been her habit, he imagines, to rise early all her life. She has that look. And in age it is pride that keeps her rising early, for it demonstrates both to herself and the world that she is still active and still of use to herself and that world. And confident of all this he calls out a simple hello. But even as he inwardly pronounces it a simple hello, he knows it isn’t. For although they have talked before, this, he knows, is different. This time he has come to her. She has not come for water; they have not passed, as they sometimes have, on the Old Wheat Road. He has come to her. Furthermore, he has come with a gift. This, in short, is a visit.
Moments after he calls, the flap of the tent opens and she pops her head out. She is wary and at first the look on her face does not speak of welcome, but as soon as she sees it is Skinner the look softens and Skinner draws confidence from this change of expression. He is, all thesame, stiff and rigid, his toes pointed slightly inward, leaning to one side, a faint smile spread awkwardly across his face. A manner that says, I am here but if you wish I can go. The manner of someone unused to calling, to making a visit.
‘Mr Skinner,’ she says, stepping from the tent.
‘Miss Carroll,’ he returns.
It is their way. Whenever their paths cross, whenever they meet, on the Old Wheat Road or when she comes for water, this is the way they address each other. They do not use Christian names. Always Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner. To use first names, it is tacitly agreed and has been from the start, would be presumptuous. Would be to assume a familiarity that they have not yet earned the right to assume, but which one day they might. It is also a way of establishing a common identity. That they are Old World. That this is the way things were always done in the world they knew. One was formal; one did not assume. One did not play fast and loose with people’s names either, for to play fast and loose with the names indicated a talent (and talent is a questionable quality in this case) for playing fast and loose with the people who bear those names.
And so as Katherine approaches Skinner and they begin their conversation, it is as Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner.
‘Good morning,’ he says, nodding.
‘Good morning, Mr Skinner.’ She glances at the gifts, then adds, ‘I heard you this morning, talking to the cows.’
What she doesn’t go on to say is that she listens for him every morning, that she has, over the months she hasbeen on the land, become attached to the sound of Skinner bringing in the cows for milking. It is, in the same way that her light is for Skinner, a comfort. What’s more, a comfort that neither of them is aware of providing the other. So the sounds of Skinner at dawn and the sounds of the cows have now become synonymous with her mornings and ease her into the day.
He looks down at his gift. ‘I thought you might need these,’ and he holds out the milk in one hand and the butter and cheese in the other. He does not say he thought she might ‘like’ his gift, for liking something does not make it necessary. But if something is needed it adds weight to the gift. Makes it appear considered, not a mere fancy.
‘They are yours?’
‘Yes,’ he nods, emphatic. ‘The milk’s as fresh as the dew,’ he says, handing them to her. ‘And the butter and cheese are tastier than anything you’ll buy from the grocer.’
It is then that she smiles, Skinner’s gifts in her hand and arms, a large smile. The kind of smile that does not just come from the lips but the eyes as well. And it occurs to Skinner that she has not received many gifts. That she is not the kind of woman upon whom gifts are often bestowed. And it just might be that she is also acknowledging the care and consideration that have gone into the gift. It is with this smile that Skinner imagines he can also glimpse the previous Miss Carrolls, the Miss Carrolls who eventually lead you back to the girl.
Moments after he calls, the flap of the tent opens and she pops her head out. She is wary and at first the look on her face does not speak of welcome, but as soon as she sees it is Skinner the look softens and Skinner draws confidence from this change of expression. He is, all thesame, stiff and rigid, his toes pointed slightly inward, leaning to one side, a faint smile spread awkwardly across his face. A manner that says, I am here but if you wish I can go. The manner of someone unused to calling, to making a visit.
‘Mr Skinner,’ she says, stepping from the tent.
‘Miss Carroll,’ he returns.
It is their way. Whenever their paths cross, whenever they meet, on the Old Wheat Road or when she comes for water, this is the way they address each other. They do not use Christian names. Always Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner. To use first names, it is tacitly agreed and has been from the start, would be presumptuous. Would be to assume a familiarity that they have not yet earned the right to assume, but which one day they might. It is also a way of establishing a common identity. That they are Old World. That this is the way things were always done in the world they knew. One was formal; one did not assume. One did not play fast and loose with people’s names either, for to play fast and loose with the names indicated a talent (and talent is a questionable quality in this case) for playing fast and loose with the people who bear those names.
And so as Katherine approaches Skinner and they begin their conversation, it is as Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner.
‘Good morning,’ he says, nodding.
‘Good morning, Mr Skinner.’ She glances at the gifts, then adds, ‘I heard you this morning, talking to the cows.’
What she doesn’t go on to say is that she listens for him every morning, that she has, over the months she hasbeen on the land, become attached to the sound of Skinner bringing in the cows for milking. It is, in the same way that her light is for Skinner, a comfort. What’s more, a comfort that neither of them is aware of providing the other. So the sounds of Skinner at dawn and the sounds of the cows have now become synonymous with her mornings and ease her into the day.
He looks down at his gift. ‘I thought you might need these,’ and he holds out the milk in one hand and the butter and cheese in the other. He does not say he thought she might ‘like’ his gift, for liking something does not make it necessary. But if something is needed it adds weight to the gift. Makes it appear considered, not a mere fancy.
‘They are yours?’
‘Yes,’ he nods, emphatic. ‘The milk’s as fresh as the dew,’ he says, handing them to her. ‘And the butter and cheese are tastier than anything you’ll buy from the grocer.’
It is then that she smiles, Skinner’s gifts in her hand and arms, a large smile. The kind of smile that does not just come from the lips but the eyes as well. And it occurs to Skinner that she has not received many gifts. That she is not the kind of woman upon whom gifts are often bestowed. And it just might be that she is also acknowledging the care and consideration that have gone into the gift. It is with this smile that Skinner imagines he can also glimpse the previous Miss Carrolls, the Miss Carrolls who eventually lead you back to the girl.
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