Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? Trying to play the bashful virgin? It can’t have come as much of a surprise.’ Through the fear raking her, Amy was dimly aware that his promise not to mention her ‘past’ had not survived the night.

  He got out of bed, turned his back on her and got dressed. This morning he would make no attempt to spare any modesty she might have. ‘Straighten yourself up and get out to the kitchen,’ he growled. ‘I expect my breakfast on the table when I come in from milking.’ He stomped out of the room. A moment later she heard the back door slam.

  That bed held no temptation for her to linger. Amy eased herself out from under the covers and stood up carefully, her legs trembling as she put weight on them. A smoky old mirror hung on the wall above the chest of drawers. She peered into it and grimaced at the face that stared back at her: red-blotched, swollen, and surrounded by a tangle of hair.

  ‘There’s no sense in grizzling over what you can’t change,’ her grandmother had always said. Granny had had a saying for every occasion. Charlie might have defeated even her determined optimism, but she was right about things that couldn’t be changed. ‘Things always look brighter in the morning’ had been another of her sayings; Amy looked at her own puffy, tear-streaked face in the mirror and found herself unable to agree.

  She splashed her face with the small amount of water that was all the kerosene tin contained, drying herself on her nightdress as there was no towel. She untied her bundle and retrieved her hairbrush, along with some underwear and a badly creased work gown and apron. Her hair took much painful tugging to get into a semblance of order, but Amy felt stronger when she was dressed and tidy. She gave her face one last inspection in the mirror, checking for any traces of tears. Weeping annoyed Charlie, so there had best be no more of it.

  Laundering the linen and giving the blankets a much-needed airing would have to wait till washing day, but at least the bed looked tidy when Amy had made it. That done, she made herself look in the chest, and was relieved to find the lowest three drawers were empty. No need to disturb Charlie’s things. Her clothes only took up two of the drawers, and she jammed her books and bedspread into the third one. There was enough space in the wardrobe next to Charlie’s clothes for her dresses, and the shelf above was just high enough for her hat.

  Exploring the cottage took only moments. The bedroom door led into a tiny parlour, sparsely furnished with a sofa and a pair of old armchairs. The kitchen opened off the parlour, and another door led from it into the cottage’s other bedroom. Those four rooms made up the house.

  The kitchen faced west, and was cool and dim in the early morning light. It had a big, black range, which struck Amy as rather new-looking, set into one wall, with a small stack of wood beside it and an iron kettle on the hob; two or three saucepans and a frying pan hung on hooks above the range. A heavy wooden table and four chairs stood against the opposite wall. There was a small dresser with a few plates on it in front of the third wall, and against the last one stood a rough wooden bench with another cut-down kerosene tin and a chipped enamel bowl on it. Beside this bench were some food bins and a few shelves. The room was tidy enough (it was too bare to be otherwise), but the floor showed half-swept traces of dirty boots, the range had obviously not been cleaned at all during its short life, and the pans had had only cursory attention from the scrubbing brush.

  ‘That’s what a man calls clean!’ She could hear Granny saying it now with a disgusted sniff. In Granny’s opinion men were incapable of performing any household task satisfactorily. Charlie obviously fitted the mould; though Amy thought back to the state Frank’s house had been in when she and Lizzie had visited, and she wondered if Charlie had, in fact, made an effort to tidy up.

  Well, she was used to cooking and cleaning. And it would be nice to have her own kitchen again, even though she was going to have to spend days getting everything cleaned up. But the first task was to prepare Charlie’s breakfast. Amy did not know how many cows he had, so had no idea how long he was likely to take over milking.

  A side of bacon hung from a hook in the ceiling, there was a plate of dripping on one of the shelves, and Amy found knives in a drawer of the sideboard. The eggs would still be under the hens, so she would have to go searching for them.

  She found a large, wooden barrel at one corner of the house, and was pleased to think she had found the water supply. But when she looked inside she saw that its base was rotten, so any water that fell into it from the guttering simply trickled away. There would be no water from that source.

