Settling the Account (59 page)

Amy put her arms around her cousin’s neck
and kissed her. ‘Thank you, Lizzie. Thank you for everything.’

She hugged Lizzie tightly, and set off down
the track with a lighter heart than she had had in years. The sun
had set, but enough daylight lingered for her to re-read the letter
from David, which she had only managed to skim while at the soirée.
It was his usual sort of letter, telling her the everyday details
of his life, what work he was doing and what he had had for dinner
that week, and asking after the people he cared about. He never
mentioned his father in his letters.

David’s letters had been the brightest spot
in her existence in the two years since she had lost him. For the
brief period of reading his words, she held him to her once again.
She would rub the paper between her fingers as if it held some
essence of him; hold the pages to her nose and drink in the smell
of the ink, trying to breathe in a trace of her son. She read his
letters slowly, savouring each word, putting off the moment when
the letter had to be folded and put away, and she had to face the
fact all over again that she had lost David. The gentle pleasure of
reading one of his letters was always followed by the sharpest of
pains, when the soft underbelly of her senses lay open to the
harshness of her reality.

But today that pain was muffled; the dull
ache of an old wound instead of the stab of one newly reopened.
Today there was the remembered pleasure of Sarah Millish’s
company.

‘I’ve got a friend, Davie,’ she whispered
into the evening. ‘A real friend I can talk to about books and
ideas—all those things people like Lizzie think is just me being
silly. I haven’t had anyone like that since Miss Evans. She’s nice,
Davie. You’d like her.’

She hugged the letter to her chest as she
hugged the memory of her evening. She would have to try and coax
Lizzie into having soirées more often; or perhaps just into
inviting Miss Millish out for an afternoon. If she did not ask for
outings too often, it was usually possible to get Charlie’s
permission to visit Lizzie. She mused on how long it might be
before she could see her new friend again; surely not more than a
week or two. For the first time in many months she had something to
look forward to.

She saw Charlie in the middle of the newly
planted potato paddock as she walked up the last part of the track,
and was surprised that he was outside so late when little light
remained. But it was a warm evening, and she knew he had difficulty
finding the time to get all the potatoes planted now that he had to
do it alone.

‘I’m home, Charlie,’ she called, cupping her
hands to make the sound travel further. ‘I’ll get some supper on
for you.’

He made no answer, not even turning towards
her, though Amy was sure he must have heard.

He’s probably in a mood
.
He’s
tired himself out and got in a mood. I hope he doesn’t say I can’t
go to Lizzie’s next time
.

But it was no use brooding on such things.
If he refused her next outing, she would simply have to keep asking
until he tired of the game. Even if it took weeks, he would give in
eventually.

She put the jug on and buttered scones for
his supper, spreading them thickly with jam. She was astonished to
find herself humming as she worked.

The tea was in the pot, brewed and in danger
of becoming too strong, and still Charlie had not appeared.
Whatever was he doing out there? It was surely too dim to work
now.

Amy went outside and retraced her steps to
the potato paddock. Charlie was in the same spot she had seem him
earlier. Exactly the same spot, she realised. She frowned,
straining her eyes to see through the gloom. The same spot and the
same position, crouched down as if he were studying the dirt of the
paddock.

She scrambled over the fence and started
across the furrows, picking up her skirts to move more freely. She
walked faster, then broke into a run, almost stumbling in her haste
to leap over the ridges of earth.

Charlie was slumped across a planted mound,
his body an untidy heap and the fingers of one hand clawed into the
soil. Amy dropped to her knees beside him, her heart pounding.

‘Charlie?’ she whispered. ‘Charlie, what’s
happened to you?’ Hesitantly she reached out a hand towards his
face, sickly grey in the last of the daylight.

October – December 1904

Charlie twitched at her touch. He made a
gurgling noise in his throat and his eyes stared at Amy without any
sign of recognition. She crouched with her face close to his,
frozen by those empty eyes.

As she watched, awareness slowly came into
his gaze. The blank, lifeless stare was replaced by a look of
confusion, as if he were trying to take in where he was and how he
had come to be there.

