Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  She carried Malcolm out to the kitchen, sat him at the table and gave him a mug of milk, holding it to his lips as he sipped. The smell of cooked pastry caught her attention. She took the empty mug away before lifting the tray of jam tarts out of the oven.

  Malcolm looked wide-eyed at the tarts. ‘Me!’ he said.

  ‘Not yet, Mal. Wait till they’re cold, then you can have one.’

  ‘Me!’ Malcolm demanded.

  ‘No, you’d burn your mouth.’ She winced when she saw Malcolm’s face start to turn red as he opened his mouth to roar his disapproval. She reached up to a cake tin and pulled out a biscuit. ‘Do you want a bikkie? Have this one. Go on, Mal.’

  Malcolm took the biscuit in his hand and flung it onto the floor. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Cake!’

  ‘Malcolm! That’s naughty.’ She gave Malcolm’s hand a small slap, which he did not seem to notice. ‘I should give you a real smack for being so naughty. Papa wouldn’t like it if he saw you doing that.’ But she knew she would not hit him, and she suspected Malcolm knew it too.

  Amy picked up the rejected biscuit and threw it into the slops bucket, then fetched a small plate and gingerly lifted two tarts on to it. ‘Look, here’s tarts for you and me. We just have to wait for them to cool down.’ She put the plate on the windowsill, where the breeze from the open window would blow over them.

  She turned around just in time to see Malcolm clamber down off the chair and make his unsteady way towards the range. ‘Mal! Don’t you touch that,’ she called, but it was too late. Malcolm let out a shrill scream as his little hand touched the hot iron tray that held the remaining tarts.

  Amy crossed the kitchen in a few steps and caught Malcolm up in her arms. He screamed and screamed, but she could see that it was mostly in anger at not having been able to snatch a tart. She sat with him on her lap and took the two reddened fingers into her mouth for a moment to cool them. ‘Poor Mal,’ she crooned. ‘Poor little Mal.’

  The jam jar was still on the table. Amy picked the spoon out of it and looked around guiltily, half expecting to see a disapproving Charlie in the doorway, then slipped a spoonful of jam into Malcolm’s mouth. His cries stopped abruptly as he tasted the sweetness. Amy gave him another spoonful, then held him close as he slowly quietened, his sobs subsiding into whimpers.

  ‘Oh, Mal, you do get in a state, don’t you? You want your own way all the time, and you make such a fuss when you don’t get it. What am I going to do with you?’ Give him what he wants, part of her said. Give him a smack for being so silly, came a more pragmatic thought.

  But she could not see Malcolm’s tears without remembering that she had not wanted him; that she had felt nothing when he was first placed in her arms. She had to be as good a mother as she was capable of. She did not want to see Malcolm crying; far less did she want to make him cry by hitting him.

  Amy brushed down a tuft of hair standing awry on his head. No one would call Malcolm a pretty baby; the kindest remark Edie could make was that he was ‘a sturdy little fellow’. His hair, still sparse on the big, square head, was an orange flame. Malcolm’s skin was very fair, and sure to freckle when he grew a little older. His eyes were small and the palest of blues, and just now they were wet with tears.

  Malcolm nestled against her, seeking comfort, as he had not done since he was a small baby. Amy placed a light kiss on his head. ‘You do like Mama a little bit, don’t you, Mal? I think I love you like a mother’s meant to. I love you as much as I can, anyway.’ Would I have loved Ann properly? she wondered. Yes, the answer came clear and strong as she remembered the feeling of her little girl warm in her arms, pulling at her breasts; long black eyelashes framing those deep blue eyes that had stared so wisely at her.

  Amy roused herself from her reverie when she saw that a large tear had dropped from her cheek on to Malcolm’s head. She kissed it away. ‘Ann’s got a new mother now, you’ve only got me. It’s not your fault you look like your Papa. It’s not your fault Papa gets angry with me, either. It’s my fault.’

  Malcolm began to nuzzle against the cloth of her bodice, and Amy realised what he was trying to do. ‘No, Mal, you mustn’t do that.’ She gently pushed his head away from her breasts. ‘That’s not allowed any more. There’s no milk left, anyway. There’ll be milk again in a few months. Milk for the new baby. A little brother for you—I hope it’s another boy, anyway. Will you like that? You won’t be jealous, will you?’ Malcolm looked dubiously at her, and Amy laughed. ‘It’s a good thing you can’t talk much yet, or you’d tell Papa about the new baby, and it’s still my secret.’

