The Colour of Milk

by Nell Leyshon

  what you doing here?

  they let me come to see you all.

  i sat down on the box by his bed. he looked thin and his cheeks was sinking in to his face like as if a bad swede does.

  what you doing still in bed? i asked.

  they all gone out to the ten acre. the lot of them’s out there.

  so why ain’t you up?

  they’re busy. got a lot of work on.

  they could’ve got you up before they went.

  don’t fuss on.

  ain’t fussing. come on.

  i put my hands under his arms and got him up. i took him out the room and in to the other and then i got him on his chair.

  you need a wash, i said.

  had one yesterday.

  yesterday? i said. more like last year. you stink.

  i went and got some water from the kettle what was still warm and a rag and i washed him and found him his other long johns and trousers and shirt and put them on him.

  you eaten? i asked.

  ate yesterday.

  your guts ain’t gonna remember yesterday.

  i went and got him bread and apple scrape. and i made him some tea.

  i sat with him and watched him eat. he dipped the bread in the tea, sucked the crusts.

  so you gonna tell me what it’s like up there? he asked. they good to you?

  don’t care.

  you would if they wasn’t no good.

  spose.

  so? come on. what’s it like?

  i dunno, i said. ain’t like here. they fuss on and it’s all got to be done fancy ways.

  that’s fancy folk for you.

  i stood up and walked to the window and looked out over the home field. where’s the cow?

  there somewhere.

  can’t see her.

  mary, he said.

  what?

  there ain’t been no changes just cos you gone.

  i turned back to look at him. i wanna come home.

  you ain’t missing nothing.

  i am.

  what?

  you.

  you’re a soft bugger.

  i know. can’t help it.

  i looked out of the window again.

  father out there? i asked.

  yeh.

  so he’s still alive then?

  he is.

  shame.

  grandfather started to laugh. you’re a wicked one, you are. wicked.

  they were all out there. father. mother. violet. beatrice. hope. i could see them right at the end of the ten acre so i walked round the edge so not to step on the crop. they was working together in a line yet it didn’t look like they had hoes.

  i got closer and could see they was digging up the blackthorn hedge between the ten acre and the five acre.

  father turned and watched me till i got close.

  what you done wrong? he asked.

  ain’t done nothing wrong, i said. he told me i could come back for the morning.

  what for?

  to see you all.

  violet was staring. look at you, she said. it don’t look like you.

  it is me, i said.

  your dress, beatrice said. that all new?

  i nodded.

  and why you got your hair like that? she asked.

  i touched my hair. i got to for work.

  those new boots? mother asked.

  yeh.

  i ain’t got none like that, hope said.

  you been all right? mother asked.

  course she has, father said. you been working hard?

  i have, i said. they say they’re pleased.

  better be, father said.

  ain’t right, hope said, look at her in them boots.

  father clipped hope round the ear and she cried out. get to it, he said. ain’t got time to be standing staring.

  hope stood on the spade and started digging.

  what you doing? i asked.

  taking the hedge out, mother said.

  why’d you wanna do that?

  more growing room, father said. more money to be made. gonna get the machine in to thresh it this year.

  thought you hated machines, i said.

  i do.

  then why you gonna get them in?

  cos it’s faster. faster than if you were sons and done it. and doing it fast means more money.

  while you’re busy making money, i said, grandfather was still in bed.

  no one said nothing and it went silent for a minute while we waited for father to blow.

  so, he said, his voice hard like the spade in his hands. reckon you come back to tell us how to do things?

  she ain’t telling you, mother said.

  i ain’t thick, father said.

  anyway, beatrice took him tea, mother said.

  i never.

  so who did?

  i did, i said. i took him tea and bread. i washed him. i changed him. you ain’t been getting him up.

  father hit out at me and caught the side of my head. that’s enough, he said. carry on like that and you won’t never be coming back again.

  upstairs in my bedroom nothing had changed. the bible was on the floor by beatrice’s side and the blanket was still on the window.

  i lay down on the bed and felt my shape still there.

  it was like i wasn’t never gone away.

  like nothing had happened.

  i went round the home field and found the cow tucked out of sight by the hedge. i stroked her and then i got the bucket and stool and sat by her. i leaned hard in to her flanks and smelled her and then i got some milk out. and then violet come up to me.

  she pointed at the bucket. she’s already been milked.

  i know. and i know it’s gone milking time.

  then what you doing?

  nothing. i stopped and the cow wandered off.

  we didn’t say nothing for a bit then she said, you ever see ralph there? up at the house?

  course i do, i said. he lives there so why you ask?

  nothing, she said. only wondered.

  you want me to give him a message?

  why’d i want you to do that? course i don’t. stupid thing to say.

  she kicked the bucket and the small bit of milk poured on to the grass and sank down in to the soil.

