No Way Of Telling by Emma Smith

salted runner-beans, and jars and jars of pickles. And in spite of it being now nearly the end of February they had still a few apples left—cookers on one shelf, eaters on another. Mrs Bowen knew all about providing food for long isolated winters: she had had years of practice.
    “We shan’t go hungry, that’s a comfort,” she said as she closed the cupboard doors. “It’s only fresh milk we have to go without. I know we ought to keep a goat, Amy—it’s folly for us not to—only somehow I can’t bring myself to fancy the taste of goat’s milk.”
    Amy went on polishing.
    “I wonder who he was, Granny—that man.”
    “Oh—him!”
    Mrs Bowen came and sat down at the table facing Amy.
    “I don’t suppose we shall ever know,” she said.
    “Shan’t we? What if he stops for a day or two in the village? What if it turns out he’s old Mrs Hamer’s long-lost son?”
    “Now Amy, that’s nothing but nonsense you’re talking—Mrs Hamer’s got no long-lost son that ever I’ve heard of.”
    Amy rubbed the knob of the poker with extreme vigour, held it up, looked at it, twisted it this way and that to make it sparkle, and laid it down.
    “You don’t suppose he’s a murderer, do you, Granny?”
    “He didn’t murder us,” said Mrs Bowen, rather shortly.
    “I just can’t help wondering who he was, that’s all. He was so different. And he was hurt. I think he’d broken his arm.”
    “It couldn’t have been broken, Amy. When an arm gets broken the fingers don’t have any power in them. I distinctly remember he put that hand on the latch of the door and opened it—so it wasn’t a broken arm.”
    There was a pause while the scene recurred to both of them, detailed and yet somehow remote.
    “He stole our blankets and meat and our lantern, so he was a thief anyway,” said Amy, summing up.
    “Well yes, there’s no denying he took what wasn’t his, and he took it without asking,” said Mrs Bowen.” And yet it struck me he didn’t know what he was doing half the time. He acted like he was in a daze. Those were funny sort of provisions he took, Amy—a jar of pickles and raw meat. He may have helped himself to a few apples, but they wouldn’t do much for him. There’s plenty more in our side-kitchen would have made better eating than that. What about all the bacon up there on the cratch—he’d have found it a lot easier to cook a bit of bacon than a leg of mutton. And there’s that pile of butter and a whole cheese not started—he missed to see them and all he had to do was raise his head.”
    “Maybe he was in too big a hurry.”
    “He was in a hurry right enough,” said Mrs Bowen. “And yet—there was a moment when I had the feeling—” She stopped and lifted her hands and let them drop with a helpless gesture.
    “Go on, Granny—what kind of a feeling?”
    “That’s what I can’t say. I don’t exactly know. Now Amy, quick—turn on the radio. Let’s hear what they have to tell us about the weather.”
    The forecast gave warning of more snow expected, and the news that followed was chiefly about the widespread chaos already caused: roads blocked, trains at a standstill, buses overturned, people stranded in cars and lorries, expectant mothers rescued by helicopter.
    “There’s many by the sound of it worse off than we are,” said Mrs Bowen.
    That afternoon Amy found it hard to settle down. At first she thought it might be a good opportunity for writing a letter to her father, and she got her pen and ink and paper out of the table drawer, but after a line or two Australia seemed so very far away and the letter so dull that she left it lying on the table and wandered restlessly through the side-kitchen and into the shed, not allowing Mick to come with her for fear he should agitate the sheep. As soon as she appeared they raised their heads with nervous expectancy and took a few steps towards her.
    “What is it you want?” she said, speaking aloud so as to accustom them to the