swished a broom over a stone floor. From time to time she'd hear the clip-clop of hooves and go to the window, and watch the cart taking grain to the granary creak up the hill. She put away the broom, pulled up the coverlet on her trundle bed, patted it straight, propped her doll against the pillow, and with a flick of her sleeve, brushed dust from the small chest of drawers that held her clothes. On the bench in the kitchen was a note. The child read, 'Collect eggs from Frau Weiss.' She stood on a box, reached to the mantel and took money from a jar. With the Kreutzers in the pocket of her pinafore, she clipped the door behind her, and set out.
Even before she reached the end of the street she could hear the rustic tumult of the market. Her pace quickened. Her wariness also. If her mother were a home mother and not a working one she would watch where her child wandered and frown and shake her finger and warn her of the charlatans and swindlers who lurked at every street corner.
She hugged the coins in her pinafore tighter. But the colours and sounds of the market were so rich and wonderful no imagining was needed to conjure them up.
She ran towards it, thinking if she were lucky a puppet show would be on in one of the caravans parked near the column.
In the square she wandered from one excitement to the next, pausing at a man in yellow with performing dogs who sat and begged and shook hands and bowed to much applause. Further along a man and a woman waltzed together to a tune played on a squeaky fiddle. And the sound joined with other sounds; with the calling of hawkers with their trays of trinkets and of vendors selling sausage and cheeses and fruit.
And as she circled, the child was aware that others were circling too, were calling her name, were jumping out from behind things to mimic her lisp.
'Yeth yeth yeth,' they crowed.
And she smiled, hoping they would smile. But they never did.
She hurried towards Frau Weiss and the eggs.
'And one extra for you,' the woman said.
'Danke, Frau Weiss,' the child replied and handed over the money.
'The child's turning into a street urchin,' remarked a woman on the next stall who sold cheese.
'What can the mother do?' hissed back the other. 'He drinks ... '
'Poor wretch.'
'Useless bum ... Eggs! Fresh eggs! Eggs laid today!'
The child's ears were sharp. She didn't wait for the next puppet show but hurried away, leaping, as she went, out of the path of a coach being driven at high speed. On past the workhouse and along the darkening network of narrow streets she ran, clutching the eggs in her pinafore with care. A man was moving along the street towards her. They both stopped in front of the small paling fence with the wooden gate.
'Eggs,' she said, opening her pinafore.
Her father smiled. He took her hand but his look didn't reach her eyes. Those who mocked her had the same look. That of a guilty thing ...
Three
They talked together by the rustling conifer, away from the child. When they came inside her mother looked older, her father, unhappy. Eggs were eaten in silence and the world grew dark.
In her trundle bed by the window the child feigned sleep, listened with ears pricked to the muffled sounds that came from the big bed. From time to time her mother would cough hard and long and spit into a handkerchief. 'The fibres get up your nose,' she'd laugh. Though how fibres could get up your nose was a mystery to the child, regardless of what work in the paper-making factory her mother was doing.
'You should never have left the forge...' her mother was saying.
'Bad company –' she heard her father mumble.
'You were weak.'
'I'm sorry.'
Her mother went on. 'A clerk's pay is hard to live on, but with mine and the few Kreutzers you get at the tavern we could manage, just. But now ... '
'I'm sorry.'
'They will not get away with this ... '
'It was my fault.'
'It was. But they knew what they were doing –' There came another bout of coughing and spitting. The child
Even before she reached the end of the street she could hear the rustic tumult of the market. Her pace quickened. Her wariness also. If her mother were a home mother and not a working one she would watch where her child wandered and frown and shake her finger and warn her of the charlatans and swindlers who lurked at every street corner.
She hugged the coins in her pinafore tighter. But the colours and sounds of the market were so rich and wonderful no imagining was needed to conjure them up.
She ran towards it, thinking if she were lucky a puppet show would be on in one of the caravans parked near the column.
In the square she wandered from one excitement to the next, pausing at a man in yellow with performing dogs who sat and begged and shook hands and bowed to much applause. Further along a man and a woman waltzed together to a tune played on a squeaky fiddle. And the sound joined with other sounds; with the calling of hawkers with their trays of trinkets and of vendors selling sausage and cheeses and fruit.
And as she circled, the child was aware that others were circling too, were calling her name, were jumping out from behind things to mimic her lisp.
'Yeth yeth yeth,' they crowed.
And she smiled, hoping they would smile. But they never did.
She hurried towards Frau Weiss and the eggs.
'And one extra for you,' the woman said.
'Danke, Frau Weiss,' the child replied and handed over the money.
'The child's turning into a street urchin,' remarked a woman on the next stall who sold cheese.
'What can the mother do?' hissed back the other. 'He drinks ... '
'Poor wretch.'
'Useless bum ... Eggs! Fresh eggs! Eggs laid today!'
The child's ears were sharp. She didn't wait for the next puppet show but hurried away, leaping, as she went, out of the path of a coach being driven at high speed. On past the workhouse and along the darkening network of narrow streets she ran, clutching the eggs in her pinafore with care. A man was moving along the street towards her. They both stopped in front of the small paling fence with the wooden gate.
'Eggs,' she said, opening her pinafore.
Her father smiled. He took her hand but his look didn't reach her eyes. Those who mocked her had the same look. That of a guilty thing ...
Three
They talked together by the rustling conifer, away from the child. When they came inside her mother looked older, her father, unhappy. Eggs were eaten in silence and the world grew dark.
In her trundle bed by the window the child feigned sleep, listened with ears pricked to the muffled sounds that came from the big bed. From time to time her mother would cough hard and long and spit into a handkerchief. 'The fibres get up your nose,' she'd laugh. Though how fibres could get up your nose was a mystery to the child, regardless of what work in the paper-making factory her mother was doing.
'You should never have left the forge...' her mother was saying.
'Bad company –' she heard her father mumble.
'You were weak.'
'I'm sorry.'
Her mother went on. 'A clerk's pay is hard to live on, but with mine and the few Kreutzers you get at the tavern we could manage, just. But now ... '
'I'm sorry.'
'They will not get away with this ... '
'It was my fault.'
'It was. But they knew what they were doing –' There came another bout of coughing and spitting. The child
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