Mud and Gold (3 page)

Amy shook her head helplessly. ‘I… I didn’t
know where to get the water from.’

‘And it was too much trouble to look outside
the door, was it? Did you think I’d fetch it for you?’ He took her
by the shoulders and shook her roughly. ‘Stop that bawling, or I’ll
give you something to cry about. You’ve ruined my breakfast, let’s
see you be of some use.’ He half-led, half-dragged her out to the
back doorstep, where he picked up a large kerosene tin and thrust
it into her hand. ‘The well is over there,’ he said, pointing out a
direction and giving her a shove.

Nearly blinded by tears, her face burning
from the slap, Amy stumbled down the slight slope to the well. She
pumped water until her container was full, then struggled back up
to the house with the heavy load, the tin bumping painfully against
her leg as she went.

Charlie had gone inside again. When Amy
entered the kitchen he was sitting at the table, a half-eaten slice
of bread and jam in one hand. She managed to lift the tin onto the
bench, then wiped the back of her hand across her tear-streaked
face, belatedly realising she must have left a black smear on one
cheek to go with the red mark on the other. Her hands shook as she
filled the kettle and placed it on the hob, aware of Charlie’s
baleful glare.

The kettle seemed to take hours to boil, but
at last she was able to fill the teapot. She carried it to the
table and placed it in front of Charlie with a cup and saucer and a
sugar bowl. She filled a cracked jug with milk and put some into
the cup, poured the tea when she judged it had drawn, then stood
waiting, hoping for some sign of approval, as Charlie stirred sugar
into the tea and drank it. She did not dare sit down at the table
and pour herself a cup.

Charlie drank his tea in silence, then
pushed the cup away and stood up from the table.

‘I’ll be back at lunch-time. There’d best be
something fit to eat.’ He pulled a box of matches from his pocket
and flung it down on the table, then left the room.

When she was alone Amy sank into a chair
with her arms on the table, laid her head on them and for a few
minutes gave way to weeping.

But tears were no use, and they brought no
lasting relief. Amy roused herself and began putting the room in
order, first opening the windows to let the smoke escape. She
boiled water on the range and used it to wash all the dishes on the
dresser as well as the cutlery from the drawer and the pots and
pans, then scrubbed the bench and table. The floor could have done
with being washed, but Amy instead decided to give herself plenty
of time to prepare lunch.

After she had composed her face into decency
with plenty of cold water, Amy went exploring once more. She found
a sack of potatoes in a shed near the house, along with some
turnips and onions in an untidy pile on the dirt floor of the same
shed. There was a neglected vegetable patch with a few weed-choked
carrots. Amy scrabbled around with her fingers and found enough to
take back to the house. A few clumps of spinach had survived the
weeds; that would do for greens with their meat. She set the bacon
bone left over from breakfast to simmer in a pot of water while she
chopped the vegetables; she wished she had some barley to make the
soup more substantial, but Charlie’s kitchen did not run to such
delicacies. Amy added plenty of salt and hoped it would be
flavoursome enough. She looked with distaste at the loaf of bread
on one shelf; it was obviously shop-bought, and none too fresh at
that, but it would have to do for today.

When the soup was bubbling, Amy went outside
again, searching for meat. She found a meat safe hanging from a
puriri tree on the shady side of the house, and retrieved six small
chops from it. Back in the kitchen, she boiled up a large pot full
of potatoes, ready to be mashed with a little milk and butter. It
was difficult to think of a pudding to make when Charlie’s kitchen
was devoid of all fruits and spices, but she managed to concoct a
jam sponge which, though unavoidably heavy given the lack of baking
powder, would at least be filling.

Amy watched all the pots carefully, timing
her preparations so the food would all be ready in the right order.
When she heard a heavy tread on the doorstep, she filled a bowl
with soup. Charlie stomped across the room, leaving a trail of dirt
as he did so, sat down at the table and looked expectantly at her.
Amy placed the bowl in front of him, then stood anxiously waiting
for his approval. He took a cautious spoonful, and Amy could see
from his expression that he liked what he tasted. He nodded towards
another chair; she poured soup for herself and sat down opposite
him. She had done something right at last!