  She stood up and balanced Malcolm on one hip as she walked over to the window. ‘Let’s have our tarts now, Mal, they’ll have cooled down. Then we’ll take lunch down to Papa. We’ll have a picnic, the three of us. Do you want to go and see Papa?’

  ‘Papa, Papa,’ Malcolm echoed as he reached for the tart Amy held out to him.

  Charlie had cleared a wide swathe of manuka scrub, Amy saw when she rounded a corner and he came into view. She let Malcolm slither down from her hip as she lowered the basket of lunch to the ground.

  ‘Papa,’ Malcolm called in his shrill voice.

  Charlie turned abruptly. ‘You’re a wee bit too early, I want to clear down to yon fence before I stop for my lunch,’ he called back. ‘Keep the boy away. I don’t want him falling on this stuff.’

  Amy could see what he meant. Every felled manuka bush left a lethal-looking spear of stem sticking out of the ground. A small child falling over in that deadly forest would be badly hurt, if not killed. ‘Papa will be finished soon, Mal, let’s just watch him for a bit,’ she said, keeping a tight hold of Malcolm’s hand.

  ‘No!’ Malcolm protested. ‘Papa.’ He struggled to pull away, and Amy saw the dangerous red tinge mounting in his face. Malcolm was going to yell soon if she did not distract him. He flailed his free hand, knocking his floppy-brimmed white bonnet askew, and when Amy tried to straighten the bonnet he pushed her hand away. ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve certainly learned that word, haven’t you, Mal?’ Amy said, grateful that Charlie was not close enough to see his son misbehaving. How was she going to keep this boy out of mischief until Charlie was ready to stop? ‘I know! I’ll show you how to climb a tree. Come on, Mal.’

  She coaxed Malcolm into a patch of tall bush safely to the side of the scrub area and lifted him onto a broad tawa branch at her chest height. ‘That’s how your Uncle John and Uncle Harry taught me to climb trees, Mal,’ she told him. ‘Put me on a high branch and said I had to get down by myself, then they pretended they were going away.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘The bullies! I didn’t know how to climb, so I just jumped. I got a big bruise on my arm—I ripped my dress, too. Granny gave me a hiding for ripping it, but only a little one. John and Harry got a real hiding from Pa, though. They taught me how to climb properly after that. You’re a bit small for that yet. Now, come on, jump to Mama,’ she coaxed, holding out her arms.

  Malcolm flung himself off the branch, chortling with delight at the new game. ‘Oof!’ Amy exclaimed as she caught him. ‘You are heavy, aren’t you? Shall we do it again?’

  ‘Yes!’ Malcolm said.

  They played the game for several minutes. Amy was so busy catching Malcolm that she did not notice Charlie come up to stand beside her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  Amy turned with Malcolm in her arms. ‘Oh! You gave me a start. I’ve just been playing with Mal. I’ll set lunch out now.’

  ‘Mama!’ Malcolm complained, stretching out his arms towards the tree.

  ‘No, it’s time for lunch, Mal.’ Don’t start grizzling, please, she begged silently. ‘One more time, just to show Papa.’ Malcolm leaped once more into her arms, giggling happily, then Amy grasped him firmly and walked beside Charlie to where she had left the basket of food.

  ‘He wasn’t frightened to jump out of that tree,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Oh, no, Mal isn’t frightened of anything.’ Amy di
d not point out that Malcolm was too young to have the sense to be frightened.

  ‘Good.’ Charlie sat down heavily against the base of a tree and watched Amy spread a cloth and set out the food.

  ‘You’ve done a lot,’ Amy said, handing him a large slice of pie on a plate.

  ‘Hell of a lot to go,’ Charlie said through a mouthful of pie. His hand shook a little as he held the plate; Amy realised he was almost too weary to keep a grip on it. His forearms were criss-crossed with scratches, some of them oozing blood, from the tough, scrubby plants.

  ‘It’s hard work, isn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘Bloody hard,’ he answered shortly.