  Amy disturbed a sitting hen under a tree close to the porch and retrieved two warm, brown eggs, but she had to search under hedges all around the house before she had gathered six, which she carried carefully back to the house in her apron.

  Finding the eggs had taken longer than she had expected, and Amy began to get flustered. She had to have everything ready before Charlie came back, and he surely couldn’t be much longer. She ran through the tasks in her head: put the kettle on to boil, fry the bacon, then keep it warm on the side of the range while she fried the eggs. Water! There was none in the kitchen, she had used the last few drops from the tin in the bedroom, and the rain barrel was useless. Did she have time to go searching for the well? Did she dare not have a pot of tea ready for Charlie? She decided it was more important to get the food ready; she could fetch water while Charlie ate if necessary.

  Amy knew she should sweep the previous day’s ashes from the range’s fire box before using it, but it seemed safer to leave that till after breakfast. The next blow came when she attempted to light the range and found there were no matches. She hurriedly searched the kitchen for them without success. Had she but known it, the matches were at that moment in Charlie’s pocket as he sat in the cow shed. In desperation, she opened up the fire box and found that a few of the embers were still glowing; she spent a valuable few minutes coaxing these into flame using some newspaper and blowing at the cinders. Her face was hot and she was short of breath by the time she had a fire going.

  There was no time to let the flames settle down to the steady heat she needed, so she just threw the bacon into a pan with some dripping and hoped for the best. The fat hissed and smoked, and the bacon became badly singed around the edges before she had time to pull it off the heat. She shoved the pan to one side, and broke the eggs into another pan with more dripping. Clumsy with nervousness, she managed to break the yolks of four of the eggs. She watched in dismay as the edges of the whites burned while the yolks of the unbroken eggs remained uncooked. Suddenly overcome with weariness, Amy felt tears starting from her eyes.

  It was at this moment the back door opened and Charlie came in, carrying a billy of milk. He stared at the scene: a kitchen full of smoke, bacon half blackened and half raw, a pan containing something that might once have been eggs, and in the midst of it all Amy standing with tears streaming unchecked down her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t find—’Amy’s words were cut off when Charlie lashed her face with the back of his hand. She fingered her tender cheek in shock while he stood over her, glowering.

  ‘I thought you’d be competent in women’s work, not a useless, whining child! Is it too much for a man to ask a bit of breakfast when he’s been up labouring since dawn? Are you capable of boiling a kettle? Is there a pot of tea ready?’

  Amy shook her head helplessly. ‘I… I didn’t know where to get the water from.’

  ‘And it was too much trouble to look outside the door, was it? Did you think I’d fetch it for you?’ He took her by the shoulders and shook her roughly. ‘Stop that bawling, or I’ll give you something to cry about. You’ve ruined my breakfast, let’s see you be of some use.’ He half-led, half-dragged her out to the back doorstep, where he picked up a large kerosene tin and thrust it into her hand. ‘The well is over there,’ he said, pointing out a direction and giving her a shove.

  Nearly blinded by tears, her face burning from the slap, Amy stumbled down the slight slope to the w
ell. She pumped water until her container was full, then struggled back up to the house with the heavy load, the tin bumping painfully against her leg as she went.

  Charlie had gone inside again. When Amy entered the kitchen he was sitting at the table, a half-eaten slice of bread and jam in one hand. She managed to lift the tin onto the bench, then wiped the back of her hand across her tear-streaked face, belatedly realising she must have left a black smear on one cheek to go with the red mark on the other. Her hands shook as she filled the kettle and placed it on the hob, aware of Charlie’s baleful glare.

  The kettle seemed to take hours to boil, but at last she was able to fill the teapot. She carried it to the table and placed it in front of Charlie with a cup and saucer and a sugar bowl. She filled a cracked jug with milk and put some into the cup, poured the tea when she judged it had drawn, then stood waiting, hoping for some sign of approval, as Charlie stirred sugar into the tea and drank it. She did not dare sit down at the table and pour herself a cup.

