Carry Me Home

by Dorothy Adamek

  “Over a hundred.” He tossed the shovel into the barrow. “And, if you will excuse me. I’m about to make another hundred.”

  He tried to pass but she stood in his way.

  “When will they be ready?”

  “I need to fire them. Another two weeks, I guess.” He shrugged and tried to weave past.

  She moved with him, blocking his way further. “Will there be any left over?”

  He let the handles go and the shovel bounced against the barrow.

  “You’re in my way.”

  She held her ground, but sliced another quarter off the apple and held it out. “If you have enough bricks left, would you consider building a proper brick oven?”

  He eyed the slice as if it were poison. “What are you talking about?” He took the fruit.

  “An oven, made of bricks. Nothing nearly as tall as a kiln would be, I imagine. You could sell what you can and keep some for a baking oven.”

  “And why would I want to do that?” He swerved the barrow past her.

  “So we could have something other than damper. So I can cook a real Christmas dinner.”

  Molly joined her. “So I can have pie.”

  He sliced his shovel into the bog like a spear and held the top for ages before he turned. Long and measured, his footsteps trailed back to where she stood.

  He unrolled his shirtsleeve, now crumpled past his elbow and refolded it to sit around the muscle in his arm.

  “You want me to give up my income, so you can bake a pie?”

  “Not just any pie. A Christmas pie, with currants. And perhaps we could even cook a goose.”

  He worked on his other sleeve.

  “Molly won’t be so scared if the fire’s contained in an oven. It doesn’t have to be anything…” She stopped. She wanted to say fancy, but they’d fought over that word enough. “Elaborate. A simple bread oven.” She handed him the last apple quarter.

  He shook his head. “There’s no time. I’m going to have to work ’til there’s no light as it is just to make this order. If I take any bricks out for myself, there won’t be enough for anything.”

  “What if we help?” The words hurtled out before Finella knew she’d said them. She held up her chin and tried to belong to the offer.

  Shadrach pointed at her with the fruit. “You… would dirty your fingernails and drag your shoes through this?” He cocked his head at the pit behind them.

  Finella slid the knife into her deep pocket with a slow unconvincing nod.

  “You wouldn’t last a half hour here. Why…” he laughed, “I’m sure you wouldn’t make one solitary brick, and do you know why?” He leaned closer and whispered. “You hate mud.” He straightened and walked away.

  “I don’t like it on my doorstep, but I like it enough to make an oven for your home.” She wouldn’t back off. The pit held hundreds of bricks, and it would take him days to make them all. But if she, and Molly, who already poked her fingers where she shouldn’t, helped, perhaps they could have an oven for Christmas after all. She had nothing to lose by begging. “Please, Shad?”

  He filled the barrow with heavy slops and wobbled back across a plank. “You want to play in the mud, Finella?”

  With a slow squelch, and under a growing smile, he slid the shovel out of the clay and handed it over as if it were the finest silk parasol. “As you wish.”

  32

  “It’s cold.” Molly squealed like a baby pig, lifted her skirt and inspected her wet toes.

  “At least your shoes will stay clean.” Finella returned from where she placed Molly’s shoes and stockings beside their picnic things. Her own shoes would not fare so well.

  “If Molly gets to stir the clay, what do I do?” She undid her cuff buttons. Shadrach added water to where Molly worked sand into the mix. He pierced the ground with a long stick and showed his sister how to hold it to keep from slipping over.

  “You, Miss Mayfield,” he pulled at the string of her apron, “will fill the molds while I bring more clay from the pit. Unless you’d prefer to push the barrow?”

  He couldn’t be serious? Not with that glimmer in his eye. Finella had neither pushed or emptied a barrow of mud in her life.

  “I’d be happy to press bricks for your new oven, Mr. Jones.” She mirrored his playfulness. “And you will not have time to draw breath to thank me, when you taste your first mouthful of cake.”

  He laughed and pushed off. “Make ten before I’m back. Then you can brag.”

