a Breed of Women Read Online Free Page A
Author: Fiona Kidman
Harriet, this has gone far enough. Believe me,’ and his voice hardened, so that she shrank from it, ‘it is the truth because I say it is.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Why hadn’t she thought of that? There was no more obvious reason for it to be the truth than that her father had said so. It removed whatever concern she had on the subject. She smiled and relaxed. The fire was dying, and the heat was more tolerable.
She felt as if she had been through the fire and come out the other side. How good it was not to have to wrestle with problems of the mind. There would always be someone to take care of such matters, while she, she would … do what? Be like her mother? Have children? That meant being married. No, it was all too difficult. Probably she would just spend her life in the bough of a half-fallen poplar alone with the river and the sky, and some wild brown ducks she had seen down at the river. Yes, that would be it, and how beautiful it would be.
‘We will have to see to her confirmation this year,’ her father was saying to her mother.
In the morning there was cooking to do and preparations to make. Things were a little easier this year, for the farm had no stock. They had only managed to acquire a couple of house cows, and there would not be a sale until the middle of January. While there wasmuch to do on the farm, and both her parents had been hard at work since their arrival mending broken fences and trying to get the cowshed into working order, at least it meant that they need not do any milking on Christmas morning; her father took care of the two cows they had.
Harriet and Mary had to finish plucking the fowl they were going to roast for the midday meal, and shell peas and peel potatoes, Mary all the time bemoaning the fact that they had had to have vegetables sent out from town instead of growing their own garden-fresh ones.
‘Would you like to have dinner out under the plum tree?’ asked Mary.
‘Could we?’
‘Why not? It would be fresher outside. We could carry the table out, and set it up outside. There’s not a breath of wind today, nothing would be disturbed.’
‘Wouldn’t Dad be angry?’
Mary looked up, hot and flushed from the plum pudding. ‘It’ll be his Christmas present to me,’ she said shortly. Harriet had never heard her mother refer to her father as ‘him’ before.
Between them, she and her mother carried the table out to the plum tree, then Mary went back inside while Harriet laid out the blue and white tablecloth that had been brought amongst her parents’ best possessions from England. A thin edge of embroidery ran right around it, and in the middle were fat roses and violets, linked tightly together with immaculate tiny stitches. With the light of the tree lying dappled upon it, the cloth looked prettier and more sumptuous than she could ever remember before.
She carefully polished the worn knives and forks, also brought from England, on the edge of her skirt. The blades of the knives were so thin that they had great indentations along their cutting side, but Gerald had sharpened and re-sharpened them so often, spitting on his stone and grinding them hard in the shining globules, that they cut as clean as razors. Everything was set out, when Mary emerged again.
‘Doesn’t it look nice?’ cried Harriet, surveying her handiwork. Sunflowers straggling through the long grass had burst into life near the house, the ancient memory of someone’s garden. She plucked three flowers and laid one beside each setting. Sun, memories of snow on the ice-white of the table cloth — it must surely be the best of both worlds. There was a shine all over it.
Then she looked at her mother’s face. Mary seemed to be suffering some sort of inner convulsion, unable to speak. Harriet put down the spoons she was still holding.
‘What is it? What is it?’ she repeated across a stillness. The birds, the cicadas, even the sound of the sun cracking the seeds and pods in the trees, seemed
‘Yes, Father.’ Why hadn’t she thought of that? There was no more obvious reason for it to be the truth than that her father had said so. It removed whatever concern she had on the subject. She smiled and relaxed. The fire was dying, and the heat was more tolerable.
She felt as if she had been through the fire and come out the other side. How good it was not to have to wrestle with problems of the mind. There would always be someone to take care of such matters, while she, she would … do what? Be like her mother? Have children? That meant being married. No, it was all too difficult. Probably she would just spend her life in the bough of a half-fallen poplar alone with the river and the sky, and some wild brown ducks she had seen down at the river. Yes, that would be it, and how beautiful it would be.
‘We will have to see to her confirmation this year,’ her father was saying to her mother.
In the morning there was cooking to do and preparations to make. Things were a little easier this year, for the farm had no stock. They had only managed to acquire a couple of house cows, and there would not be a sale until the middle of January. While there wasmuch to do on the farm, and both her parents had been hard at work since their arrival mending broken fences and trying to get the cowshed into working order, at least it meant that they need not do any milking on Christmas morning; her father took care of the two cows they had.
Harriet and Mary had to finish plucking the fowl they were going to roast for the midday meal, and shell peas and peel potatoes, Mary all the time bemoaning the fact that they had had to have vegetables sent out from town instead of growing their own garden-fresh ones.
‘Would you like to have dinner out under the plum tree?’ asked Mary.
‘Could we?’
‘Why not? It would be fresher outside. We could carry the table out, and set it up outside. There’s not a breath of wind today, nothing would be disturbed.’
‘Wouldn’t Dad be angry?’
Mary looked up, hot and flushed from the plum pudding. ‘It’ll be his Christmas present to me,’ she said shortly. Harriet had never heard her mother refer to her father as ‘him’ before.
Between them, she and her mother carried the table out to the plum tree, then Mary went back inside while Harriet laid out the blue and white tablecloth that had been brought amongst her parents’ best possessions from England. A thin edge of embroidery ran right around it, and in the middle were fat roses and violets, linked tightly together with immaculate tiny stitches. With the light of the tree lying dappled upon it, the cloth looked prettier and more sumptuous than she could ever remember before.
She carefully polished the worn knives and forks, also brought from England, on the edge of her skirt. The blades of the knives were so thin that they had great indentations along their cutting side, but Gerald had sharpened and re-sharpened them so often, spitting on his stone and grinding them hard in the shining globules, that they cut as clean as razors. Everything was set out, when Mary emerged again.
‘Doesn’t it look nice?’ cried Harriet, surveying her handiwork. Sunflowers straggling through the long grass had burst into life near the house, the ancient memory of someone’s garden. She plucked three flowers and laid one beside each setting. Sun, memories of snow on the ice-white of the table cloth — it must surely be the best of both worlds. There was a shine all over it.
Then she looked at her mother’s face. Mary seemed to be suffering some sort of inner convulsion, unable to speak. Harriet put down the spoons she was still holding.
‘What is it? What is it?’ she repeated across a stillness. The birds, the cicadas, even the sound of the sun cracking the seeds and pods in the trees, seemed