  Charlie drank his tea in silence, then pushed the cup away and stood up from the table.

  ‘I’ll be back at lunch-time. There’d best be something fit to eat.’ He pulled a box of matches from his pocket and flung it down on the table, then left the room.

  When she was alone Amy sank into a chair with her arms on the table, laid her head on them and for a few minutes gave way to weeping.

  But tears were no use, and they brought no lasting relief. Amy roused herself and began putting the room in order, first opening the windows to let the smoke escape. She boiled water on the range and used it to wash all the dishes on the dresser as well as the cutlery from the drawer and the pots and pans, then scrubbed the bench and table. The floor could have done with being washed, but Amy instead decided to give herself plenty of time to prepare lunch.

  After she had composed her face into decency with plenty of cold water, Amy went exploring once more. She found a sack of potatoes in a shed near the house, along with some turnips and onions in an untidy pile on the dirt floor of the same shed. There was a neglected vegetable patch with a few weed-choked carrots. Amy scrabbled around with her fingers and found enough to take back to the house. A few clumps of spinach had survived the weeds; that would do for greens with their meat. She set the bacon bone left over from breakfast to simmer in a pot of water while she chopped the vegetables; she wished she had some barley to make the soup more substantial, but Charlie’s kitchen did not run to such delicacies. Amy added plenty of salt and hoped it would be flavoursome enough. She looked with distaste at the loaf of bread on one shelf; it was obviously shop-bought, and none too fresh at that, but it would have to do for today.

  When the soup was bubbling, Amy went outside again, searching for meat. She found a meat safe hanging from a puriri tree on the shady side of the house, and retrieved six small chops from it. Back in the kitchen, she boiled up a large pot full of potatoes, ready to be mashed with a little milk and butter. It was difficult to think of a pudding to make when Charlie’s kitchen was devoid of all fruits and spices, but she managed to concoct a jam sponge which, though unavoidably heavy given the lack of baking powder, would at least be filling.

  Amy watched all the pots carefully, timing her preparations so the food would all be ready in the right order. When she heard a heavy tread on the doorstep, she filled a bowl with soup. Charlie stomped across the room, leaving a trail of dirt as he did so, sat down at the table and looked expectantly at her. Amy placed the bowl in front of him, then stood anxiously waiting for his approval. He took a cautious spoonful, and Amy could see from his expression that he liked what he tasted. He nodded towards another chair; she poured soup for herself and sat down opposite him. She had done something right at last!

  Her work of the morning had given Amy a good appetite, and she tucked into her food as enthusiastically as Charlie did. She had held a tiny hope that he might praise the meal, but she had to be content with not being rebuked.

  After a second helping of pudding and two cups of tea, Charlie pushed his chair back and lit his pipe, while Amy carried their empty plates to the bench. She was pouring hot water into the basin, trying to ignore the feeling that Charlie was watching her, when she heard him get up from the table.

  ‘I like to have a cup of tea and a wee bite to eat about three o’clock,’ he said, and with that he was gone.

  It was easy for Amy to keep herself busy all afternoon. She scrubbed the floor and gave the range as thorough a cleaning as she could manage without letting it cool down, and made some plain biscuits for Charlie’s ‘wee bite’. She started to make a mental list of the things she would like to see added to her kitchen supplies so she could cook more appetising meals, but it quickly grew to an alarming length. Amy knew she would not have the courage to ask Charlie to buy so many things at once.

  When she had scrubbed all the shelves it was time to start making dinner. Amy was a little less anxious about the meal after the successful lunch. She was sure that stew and dumplings, with plenty of boiled potatoes and some more spinach, would make a filling main course after soup left over from lunch, and her baked jam custard had set beautifully when she pulled it from the oven to cool on the bench.