  Amy held Malcolm on her lap and fed him, then ate her own lunch. When Charlie had finished he pushed his plate away and made to rise. ‘I’d better get back to it,’ he said, then slumped against the tree trunk with his eyes half-closed. ‘In a minute.’

  Amy thought of the dusting, Malcolm’s napkins to be washed, and the tins that needed to be filled with baking. ‘We’ll stay here a while, then,’ she said. ‘Mal and I will keep you company for a bit.’

  Charlie said nothing. Amy tidied the remains of lunch away into the basket and settled herself on the grass.

  They were half shaded by the tall tawa Charlie was leaning against, and the dappled sunlight warmed her without being uncomfortably hot. Malcolm soon became drowsy from his games of the morning followed by a good lunch. He snuggled into the crook of Amy’s arm for a few minutes, then crawled over to his father. Charlie roused himself to put his arm around him. Malcolm laid his head on Charlie’s chest and went to sleep.

  ‘Mal’s always happy when he’s with you,’ Amy told Charlie. ‘That’s what he likes best.’

  Charlie gave a grunt that she thought contained a note of happiness. He patted his son on the arm and closed his own eyes.

  ‘There’ll be another baby in the spring.’ Until the words were out Amy had not known she was about to say them. And there it was, her secret told, just like that. But it seemed so natural to tell him, just now when the three of them were at peace together.

  A look of calm satisfaction spread across Charlie’s face, though he did not open his eyes. ‘Good,’ he murmured, drawing Malcolm a little closer.

  Amy watched them, taking pleasure from the sight. Charlie loves Mal so much. He’s a good father, he really is. She studied Charlie, noting the lines of weariness etched on his face. He’s been overdoing it a bit this morning. I wish I could tell him to take it easier, but he’d only growl at me—maybe hit me. No, I don’t think he’d hit me today. He’s not in a bad mood.

  His hair’s got greyer since we got married. It’s nearly all grey now. I wonder how old he is. She knew Charlie’s age must be on their marriage certificate, but that was shut away in one of his drawers, and she would never dare go poking among his private things. Not as old as Pa, I don’t think. He’s quite old, though. He must be well over forty. It must be hard for him to do all the farm work by himself. She looked at Malcolm, sound asleep pressed close to his father’s side. I’m glad Mal’s going to be big and strong. He’ll be able to help Charlie. I hope the new baby’s another boy.

  She slid her hands down until they rested on her belly, where the new life was taking shape inside her. Charlie’s pleased about the new baby—not excited like he was with Mal, but he’s happy about it. I’m glad I’ve told him.

  Amy rolled onto her side to get a closer view of Charlie’s face. He does look tired. He works so hard, no wonder he gets grumpy. He’s hard-working and he’s a good father. That’s quite a lot, really. He’s not such a bad husband. I think maybe he trusts me a little bit more now, too. I just wish he’d like me. If only I could please him properly—if only I could really be a good wife, he’d like me then. I wish I knew how.

  For a moment she was tempted to reach out and smooth the lines of weariness from Charlie’s forehead, but she let her half-raised hand drop back into her lap, fearful of annoying him. I wonder what it would be like to snuggle up to him like Mal is. Maybe it’d be like when I used to have cuddles with Pa, before Susannah came. She smiled wistfully at the memory of sitting on her father’s lap with his strong arms around her. His beard’s like Pa’s, I bet he could do nice tickly kisses. I miss those. If he’d just give me a nice, soft kiss I wouldn’t be frightened, I’m sure I wouldn’t.

  She edged a little closer to Charlie, hardly aware of what she was doing. A nice kiss, and then he might put his arms around me and squeeze—not too hard, just so’s it was a real cuddle. He might even say he liked me. I wonder… I wonder if he’d like it if I kissed him? She pondered the idea. Maybe it’s not right for women to do that. Jimmy used to say he liked me being like that—he said I wasn’t to be aloof just because that’s how ladies should behave. But Charlie calls me a whore because of what I did with Jimmy. Taking the initiative seemed too risky.

  She leaned even closer. He’s in quite a good mood, really, especially now I’ve told him about the baby. Maybe he really will give me a nice kiss. I think I’d like that—I’m sure I would. A nice, tickly kiss and a big cuddle.