  she walked away.

  i stayed there a bit but the sun was moving over the sky and my guts was starting to make a sound so i knew it was time to go back up there. i went in to see grandfather and told him i’d be going.

  come back soon as you can, he said.

  i will.

  make sure they look after you right. tell them if they don’t they’ll have me to reckon with. an old man what can’t walk. he laughed. go on, he said. get on then.

  i went on out and said goodbye to mother and to my sisters what’d come in for some food. they was sat eating bread and cheese in the shade on the doorstep of the scullery. and then i walked through the yard. and i walked back up the lane. and i could feel them watching me and then i turned the corner and they could see me no more.

  i was polishing the dining room when ralph come and stood in the doorway.

  what d’you want? i asked.

  you’re the maid and i live here. do i have to explain what i want?

  i know you want something. everyone always wants something.

  do they? he come in to the room and leaned on the sideboard. your boots are muddy, he said. they’re your new ones.

  boots get muddy.

  how was the farm?

  still there.

  and how are they managing without you? have the cows all lain down and died? have the crops wilted and the milk turned sour?

  no.

  were your family happy to see you?

  i stared at him. what is it you want?

  you were late back, he said. it was all the talk at luncheon.

  i don’t care.

  that’s very rebellious of you.

  is it?

  what
did you do down there?

  farm stuff.

  you’re so informative. so expansive.

  i opened the tin of wax. i have a message for you, i said.

  for me?

  yes for you, i said. from violet. she says hello.

  why ever would she do that?

  i dunno, i said. maybe you can go away and think about it. i spec you’ll come up with a reason why.

  very funny.

  he watched me as i put the wax on the wood of the table and rubbed it in.

  talk to me, farm girl.

  i ain’t sposed to be no farm girl no more, i said.

  you’re a house girl.

  that what i am now, is it?

  yes. look at you.

  i ain’t no different, no matter what i wear. no matter how my hair’s pinned. i ain’t changing so don’t think i am.

  no airs and graces? are we not rubbing off on you?

  no.

  i started waxing the side cupboard and pushed him off it where he was leaning on the wood.

  look after your mother when i was gone, did you? i asked. she eat anything?

  no idea.

  don’t you care?

  no.

  that ain’t nice.

  you haven’t lived with it for years, he said. all i’ve heard about all my life is her being ill.

  that’s cos she is ill.

  she wouldn’t know what to talk about if she was well.

  she’s very pale.

  she would be. she hasn’t been outside for a decade.

  she’s short of breath.

  you’re beginning to sound like a doctor.

  i can tell she ain’t well.

  how are you making your diagnosis?

  i looked after animals all my life. i know when they ain’t well.

  have you told her you care for her in the same way you cared for the cows? perhaps i should tell her. she’d be very amused.

  no. don’t. you mustn’t.

  he laughed. i shall.

  don’t you dare. if you do that i’ll tell her you went down the farm to see violet.

  will you?

  yes.

  i don’t care if you do. it really doesn’t worry me. in fact, i make it my aim not to worry about anything. life can either be a chore or a joy. i choose the latter.

  do you?

  yes. he pointed at the table. hadn’t you better polish it?

  i threw the cloth at him and he caught it, his hand moving quick as an adder. why don’t you? i asked.

  he threw the cloth back. i told you, he said. no chores. all joy.

  mrs was asleep in the white room. i put a blanket on her legs and closed the window. i left the room and shut the door careful not to make a sound. ralph was up in his room and vicar was out. i looked in the kitchen but edna was asleep in her chair by the fire which she’d let go out on account of the heat outside. and i went up to the room under the eaves and took off my apron and dress and put back on my old dress from the farm what was in the drawer and i put on my old apron and i found my old boots and i put them on and i didn’t care for that they may leave crumbs of dry mud where i walked through the house. and i creeped down the stairs and out in to the lane. i went up the hill.

  from the top i could see down over the farmhouse and yard and could see the fields and the hay laying in rows waiting to be gathered in to ricks.

  the pig lay in the shade of the trees.

  the cows stood on the grass.

  i never planned what to do it was just when i saw it all i started walking down there.

  i had to.

  i walked right down the lane and in to the yard and they were milking there. and then i saw father. and then he saw me.

  what you doing? he asked.

  i come back, i said.

  who says you could come back?

  i say.

  he shook his head. i don’t reckon you could.

  i can’t stay there. i want to come home.

  you can’t.

  he took my arm and started pulling me out the yard. i cried out and all three of the sisters was on their stools and they looked up at me but no one did nothing. and mother came to the door of the scullery and she watched but she never done nothing.

  father dragged me back up the lane and past the houses and the church. he dragged me to the vicarage house.

  the back door was open and he saw edna in the kitchen lighting the fire.

