Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘Well, you haven’t.’

  ‘No, I know that. So there’s no use trying any more, is there? I’ll go on doing the things I do seem to be capable of—you’ve never complained about the way I keep house—and you use the women who suit you.’

  She could see in his face that he knew he was losing the fight, and that the frustration of knowing it was making him angrier. ‘It’s not your place to tell me what to do—there’s more than pleasure in it. I’ve the right to get sons on my wife—it’s your duty to give me sons.’

  ‘I’ve given you two strong sons. This isn’t a big farm, you know—it’ll be hard enough to make it support two families when the boys are grown.’

  ‘So you despise my farm, do you? Not good enough for the fine lady? Not good enough for Jack Leith’s daughter?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. All I said was it’s not big enough for a tribe of sons—don’t do that, Charlie,’ she warned as he balled his fist.

  ‘I’ll decide how many sons I can support, not you. I’ll decide when I’ve enough sons to help me work the place. Don’t you go telling me you’ll give me no more, bitch. You’ll give me sons, all right.’

  She stared dispassionately at his fist. ‘You shouldn’t have got rid of the last child, then.’

  His face clouded with confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The one I was carrying the night you knocked my teeth out. The one you kicked out of me when I was lying on the floor.’

  He paled visibly at her words. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were with child?’

  ‘It’s hard to think clearly when you’re being beaten like that. Anyway, I didn’t know it myself. I’ve been with child so much this last year, I can’t tell the signs any more. I think I’d carried that one a bit longer than some of the others, though. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost it this time. Maybe you would have had another son.’ She stabbed the knife in further. ‘But you’ll never know. Because you killed it. Why should I carry more babies for you to kill?’

  ‘Y-you’re lying,’ he stammered, but they both knew he did not believe his own words.

  ‘I dragged myself up off the floor and held on to that chair. That’s when I felt the child coming. There was a lot of blood. There’s a bloodstain where you’re standing. It’s not as dark as it was, but you can see it if you look properly. I haven’t been able to give the floor a good scrub since, not with the state you left me in. Some of it’s my blood, but most of it’s from the baby.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t driven me to it, you and your nonsense—you brought it on yourself.’

  ‘Did I? Did I ask you to leave me all bloodied and bruised? Did I ask you to kill our child?’

  Charlie gave a roar of rage and frustration. He raised his fist, and Amy resisted the almost overpowering urge to cringe away as he swung it.

  There was a resounding crack as his fist hammered into the wall behind her. He stormed from the room, slamming first the door into the parlour and then the bedroom door. Amy found herself alone in the kitchen.

  Her legs gave way under her, and she sank heavily into a chair. She realised that she was shaking, but not with fear. It was exhilaration; the exhilaration of having faced Charlie and won. He was never going to hurt her again.

  When her heart stopped pounding so fiercely she stood up, leaning on the edge of the table for support. She was aware of a deep weariness creeping over her now that the immediate need for strength had passed. She examined with dispassionate interest the dent Charlie’s fist had left in the wall. That could have been my face. A few weeks ago it was.

  She walked slowly into the tiny bedroom that was now hers, closing the door behind her. When she had undressed she slipped between the sheets, the touch of the smooth linen like a caress. She extinguished her candle and felt the darkness of the room enfolding her in a safe embrace before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  *

  Charlie sat in silence while Amy dished up his breakfast the next morning. She was about to go and fetch the boys from their bedroom when he spoke.

  ‘I think you’re maybe not over that bit of trouble yet.’

  Amy stopped in her tracks, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘It might be for the best if you keep to the back room for a wee bit longer,’ he went on. ‘We’ll speak no more of what was said last night when you were feeling poorly.’

  Pretending I’m sick won’t change things, Charlie. And I’m never coming back to your bed. But Amy said nothing aloud. If he wanted to try and save face with himself by believing lies about what had gone on between them, let him believe them. The truth would force itself upon him soon enough.

  Later that morning, when Amy had finished making Charlie’s bed and tidying his clothes away, she opened his wardrobe and saw her silk dress hanging there beside his suit. It was time she did something about that, as well as the three drawers that held the rest of her belongings. There was no need to leave her things in his room any longer, not now that she had told him how matters were going to be.

  She hung the silk dress in the tiny wardrobe that stood in a corner of the second bedroom, with her work dresses beside it and her precious hat on a shelf above them. She had already filled with her underwear two drawers of the little chest Charlie had made for what had been the children’s room, when she came to empty the lowest drawer of Charlie’s chest. It surprised Amy with its weight as she tugged at it. She opened the drawer to discover the books that she had carried from her father’s house in her heavy bundle on the night of her marriage six years before.

  Amy had always vaguely remembered that the books were there, but just getting through each day had taken all her endurance through the intervening years, leaving no room for such indulgences as reading. She sat down on the floor and began to lift the books from the drawer.

  She gave little cries of delight as she pulled out each one. There were books of poems, one or two volumes of plays, and several novels. Amy remembered clearly when she had received each one of them; and she had loved them all. They had been her window on a world beyond the valley; a world she had dreamed of living in. The dreams were gone now, or at least were too deeply buried to have any conscious sense of yearning attached to them; but now that she had changed her reality to make it bearable, if no less narrow, she could once again take pleasure from the dream-windows. Now that she had her own room, her books would not be hidden away as if they were something shameful.