‘Charlie, you’re all right!’ Amy said,
taking a great, sighing breath of relief. ‘I thought something
awful had happened to you. What’s wrong? Did you have a fall?’

Charlie’s confused, almost frightened,
expression did not change. He opened his mouth to speak, but what
came out was an unintelligible mumble. At the sound, he looked more
fearful than ever.

‘Don’t try and talk,’ Amy said. ‘You must
have fallen and hit your head. You’ve hurt your mouth, too, I
think, that’s why you can’t talk properly just yet.’

She felt gingerly around as much of his
scalp as she could reach, watching him closely to see if she was
hurting him. She peered at her hands to see if there was any trace
of blood on them; she could see none, but there was so little light
left that she could not be sure.

‘I’ve got to get you up to the house. Can
you sit up? Here, I’ll help you.’

She took hold of his arm and hauled him into
a sitting position, feeling his weight drag at her. His other arm
hung limp at his side.

‘Can’t… can’t move my arm,’ he mumbled,
speaking with an obvious effort. ‘Doesn’t work.’

‘You must have put all your weight on that
side when you fell. Does it hurt?’

He frowned in confusion. ‘Can’t feel it.
Can’t move it.’

Amy ran her hand up the limp arm. As far as
she could tell, the bones were still sound. ‘Perhaps it’s just numb
from you lying on it. Your leg might be numb, too. Can you move
it?’

She saw the strain on his face. ‘No,’ he
said faintly.

Amy felt the leg as well as she could with
Charlie’s weight resting on it, and was relieved that it obviously
gave him no pain. ‘I’ll have to help you, then. Put your arm around
my shoulders and I’ll get you up.’

He gripped her shoulder so tightly that Amy
felt his fingers digging into her flesh. She sensed his fear. His
strength had never deserted him before; Charlie had no experience
of being helpless.

Amy felt pain clawing through her body as
she heaved at Charlie’s weight. His attempts to help himself,
clutching convulsively at her neck, only made it more difficult.
When she had him upright at last, the two of them swaying like a
pair of drunks supporting each other, she had to stand still for
several seconds, taking great gasps of air and waiting for her
heart to slow.

One leg dragged uselessly as she led him
across the paddock, through the gate and up to the cottage. She
took him through to his bedroom, pulled back the covers with one
hand while balancing him with her other arm, then eased him onto
the bed as gently as she could. He sank back against the pillows
and lay there watching her with those frightened eyes.

‘Perhaps I should get the doctor to you,’
Amy said, frowning. ‘You must have had quite a fall. If I hurry I
might catch him still at Lizzie’s.’

‘No!’ That word came out clearly enough,
though she was puzzled at how he seemed to screw up his face as he
spoke. ‘Don’t want some bloody quack. You stay home.’

He might become distressed if she pressed
the issue, and there could surely not be anything seriously wrong
with him. A good night’s sleep should see him over the strange
numbness in his leg and arm, and though he might wake up with a
headache if he had indeed hit his head, it would probably be no
worse than the aftermath of a night’s drinking.

She undid his boots and pulled them off, and
briefly considered offering to help him undress. Best not to, she
decided. It would embarrass both of them, and the worst he would do
was crease his clothes by sleeping in them.

‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked. He gave a
quick nod. She pulled the covers up over him and tucked them in.
‘Try to get to sleep, then. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

‘Aye, I will,’ he said, his voice oddly
thick. She went out of his room, closing the door behind her.

Amy was jolted into wakefulness early the
next morning by a crash, the sound muffled through the wall. She
hurried through to Charlie’s room and found him crouched beside the
bed, leaning heavily on it, his kerosene tin of water on the floor
beside the toppled washstand.

‘My leg,’ he said, staring wide-eyed at her.
‘It’s not working.’

‘Still?’ Amy helped him up so that he could
sit on the bed. ‘What about your arm?’ She saw the effort on his
face, but the arm did not move. ‘You must have fallen really hard
on that side. Are you sure you don’t want the doctor?’

‘No doctors. They’re no bloody use.’ He saw
the protest on her lips, and gave her a look that would have been
fierce had it not been so frightened. His words were slurred, as if
he were drunk, but she could understand him easily enough. ‘Knew a
man once that broke his leg. They got the doctor to him. The quack
sliced his leg off.’