Her work of the morning had given Amy a good
appetite, and she tucked into her food as enthusiastically as
Charlie did. She had held a tiny hope that he might praise the
meal, but she had to be content with not being rebuked.

After a second helping of pudding and two
cups of tea, Charlie pushed his chair back and lit his pipe, while
Amy carried their empty plates to the bench. She was pouring hot
water into the basin, trying to ignore the feeling that Charlie was
watching her, when she heard him get up from the table.

‘I like to have a cup of tea and a wee bite
to eat about three o’clock,’ he said, and with that he was
gone.

It was easy for Amy to keep herself busy all
afternoon. She scrubbed the floor and gave the range as thorough a
cleaning as she could manage without letting it cool down, and made
some plain biscuits for Charlie’s ‘wee bite’. She started to make a
mental list of the things she would like to see added to her
kitchen supplies so she could cook more appetising meals, but it
quickly grew to an alarming length. Amy knew she would not have the
courage to ask Charlie to buy so many things at once.

When she had scrubbed all the shelves it was
time to start making dinner. Amy was a little less anxious about
the meal after the successful lunch. She was sure that stew and
dumplings, with plenty of boiled potatoes and some more spinach,
would make a filling main course after soup left over from lunch,
and her baked jam custard had set beautifully when she pulled it
from the oven to cool on the bench.

Charlie’s silence over dinner told Amy he
was pleased with it, and she looked up from her own plate hoping to
see approval in his face. Instead she saw hunger. That seemed
natural enough when he was barely halfway through his soup, but his
expression did not change as he ploughed through the rest of the
meal; if anything it became more intense. He scarcely glanced at
his food as he shovelled it from his plate; all he seemed to want
to do was stare at Amy with the same grim expression, making her
more and more nervous.

Amy began to worry that she had not cooked
enough, but Charlie’s plate was piled so high she was sure he could
not possibly want any more. She tried to avoid meeting his
gaze.

She ran through the rest of the evening in
her head.
We’ll finish dinner, then I’ll wash up, then I’ll—oh,
I can’t make bread, I don’t have any yeast. I’ll have to do
something about that tomorrow. I might do some sewing—Charlie’s
sure to have some things that need mending. I suppose he’ll want to
sit in the parlour, but if I’m busy sewing it won’t matter that he
doesn’t seem to talk to me. Maybe he’ll read the paper. Or
maybe…

Her eyes swung back to Charlie. That wasn’t
hunger for food she could see in his gaze. A hard knot formed in
the pit of Amy’s stomach as memories of the terrifying night
flooded back. How long would he let her sit in the parlour before
he ordered her into that bedroom?

February 1885

Frank rode down the road from Lizzie’s house
feeling warm and content. Another good meal, another pleasant few
hours with the Leiths, and a rewarding little stroll with Lizzie
along the banks of the creek to walk off some of the food. He felt
part of the family already. Arthur had long ago got over his
inexplicable grumpiness, and as far as Frank could tell his
soon-to-be father-in-law treated him with the same rough affection
as he did his own sons. Even when he had caught Frank and Lizzie
having a farewell kiss in the porch he had laughed and given Frank
a wink.

Yes, a very pleasant few hours. Lizzie
certainly could cook. She had been particularly affectionate today,
too; down at the creek she had definitely kissed back, and had
pressed so hard against him while they were kissing that there had
been no need for Frank to risk a scolding by reaching for those
forbidden bumps of hers. He wondered if Lizzie had noticed the hard
lump in his trousers while they embraced; he suspected it must have
been difficult to miss.

Only two more months and Lizzie would be
coming home with him. Frank was sure life would be very, very good
when she did, and not just because of her skill in the kitchen. The
thought of Lizzie in his bed made Frank’s trousers feel tight all
over again; that was going to be the best thing of all. As long as
he could figure out what to do with her once he got her there. He
brushed that thought aside for the moment; it was a problem that
would have to be solved, but he would not let apprehension spoil
his good mood. He wanted to keep hold of the courage his delightful
afternoon had given him.

