The Colour of Milk
Page 13
mother was at the table and she turned to look at me but she didn’t say nothing.
they’ll be back, father said. so you ain’t got long then you got to go.
i ran up the stairs and in to my old room where there was no bed just a dark rectangle on the floorboards where the bed had been. i looked round and saw the blanket still over the window. i pulled it to the side and looked out over the home field, at the shape of the hedges. and then i saw the cow lying down and she moved her head like as if she could feel me looking at her. and then i went in to the next door room and saw the two beds and beatrice’s bible on her bed.
and then i went back down and in to the apple room only there was no one there, just the air thick with smell. so i went in to the other room and he was there on his chair, his feet propped on the other chair.
he looked at me for a long time. they’re looking for you, he said.
i know, i said.
you better sit down.
and so i pulled up the chair and sat with him. i come for a reason, i said. and i put my hand in to my apron pocket and pulled out the black bible mr graham had given me. i opened it at page one and i started to read. in the beginning, i started. and i carried on reading.
he said nothing but sat and listened and watched me. i put the book down in my lap.
was that you doing that? he asked.
it was, i said. and i learned to write too.
but you ain’t gonna need to do reading nor writing where you’re gonna be going. they come here for you.
i know.
and they’ll come again.
they won’t have to, i said.
why?
cos i’ll go to them.
i closed the book and put it in my pocket.
did i make you proud? i asked.
he said nothing.
tell me i made you proud.
he looked at me for a while, then said, when you was reading that, you made me proud. yes, he said. you did.
i nodded.
i got to go now, i said.
i know.
i stood up then touched his hand with mine and his skin was dry and cold. i squeezed his hand once more and then i left the room.
mother watched me walk through the kitchen and she was holding the baby in her arms and i looked at him then held out my arms. but she wouldn’t pass him to me.
what you done?
i shook my head. i don’t know.
where you going now? she asked.
back to the house, i said.
i went out through the door. my sisters stood outside in the yard and as i stood there in the dying light and wet mud i thought of the evening i’d last been there with the clearing of the barn. and the summer air. and all of us working. and the birds swooping in and the red sun and the sweet air.
and then i walked out of the yard, past the three of them and past father, and i walked up the lane and i did not look back and i walked until i was back at the big house.
spring
this is my book and i have been writing it by my own hand.
every word i spelled out.
every letter i wrote.
i said i would tell you the truth of everything that happened and i have told you and it is all true except for one thing.
i said i was sat at the window writing this and i looked out and i could see the trees and the birds. i said i could see the rain run down the glass.
i said i could not see the fields for the weight of the mist.
i said i could see my own pale face in the window.
i said i could not breathe and i reached for the window to open it.
when i said all those things i was not telling you the truth.
for you see, i have no window in here. i can see nothing.
i have a wall in front of me. i have a chair and a small table and i have a bed.
i have some paper and ink and a pen. and i have a pot to piss in.
i have a door which is unlocked when i am given food and when they give me water to drink and wash in and when i am to empty my pot.
i can not see out. but the world is still there inside my own head.
when they first put me in here i did ask them for a pen and ink. and for paper. and for something to blot my ink with. and then i dipped my pen in to my ink. and i started to write.
my name is mary. m. a. r. y.
my hair is the colour of milk.
i decided to begin at the beginning and end at the end.
and i know what the end is for they will be coming for me soon and they will take me away.
i did have to write fast for i do not have long left. and i wanted to tell you what happened for you to see why i did what i did; it was not unprovoked.
but there is one thing more i wish to tell.
as the sun rises each day my belly swells.
as i have been writing this i have been sick.
i know i am with a child.
if i tell them they will leave me in here with the door locked for the rest of my life, and they will take the baby from me and i will never see it again.
i will not let them do that.
and so i tell them nothing.
and they can take me away.
i know what they will do to me. they will put rope about my neck, as i put the wire about his. and i will hang until i am no longer alive and my legs will sway above the crowd.
and my baby will die with me. inside me.
and my baby will always be with me and its hair may be the colour of milk but it will never be stained with blood.
and now i am done and there is no more to tell you.
and so i shall finish this very last sentence and i will blot my words where the ink gathers in the pools at the end of each letter.
and then i shall be free.
About the Author
NELL LEYSHON’s first novel, Black Dirt, was long-listed for the Orange Prize and short-listed for the Commonwealth Book Prize. She is an award-winning dramatist whose plays include Comfort Me with Apples, winner of an Evening Standard Theatre Award, and Bedlam, which was the first play written by a woman for Shakespeare’s Globe. Born in Glastonbury, England, she now lives in Dorset.
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Also by Nell Leyshon
Devotion
The Voice
Black Dirt
Stunning Praise from the UK
for The Colour of Milk
“Leyshon is a master of domestic suspense. . . . Slender but compelling, the charm of Leyshon’s novella is to be found as much in its spare, evocative style as in the moving candour of its narrator.”
—Observer (Manchester)
“Beautifully crafted. . . . Compelling. . . . Like a love letter to the power of words.”
—Marie Claire
“Brontë-esque undertones, from nods to Charlotte’s sexual politics to Emily’s rural imagery.”
—Financial Times (London)
“[Leyshon] succeeds in giving Mary an entirely convincing voice while also paying homage to Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles. . . . A touching, small-scale tale.”
—Evening Standard (London)
“The ending will surprise you. . . . A must read.”
—Glamour
“Leyshon’s spare, dialogue-centred storytelling is lean and vivid.”
—Times (London)
“An astounding read. . . . Mary is one of the most compelling narrators I’ve ever encountered. . . . Milk’s sense of foreboding builds and builds until you’re pretty much catapulted into the finale.”
—Stylist
“An unforgettable and truly original read.”
—Good Housekeeping
“Penetratingly candid prose filled with engagingly rustic poetry. . . . The result is brilliant, devastating, and unforgettable.”
—Easy Living
Credits
Cover design by Allison Saltzman
> Cover photograph © by Ilona Wellmann/Arcangel Images
Copyright
THE COLOUR OF MILK. Copyright © 2012 by Nell Leyshon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published in Great Britain in 2012 by Fig Tree, an imprint of Penguin Books Ltd.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-224582-3
Epub Edition © JANUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780062192073
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