Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘I saw you playing up to the men tonight, flashing your eyes and smirking and giggling. You were just about sitting on that Bill’s lap. You wanted to get into his trousers, didn’t you?’ He shook her. ‘Didn’t you?’ He hit her across the mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Or have you already been there?’

  He let go of Amy suddenly, and she fell back a few steps. She felt the wall against her back, hard and cold. I will not cry out.

  ‘He’s my cousin,’ she pleaded. ‘He’s like my brother.’

  ‘That wouldn’t stop you, would it? If it wears trousers you’re after it. I saw you hanging around your fancy man from the city that summer—right here on my farm you were throwing yourself at him when he was meant to be making hay. You opened your legs quick enough for him. Until he got sick of you and left you with a swollen belly.’ Amy put her hands over her ears to shut out the dreadful words and turned away, but he stepped forward and caught hold of her hands, pushing them back down against her sides, then took a handful of her hair and jerked her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

  ‘You liked it with him, didn’t you?’ he hissed. ‘You enjoyed tumbling in the hay with him. Didn’t he believe it was his brat you were carrying? How many men were there?’ He tugged at her hair.

  ‘Just one,’ she whispered. He pulled her head back further and spat in her face. Amy forced down a rush of nausea. Still tightly gripping her hair so that she couldn’t move, he hit her again across the lips. She tasted salt from the blood filling her mouth.

  ‘You hung around him like a bitch in heat.’ A slap across the cheek. ‘You yelled and panted for him.’ A blow to the side of her head. ‘But you shrink away from me.’ His voice rose in a howl of rage and anguish as he lashed out again, and at last Amy understood what enraged him. She had hurt his pride, and he was making her pay.

  Now she could no longer distinguish words through the roaring in her ears, but she could hear his voice as though it were coming from a great distance. She prayed that he would not wake the children; with each blow she willed herself to think of her boys. She would not cry out; she would not disturb them and have them come in to the room and see this. She would bear it in silence until he tired of his sport. If she screamed it would only inflame him more. Surely he would stop soon. His hands must be hurting by now.

  He swung out again. Her head reeled with dizziness and nausea. Perhaps he would stop if she fainted. But she could not will herself to faint.

  His fist slammed against the side of her head, catching the edge of her eye with the knuckles, but she sensed that his left arm was tiring. Its grip on her hair loosened, and at the same time the force of his forearm lashing across her face knocked her to the floor and sent her skidding into a leg of the table. Through the roaring she heard a rattling noise above her head, and felt something wet on her shoulder. It was whisky from Charlie’s bottle. He snatched at the bottle before it tipped completely over, and held it high in front of him.

  She could only see out of one eye now. She watched him with his bottle, and for a moment she thought he was going to smash it over her head. But instead he cradled it to his chest like a baby. He gave her a savage kick in the stomach, thudding her spine against the table leg, then turned and lurched out of the room. She heard the thump of his steps go erratically out of the room, then for a time the world went dark.

  *

  Amy felt the floor’s cool solidity. The roaring in her ears had faded, and she lay motionless, empty of everything except the relief of being alone and in total silence. At last her mind began working again, forming fragments of emotion into coherent thoughts. He despised her for what she had done before she married him. Because she had given herself to another man, and borne that man a child. A sob convulsed Amy as she thought of her little girl. She thrust the memory aside; she did not have the strength for it tonight.

  But it was more than her shame, as she had been taught to call it, that had enraged him. It was because he knew his very touch repelled her, and she barely endured his demands, while he knew, too, that she had gone willingly to another man.

  She had been soiled, but Charlie had taken her. That was the bargain: he had got a young wife from a good family; a wife who was obedient, would work for him uncomplainingly, and would bear his children. In return she had gone to a husband who was meant to give her a home, protect her, and give her back her respectability. She had kept her side of the bargain faithfully; only now had it been borne in on her that she, too, might have some rights.

