Johnâs people had rejected. There would be satisfaction in that.
I didnât last a year.
I rolled out of bed and poked about the cupboards for food. I must be hungry to be thinking of home. I found the paper bag from Parkerâs and rummaged through it for the ingredients to pan fry bread. I couldnât find any large bowls in the cupboard for mixing, just a plate. A cup of flour, dash of salt, a few spoonfuls of lard. Knead well onto the plate. I fired up the pot-bellied stove from the bucket of coal beside it, rubbed a bit of lard into a skillet and set it on top. I dropped a big dollop of batter into the pan and it sizzled nicely, though when I flipped it over I found Iâd scorched it. Less time on the other side, then. I had enough for two more dollops, setting each onto the plate when it was done.
I could poach a pear, put up preserves, boil up jars of jam. When youâre raised on an orchard you canât help but learn to cook with fruit. I could also bake a fish or roast a leg of lamb. Those uncomplicated dishes simply required you to pull them out of the oven when they looked done, shove them back in if it turns out they werenât. But baking required a precision that escaped me, things full of air that wouldnât rise if you slammed the door too hard, crusts that fell apart with too little handling, or turned to shoe leather with too much. I bit into the first piece of fry bread. It tasted of cinders. The second had the consistency of glue in the middle, the last one, cement.
I should have added water, or milk. I would have to try again some other time.
I emptied the rest of the bag and settled on the corned beef. With my back against the wall I ate it cold from the tin, shovelled it really, great spoonfuls of it, my thoughts racing. I had to get things ready. I had to get me ready.
I dropped the empty tin and squatted beside the tub to drink water from the tap.
Running a bare arm over my mouth I moved to my heavy bags, at last unpacking. The bottle of whisky had already found its way out. Now came the clothing, family photographs, a bedspread of red patchwork and sheets I could have used last night, as well as a cranberry glass vase, cracked, most likely after the bags had been tossed from the ship onto the cargo pile. I turned it around and around, told myself it didnât matter, not when, until now, I hadnât even remembered packing it. But the crack in the glass wounded me, somehow, and I had to force myself to put the vase down. I hung my motherâs beaded evening bag over my arm and reached for my greatest indulgence, filling the bottom of the larger of the leather bags, a table globe of the world, with my nightgowns and stockings stuffed around it.
It was only by studying this globe that I realized, with a flip of the stomach, that the place I would be moving to, and have now arrived at, was perched on the very edge of a continent washed by a body of water twice as wide, to my naked eye, as the mighty Atlantic. I gave the globe a spin and marvelled once more at the vast Pacific. I had come to the end of the world.
With the exception of the coveralls downstairs, I bundled up Uncleâs things to send back home, and filled the shelves and hangers with my own. I flipped open Willâs old watch, then clicked it shut.
Not even six oâclock in the morning.
All right, then. Get washed. Get going.
I plugged the tub, ran the taps, added a squirt of my coconut shampoo, then sat back hard on my heels. The soapy water foamed up grey as smoke. It was bad enough that I had to bathe in it. I had planned to toss in some linens, too, but this would ruin the whites, not something that normally concerned me. It was the unexpectedness of it. Under threat of tears I told myself to smarten up. What would stay white in this town, anyway? My eyes dried in an instant, seeing that Morris in his soiled white suit.
*
I found the press as Iâd left it. Dusty, rusted, immobile.
I didnât last a year.
I rolled out of bed and poked about the cupboards for food. I must be hungry to be thinking of home. I found the paper bag from Parkerâs and rummaged through it for the ingredients to pan fry bread. I couldnât find any large bowls in the cupboard for mixing, just a plate. A cup of flour, dash of salt, a few spoonfuls of lard. Knead well onto the plate. I fired up the pot-bellied stove from the bucket of coal beside it, rubbed a bit of lard into a skillet and set it on top. I dropped a big dollop of batter into the pan and it sizzled nicely, though when I flipped it over I found Iâd scorched it. Less time on the other side, then. I had enough for two more dollops, setting each onto the plate when it was done.
I could poach a pear, put up preserves, boil up jars of jam. When youâre raised on an orchard you canât help but learn to cook with fruit. I could also bake a fish or roast a leg of lamb. Those uncomplicated dishes simply required you to pull them out of the oven when they looked done, shove them back in if it turns out they werenât. But baking required a precision that escaped me, things full of air that wouldnât rise if you slammed the door too hard, crusts that fell apart with too little handling, or turned to shoe leather with too much. I bit into the first piece of fry bread. It tasted of cinders. The second had the consistency of glue in the middle, the last one, cement.
I should have added water, or milk. I would have to try again some other time.
I emptied the rest of the bag and settled on the corned beef. With my back against the wall I ate it cold from the tin, shovelled it really, great spoonfuls of it, my thoughts racing. I had to get things ready. I had to get me ready.
I dropped the empty tin and squatted beside the tub to drink water from the tap.
Running a bare arm over my mouth I moved to my heavy bags, at last unpacking. The bottle of whisky had already found its way out. Now came the clothing, family photographs, a bedspread of red patchwork and sheets I could have used last night, as well as a cranberry glass vase, cracked, most likely after the bags had been tossed from the ship onto the cargo pile. I turned it around and around, told myself it didnât matter, not when, until now, I hadnât even remembered packing it. But the crack in the glass wounded me, somehow, and I had to force myself to put the vase down. I hung my motherâs beaded evening bag over my arm and reached for my greatest indulgence, filling the bottom of the larger of the leather bags, a table globe of the world, with my nightgowns and stockings stuffed around it.
It was only by studying this globe that I realized, with a flip of the stomach, that the place I would be moving to, and have now arrived at, was perched on the very edge of a continent washed by a body of water twice as wide, to my naked eye, as the mighty Atlantic. I gave the globe a spin and marvelled once more at the vast Pacific. I had come to the end of the world.
With the exception of the coveralls downstairs, I bundled up Uncleâs things to send back home, and filled the shelves and hangers with my own. I flipped open Willâs old watch, then clicked it shut.
Not even six oâclock in the morning.
All right, then. Get washed. Get going.
I plugged the tub, ran the taps, added a squirt of my coconut shampoo, then sat back hard on my heels. The soapy water foamed up grey as smoke. It was bad enough that I had to bathe in it. I had planned to toss in some linens, too, but this would ruin the whites, not something that normally concerned me. It was the unexpectedness of it. Under threat of tears I told myself to smarten up. What would stay white in this town, anyway? My eyes dried in an instant, seeing that Morris in his soiled white suit.
*
I found the press as Iâd left it. Dusty, rusted, immobile.
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