  where’s mr graham?

  edna saw me. i’ll get him.

  we waited out the back door in the sun and father’s hand held my arm and he gripped me and it hurt.

  mr graham appeared. is there a problem?

  she came home but i told her she ain’t staying there. i told her she’s staying put here.

  mr graham nodded. mary? were you running away? i did let you go down this morning.

  i said nothing. father nudged me.

  aren’t you happy here? mr graham asked.

  i said nothing.

  she’s well looked after, aren’t you? she’s just a bit spirited. a bit strong-willed.

  a bit? father said.

  i’ll make sure, mr graham said, that she doesn’t do it again.

  you do that or i’ll come and sort her out.

  there won’t be a need for that. mr graham took my arm and pulled me away from father. come on, mary, he said, edna needs a hand.

  he pushed me in to the kitchen and i listened to the two men talking at the back door about how there wasn’t no rain for the crops and how the milk yield was down then father left and i heard the door close and mr graham came in the kitchen.

  mary? what on earth was all that about?

  i shrugged.

  bring me some tea through.

  so i made him tea and took it in to the wooden room. and i put it on the table.

  thank you. have a seat.

  i perched on the edge of the chair like a hen on the nesting box when she’s about to fly off.

  i wanted to say thank you, he said.

  for me running away?

  no. for being so good with my wife. i know you’re not quite settled here but you are doing very well and i promise you will have times when you can go home to visit, but you work here now. you understand? mary?

  i understand what you’re saying.

  good. then you agree not to run away again?

  i spose. i ain’t got no choice, have i?

  i don’t think we need to put it like that. i think the best is if you settle down and get in to a routine. then you’ll get used to it and before you know it, you’ll be calling this home.

  autumn

  this is my book and i am writing it by my own hand.

  it is the year of lord eighteen hundred and thirty one.

  outside my window the sun is pale and the birds have fallen silent.

  writing takes a long time. each word has to be lettered and spelled on to the page and when i am done i have to look at it again to see if i have chosen right.

  and some days i have to stop for i have to think about what it is i have to say. and what it is i want to say. and why it is i am saying it.

  and it takes longer for me to write about something that happened than it took for it to happen.

  but i must write quick for i do not have much time.

  the grass got long and it yellowed. shadows got longer. hedges filled with berries and apples swelled on trees.

  and when i went out the air was different for it was fresh and new and after the sun went down i could feel some cold.

  and in the morning and evening the mist layered and made the hills soft and the air thick.

  and edna filled the kitchen with jars and pans and we were busy with the fruit and getting it in to the jars. and harry dug up all the beetroot and carrots and onions and brought it to the back door and we laid it down in sand boxes and put it in the cold store and then we put the apples in the dark. and he sacked up the potatoes and we made sure the bags was tied and the
light could not get in.

  there was a lot to do only all the time i was working i was thinking of them on the farm what with the harvest in the field and they would have the apples to pick and the pears and this was the time when every light hour was spent bringing it in cos if you didn’t then you would be stuck over the winter and the animals would starve and then the people would starve.

  it was time to start on the jam and edna told me to go outside and to collect some more fruit from the cage at the top of the garden.

  harry was by the fire outside and he was smoking his pipe. he watched me walk up towards him and i was carrying the big pan.

  you look happy, i said.

  he stared at me.

  i said you look happy. must be to see me.

  what d’you want?

  i smiled. i’d like some damsons and some raspberries.

  i’m smoking.

  i know, i said. i can see.

  then you’ll have to wait.

  and so i stood there while he smoked and the smoke mixed with the smell of the bonfire and the autumn air. and i listened to the wood on the fire and the licking of the flames. and the damp leaves sent up thick smoke and i heard him sucking his pipe and the clacking of the end of it between his teeth.

  and then he was done and he walked off to the box he had on the ground and he picked it up and poured the damsons in to my pan and when it was full he stopped and some damsons fell on to the grass and i picked them up.

  you know what, i said.

  what?

  you only live once, i said. you’ll be dead soon and when you look back you’ll realize you had a miserable life and you didn’t need to.

  and i thought he was gonna say summat but he never. he just stared at me and he sucked on his pipe and i turned upon my tail and walked back to the kitchen. and i took the damsons in and they had a sheen on them and the purple was near black like a bruise.

  that evening i went in to see mrs and i sat by her feet. and i was rubbing them with lanolin what comes from sheep and i was doing that for her skin got dry.

  look at your hands, she said. look at the colour.

  i held them up. the skin was light brown on the palms and the fingers.

  it’s the walnuts, i said, for i had been peeling them and putting them to dry all afternoon. it’ll wear off, i said.

  i suppose so.

  i carried on rubbing and she sighed loudly.

  what?

  the nights are getting longer, she said.