  Ten bricks? Just like that? She hurried to the pile of sand, thankful the ground underfoot was not the quagmire where Shadrach and his barrow sank.

  “Well, Molly, you’ve been watching. Let’s see if I do it right.” She crouched at ground level and looked for something to scoop up the mud. A C-shaped sapling with wire across the open end was all she could find. That wouldn’t do. That was for shaving excess mud.

  “Ten bricks, Finella.” He called from the pit. “How many have you made already?”

  “None.” Molly called back, and a long chuckle wound out from the pit like the clapping of a child about to win a prize.

  Finella balanced on her haunches. “Molly, if you’re going to take sides, would it be too much to ask it be mine?” She wriggled for a firmer footing. “I would have made a start if I could find a trowel.”

  “Use your hands. Like Brother.”

  Finella bit the inside of her cheek. “He did, didn’t he?” She closed her eyes and ran her palms over her hair. Secured any curls behind her ears and pushed her rolled up sleeves even higher.

  “He’s coming back.” Molly whispered.

  Finella plunged her hands into the cold, sticky mix. She wriggled her fingers. Oh, and she’d forgotten to dust them first. Would it matter? She gathered a thick lump and let it fall into a mold.

  It landed with a slop, and a drip of mud bounced up to her forehead. Half in, half out, she pushed the mud back into the frame and wiped the overflow with her palm.

  “He’s coming.” Molly whispered again.

  Finella tried to lift the frame but it wouldn’t move. She tugged and tapped the side, but the odd shaped brick refused to fall.

  “So, ten bricks is it?” Shadrach stopped the wheelbarrow right beside Finella, nose to nose with her failed attempt.

  She raised her hands in the air, a mess of mud stains clear to her wrists.

  “I can’t get it out.”

  “Why not?” He pressed one knee in the ground beside her.

  Stuck out at an angle as it was, her elbow came perilously close to his chin, and for a moment, she thought about how she could poke him with it. How good it might feel to push him right into his pile of mud.

  “Perhaps you can tell me what I’ve done wrong.” The balls of her feet flamed and a slow wobble took hold in her ankle.

  Shadrach massaged her hand. “Did you dust your hands and the brick mold with sand?”

  Finella shook her head.

  “Well, there’s your trouble.” He dragged another mold through the sand and like a conjuror, scraped mud and tapped the box to release a perfect brick.

  He slapped his hands together. “Now you make one.”

  Finella didn’t know how she would stay upright a moment longer. Her legs trembled and she leaned into the dirt with one hand.

  “Let your knees keep you up. You’ll never manage like that.” He rested his other knee in the mud to show her.

  The smell of earth and sand filled her mouth. Mud dried in her fingernails and splotches already stained her apron. What difference did it make now if she rested one knee in the dirt? She could dream about honey cakes when she next labored over the washtubs.

  She copied Shadrach’s stance. It felt good to change position. Good to not tremble. On the outside at least.

  On the inside, it felt good to kneel in the dirt with Shadrach Jones. To work beside him with Molly laughing at her attempts. To have him tease her while they made brick after brick after brick, until another five rows emerged f
rom the ground.

  *

  “You see.” He stood and pulled her up. “Mud really is your friend.”

  She stretched her arms above her head. “Are you sure you don’t mean that about Molly?” They laughed at their girl, ankle deep in the mire.

  “Can I stop now?” Molly rested her chin on the balancing stick. “My feet hurt.”

  “If you can get there, you can have a rest at our picnic spot.” Shadrach helped her out. “Wipe your feet on your way across.”

  Molly moved away to nestle in the perfect place for an afternoon nap.

  “Normally it’s me telling her to wipe her feet.” Finella picked at her nails. “Sounds strange to hear you say it.”

  Shadrach fixed a fresh smile on her. “Stranger than you making bricks?”

  Finella rested her hands on her hips. There was no keeping dirty fingers from smudging her clothes now. That battle was already lost. “Ready to make more?”

  Wider than a country mile, his smile engulfed her. “How about I race you? First one to twenty bricks.”