Today he felt strong and brave; brave enough
to tackle a task he had put off for eight long months. Today he was
going to tell Ben.

He knew he had been foolish to put it off so
long. If Ben hadn’t been such a hermit Frank would never have got
away with keeping his engagement secret all this time; but if Ben
wasn’t so unfriendly to people it wouldn’t be so hard to tell him
he was going to have to get used to a woman in the house. What
would Ben say about it? Frank knew his brother wouldn’t be pleased,
and he was grateful that Ben was not a great one for talking.
Perhaps he wouldn’t say much at all.

Frank glanced to the side of the road and
noticed he was passing Charlie Stewart’s farm. What a surprise that
had been, hearing Amy had married Charlie. She was quite a pretty
girl, really, and even younger than Lizzie; it seemed strange that
her father had given her to someone like Charlie. Lizzie didn’t
seem to want to talk about it; when Frank had asked her why she
hadn’t mentioned the wedding till it was over, she had said
something about hoping Amy would back out of it. That seemed an odd
way to talk about a wedding.

He dragged his thoughts back to the task at
hand and started running through phrases in his mind. Should he
butter Ben up first? Should he be matter-of-fact or solemn? Maybe
try to make a joke about it? Ben probably wouldn’t find it very
funny, though.

‘By the way, Ben, did I tell you I’m getting
married in April?’ No, that was too casual. Perhaps he should work
up to it gradually, try to get Ben to see how nice it would be to
have a woman’s touch around the place. Frank grinned as he
remembered trying to work Arthur around to the subject of letting
him have Lizzie. Arthur had certainly made him suffer before he had
relented.

By the time he reached home Frank had
decided a straightforward approach would be best. After all, Ben
was his brother, not the wary father of a young girl. Ben would be
all right. He’d tell Ben while they were milking.

But during milking Ben’s attention was so
taken up with the cows that Frank was reluctant to distract him,
and perhaps annoy him. Over dinner might be a better time.

Then again, perhaps after dinner. Ben would
be in a good mood when he had a full stomach, Frank thought as he
gnawed at a chop. It seemed a particularly tough chop, and Frank
remembered the tasty stew he had had for lunch. The chops didn’t
seem the kind of food to put anyone into a good mood. When should
he bring up the subject? After Ben had had a cup of tea? When he
started reading the paper? Why not right now?

Frank watched Ben hack another slice of
bread from the loaf, then took a deep breath and spoke before he
had time to change his mind.

‘I’ve got a bit of news, Ben.’

‘Uh?’ Ben grunted, showing more interest in
his piece of bread and butter.

‘Yes. Good news.’ Ben was looking
expectantly at him now. ‘It’s about Lizzie.’

Ben’s eyes narrowed. ‘That girl? What about
her?’

‘Lizzie and me are going to get married.’
There, it was said.

Ben’s mouth dropped open, and he looked at
Frank in stunned silence for several seconds. ‘You bloody idiot!’
he said, finding his voice at last. ‘What the hell do you want to
do a fool thing like that for?’

This was not going well. ‘Calm down, Ben.
There’s no need to go crook about it.’

‘You’ve asked her, have you? It’s too late
to get out of it?’ Ben pressed.

‘I don’t want to get out of it! I want to
get married. It’ll be really good to have a woman around the
place.’

‘Why? What’s so good about having a woman
telling you what to do?’

‘She’ll make things nice. She’ll clean the
place up—we won’t have to bother with washing and dishes and things
any more. She’s a really good cook, too. No more tough chops.’

‘What’s wrong with my chops?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with them, but Lizzie cooks
roasts and things, and she makes beaut puddings.’

‘Make things nice, will she?’ Ben said in
disgust. ‘What, cloths on the table, I suppose? Leave your boots at
the door and all that rubbish. Frilly things lying around.
Ugh.’

This was an aspect that had not occurred to
Frank. But he would gladly put up with cloths on the table if it
meant not having to eat out of saucepans. And mention of frilly
things made him imagine Lizzie’s underwear. He wondered just what
she kept hidden under those long skirts of hers. He would find out
soon.