Spilt Milk by Amanda Hodgkinson

Really, you’re beautiful, Vivian.’
    Did she hate him? And if she did, why did she let him kiss her? She was horrified by her inability to refuse him. By the desire that overtook her. Hidden under a curtain of leaves, Vivian gave herself to him like a confession, a truth that could no longer be denied. Her fingers, her lips, her eyes swarmed towards thesweetness of his body. She could not stop herself. She took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his mouth and it was hot, his tongue thick against hers.
    She didn’t know if she was doing this to keep her sister or because she desired Joe so badly she would do anything to have him. Or perhaps she wanted to prove to Nellie that she was right: that Joe was rotten through and through, and hatred was what burned inside her.
    He came to the cottage the next day, walking up the path minutes after Nellie had left to work on the Langhams’ farm. They lay down in the orchard all through the quiet hours of the day. Vivian breathed in the smell of him, tobacco and herbs in the dip of his collarbone and something else, peppery as watercress, a pungent earthiness like river mud in winter: the scent of her sister. Was she really saving Nellie or destroying her? Joe would belong to neither sister, but they would share him as they had always shared everything.
    There was no cake baked that day and the housework went undone. Supper was cold potatoes, a tin of sardines from the store cupboard and a badly washed salad full of grit, hastily prepared while Nellie sat waiting at the table. Vivian couldn’t eat a thing. Nellie said she must be coming down with something. She looked feverish. Her pupils were dilated. Her skin flushed.
    ‘You have a rash on your face. Should we call the doctor?’ asked Nellie.
    Vivian touched her cheeks. Joe’s stubble when he’d kissed her had reddened her tender skin.
    ‘Nettle rash,’ she said, and cleared the table.
    ‘It’s the heat, perhaps,’ said Nellie.
    ‘And you will be swimming I suppose?’ Vivian cleared the plates. ‘I think I’ll lie down. You go. Enjoy the water.’
    She watched Nellie running towards the river and knew she was meeting Joe. She knew it, but she could not say a word. Andif Nellie did leave with him, Vivian felt she deserved to be left behind for what she had done. She deserved only punishment.
    Joe came to the cottage again on Friday morning, and this time they were pulling at each other’s clothes before he had even removed his hat. Vivian took him up to her bedroom, where they made love greedily. Afterwards they lay naked in each other’s arms and slept. When she woke she listened to his breathing, watching his chest rise and fall, studying the slant of his hips, the curling dark hair between his legs, his pale genitals. This was how husbands and wives must be together. Able to stare at each other. She had a man in her bed. Nellie was the only other person she had ever slept beside.
    They were sorry creatures, she and Nellie. Sorry, lonely women. And she was the sorriest. Treacherous and cruel. Taking the one thing she knew her little sister desired. The thought of Nellie made her leap from the bed, gathering up her discarded clothes, waking Joe, asking him to dress.
    ‘Let’s go to the river,’ he said casually, pulling on his boots. ‘We can lie together under the willows.’
    At the end of the day, they sat by the water. A factory hooter sounded, miles away, at the guncotton works. Pigeons chorused in the trees. Joe said he was leaving. He could not stay. He was a traveller. Always moving on. He would not forget her, but it was time for him to leave.
    ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, kissing her forehead. ‘My pretty Vivian. Maybe I’ll come back for you one day.’
    He walked away, whistling a tune she recognized. ‘The Song of the Lark’
.
She committed to memory the cut of his jacket, the easy way his arms hung at his sides as he walked. He never once looked back.
    On the ground beside her was the