by Holly Müller
‘You didn’t have to come with me,’ she said in a rush, ‘to find Schosi.’ Sepp stopped, surprised. ‘Sorry!’ She blushed again, imagining herself pink as boiled ham. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just it was good of you, to do what you did.’ She bent close to her soup bowl as though spotting a fly or hair in her food but it was impossible to hide her face entirely. Sepp touched her arm, just for a second.
‘I wanted to. Because I like you.’
Her heart somersaulted and her cheeks began to flame all over again. It was hopeless. She needed air. She stood.
‘Excuse me a minute.’ She got tangled in her own skirts, almost overturning her stool.
As soon as she was out in the yard, she felt better. She wiped the clamminess from her forehead and upper lip. Snow was shovelled into crumbling piles and the stars were stark above the white barn roof. She breathed deeply to rid herself of the wincing feeling that lingered. Sepp was just another person, ordinary, not perfect, no better or worse than she. She remembered Schosi’s shout of glee when he emerged from the Krampus costume. Yes, he was just a boy. Not a monster, not someone to run from. She should be happy. She began to shiver and walked about to stay warm. She entered the pocket of blackness near the water butts, momentarily unable to see her own feet, emerged into moonbeams that angled from above the farmhouse and lit the outhouse, chalkily pale. She glanced up at the moon’s face, its penetrating gaze. She thought of Anton’s last unblinking look, wondered where he might end up. Would he go to the place on that fire-blackened photo he had showed her once? Would the moon shine in the same way on to the African pyramids or in whichever far-flung place? Or was there only sweltering sun?
She ended up at the cowshed. She watched idly from the door – Schosi was inside, leaning into each stall to sweep his hand along the cow’s back or to dig his fingers into the dense hair between their horns. This was his nightly ritual. He sometimes slept out here, resting on the ribs of a cow, rising and falling with each breath. She was glad he had somewhere, as Herr Esterbauer had wanted. God must have had reason, Frau Hillier believed, to test her son then reward him at last. But this was just a simple way of making sense of a senseless thing. Schosi still sometimes retreated into a rocking silence, eyes fixed on something only he could see. Ursula couldn’t understand how to love a God who’d inflicted such suffering.
Schosi stroked the nose of a rust-coloured cow, carefully lifted the chain around its neck to check that the metal hadn’t chafed or broken the skin. He was already planning which special fodder to give the herd for Christmas and had prepared the incense ready to bless the barn and shed.
She called to him softly.
He came, stuffing his handkerchief in his pocket. ‘Got a bad bit,’ he said, indicating the cow.
She took his hand.
‘Got a bad bit on her neck.’ He tapped the back of his own neck. He looked at her, waiting, sensing her mood. After a while he said, ‘You’re a good girl, little bear.’
If a child is good, gifts appear in their waiting boots, oranges and walnuts delivered by Saint Nikolaus. If a child is bad their boots are filled with coal and Krampus comes to beat them and take them to Hell. Just another way of making sense where there was none, a chaos and sickness all of its own. The saint was a devil and the devil her own dear brother. She feared in some instinctive way, as Schosi took her along the stalls and told her for the umpteenth time the names of the cows, that she’d never be entirely mended. That, like a broken packing chest that drops its contents every time it’s lifted, she wouldn’t be able to hold on to good or hopeful things. She thought of Sepp sitting inside at the dinner table, how in each of his eyes danced a warm candle flame. Then of Dorli lying on her back with her cartridge crown, the noises that had filled the bedroom and everything that happened that night. These last belongings she kept sealed tight, stowed away. She toyed absent-mindedly with the necklace, pressed it to her collarbone then drew it out into her palm. That marvellous red that for a moment made her feel like a queen.
Sepp met her as she exited the cowshed, just as she was stuffing the necklace away. Taken aback, she dropped her hands to her sides.
‘They’re worse for wear in there.’ He thumbed towards the farmhouse, his gaze pausing at her neckline. Lively singing spilled out into the night.
‘There’s a lot of schnapps in that cellar.’ She forced a smile. ‘Beer too.’ She tried to pass him but he took her hand.
‘We’re going now.’ He was awkward, his face obscured by shadow. He smelled of beer, a sweet bread-like scent that leaked from his skin. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow. You won’t run off this time?’
She shook her head. He stroked her palm, a feather-touch. It was the most exquisite feeling. Then he put his fingers to the base of her throat. Her stomach clenched instinctively but he only rested them there. After a moment he gently pulled the necklace from under her dress.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my family, friends, teachers and tutors who have supported me throughout. Thanks to my mum for her keen and meticulous reading of drafts, to my dad for letting me plunder his memories, and to Barbara and Ernst for showing me the Austrian fields and pine forests. Special thanks to Mr Ballinger, my enthusiastic, kind and encouraging English teacher who gave me my first shove towards writing, and to Rob Middlehurst, my tutor and friend, who has kept me going and believed in this book from the start. Thanks also to Des, Philip and Maria for their interest, feedback and advice and to my extraordinary agents, Binky Urban and Karolina Sutton, and brilliant editor, Alexa von Hirschberg. Thank you above all to my dear David, for coming with me, for talking, listening and making space.
A Note on the Author
Holly Müller is a writer and musician. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of South Wales and sings in the band Hail! The Planes. My Own Dear Brother is her first novel. Holly Müller lives in Cardiff.
First published in Great Britain 2016
This electronic edition published in 2016 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Holly Müller, 2016
Holly Müller has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The moral right of the author has been asserted
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ISBN 978 1 4088 6678 8
eISBN 978 1 4088 6680 1
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