  A fresh smudge colored his cheek. Flecks of mud littered his hair, but it all disappeared against the drag of his eyes. They tugged at her heart, until bricks and ovens and honeycakes faded from her mind, and all she remembered was Shadrach Jones.

  She pulled away, afraid of what it meant to see him and nothing else. She searched the trees for Molly who stretched out on the blanket with another apple. She’d be asleep before the second bite.

  “Too much?” Shadrach pushed against her with his shoulder. “Not up to it? Shall we say fifteen and make it easier for the poor English lass?”

  She poked him in the arm. One long bony poke she knew would hurt.

  “Oww. What’s that for?”

  “That,” she said, shoving him away, “is for me to get a head start. Twenty bricks and not one less.” She pressed Molly’s stick in the ground as a marker. “You put your bricks there and I’ll stack mine here. No cheating.” She wanted to laugh at the look on his face.

  Open-mouthed, he watched her for a second, and then hurried to reach for the second brick frame.

  Finella knew he would beat her. Knew from his long steps and swift maneuvering of clay she didn’t stand a chance. But good-natured banter while they worked filled her with something she couldn’t help savor.

  She peeked at his progress. For her three bricks he had six.

  “Come on, Finella.” He coaxed. “You spend too much time watching and not enough time slapping mud.”

  True enough.

  She watched his broad shoulders flex against his dirty shirt.

  Taking aim, she tossed a handful of wet clay at his neck. Remarkably, it slapped where she wanted it to.

  Shadrach froze, and the clod dribbled down the inside of his collarless shirt. She bit her lip. Oh, she’d pay for it, but slowing him down was worth the damage.

  “You mean like that?” She dared him. “That kind of slap?”

  He rubbed at a pink welt on his neck and raised one knee. Like a lever about to spring.

  “Do you know… what happens to people…who toss mud?” He spoke in a low rumble.

  Finella threw a trembling wad of clay into her mold. “They hit their target?” Pretending to work, her fingers achieved even less than before.

  “Is that so?” Shadrach pounced. He flattened her hands down in the clay with one of his. He brought his cheek against hers to whisper.

  “You don’t fling mud, and pretend it never happened.” Tingles exploded where his voice brushed her neck.

  “I’m busy, can’t you see? I’m going to best you at brick making.” She shoved him with her shoulder. “Move away and let me finish.”

  He didn’t budge. “What I see, is a face about to become messier than it already is.”

  “Now, Shadrach…” She wriggled but it made no difference.

  “Now, Finella,” he echoed, and pointed one dirty long finger. “You’re about to learn more than brick-making today, so sit still.”

  “Shadrach, I—”

  “Shh.” He almost touched her lips. “Lesson one.” He drew the back of his hand along her cheek forcing her to close her eyes against the wet brush of soiled fingers. “Never, ever poke your teacher. That’s disrespectful.”

  She had never shown disrespect to a teacher before and she was sure no teacher had ever caressed her in return. His fingers sent out splintered rivulets in every direction and her shiver deepened.

  “Lesson two.” He marked her other cheek with his dirty palm. “Never throw mud at a fellow unless you’re prepared to receive in good measure what you give away.”

  She opened her eyes. He brought his other hand to her cheek, and she grabbed a fistful of his shirt to keep from toppling over.

  His eyes found her mouth, just as quickly as her heart found a new beat. Fast, like the beat she supposed took over when ground turned to quicksand.

  “Every time I want to kiss you, you’re almost drenched or covered in mud.” His grip tightened on her face.

  “Not fancy enough for you, Mr. Jones?” Finella wrestled with the air around her. Surely some would fill her lungs.

  “Fancy enough. For me.” His hands took the back of her neck with a shaping better than any brick making he’d do that day, and his lips did the same. Better than any mark, his kiss stamped an earthiness she needed more than London’s best row of pastry ovens.

  Shadrach pulled away before she’d savored enough. He stretched his legs and found a place beside her on the ground where she’d sunk. Both of them in a muddy tangle.