  When the books had all been taken out and lined up against one wall of her little bedroom, Amy found tucked away in a corner of the drawer, safely wrapped in lacy doilies, the silver-framed photograph of her family. I’m not going to hide you away, either, Mama, she told the image. The photograph given pride of place on her chest of drawers, Amy sat down on her bed and gazed with pleasure at the look of love on her mother’s face.

  I don’t know what you’d think of what I’ve done about Charlie, Mama. I bet you never would have done anything like that to Pa. She smiled at the picture of her father as a young man. Pa never hurt you, did he? He loved you. He still does.

  So now she had all her worldly goods in her own bedroom; all except one thing. She went back to Charlie’s room and stood in the doorway, studying the bed and its covering.

  It was her bedspread, made by her own hands and her grandmother’s. But she had brought it to Charlie, and it had covered both of them for six years. She had promised him she would still be an obedient wife in every way except sharing his bed; would taking the bedspread be a breach of that? Charlie might think so. As far as he was concerned, the few things she had brought to their marriage had become his property, just as she had. It was the way she had thought about herself for years: his property, for him to do with as he wished.

  But not any longer. Her body didn’t belong to him any more, and neither did her bedspread. She gathered it up quickly, so as not to give herself time to change her mind, and carried it through to spread ov
er her own little bed. She allowed herself to survey the room with satisfaction before she hurried off about her work. Her own small domain, with her precious things around her.

  That evening, Amy took a candle through to her bedroom and heard Charlie go outside; to relieve himself, she assumed. The sound muffled by the wall, she heard him come back through the kitchen and parlour, then into his bedroom. The footsteps stopped abruptly. It struck her that he must have seen the bedspread had gone, and with it his ‘wee bit longer’ pretence.

  There was a banging and thumping; it took Amy a few moments to realise Charlie had opened the wardrobe and was now pulling out all the drawers to see if she had taken all her clothes. Yes, I have, Charlie. Every single thing I own.

  The footsteps started again, and she heard Charlie’s heavy tread making its way towards his bedroom door. He’s annoyed now. He’s going to come in here and… what? Drag me back in there? Rip my clothes off and force me right here? She held the candle in front of her and stared into its light until her eyes hurt. Don’t do it, Charlie. Don’t make me take the boys away from you.

  Amy sat unmoving, listening to the progress of Charlie’s steps. She heard his door handle turn and the door squeak as it opened, but then the steps stopped. There was a long silence; Amy knew that Charlie’s slow brain was weighing up the consequences of what he was about to do.

  The door closed and his steps began again. But they went back to his own bed, not towards her. Through the thin wall she heard him muttering as he undressed and climbed into bed; curses against her, she had no doubt.

  Amy let her breath out on a sigh, and realised she had been holding it for some time. She put the candle on the chest by her bed and got undressed, then took a book from the neat row and held it close to her as she slipped between the sheets. She propped the pillow behind her and snuggled down to indulge in the almost forgotten luxury of reading in bed.

  Dark glares and a stony silence from Charlie were her reward at breakfast the next morning. Amy looked back calmly when she had to look at him at all, smothering an occasional yawn. She had indulged herself a little too long with reading, but to be weary from self-indulgence was almost a pleasure in itself.

  The sky threatened rain; not strongly enough to keep Charlie from his work, much to Amy’s relief, but enough for her to keep David inside with her all morning. She was grateful for the placid nature that made David content to potter about the house after her while she worked. He played with Ginger, dragging a piece of paper on a string behind him to entice the cat, while Amy made the beds and tidied the bedrooms, scrubbed the kitchen floor and dusted all the rooms. When Ginger grew tired and curled up in a sunny corner of the now-dry kitchen floor to sleep David curled up with him, stroking the cat’s soft fur.

  Amy left the potatoes she was peeling and sat down for a moment to watch them, smiling at the sight. She was lucky to have a child like David; he was as delightful as Malcolm was difficult.

  ‘Ginger’s asleep, Mama,’ David said, looking up at her.

  ‘That’s right, Davie. Pussy cats need a lot of sleep.’ She held out her arms. ‘Come and have a cuddle with Mama, just for a bit. I’ve got to start making pudding in a minute.’

  David readily clambered onto her lap, put his arms around her neck and planted a wet kiss on her lips. ‘You’re pretty, Mama. Your face not funny now.’

  ‘Thank you, Davie.’ She squeezed him tightly. ‘Ooh, you’re good at cuddles, sweetie. Mama loves cuddling her Davie.’ She wound one of his dark ringlets around her finger and smoothed his curls down over his collar. My pretty little baby. Too pretty to be a boy.

  ‘When can I go to school, Mama?’

  ‘Like Mal? Not till you’re five. That’s a year and a bit away. So soon,’ she mused. ‘You’re growing up so fast.’ Ann’s six now. I bet she looks just like Davie, except even prettier. If anyone could be prettier than David.

  ‘I going to be big like Mal.’