‘Charlie, he wouldn’t do that.’ But it was
no use pressing the issue. ‘All right, then, we’ll leave it. Maybe
it’s going to take a day or two for you to come right. I think you
should lie down, and I’ll bring your breakfast in to you
later.’

‘What about my cows?’ Charlie demanded.
‘I’ve got to get the milking done.’

‘I’ll do it. I know how to milk, you know I
do.’

‘You’ll go frightening my cows with those
skirts of yours flapping. And you’ll take all bloody day over
it.’

‘Not as long as you’d take with an arm and a
leg not working.’ He winced at that, but she had to be firm, even
if it meant hurting his feelings. ‘And I’ve lived here nearly
twenty years, Charlie—since before any of those cows were born. I’m
not going to frighten them.’

She set his washstand to rights and mopped
up the spilt water, then turned to go back to her room to dress.
Charlie sat on the bed, muttering away to himself.

‘That cow with the black patch behind her
ear has got a sore tit,’ he said just as she reached his door. ‘Be
careful with her.’

‘I will,’ Amy said over her shoulder.

‘The one with the black patch. See that you
remember.’

‘Yes, Charlie.’

‘Don’t you go hurting that cow.’

Amy paused in the doorway. ‘I think I know
as much about sore tits as you do. I certainly should do.’ She left
him puzzling over that, and hurried off to her room.

It did take her a long time to milk; much
longer than it usually took Charlie. Her stomach was grumbling over
its emptiness by the time she turned the last of the cows out of
the shed and regarded the row of full milk cans with a sense of
accomplishment.

The smug feeling did not last long. ‘And
what am I going to do with you?’ she murmured to the row of cans.
She sighed, and took up the smallest of them. It bumped awkwardly
against her legs as she carried it up to the house. She left the
can in the kitchen and went through to Charlie’s room.

‘I’ve finished,’ she said. ‘I know I took
ages, but I’ve done it. I remembered your cow with the sore tit,
too. But I don’t know how we’re going to get the milk to the
factory.’

Charlie was sitting back against the pillows
with the covers pulled over him. He looked up at her entrance with
an oddly embarrassed expression, which changed to a scowl at her
words.

‘Bugger,’ he muttered.

‘I don’t think I could lift the cans onto
the cart, and—’

‘You’re not going down to that factory on
your own,’ Charlie interrupted. ‘I’ll not have men saying my wife’s
doing my work for me.’

‘I didn’t think you’d want me to. And it’s
too late to ask John to take it, he’ll be well on his way by
now.’

‘Waste of good milk,’ Charlie grumbled.

‘Well, it can’t be helped. We’ll just have
to feed it to the pigs. I’ll save some for butter, though, so it
won’t all be wasted. I was thinking—would it be all right if I go
over and see John later? I thought I could ask him to take the milk
to the factory for us tomorrow, and maybe after that, too. Just
till you’re better.’

‘Don’t you go telling him you did my milking
for me,’ Charlie said, fear on his face.

‘No, I don’t need to tell him that. I’ll
just say you’ve hurt your arm so you can’t lift the cans onto the
cart. That’s true enough, isn’t it? I won’t say anything about the
milking.’

Charlie’s mouth worked as he considered the
idea. ‘All right, you can ask him—just mind you hold your tongue
about the milking. I don’t want that family of yours wagging their
tongues about me.’

‘I’ll be careful what I say.’

‘And you tell him he’d better not be getting
my milk muddled up with his, either,’ Charlie added in something
more like his usual manner.

‘Charlie! John wouldn’t go pinching your
milk!’

‘He’d better not, that’s all.’

‘I don’t think you’ve any need to worry
about that,’ Amy said. ‘Anyway, I’d better get breakfast on now, I
bet you’re hungry. I’ll just get changed first, I’d forgotten how
filthy you can get milking. Can you wait till breakfast’s ready, or
shall I get you a bit of bread and butter to be going on with?’

‘I’ll wait.’ He met her eyes for a moment
and seemed about to say something more, then looked over at the far
wall.