Over My Dead Body.

Winter 1870.

I've been working at the parlour since I could walk. Arranging the flowers, measuring the coffins and sweeping the floors. My dad owned the parlour and every weekend: without fail, I'd spend all day there - Allen and Son.

It's quite sad how my career path had been chosen for me before I was born, but I suppose it could have been worse, I could've ended up like the bums who loiter around town all day. Besides, it's not like death takes a break, so there is always business.

I looked into my dad's office for the second time that hour, and tried to decipher his emotions. He never wore his heart on his sleeve but I was learning to read the subtle changes in his body language.

Right now he it seemed he was disgusted...or surprised. Hey,  I'm still learning. I knew he was hiring, and to be honest we were desperate for any help we could get. I'm surprised that people aren't queueing up to spend their summer break in the dead house (!)

I walked to the other window to his office and tried to make  out the features of the figure sat opposite to him. I could just make out the blur of a petite frame. Edging  closer, I strained my eyes, trying to see more.

The figure stood up and almost immediately the door opened and my dad and a young woman were making their way to the front of the shop.

"We'll be in contact with you soon Miss Bernard."

Ah, so we were going to have another hand on deck.

I paid more attention to the lady. She stood with an air of confidence and she did not have many layers of clothing on. She wore only a loose fitted tunic without a corset, so she had no frame or figure.However when she walked it was a different matter altogether, she took large steps and walked awkwardly. As if her limbs were going to fall off with every step.

As she walked past me, a sickeningly sweet smell flooded my nostrils.

I waited until the door had rung shut and turned to my dad.

"You're hiring girls now?" The girl looked about fourteen years old with slightly chubby cheeks and big eyes.

"Any better ideas?" My dad asked. His voice carried weariness and I felt ashamed, he was doing a lot of work, we both were. But my young body could keep up and his was struggling to.

"We need all the help we can get after.."

He cut his sentence short, he didn't need to finish it.

After clearing my throat and finding my duster, I turned the phonograph on, to continue hearing the funeral march and proceed with the dusting.

Fun Fact: In the Victorian Era, the word Legs was a rude word, so limb was used instead!