to prove its worth.

She drains the jug, wipes her mouth on her sleeve. "I ain’t fit for ‘em. What little ‘uns deserve a Ma like me?” Mr. Snell doesn’t answer. Has heard it all a hundred times over.

“Can I get you another?” The new stuff’s gone down well. Mr. Snell knew it would. No one who came in expected more, cared for more. Always a penny and it worked the same. Scorched your throat, filled your belly, lightened your head. An elixir for escape; who wouldn’t want it.

“I shouldn’t …” Her head lolls, a gin-tear trickles down one ruddy cheek. She scavenges in her pocket, finds another coin. “It’s me last,” she says, flipping it across.

At nightfall most of Mr. Snell’s regulars leave, but a few always stay. A gin-soaked smoke cloud floats between them, settles on hair and cloth. Permeates cloth to skin beneath. If you leave, you always take some away. Carry it home, settle against your pillow with the stain of Madam Geneva still upon you.

“Last orders, ladies and gents!” Mr. Snell’s apron is heavy with the weight of fortunes lost.

She doesn’t look up; her head, lying on folded arms. The half-drained jug is at her elbow. As her eyelids droop, her lips fail to trap a dribble of saliva.

As Mr. Snell bolts the shop’s door, darkness has settled like a magician’s cloak over the alley. Those left inside can hide until dawn reveals their whereabouts. “Off to the back with you, folks,” he says, collecting the last empties.

Mr. Snell’s back room, a mere step up from a stable, awaits the dead drunk. She staggers through in a juniper-scented haze, legs unsteady as a barely-grown urchin. “Thanks … Mister, for the bed.” And she guffaws, makes a grab for his arm. He watches her collapse gracelessly onto the straw. “Won’t ya … join me?” she calls, but he’s already gone.

As Mr. Snell heads upstairs to his lodgings, the takings chink pleasingly within their pouch. His wife will ask if there’s enough for a nice dinner on Sunday and he’ll tell her there is. He’ll ruffle his sleeping son’s hair, as every night. Lastly, he’ll wash the gin-and-smoke stink away and pull on a clean nightshirt.

When Mr. Snell’s tired head settles against the pillow, all trace of Madam Geneva will fade away.

About the author

Christine Collinson writes historical fiction. Her first Novella-in-Flash was longlisted in the Bath Novella-in-Flash Award 2022. Over the past four years, her work has been widely published in online journals and print anthologies. Find her on Twitter @collinson26.

About the artist

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating whimsical art and illustrations since a child; her inspiration comes from the cartoons, comic strips and animated movies she grew up with. In 2016, Yaleeza began expanding her art into her own business named Rowan Ink. It began with a simple pair of hand-painted, custom-made shoes for a friend’s birthday. Through her artistic journey she has expanded into different art mediums, but her true passion is sketching, illustrating and painting. Yaleeza currently resides in the south side of Indianapolis with her husband, her dog, and her cat. You can find her current artwork at Rowaninkstudio.com.