Webster contemplates a map of the place that will contain his world, the blue streamlined engine, with the bold yellow stripe down the side and the yellow crest at the front like a bird about to take flight, travels through the night in air-conditioned ease. For the Spirit of Progress does not stop for sleep, nor is the Spirit of Progress ever tired. It is out there, it is always out there, speeding through the night where nobody sees it, from sunset to sunrise, covering the distance between here and elsewhere on shiny rails that converge but never meet and never end.
13.
Skinner’s Gift
S kinner has been up since four. He milks his cows twice a day by hand. He is down to a dozen now, and they line up at the gate in the paddock waiting to be let into the milking shed. A lifetime’s habit brings both the cows and Skinner to the gate every morning at this hour when everything is in darkness, even in summer.
It is light now and he feels the effects of a bad night’s sleep. Skinner has always been a good sleeper, has always slept the sleep of those who rise early and labour through the day. It is Skinner’s dilemma that has kept him awake at night lately and he has made his decision. He will approach that light. At least, he will go to Miss Carroll’s tent and he will present her with a small gift. They have spoken before when she comes for her water, but only briefly. The gift, he imagines, will bring them more to say. Perhaps. A start at least.
He is standing on the back veranda, where he has nightly gazed upon her light, looking out across hispaddocks where his cows munch happily, their udders drained. He holds his gift. Or, rather, three gifts. In one hand is a small metal container of fresh milk, in the other a block of butter and some cheese. His milk, his butter, his cheese. He thought long and hard about what his gift should be, and these items, the product of his labour, are the result of deep consideration. A gift, he thinks, must be carefully chosen because it can mean many and varied things. It can be a welcome, the kind of welcome that anybody who has lived in a community for a long time extends to a newcomer. An act of generosity that is likely not to be repeated. But it might also be the way a small community such as theirs draws others into its circle, making it stronger. There, it says, we have given you this; now you are one of us. Now we have you. For with this kind of gift comes obligation. And those who do not wish to be drawn into the circle of the community (and Miss Carroll gives every indication of being one of those), who have always lived on the edges of a community, are faced with a choice when presented with such a gift: to accept or refuse. It is an awkward moment, for such a gift is an invitation, albeit an intrusive one to the likes of Miss Carroll, and a refusal of it a snub. And snubs are never forgotten. A gift may also be a way of saying thank you in such a way as to close the book, a way of seeing off a debt or an obligation for those who feel the obligation of such communal courtesies. A service has been rendered, it says. A payment made. Book closed. We need not bother each other again. But, and this is the gift that Skinner brings to Miss Carroll, a gift can also simply be anexpression of care. A way of saying, I have watched you carrying your bucket to and from my farm; I have watched you walking to and from the butcher’s, baker’s and grocer’s. You have entered my world, you and your light, and my world welcomes you into it.
This is the way he would like his gift to be received. And with this intention in mind he opens the gate at which the cows line up in darkness and closes it behind him before walking across his paddock towards Miss Carroll’s tent.
Soon he is standing on the road where the journalist and the photographer stood the previous day, contemplating her tent. It is light, still early, but she will be up. It is, he suspects, both her habit and her pride. It has
13.
Skinner’s Gift
S kinner has been up since four. He milks his cows twice a day by hand. He is down to a dozen now, and they line up at the gate in the paddock waiting to be let into the milking shed. A lifetime’s habit brings both the cows and Skinner to the gate every morning at this hour when everything is in darkness, even in summer.
It is light now and he feels the effects of a bad night’s sleep. Skinner has always been a good sleeper, has always slept the sleep of those who rise early and labour through the day. It is Skinner’s dilemma that has kept him awake at night lately and he has made his decision. He will approach that light. At least, he will go to Miss Carroll’s tent and he will present her with a small gift. They have spoken before when she comes for her water, but only briefly. The gift, he imagines, will bring them more to say. Perhaps. A start at least.
He is standing on the back veranda, where he has nightly gazed upon her light, looking out across hispaddocks where his cows munch happily, their udders drained. He holds his gift. Or, rather, three gifts. In one hand is a small metal container of fresh milk, in the other a block of butter and some cheese. His milk, his butter, his cheese. He thought long and hard about what his gift should be, and these items, the product of his labour, are the result of deep consideration. A gift, he thinks, must be carefully chosen because it can mean many and varied things. It can be a welcome, the kind of welcome that anybody who has lived in a community for a long time extends to a newcomer. An act of generosity that is likely not to be repeated. But it might also be the way a small community such as theirs draws others into its circle, making it stronger. There, it says, we have given you this; now you are one of us. Now we have you. For with this kind of gift comes obligation. And those who do not wish to be drawn into the circle of the community (and Miss Carroll gives every indication of being one of those), who have always lived on the edges of a community, are faced with a choice when presented with such a gift: to accept or refuse. It is an awkward moment, for such a gift is an invitation, albeit an intrusive one to the likes of Miss Carroll, and a refusal of it a snub. And snubs are never forgotten. A gift may also be a way of saying thank you in such a way as to close the book, a way of seeing off a debt or an obligation for those who feel the obligation of such communal courtesies. A service has been rendered, it says. A payment made. Book closed. We need not bother each other again. But, and this is the gift that Skinner brings to Miss Carroll, a gift can also simply be anexpression of care. A way of saying, I have watched you carrying your bucket to and from my farm; I have watched you walking to and from the butcher’s, baker’s and grocer’s. You have entered my world, you and your light, and my world welcomes you into it.
This is the way he would like his gift to be received. And with this intention in mind he opens the gate at which the cows line up in darkness and closes it behind him before walking across his paddock towards Miss Carroll’s tent.
Soon he is standing on the road where the journalist and the photographer stood the previous day, contemplating her tent. It is light, still early, but she will be up. It is, he suspects, both her habit and her pride. It has
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