walking. I crossed the street and unlatched the gate, slipped through and fastened it again and did not so much as glance overto where he stood. If I could but have looked up then, and waved, and called out my farewells, it would have been smoothed over, but I was mortified. I ducked back down the track, the breeze cool on my hot cheeks, the sun making the grass shine silkily, past the white linen snapping in the breeze, towards the women’s figures dark at the bottom of the hill, and my only thought was that he must think me such a fool.
The voices were ringing out like bells from another parish, now clear and bright, now interrupted by the wind.
And where’er—
—Afric to Americay—
—I’d rather—–
—my love, my love—
They hadn’t even finished the song. When I came to the foot of the track, my mam lifted her head from the mangling.
“Where’s your basket, honey?”
I pressed my hands to my cheeks, shook my head. I’d left it back at the house.
“You’re a mooncalf,” she said, but not unkindly. “A right mooncalf.”
—
When he came into the room, my stomach swooped as if I were falling, but he just nodded and said good evening to us all, the whole family. He took his seat, and Mam gave him his tea. I took my plate and cup and went over to the windowsill. I perched there, looking out at the garden, at a blackbird hoppingthrough the herb patch, turning the earth with his yellow beak.
He set his empty cup down on the hearth; I heard the chink of china on slate, and my gaze flicked across to watch his dark hand retreat from the white china and return to the arm of the chair. Mam noticed he was done, and called across to him to ask him if he would take another cup.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will.”
“Lizzy, give us a hand here.”
I left my place at the window to fetch the pot. It was heavy and hot; it took two hands to carry it, one cupping the belly with a folded cloth, the other grasping the handle. I was aware of the sound of my skirts rustling at my legs, the press of garters against my thighs, the way the blood rose to my face as I stood in front of him. He was looking at me. His eyes were dark flowers, pitchblack at the centre, the irises traced with peat-coloured petals. He lifted his cup and I poured the tea. There was a fan of creases across the ball of his thumb, and a scar ran down the back of it. I found myself looking at the scar, at its precise whiteness. I forgot my awkwardness, forgot myself, studying the narrow white line, its dip into the flesh, the way the skin puckered at the edges. Afterwards it was in this way that I remembered him, these little details; the darkness of skin, the way it creased, that scar, his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said.
The cup was over full, the tea was welling to the brim. I dipped the pot back quickly, splashing tea onto the floor, and onto my hand, scalding; I shook it off without thinking and drops flicked onto his shirt. I watched the brown liquid seep into the weave of the cloth.
“I’m sorry—”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But are you hurt?” He set down his cup and stretched out his hand. “Show me.”
I shook my head, trying to manage the pot, to right its balance. “It’s fine. My skin’s like leather.”
He took the pot from my hands. Mam was speaking at the same time, saying that she didn’t know what was wrong with me lately, I’d lost any sense that I’d been born with, what was I thinking, getting clothes mucky on a washday. He set the pot down on the hearth, and took hold of my wrist, and drew my hand towards him, making me take a little awkward step closer to him. He looked at my hand; at the calluses from housework; at the scratches, scars and scabs from basket-making, the stains from preparing vegetables, cleaning copper pans, blacking boots and fireplaces. He turned it over, examined the cracks between the fingers, where the flesh is geranium-pink, that come from the cold, from
The voices were ringing out like bells from another parish, now clear and bright, now interrupted by the wind.
And where’er—
—Afric to Americay—
—I’d rather—–
—my love, my love—
They hadn’t even finished the song. When I came to the foot of the track, my mam lifted her head from the mangling.
“Where’s your basket, honey?”
I pressed my hands to my cheeks, shook my head. I’d left it back at the house.
“You’re a mooncalf,” she said, but not unkindly. “A right mooncalf.”
—
When he came into the room, my stomach swooped as if I were falling, but he just nodded and said good evening to us all, the whole family. He took his seat, and Mam gave him his tea. I took my plate and cup and went over to the windowsill. I perched there, looking out at the garden, at a blackbird hoppingthrough the herb patch, turning the earth with his yellow beak.
He set his empty cup down on the hearth; I heard the chink of china on slate, and my gaze flicked across to watch his dark hand retreat from the white china and return to the arm of the chair. Mam noticed he was done, and called across to him to ask him if he would take another cup.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will.”
“Lizzy, give us a hand here.”
I left my place at the window to fetch the pot. It was heavy and hot; it took two hands to carry it, one cupping the belly with a folded cloth, the other grasping the handle. I was aware of the sound of my skirts rustling at my legs, the press of garters against my thighs, the way the blood rose to my face as I stood in front of him. He was looking at me. His eyes were dark flowers, pitchblack at the centre, the irises traced with peat-coloured petals. He lifted his cup and I poured the tea. There was a fan of creases across the ball of his thumb, and a scar ran down the back of it. I found myself looking at the scar, at its precise whiteness. I forgot my awkwardness, forgot myself, studying the narrow white line, its dip into the flesh, the way the skin puckered at the edges. Afterwards it was in this way that I remembered him, these little details; the darkness of skin, the way it creased, that scar, his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said.
The cup was over full, the tea was welling to the brim. I dipped the pot back quickly, splashing tea onto the floor, and onto my hand, scalding; I shook it off without thinking and drops flicked onto his shirt. I watched the brown liquid seep into the weave of the cloth.
“I’m sorry—”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But are you hurt?” He set down his cup and stretched out his hand. “Show me.”
I shook my head, trying to manage the pot, to right its balance. “It’s fine. My skin’s like leather.”
He took the pot from my hands. Mam was speaking at the same time, saying that she didn’t know what was wrong with me lately, I’d lost any sense that I’d been born with, what was I thinking, getting clothes mucky on a washday. He set the pot down on the hearth, and took hold of my wrist, and drew my hand towards him, making me take a little awkward step closer to him. He looked at my hand; at the calluses from housework; at the scratches, scars and scabs from basket-making, the stains from preparing vegetables, cleaning copper pans, blacking boots and fireplaces. He turned it over, examined the cracks between the fingers, where the flesh is geranium-pink, that come from the cold, from
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