She climbed up onto the parapet with Rosalie swaddled in her arms, and thought:
‘I won’t go to the workhouse and there’s no other way.’
Later that morning they opened the Inquest, the bodies laid out in the pub’s saloon bar.
Those that knew her kept quiet out of shame. Those that didn’t said she would rot in hell.
Sometimes on cold winter mornings, when the mist rises off the canal and the ice shifts and cracks, you might be startled by a loud splash followed by a pitiful cry as you walk under that bridge.
Just don't look back....