  From the first night she had come to his house, whenever he had touched her it had been a punishment, whether it was a blow when she had annoyed him or just the rough way he used her for his lust. She had come to him eager to please and desperate for approval, and he had hurt her and reviled her. And now he had beaten her savagely for shrinking from him.

  Awareness of her body crept back, and Amy slowly absorbed the details of her pain. She felt on fire all over. It was a long time before she attempted to move, and when she did try she thought she would faint.

  She lay still until her head stopped spinning quite so violently, then dragged herself to her hands and knees, took hold of a chair, and pulled on it until she was squatting.

  A new spasm racked her. She clutched at her belly until the convulsions eased a little, then stared at the pool of blood on the floor between her thighs, slow to comprehend what it meant. So there had been another child growing within her; another child lost. A child killed by its father.

  When the pain no longer threatened to make her faint, Amy slowly pulled herself to her feet, using the edge of the table for support. She felt something hard in her mouth, and spat a mouthful of blood into one hand. In the middle of the pool were two teeth. She closed her hand on them and squeezed until she felt them cut into her palm, then slipped them into her apron pocket.

  The habit of guilt was strong in her. She deserved everything bad that had happened to her from the time she had lain with Jimmy; she had been told so over and over. She had accepted it as her due. But had she really deserved this from her husband? Hadn’t she been punished enough now?

  She wiped up the blood as well as her trembling hands would allow, lit a candle and put out the lamp, then walked quietly through the parlour and up to the bedroom door.

  Charlie was sprawled half on the bed with his legs dangling over the edge, clutching his empty bottle in one outflung arm. She paused in the doorway, watching and listening. His snoring told her that he was sound asleep, and unlikely to be easily disturbed. Amy felt that the very last thing in the world she wanted to do was touch him, but she forced herself to go over to the bed. In the early hours of the morning it could be cold even at this time of year. He should not lie there all night with no covers over him.

  She prised his fingers from the bottle, a shudder running through her at the touch. There was something wound around his hand: long strands of her hair, ripped out by him. The pain in her scalp was a small part of the whole, and she had scarcely noticed it till now. A treacherous memory from her last day with Jimmy crept into her awareness; so Charlie wanted a lock of her hair, too.

  She put the bottle on the floor near the wall where he would be unlikely to trip over it. She managed to get his boots off, but when she tried to lift his legs onto the bed the weight sent stabs of pain through her, forcing her to abandon the attempt. Instead, she took a blanket from the wardrobe and draped it over him. She took her nightdress from a drawer and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

  The photograph on the mantelpiece caught Amy’s attention as she came into the parlour; she paused to study it. Something had put the idea of a family portrait into Charlie’s head two years before, and he had summoned Mr Hatfield out to the farm to make a visible record of Charlie and his heirs.

  It showed Charlie standing before the fence in front of the house, holding Smokey by the reins. Malcolm was perched in the saddle, beaming with pride at being allowed to sit on the horse. Amy h
ad not ventured further than the gateway in the fence. She looked at the image of herself with David in her arms, clutching the child to her as much to hide the signs of pregnancy as for the pleasure of holding him.

  Charlie’s kingdom. His farm, his sons and his wife. She had thought she belonged to him then; belonged as much as his farm and his animals did, and had as little right to complain.

  Amy heard the soft sounds of David’s breathing as she slipped into his room. She put out her candle and undressed in the dark so as not to wake him; unwilling, too, to face her injuries before she had to. She slid into bed alongside him, trying to find the position that would cause least pain, and snuggled up to his warm little body. He stirred, and pressed against her. It hurt, but she clung to him. In the morning she would have to move David’s things out to the verandah room; he was old enough to sleep out there with his brother, and she needed this room now. Because she was never going to share Charlie’s bed again.

  24

  February 1891

  Amy woke much later than usual the next morning, with the sun already bright in the sky. For a few moments she looked around the walls and wondered where she was. Memories of the previous evening came flooding back and she was suddenly wide awake.

