My mother ignores my aunt nosing about, as she always does. She has had too many years of it to care. She takes Hester to the truckle bed and lies her down under the blanket for her sleep, then she comes back to the kitchen and begins to chop the heart and kidneys into dark pink pieces on a board.
‘Oh, there are always onions,’ Lil cries despairingly when she returns, holding her wet red fingers out before the fire. She hates the taste of them unless they form but a tiny part of something good to eat. ‘Should we be starving to death, our legs sprouting bony from the hems of our skinny ragged dresses, there would still be onions to feed upon.’ Lil has the sweetest tooth of all of us. She seems to suffer most from the plainness of our diet, becoming pale and drawn and falling asleep if she has carried fresh water all the way from the well. ‘Soup made with onions, for days on end, gives people a bellyache,’ she always complains, as though my mother chooses to make it on purpose to vex her.
My aunt comes out holding a pail in front of her. ‘You should cover your butter, Mary,’ she says accusingly, and tips it up so that the soaking pat of butter in the water bobs against the side and threatens to spill out. ‘Mice will be having that, leaving their evidence all over it. Get a good lid, weigh it down. A heavy thing will do, a tile, a rock. Go on, Elizabeth!’ She has always chivvied us. My mother says that at least it is a good thing that she married our uncle, as his natural state is patient to the point of indolence. Lucky that she didn’t wed our father then, I’d thought when she said that, as his temper wouldn’t stand for nagging.
Lil rolls her eyes as she goes to the door.
She is right, of course; mice will eat anything. I have found tallow candles nibbled down to the wicks before, and green scrubbing soap ridged and pocked with teeth marks. Their droppings get everywhere, like big seeds of dirt. In summer we cut lengths of water mint and rue to strew over the boards in the upstairs chamber, in the hope that mice would not climb up and eat our hair in the night or make nests in the straw of our bedding.
‘If I was choosing,’ William had said, watching us from the doorway, ‘I should make my whole nest from herbs and feathers.’
‘If you were a mouse, you mean,’ I’d said to him.
‘If I was one.’ And I’d laughed at his earnest look and scooped him up and buried my face in his hair out of merriment. How things have changed.
I knock off the mud from my boots at the back door then sit down in the corner to clean them. There is a quietness in the room, under the chat and the noise of the knives chopping. The cat mews once outside the closed back door then goes away. My uncle whistles something through his teeth.
‘Why are you greasing your boots, Agnes?’ William asks suddenly. He has come and sat beside me. Everybody stops talking, and looks around at me. There is a silence. Or perhaps I have imagined it, as they are talking again.
‘They are so dry, William,’ I reply in a low voice. ‘I had to catch them before the cracks set in, before the wetness of the puddles began to soak through them too easily. Shall I do your boots for you?’
He unlaces his boots, which are too big for him, and takes them off, then he sits down beside me on the floor in his woollen stockings while I warm the grease again, which has cooled and stiffened. His feet look small. He watches me work the warm liquid evenly into the leather with a piece of rag. When I have finished, our two pairs of boots are dark and shiny.
‘Thank you, Agnes,’ William says, and the face that he turns to me is pleased and trusting. I get up to put the greasepot away on the high shelf, so that he cannot see my eyes filling with tears.
Traitor’s tears, I think.
Crying is no good. I remember the time that my mother, enraged at my wallowing over some squabble with Ann, cried out, ‘Upset? There is no place for upsetness before a pot over the fire, my girl.’ And my slapped cheek stung in the heat of the flames, the salt taste of my tears mingling with the smell of scorched soup overboiling and hissing into the hot wood ash on the hearth. No, tears are uncommon in this house.
That was the year the cold was so bitter at pig-killing time that even the running stream froze at the edge where it touched the bank; swollen icy webs clung about the stems of reeds like boiled sugar.
At the hearth, I watch my mother slip Lil another piece of kidney when she thinks my father cannot see, in the same way that she keeps a brown crock of honey in a secret place behind the barrels in the outhouse, and gives a spoonful of it to Lil to make a difference to her bad days, when she has them. My father does not know, it might stoke his wrath unnecessarily. My mother thinks I do not know about the honey either, but when Lil comes close with her breath all smelling of sugar and flowers it is hard not to notice. Once I took a spoon out there and prised up the sticky cork to help myself when no one was home. The honey was like metal and blood and summer all together in my mouth, but the guilty taste was the one I remembered, day after day for weeks. I didn’t do it again.
We sell the honey from the hive if there is enough. Hive money, egg money, bird money when my father has trapped larks and snipe. ‘The wealthy suffer from their fancy palates and inconstant appetites,’ he says. ‘So we must offer something delicate, and should it tempt the shillings from their silky purses when they pay off the butcher, so much the better.’ That thought made him wink at me. It all goes towards the important things we need: flour, salt, twine, the mending of pots and boots.
The day draws on.
Later we sit at the trestle table together and eat, although I can taste nothing but the smell of the raw pig everywhere, and I find I cannot swallow the rough bread at all. William leans over, still chewing at his own, to grab my bread and press it eagerly between his little teeth. Nobody scolds him, as nobody notices, they are so occupied in being well fed. I do not enjoy the thick stew made with pig’s liver and pig’s kidneys that Lil ladles out to all of us from the blackened pot. Instead I watch my mother’s bony hands spoon gravy into Hester’s open mouth until her bowl is empty. ‘This is good,’ we all say, trying not to seem too hungry before my aunt.
I go to the loom.
I am thinking hard and yet not thinking at all. It is as though my mind were all in pieces.
It had almost happened once before, I remember, when I was sat with John Glincy on the bank, one time in spring. I’d let the pig go on slowly down the lane, snouting at roots all by itself. I would have been in trouble if they’d caught me doing that, just letting a weaner go wandering off.
‘It’s nothing but playing, is it, Ag?’ he’d said, as his hand was inching up inside my underskirt. I didn’t mind, I told myself.
His face took on a strange shape as he was talking, as though it had a lot to concentrate on. His hand was rough and didn’t stay still. I didn’t think much on it either way, and no one ever saw, so I thought; what harm was it? In truth I did not know what I should have said to make him stop. Like I say, no one saw, and besides old Mr Jub came shuffling over the brow of the hill and John Glincy slid his hand out quick enough then, and touched his hat, if you please, to Mr Jub as he passed us by; Mr Jub who leant so heavily upon his stick it looked as though he were punishing the ground at every step. Then he went off.
That afternoon I saw John Glincy beating at his dogs on his walk home with a viciousness that made me catch my breath. His father is angry like that, too; we heard there was a working dog at Gallop’s Farm, over Findon way, that he killed by kicking at it until it fell down. My mother says there must be some kind of ill-luck in the earth under their dwellinghouse, they have had so many troubles there. Yet he is blessed with a head of thick yellow hair, the colour of straw, so that it is his head which stands out brightly against the darkness of the field when the men are driving the ploughs and the sun shines down on them. That makes