because of that hateful good friend of his. I shall stay in my room all day. Let him cook his own food! I will lose myself in father’s books. That way the hours will pass unnoticed and I will forget about the injustice of my treatment.
And yet, the day is so lovely, I do not wish to spend it shut in the house. Was my behavior really so rude? Why can he not see that woman for what she is? The way she looked at me … as if I were deserving of her pity. A thing pathetic. She thinks I am not fit to be mistress of Ffynnon Las. Well, I shall show her different. I shall show them all different.
I pull on my workaday brown dress and lace up my boots. The soles are wearing so thin I can feel stones through them. On the top stair I pause, my hand on the banister. Once again I feel a chill emanating from the direction of Cai’s room. There is no draft, but still the air seems to move toward me, as though icy fingers were laid upon my shoulder. I turn round, but there is nothing to see. Cross with myself for being so fanciful, I go down into the kitchen. The fire in the grate looks surly and unhelpfully low. There is a little coal in the brass bucket. I tip it on, causing a stinking plume of grey smoke but scant heat. Surely it will gather strength in a while. I venture into the pantry. There are jars of pickles and bottles of preserved fruit and bags of flour and hams hanging from hooks above my head. Mrs. Jones will not see anyone in this house go hungry, I think. I decide I will assemble a cawl of sorts. The staple hearty stew that bubbles away in kitchens across the land. The very idea of it transports me home. Well, this one will have to lack the lamb Mam might have put in it on fat days, but it will be cawl, nonetheless. Thinking of her, and of her cooking, and of home, brings a cold ache to my heart. What will she be doing now? How will she be faring without me? What would she make of my new home? I wonder if she knew how grand it is. I find it hard to believe, for she could surely never have imagined me the wife of a gentleman farmer with a housekeeper. I know Mam would laugh long and loud at the sight of me here in this larder faced with the task of cooking. The thought of her laughter brings another sharp stab of longing for her. She used to say I could burn water, left to my own devices. Well, I am a wife now. With a home of my own. And I will cook if it pleases me.
I gather an armful of vegetables and take them to the kitchen table. The smoke has dwindled, and there are small flames visible in the fireplace now. I remove the kettle from the hook above the fire and search for a suitable stewpot. The one I find is cast iron, heavy even when empty, but will serve my purpose. I half fill it with water from the pail before, with some difficulty, hooking it into place over the heat. A short search produces a worn but sharp knife and I set about peeling and chopping. It seems to me vegetables are designed to fight off our attempts to render them edible. They hide beneath mud and tough skins, knobbled with eyes or crafty shapes which defy the attentions of my blade. I have not more than half finished my chore before the knife skids off a misshapen carrot and slices into my finger. I gasp, putting the wound to my mouth, the metallic taste of blood making my stomach tighten. Enough of this nonsense. Let the boiling water finish the job. I scoop up my ill-prepared ingredients and tip them into the pot. Water splashes out, hissing as it meets the hot coals. The grey mess looks nothing like the cawl I had been aiming for. Finding a long wooden spoon I poke at it cautiously. The heat from the coals beneath the pot and the rising steam scald my hand so that I drop the spoon. Stepping back to a safe distance I frown at the bothersome concoction. I narrow my eyes, take a deep breath, and direct my mind to the matter. Slowly the spoon stands upright and then begins to stir. It stirs and stirs and stirs, rhythmically mixing the stew into
And yet, the day is so lovely, I do not wish to spend it shut in the house. Was my behavior really so rude? Why can he not see that woman for what she is? The way she looked at me … as if I were deserving of her pity. A thing pathetic. She thinks I am not fit to be mistress of Ffynnon Las. Well, I shall show her different. I shall show them all different.
I pull on my workaday brown dress and lace up my boots. The soles are wearing so thin I can feel stones through them. On the top stair I pause, my hand on the banister. Once again I feel a chill emanating from the direction of Cai’s room. There is no draft, but still the air seems to move toward me, as though icy fingers were laid upon my shoulder. I turn round, but there is nothing to see. Cross with myself for being so fanciful, I go down into the kitchen. The fire in the grate looks surly and unhelpfully low. There is a little coal in the brass bucket. I tip it on, causing a stinking plume of grey smoke but scant heat. Surely it will gather strength in a while. I venture into the pantry. There are jars of pickles and bottles of preserved fruit and bags of flour and hams hanging from hooks above my head. Mrs. Jones will not see anyone in this house go hungry, I think. I decide I will assemble a cawl of sorts. The staple hearty stew that bubbles away in kitchens across the land. The very idea of it transports me home. Well, this one will have to lack the lamb Mam might have put in it on fat days, but it will be cawl, nonetheless. Thinking of her, and of her cooking, and of home, brings a cold ache to my heart. What will she be doing now? How will she be faring without me? What would she make of my new home? I wonder if she knew how grand it is. I find it hard to believe, for she could surely never have imagined me the wife of a gentleman farmer with a housekeeper. I know Mam would laugh long and loud at the sight of me here in this larder faced with the task of cooking. The thought of her laughter brings another sharp stab of longing for her. She used to say I could burn water, left to my own devices. Well, I am a wife now. With a home of my own. And I will cook if it pleases me.
I gather an armful of vegetables and take them to the kitchen table. The smoke has dwindled, and there are small flames visible in the fireplace now. I remove the kettle from the hook above the fire and search for a suitable stewpot. The one I find is cast iron, heavy even when empty, but will serve my purpose. I half fill it with water from the pail before, with some difficulty, hooking it into place over the heat. A short search produces a worn but sharp knife and I set about peeling and chopping. It seems to me vegetables are designed to fight off our attempts to render them edible. They hide beneath mud and tough skins, knobbled with eyes or crafty shapes which defy the attentions of my blade. I have not more than half finished my chore before the knife skids off a misshapen carrot and slices into my finger. I gasp, putting the wound to my mouth, the metallic taste of blood making my stomach tighten. Enough of this nonsense. Let the boiling water finish the job. I scoop up my ill-prepared ingredients and tip them into the pot. Water splashes out, hissing as it meets the hot coals. The grey mess looks nothing like the cawl I had been aiming for. Finding a long wooden spoon I poke at it cautiously. The heat from the coals beneath the pot and the rising steam scald my hand so that I drop the spoon. Stepping back to a safe distance I frown at the bothersome concoction. I narrow my eyes, take a deep breath, and direct my mind to the matter. Slowly the spoon stands upright and then begins to stir. It stirs and stirs and stirs, rhythmically mixing the stew into
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