  She realised what had woken her: it was the bellowing of the cows. They were hours late in being milked, and were making their disquiet obvious. Charlie must have been even drunker than she had thought to sleep through this.

  David had rolled away from her in the night. He was still asleep, with his head on the other edge of the pillow and one arm flung out over the covers. He had the thumb of his other hand in his mouth; she pulled it out gently. He stirred a little without waking.

  Amy slipped out of bed, and groaned as her body complained at the movement. Steeling herself, she walked over to the wall mirror. The face that looked back at her was almost unrecognisable. Her cheeks were a swollen mass of bruises, she could only just see out of a half-closed black eye, and one lip was split by an angry-looking cut. Her hair was tangled, giving her an even wilder appearance.

  She turned from the apparition and crept out of the room, then through the parlour till she stood outside Charlie’s door, every step running shafts of pain through her. She listened for any sound of movement, but heard nothing. Summoning her courage, she opened the door and went in. Charlie lay just as she had left him, still sound asleep and breathing noisily; he looked as though he might sleep the day away, and she was in no hurry to confront him.

  But the cows needed milking. Amy remembered the pain in her breasts when they were full of milk after Ann had been taken from her; she felt them aching in sympathy for the poor beasts with their swollen udders. Charlie was obviously in no state to milk them, so she would just have to do it herself.

  She gathered up her hairbrush from the chest of drawers, closed the door on Charlie and went back to David’s room. He stirred as she came in, turning a sleepy face to her. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to cry out. Amy went to his side, crouched on the floor by the bed and put her arms around him, hiding her face until he had got over the fright.

  ‘It’s all right, Davie, it’s Mama,’ she soothed. When she released him he stared at her wide-eyed, then reached out and touched her cheek very lightly.

  ‘Your face is funny, Mama.’

  ‘I fell on the floor and I got hurt.’ It wasn’t a lie, it just wasn’t all of the truth; but enough of it for a three-year-old.

  She couldn’t leave the boys here while she went down to the cow shed; they would be sure to wake Charlie, and he would be like a bear with a sore head this morning. He was hard enough on them even when he didn’t have a hangover.

  ‘Davie,’ she said, ‘would you like to help Mama today? Papa’s not very well, and he has to stay in bed. We have to whisper so we won’t wake him up. I need you and Mal to help me milk the cows. Will you do that?’

  David nodded, his eyes alight as he climbed out of bed. It was all a game to him. She helped him get dressed, putting a finger to his lips when he got too excited.

  ‘Now, you must creep very quietly out to the verandah and wake Mal up and tell him our secret. When he’s dressed you can both come back here—see which one can be the quietest.’

  She lifted her nightdress over her head when David had gone, and saw the injuries on her body for the first time. Charlie’s vicious kick had been effective in more than bringing on a miscarriage. Her back and her rib cage both had livid bruises discolouring them. She tried to check her ribs for any damage, but found that even a light exploratory pressure was unbearable; one or more must be cracked. Angry red lines had etched into her skin around the site of his kick; they puzzled her until she realised they had been made by the bones of her corset when his foot and the table leg had ground them into her.

  It was obvious she would not be able to lace herself in while she was in this state. She shoved the corset into the wardrobe and closed the door on it. That’s one good thing, anyway. An excuse not to wear that for a while.

  Dressing was awkward enough without it. Twisting her body around to fasten bodices and petticoats rubbed her tender skin and set all her bruises throbbing. But she managed to get her clothes on before David came back with Malcolm. The five-year-old looked at her in awe.

  ‘I’m all right, Mal, there’s no need to stare at me like that,’ she said, trying to reassure him. But he was not frightened, merely impressed.

  ‘That’s a huge black eye,’ he said. ‘How did you get one like that?’ He sounded as though he wished he could have one, too. It’s not that hard, Mal. Just make your father angry enough and he’ll give you one. No, that wasn’t quite fair; Charlie might be harsh, but he didn’t hate his sons as it seemed he hated his wife. In his own way he loved them; especially his precious first-born.

