never seen him in such a hurry to get to school, but he has stories to tell. Absently, he strokes the dressing at his temples as he chews.
"Let me change that for you," she says, and he submits, still chewing, but once she unwinds the bandage, and he sees the coppery bloodstain like a penny at its centre, he insists on keeping it, and she has to settle for washing the wound, gently dabbing around the scab. He's cheerful, fidgety with happiness, and when she wants to know why, he wonders shyly--not quite sure if he's dreamed it--whether he can see
his bike now.
"You're sure you can ride one?" she asks, and he nods so emphatically she worries the bandage will slip.
"Course!"
At first, watching him weave across the yard on the bike, she can't believe he knows how to ride one, is sure he'll end up with another knot on his head or worse, half raises her arms to catch him. But he refuses to let her adjust the seat or
the handlebars. He loves the height, though it means he has to mount the bike from the bottom rung of the gate. He wobbles back and forth and then gets the measure of it, swooping around her, laughing gleefully, the dogs racing after him, barking, even Arthur coming to the barn door to watch. "See!" Jim cries. Then he's gone, flying down the lane, legs spread,
feet off the pedals, his bandaged head a blur. Fearless , she thinks as the echo of the last bark dies away, and she suddenly wishes she'd kept the bike, could throw herself headlong down the hillside.
"Where'd he get that, then?" Arthur asks, and she calls over her shoulder that he found it.
"Found it?" The village boys, he knows, are not above a bit of thievery.
She shrugs. "Someone lost it. He found it."
She stares after Jim until he rushes out of sight, and when she looks round, the dogs and Arthur have disappeared and she is alone in the cobbled yard, apart from a couple of hens pecking in the dust. She goes back inside and fetches the black kettle to the pump, fills it brimful with six sharp cranks of the handle, carries it slopping to the stove. She sits and watches the faint wisps curling from its forked spout slowly braid themselves into a taut line. She watches the windows fog with condensation; the claw feet of the kettle begin to
smoke and glow. It looks as if it's standing on tiptoe, shrieking, and she thinks, If I can stand it, so can you .
She levers it off the plate finally, allows herself to cry only until she's sure the kettle must be cool, so that she can fill it again without risk of cracking the cast iron. Then she washes every piece of linen in the house--the sheets, the tablecloth, Arthur's nightshirt, her drawers--boiling them with soda. She works them against the zinc washboard in the scarred wooden tub, just as her mother would have, her hands red as berries in the sudsy water, and then she puts them through the mangle, watching with grim satisfaction as the grey water wells up around the rollers and falls away. She hauls the load
up to the garden above the house, shakes the linens out piece by piece until they snap, hangs them on the line. It's a good day for it, bright and blustery, though the wind makes her eyes run. The cold corners of the damp tablecloth lick her ankles in
the breeze, and once a whole sheet rises up before her, pressing itself to her lips and nose until she can smell the faint tang of soap, but she holds on tight, pegs clenched in her teeth, and waits for the wind to drop. Arthur, spying the wagging white sheets from the yard, calls, "Who are we surrendering to?" And she yells down to him fiercely that the clothes are filthy.
The kettle's rarely off the hob the rest of the day. She scalds the table, scrubs the slate floor, then the whitewashed walls, even the ceiling, losing herself in work. She shuts the doors and windows and swats every fly in the house.
"Bit late for spring cleaning, isn't it?" Arthur asks her at supper, as if she's lost track of the seasons. When she
ignores him, he nudges Jim.
"Let me change that for you," she says, and he submits, still chewing, but once she unwinds the bandage, and he sees the coppery bloodstain like a penny at its centre, he insists on keeping it, and she has to settle for washing the wound, gently dabbing around the scab. He's cheerful, fidgety with happiness, and when she wants to know why, he wonders shyly--not quite sure if he's dreamed it--whether he can see
his bike now.
"You're sure you can ride one?" she asks, and he nods so emphatically she worries the bandage will slip.
"Course!"
At first, watching him weave across the yard on the bike, she can't believe he knows how to ride one, is sure he'll end up with another knot on his head or worse, half raises her arms to catch him. But he refuses to let her adjust the seat or
the handlebars. He loves the height, though it means he has to mount the bike from the bottom rung of the gate. He wobbles back and forth and then gets the measure of it, swooping around her, laughing gleefully, the dogs racing after him, barking, even Arthur coming to the barn door to watch. "See!" Jim cries. Then he's gone, flying down the lane, legs spread,
feet off the pedals, his bandaged head a blur. Fearless , she thinks as the echo of the last bark dies away, and she suddenly wishes she'd kept the bike, could throw herself headlong down the hillside.
"Where'd he get that, then?" Arthur asks, and she calls over her shoulder that he found it.
"Found it?" The village boys, he knows, are not above a bit of thievery.
She shrugs. "Someone lost it. He found it."
She stares after Jim until he rushes out of sight, and when she looks round, the dogs and Arthur have disappeared and she is alone in the cobbled yard, apart from a couple of hens pecking in the dust. She goes back inside and fetches the black kettle to the pump, fills it brimful with six sharp cranks of the handle, carries it slopping to the stove. She sits and watches the faint wisps curling from its forked spout slowly braid themselves into a taut line. She watches the windows fog with condensation; the claw feet of the kettle begin to
smoke and glow. It looks as if it's standing on tiptoe, shrieking, and she thinks, If I can stand it, so can you .
She levers it off the plate finally, allows herself to cry only until she's sure the kettle must be cool, so that she can fill it again without risk of cracking the cast iron. Then she washes every piece of linen in the house--the sheets, the tablecloth, Arthur's nightshirt, her drawers--boiling them with soda. She works them against the zinc washboard in the scarred wooden tub, just as her mother would have, her hands red as berries in the sudsy water, and then she puts them through the mangle, watching with grim satisfaction as the grey water wells up around the rollers and falls away. She hauls the load
up to the garden above the house, shakes the linens out piece by piece until they snap, hangs them on the line. It's a good day for it, bright and blustery, though the wind makes her eyes run. The cold corners of the damp tablecloth lick her ankles in
the breeze, and once a whole sheet rises up before her, pressing itself to her lips and nose until she can smell the faint tang of soap, but she holds on tight, pegs clenched in her teeth, and waits for the wind to drop. Arthur, spying the wagging white sheets from the yard, calls, "Who are we surrendering to?" And she yells down to him fiercely that the clothes are filthy.
The kettle's rarely off the hob the rest of the day. She scalds the table, scrubs the slate floor, then the whitewashed walls, even the ceiling, losing herself in work. She shuts the doors and windows and swats every fly in the house.
"Bit late for spring cleaning, isn't it?" Arthur asks her at supper, as if she's lost track of the seasons. When she
ignores him, he nudges Jim.
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