  Amy’s lips were parted slightly, ready for the kiss she had almost convinced herself she was going to receive. She breathed a little faster at the thought of being held in strong arms, pressing her face against a broad chest. When Charlie suddenly opened his eyes she smiled dreamily at him and tilted her face up a little.

  ‘What have you got that dopey look on you for?’

  It was like having a dash of cold water flung in her face. Amy turned away and looked at the ground in front of her feet. ‘Have I? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, I can’t sit around here all day, I’ve work to do.’ He disentangled his arm from the sleeping Malcolm. ‘Bloody arm’s gone to sleep,’ he muttered, shaking it. ‘Haven’t you got any work to do, woman?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Lots and lots.’

  ‘Get on with it, then. I know what your trouble is,’ he said, sounding self-satisfied. ‘It’s because you’re broody. Makes you stupider than usual.’

  Amy gathered up her basket and her sleeping child without a word, not trusting her voice to be steady.

  ‘And see you go straight back to the house,’ Charlie called after her. ‘Don’t go wandering about the place.’

  It’s hard to wander with a great lump of a child on one hip. ‘I’ll go straight home,’ she called back, not turning her head.

  He doesn’t even trust me to walk up to the house without getting in trouble. I’m not stupid, I’m not! She kicked at a small piece of wood in her path.

  Amy looked up the hill before her, with the tiny cottage on its far side. She glanced over one shoulder to see Charlie watching. The hills on either side marked the boundaries of her small prison. Malcolm dragged at her like a dead weight, then stirred and began to grizzle at having been disturbed.

  My life. This is what I’ve made of it. People used to say I was clever. Charlie’s right about me—I must be the stupidest woman that ever lived.

  11

  February – August 1887

  Frank gave the fence post a nudge with his foot, and at once regretted it when a large chunk of wood flaked off one side. Arthur was right: this section of fence was half-rotten and needed replacing.

  He felt a mild irritation at Arthur; why did his father-in-law have to go poking around the farm finding work for him to do? He had plenty to keep him busy; too much, he sometimes thought. During the first months of their marriage Lizzie had helped him with the morning milking, but she had stopped that as soon as they had realised she was pregnant; the baby was far too precious to risk losing. Frank had not suggested that she start helping again; Lizzie had enough to do with Maudie to look after as well as all her cooking and cleaning. She always seemed to be working; even in the evenings when he could relax with a newspaper Lizzie would be sewing and mending. Frank grinned to himself as he reflected that however busy she was Lizzie could usually be persuaded into an early night.
<
br />   He wiggled the fence post warily. No, it would hold for a bit longer, he decided. It would probably be all right until winter, when he’d have more time to do maintenance. Arthur had said he’d better get on and fix it or the cows would get through, but Arthur was inclined to be a worrier. If he did start mending the fence that afternoon, by the time he got back from milking Maudie would already be asleep, and he would not have the chance to play with her.

  Frank turned his back on the sagging fence and went off to round up the cows. He did his best to ignore the weed-choked drain he was walking alongside. Arthur had said he’d better clear out that drain before winter, too. Arthur was fond of giving advice, and Frank was happy enough to listen to it. That didn’t mean he had to do everything Arthur said straight away. He had better ways of spending his time now.

  He rushed through milking, knowing that Arthur would disapprove of that, too. But it wasn’t going to kill the cows if he didn’t get every drop of milk out of them. Carefully stripping each cow for the last few drops took too long. It was all very well for Arthur, with two sons big enough to help him. Frank had already half-decided to sell all the calves born that year; he had too many cows to milk as it was. He had a feeling the last milk cheque had been a bit lower than usual, but that was nothing to worry about. They had the farm and they had plenty to eat; what more did they want?

  The delicious smell of his dinner wafted through the open kitchen door to meet him as he walked up to the house.

  ‘Boots!’ Lizzie called when he stepped onto the porch.

  ‘You always say that,’ Frank said with a grin, placing his boots neatly outside the door.

  ‘You always forget if I don’t.’ Lizzie offered her cheek for a kiss without leaving off stirring a pan of gravy. She held Maudie in her free arm. ‘You’re a bit early.’

  ‘I got through milking pretty fast. I wanted to come and see my girls.’