  ‘Of course you will, Davie. Big and strong, so you can help Papa. Hop down now, darling, Mama’s got to finish making lunch.’

  Charlie came in for the meal looking as sour as he had at breakfast; Amy was glad that Malcolm was safely away at school and unable to make his father any grumpier. Charlie did not usually take much notice of David, even had the younger boy been inclined to naughtiness. There was an element in Charlie’s expression that made her a little uneasy: a touch of malice along with the surliness. It made her wonder if he had spent the morning plotting some way of getting even with her. But frustrated annoyance was much plainer than the malice; if he had indeed been trying to plot retaliation it seemed to have been in vain.

  Amy lifted David onto his chair and tucked a napkin into his collar before she dished up for the three of them. When Charlie had said a rapid grace and begun eating his own food she started to cut up David’s chop into manageable pieces for the little boy.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Cutting Davie’s meat up for him,’ Amy answered simply, wondering why he should suddenly take an interest in something she did every day.

  ‘He’s big enough to feed himself. Leave him alone.’

  ‘He can’t manage the chop, Charlie. His hands are still a bit little to handle a knife and fork with meat.’

  Charlie fixed her with a grim stare. ‘I said leave him alone. You’re babying that boy.’

  It was not worth making a fuss about. He would see soon enough that David was not capable of cutting his meat. She took up her own knife and fork and began eating in silence.

  David looked from Amy to Charlie and back again, a puzzled expression on his face as he tried to fathom what was going on over his head. Amy motioned towards his plate. David picked up his fork and stabbed at the meat.

  The chop was too heavy for his little hand. It fell off the fork and landed on his helping of carrots. David stabbed at it again, knocking a few slices of carrot onto the table. He looked guiltily at his father, picked up the carrot slices and stuffed them in his mouth, then picked the chop up in both hands.

  ‘Here!’ Charlie said sternly. ‘You eat that properly—don’t go eating with your fingers like a savage.’

  ‘I can’t, Papa—’

  Charlie pointed a warning finger at him. ‘Don’t speak at the table, boy. You know the rule.’

  David cast a pleading look at Amy, but she could only look back helplessly. He dropped the chop back onto his plate and tried stabbing it again, more energetically this time.

  The chop skidded across his plate and slid into the boiled potato opposite it. Meat and potato flew off the plate and onto the table. David reached out to grab at them, and in his haste he flipped the whole plate over, scattering what was left of his meal over the table and the floor.

  David stared at the mess he had made, and turned to his father with tears filling his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to.’

  Charlie reached out and gave David a clout over the ear. ‘I told you to keep quiet! Look at the mess you’ve made, you young fool.’

  David let out a wail of pain and fright. He clambered down from his chair to bury his face in Amy’s lap. She put her arms around him and held him close, stroking his hair. ‘It’s all right, Davie,’ she soothed. ‘You couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Why can’t that boy eat properly?’ Charlie demanded. ‘It’s high time he learned. You still feeding him like a baby, at his age.’ He glared at David sobbing in Amy’s lap. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Only three, Charlie. Just a little fellow.’

  ‘Old enough to behave himself. When does he turn four?’

  ‘In August,’ Amy admitted.

  ‘He’s nearer four than three, then. What are you doing, keeping him in dresses at that age? Eh? Time he was in trousers.’ He looked at Amy’s hand stroking David’s long curls, and Amy could almost hear his mind ticking over.

  ‘Time that boy had a haircut,’ Charlie said suddenly.

  ‘No!’ The cry of protest was out befo
re Amy could call it back. ‘Don’t cut his hair, Charlie, not his pretty curls. He’s too little.’

  ‘Aye, it’s time he had a haircut,’ Charlie repeated, grim satisfaction on his face as he saw how much the idea upset Amy. ‘He’s nearly four. I gave his brother his first haircut at three years.’

  But Malcolm had not had beautiful black ringlets tumbling down to his collar, framing a face with huge blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. Malcolm had not been a walking image of a lost daughter. Amy clutched at David, and her distress communicated itself to him, making him sob more than ever.

  Charlie went off to his bedroom, returning with a pair of scissors. He took hold of David’s arm and yanked him from Amy’s grasp.

  ‘Right, get on this chair, boy. And stop that bawling.’ He gave David a slap across the head which, if it was intended to still the child’s sobs, failed miserably. Amy felt tears running down her own cheeks, but she bit back the words of protest that rose to her lips, knowing she would only make things harder for David by arguing.

  When Charlie had dumped him unceremoniously on the chair, the sight of the large scissors waving around close to his face made David wail even louder. He tried to squirm away from the terrifying blades, but Charlie took a tight grip on his arm and lowered his face till it was close to his little son’s.

  ‘Now, you behave yourself, boy. Keep still and don’t make a sound, or I’ll teach you a lesson. Understand?’ He shook David’s arm. ‘Understand?’

  David gulped back a sob and gave a little nod. ‘Yes, Papa,’ he said in a voice that was more of a squeak. He held himself rigid, following the movement of the scissors with nervous flicks of his eyes.

  The blades sliced off long coils of black hair at every cut. Amy watched helplessly as the pile of shorn curls around the chair grew thicker.