  Charlie’s silence over dinner told Amy he was pleased with it, and she looked up from her own plate hoping to see approval in his face. Instead she saw hunger. That seemed natural enough when he was barely halfway through his soup, but his expression did not change as he ploughed through the rest of the meal; if anything it became more intense. He scarcely glanced at his food as he shovelled it from his plate; all he seemed to want to do was stare at Amy with the same grim expression, making her more and more nervous.

  Amy began to worry that she had not cooked enough, but Charlie’s plate was piled so high she was sure he could not possibly want any more. She tried to avoid meeting his gaze.

  She ran through the rest of the evening in her head. We’ll finish dinner, then I’ll wash up, then I’ll—oh, I can’t make bread, I don’t have any yeast. I’ll have to do something about that tomorrow. I might do some sewing—Charlie’s sure to have some things that need mending. I suppose he’ll want to sit in the parlour, but if I’m busy sewing it won’t matter that he doesn’t seem to talk to me. Maybe he’ll read the paper. Or maybe…

  Her eyes swung back to Charlie. That wasn’t hunger for food she could see in his gaze. A hard knot formed in the pit of Amy’s stomach as memories of the terrifying night flooded back. How long would he let her sit in the parlour before he ordered her into that bedroom?

  2

  February 1885

  Frank rode down the road from Lizzie’s house feeling warm and content. Another good meal, another pleasant few hours with the Leiths, and a rewarding little stroll with Lizzie along the banks of the creek to walk off some of the food. He felt part of the family already. Arthur had long ago got over his inexplicable grumpiness, and as far as Frank could tell his soon-to-be father-in-law treated him with the same rough affection as he did his own sons. Even when he had caught Frank and Lizzie having a farewell kiss in the porch he had laughed and given Frank a wink.

  Yes, a very pleasant few hours. Lizzie certainly could cook. She had been particularly affectionate today, too; down at the creek she had definitely kissed back, and had pressed so hard against him while they were kissing that there had been no need for Frank to risk a scolding by reaching for those forbidden bumps of hers. He wondered if Lizzie had noticed the hard lump in his trousers while they embraced; he suspected it must have been difficult to miss.

  Only two more months and Lizzie would be coming home with him. Frank was sure life would be very, very good when she did, and not just because of her skill in the kitchen. The thought of Lizzie in his bed made Frank’s trousers feel tight all over again; that was going to be the best thing of all. As long as he could figure out what to do with her once he got her there. He brushed that thought aside for the moment; it was a problem that would have to be solved, but he would not let
apprehension spoil his good mood. He wanted to keep hold of the courage his delightful afternoon had given him.

  Today he felt strong and brave; brave enough to tackle a task he had put off for eight long months. Today he was going to tell Ben.

  He knew he had been foolish to put it off so long. If Ben hadn’t been such a hermit Frank would never have got away with keeping his engagement secret all this time; but if Ben wasn’t so unfriendly to people it wouldn’t be so hard to tell him he was going to have to get used to a woman in the house. What would Ben say about it? Frank knew his brother wouldn’t be pleased, and he was grateful that Ben was not a great one for talking. Perhaps he wouldn’t say much at all.

  Frank glanced to the side of the road and noticed he was passing Charlie Stewart’s farm. What a surprise that had been, hearing Amy had married Charlie. She was quite a pretty girl, really, and even younger than Lizzie; it seemed strange that her father had given her to someone like Charlie. Lizzie didn’t seem to want to talk about it; when Frank had asked her why she hadn’t mentioned the wedding till it was over, she had said something about hoping Amy would back out of it. That seemed an odd way to talk about a wedding.

  He dragged his thoughts back to the task at hand and started running through phrases in his mind. Should he butter Ben up first? Should he be matter-of-fact or solemn? Maybe try to make a joke about it? Ben probably wouldn’t find it very funny, though.

  ‘By the way, Ben, did I tell you I’m getting married in April?’ No, that was too casual. Perhaps he should work up to it gradually, try to get Ben to see how nice it would be to have a woman’s touch around the place. Frank grinned as he remembered trying to work Arthur around to the subject of letting him have Lizzie. Arthur had certainly made him suffer before he had relented.