her.
A girl brought food, a basket of sweet potatoes, corn, pork, and some reddish elongated pieces, dried past identification. Josephine took the meat with her fingers, chewing listlessly.
Margaret put restless Martha to her breast. “I’m very thirsty,” said Josephine. Margaret turned to the old woman and pantomimed drinking from a beaker. “Water, please?”
The rooted woman did not speak.
“Have you no children of your own, madam?”
The woman farted, a noxious bleat.
Margaret clucked. “Why, you rude old trout!”
“Mama, please.”
Margaret laid Martha in the scoop of her skirt. “You’ll have a little of my milk.”
Josephine scowled. “I’m much too big.”
Margaret stroked her child. “Let’s pretend you’re not.” Josephine came reluctantly. Margaret pushed on her breast to aid the flow, taking the hard teeth like a she-wolf. “Gently does it now.”
The desiccated woman looked their way. Margaret met the beady black eyes. “Sodding old hag with your dried up dugs.” The woman blinked. “Useless childless thing.” The woman looked away again. “Warts to you,” Margaret hissed.
Josephine stopped suckling. She nestled against Margaret’s side, raking her tongue along her teeth as if to rid her mouth of the taste. Margaret adjusted her blouse and covered sleeping Martha with her apron. The crone came alive, pointing toward the mats along the opposite wall.
They crawled over, sharing a mat, Martha beneath one arm, Josephine beneath the other. Insects scuttled in the thatched ceiling above. Margaret drew up the hide of some long dead creature, tucking her big girl close. She ached for John, imagining him frightened and thirsty, biting his bottom lip raw.
“There’s another matter, Pheeny.”
Josephine moaned sleepily.
“When Father comes you are not to call out to him. Do you understand?”
“He may arrive in secret,” said Josephine.
“That’s right.”
“Will he come in the morning?”
Margaret whispered, “It’s quite possible, sweetheart.”
“May I ride home with him?”
“You may.” A gutter of voices could be heard outside, a baby’s far-off cry. They’d sail straight home once this ordeal was over. Promotions, money, and honors be damned. They’d leave on the first ship. Four cots in steerage would do.
Josephine murmured, “Perhaps he’ll bring the buggy.”
“He won’t. It’s too large.”
Josephine yawned a sticky yawn. “The branches won’t allow it through.”
“Yes. That’s right. Sleep now, my love.”
“He’ll come,” said Josephine.
“He will.”
The grief pressed on Margaret’s chest like a third child. Once her girls were asleep she wept without cessation. Never before had she loathed the world or herself so thoroughly. It had been her idea to move so far out. The fresh country air will be good for the children. Over and over she’d said it, wearing her husband down, getting her tyrannical way finally.
It was still dark when they came, and bitterly cold. If Margaret had slept she did not recall it. Her body was stiff. She could barely stand. Two short, sullen women led her to the latrine, and with a series of gestures instructed her to clean it.
Alone
H ENRY SMELLED SMOKE and put the whip to Katie’s rump. A tramp’s cook fire started in the bushes, he figured, with the perfect breeze to bring it straight to his roof. Christ Almighty. He’d be up all night sopping down the bloody timbers. Rounding a stand of karaka trees, the smoldering destruction came into view. Henry called out, expecting his wife to appear, their homeless children clinging. He left the old nag and rig in the road and ran the last distance.
The fire was giving off the last of its heat. He entered where the door had been this morning. “Meg!” He stood stock still and listened for his family. “Meg, sweetheart.” He said it softly now, taking in the blackened wreckage, his eyes adjusting. In the same moment he saw a few cookpots, John’s
A girl brought food, a basket of sweet potatoes, corn, pork, and some reddish elongated pieces, dried past identification. Josephine took the meat with her fingers, chewing listlessly.
Margaret put restless Martha to her breast. “I’m very thirsty,” said Josephine. Margaret turned to the old woman and pantomimed drinking from a beaker. “Water, please?”
The rooted woman did not speak.
“Have you no children of your own, madam?”
The woman farted, a noxious bleat.
Margaret clucked. “Why, you rude old trout!”
“Mama, please.”
Margaret laid Martha in the scoop of her skirt. “You’ll have a little of my milk.”
Josephine scowled. “I’m much too big.”
Margaret stroked her child. “Let’s pretend you’re not.” Josephine came reluctantly. Margaret pushed on her breast to aid the flow, taking the hard teeth like a she-wolf. “Gently does it now.”
The desiccated woman looked their way. Margaret met the beady black eyes. “Sodding old hag with your dried up dugs.” The woman blinked. “Useless childless thing.” The woman looked away again. “Warts to you,” Margaret hissed.
Josephine stopped suckling. She nestled against Margaret’s side, raking her tongue along her teeth as if to rid her mouth of the taste. Margaret adjusted her blouse and covered sleeping Martha with her apron. The crone came alive, pointing toward the mats along the opposite wall.
They crawled over, sharing a mat, Martha beneath one arm, Josephine beneath the other. Insects scuttled in the thatched ceiling above. Margaret drew up the hide of some long dead creature, tucking her big girl close. She ached for John, imagining him frightened and thirsty, biting his bottom lip raw.
“There’s another matter, Pheeny.”
Josephine moaned sleepily.
“When Father comes you are not to call out to him. Do you understand?”
“He may arrive in secret,” said Josephine.
“That’s right.”
“Will he come in the morning?”
Margaret whispered, “It’s quite possible, sweetheart.”
“May I ride home with him?”
“You may.” A gutter of voices could be heard outside, a baby’s far-off cry. They’d sail straight home once this ordeal was over. Promotions, money, and honors be damned. They’d leave on the first ship. Four cots in steerage would do.
Josephine murmured, “Perhaps he’ll bring the buggy.”
“He won’t. It’s too large.”
Josephine yawned a sticky yawn. “The branches won’t allow it through.”
“Yes. That’s right. Sleep now, my love.”
“He’ll come,” said Josephine.
“He will.”
The grief pressed on Margaret’s chest like a third child. Once her girls were asleep she wept without cessation. Never before had she loathed the world or herself so thoroughly. It had been her idea to move so far out. The fresh country air will be good for the children. Over and over she’d said it, wearing her husband down, getting her tyrannical way finally.
It was still dark when they came, and bitterly cold. If Margaret had slept she did not recall it. Her body was stiff. She could barely stand. Two short, sullen women led her to the latrine, and with a series of gestures instructed her to clean it.
Alone
H ENRY SMELLED SMOKE and put the whip to Katie’s rump. A tramp’s cook fire started in the bushes, he figured, with the perfect breeze to bring it straight to his roof. Christ Almighty. He’d be up all night sopping down the bloody timbers. Rounding a stand of karaka trees, the smoldering destruction came into view. Henry called out, expecting his wife to appear, their homeless children clinging. He left the old nag and rig in the road and ran the last distance.
The fire was giving off the last of its heat. He entered where the door had been this morning. “Meg!” He stood stock still and listened for his family. “Meg, sweetheart.” He said it softly now, taking in the blackened wreckage, his eyes adjusting. In the same moment he saw a few cookpots, John’s
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