  ‘I fell on the floor,’ she repeated. ‘You two sit on the bed and wait while I do my hair.’

  They sat obediently enough and swung their legs for a few minutes. Amy tugged at the knots, trying to tease out the worst of them with her fingers. Her scalp was tender on the back of her head where Charlie had grabbed at it. When she probed gingerly with her fingertips she could feel that a small patch of hair was missing; a little dried blood came off on her fingers.

  The boys, growing bored, started kicking one another’s legs, and scuffling in an idle way. ‘Stop that!’ Amy said. ‘You’ll wake your father.’ That quietened them briefly, then Malcolm tickled David, who gave a high-pitched squeal of indignation. It was unfair to expect them to sit still.

  ‘How about you go down to the cow shed and wait for me there,’ Amy said. ‘See if you can let the cows into the yard,’ she added, not with any great hope they would manage it.

  The boys erupted from the room and raced out the back door. Amy stood very still for a moment to listen for any signal that Charlie might have been disturbed, but the house was silent.

  The raw patch on the back of her head meant she couldn’t pin her hair up or put on a bonnet, so she left it falling around her shoulders and down her back. It felt strange to wear it loose; she hadn’t left the house with her hair down since she had been declared a woman at sixteen.

  On her way out of the house, she paused in the kitchen to get something for the boys to eat. Her dough of last night was still lying on the table, cold and hard now. She found some of yesterday’s bread, not too dried out yet, and cut thick slices from the loaf. That and two apples from the box by the back door would have to keep them going till she could get them breakfast.

  To her agreeable surprise, the boys had all the cows in the yard with the gate closed behind them. The two of them looked very pleased with themselves.

  ‘What clever boys!’ Amy said. ‘You got them in all by yourselves—that’ll save us a lot of time.’ She knew that all they had had to do was open the gate, hold it open until the cows, eager for relief, had all filed in, then close it after them; but they could easily have upset the animals by rushing around or shouting, making t
he job of getting them into the yard a good deal harder.

  ‘I know how to do it,’ Malcolm said proudly. ‘I help Papa sometimes.’ And he often enough earned a beating for upsetting the cows. Today Malcolm seemed to be taking the responsibility seriously enough to overcome his usual boisterousness.

  Amy led two cows into bails and showed Malcolm how to tether their heads and tie a leg rope to one hind leg. He tied the second one while she milked the first. Crouching on the hard little stool was painful, but there was something soothing about pressing her face against the cow’s warm, soft flank as she squeezed its teats and heard the satisfying swish of milk going into the bucket.

  She and the boys got into a pattern of work together: Malcolm leading the cows in and tethering them, and letting them out into the paddock when they were done; Amy milking; then the two boys carefully carrying each bucket between them over to the row of milk cans and pouring the milk in. They spilled a little each time, but they were trying so hard that Amy could not possibly scold them. The spilt milk puddled into the cow dung on the earth floor of the milking shed; even at such close quarters the pungent smell was too familiar for Amy to do more than twitch her nose at it.

  Amy found herself becoming sleepy as the morning wore on. Her hands got into a rhythm that took little concentration; the shed was warmed by the sun as it rose higher, and by the body heat of the cows. Each cow seemed to have a look of trust and even gratitude in its liquid brown eyes as it was led in. It was only pain that stopped her from dozing off where she sat.

  It took them more than three hours to finish, and Amy was exhausted by the time they let the last cow back into the paddock. She had no idea where Charlie would have moved them after milking; they would have to stay where they were until he finally appeared. She and Malcolm carried a can of milk between them as they walked up to the house. She hoped Charlie would wake up before it was time for the afternoon milking; she had no desire to see him before she had to, but she did not think she would be able to cope with a second session that day. All she really wanted to do was lie down and sleep; though that was out of the question. She was already behind with her work for the day.