  “How did this get so messy? I want to keep kissing you. I’m not going to lie. And I forget until I’m half way lost that I can’t do that.” He bent his knee and brushed the wet spot where he’d kneeled.

  “Shouldn’t I have a say? Aren’t you the one who’s said all along I need to make decisions, too?”

  “That was before. There’s more to be considered now. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you. I…” He rubbed at his face, as if he could erase her by tearing at his skin.

  Finella covered his hands with her own. “You don’t have to fight me.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “No, you don’t. You’re not your father. No matter what you think. You’re a different man and I wouldn’t care to be here, in your bog, with you, if you were someone else.” She let her voice soften. “But you’re not. You’re Shadrach Jones.”

  “Son of a temper-fuelled man.” He searched her eyes. “A man who tore his own house apart ’cause he couldn’t keep a lid on it.”

  “Just because you lost your temper at the beach doesn’t make you him.” She moved Molly’s stick from between them. “Didn’t he run off, when you and your mother needed him the most? When Molly needed him? I don’t see you running away. You’re here, caring for a sister who needs you and a woman who…” she stopped.

  “Are you going to tell me you need me, too?”

  “Would you recoil like your father if I did, or take the risk?”

  He reached for a curl that brushed against her neck. He coiled his finger in it and let it bounce away. “Can you risk it?”

  “What do you think I’m already doing, sitting here with a clay hem?”

  He smiled but his eyes held onto pain. “What if you’re wrong?”

  “I have to trust my heart. Isn’t that what you told me?” She leaned her face into his palm. “I didn’t come all this way to consider a future with a monster like your father. If you were anything like him, my footprints would’ve already washed out of the sand on my way home.” She pulled away a little to see him better. “You might be covered in mud, but you’re full of courage. Nothing your father has ever done could take away from who you are.”

  Spots of rain hit the fledgling brickworks, but Finella didn’t care. She leaned against the cup of his hand, and into the fold of another kiss.

  33

  Shadrach urged Old Lou on. Up the hill and over the yard to the barn and its welc
ome roof. The dray held the last load of bricks. After this, it would be mud he’d cart from the pit. Shovels full. Barrows to the brim. No threat of rain would keep him from turning his barn into a covered brickworks.

  He had hundreds more to mold. A sale to secure. And an oven to build. He shook his head in disbelief, but his heart surged on.

  An oven for Finella. Perhaps his farm had something to offer, after all. Even now, she worked to move bricks in from the rain. She lined them into rows on the ground, even dragged some planks together in a crude sawhorse she preferred for a brick-making bench. Better for the back, she’d said. And the knees.

  He wasn’t used to having someone work beside him. And he liked what went on under his nose. Gulped it in with the same ferocity he felt in the wind when it buffeted the trees and swirled around him. Finella no longer twisted her nose at him or his mud. She was knee deep in it now, and nothing thrilled him more.

  *

  Shadrach rummaged through his nail and screw tin. “Time for a break. You’d think someone had cracked a bullwhip in here.” Finella and Molly turned to face him. “No use making a ton of bricks and not having a little fun.”

  Finella and Molly joined him at the trestle where they’d worked to shape the morning’s bricks. Side by side for three days, and he’d not heard one complaint from Finella.

  He poked at a brick. “Good, still soft. We’re going to scratch our names on three of the best shaped bricks. And when we build that oven, they’ll be front and centre.”

  He held his hand out for them to choose a nail each.

  “But I don’t know all my letters. I only know the M.” Molly’s arms fell at her side.

  “We’ll do it together.” Finella selected a nail. “Put your hand over mine. It will be as if you’ve done the writing.”

  Shadrach steadied a brick and Finella and Molly’s fingers brushed against his own. Molly poked her tongue out and Finella sounded out the letters.

  “M-O-L-L and a Y.” She finished off the tail with a flourish. They all peered at the brick. The delicate scroll of Finella’s handwriting, against the soon to be rough texture of the brick.