Mud and Gold (58 page)

She hung the silk dress in the tiny wardrobe
that stood in a corner of the second bedroom, with her work dresses
beside it and her precious hat on a shelf above them. She had
already filled with her underwear two drawers of the little chest
Charlie had made for what had been the children’s room, when she
came to empty the lowest drawer of Charlie’s chest. It surprised
Amy with its weight as she tugged at it. She opened the drawer to
discover the books that she had carried from her father’s house in
her heavy bundle on the night of her marriage six years before.

Amy had always vaguely remembered that the
books were there, but just getting through each day had taken all
her endurance through the intervening years, leaving no room for
such indulgences as reading. She sat down on the floor and began to
lift the books from the drawer.

She gave little cries of delight as she
pulled out each one. There were books of poems, one or two volumes
of plays, and several novels. Amy remembered clearly when she had
received each one of them; and she had loved them all. They had
been her window on a world beyond the valley; a world she had
dreamed of living in. The dreams were gone now, or at least were
too deeply buried to have any conscious sense of yearning attached
to them; but now that she had changed her reality to make it
bearable, if no less narrow, she could once again take pleasure
from the dream-windows. Now that she had her own room, her books
would not be hidden away as if they were something shameful.

When the books had all been taken out and
lined up against one wall of her little bedroom, Amy found tucked
away in a corner of the drawer, safely wrapped in lacy doilies, the
silver-framed photograph of her family.
I’m not going to hide
you away, either, Mama
, she told the image. The photograph
given pride of place on her chest of drawers, Amy sat down on her
bed and gazed with pleasure at the look of love on her mother’s
face.

I don’t know what you’d think of what
I’ve done about Charlie, Mama
.
I bet you never would have
done anything like that to Pa
. She smiled at the picture of her
father as a young man.
Pa never hurt you, did he? He loved you.
He still does
.

So now she had all her worldly goods in her
own bedroom; all except one thing. She went back to Charlie’s room
and stood in the doorway, studying the bed and its covering.

It was her bedspread, made by her own hands
and her grandmother’s. But she had brought it to Charlie, and it
had covered both of them for six years. She had promised him she
would still be an obedient wife in every way except sharing his
bed; would taking the bedspread be a breach of that? Charlie might
think so. As far as he was concerned, the few things she had
brought to their marriage had become his property, just as she had.
It was the way she had thought about herself for years: his
property, for him to do with as he wished.

But not any longer. Her body didn’t belong
to him any more, and neither did her bedspread. She gathered it up
quickly, so as not to give herself time to change her mind, and
carried it through to spread over her own little bed. She allowed
herself to survey the room with satisfaction before she hurried off
about her work. Her own small domain, with her precious things
around her.

That evening, Amy took a candle through to
her bedroom and heard Charlie go outside; to relieve himself, she
assumed. The sound muffled by the wall, she heard him come back
through the kitchen and parlour, then into his bedroom. The
footsteps stopped abruptly. It struck her that he must have seen
the bedspread had gone, and with it his ‘wee bit longer’
pretence.

There was a banging and thumping; it took
Amy a few moments to realise Charlie had opened the wardrobe and
was now pulling out all the drawers to see if she had taken all her
clothes.
Yes, I have, Charlie. Every single thing I own
.

The footsteps started again, and she heard
Charlie’s heavy tread making its way towards his bedroom door.
He’s annoyed now. He’s going to come in here and… what? Drag me
back in there? Rip my clothes off and force me right here?
She
held the candle in front of her and stared into its light until her
eyes hurt.
Don’t do it, Charlie. Don’t make me take the boys
away from you
.

Amy sat unmoving, listening to the progress
of Charlie’s steps. She heard his door handle turn and the door
squeak as it opened, but then the steps stopped. There was a long
silence; Amy knew that Charlie’s slow brain was weighing up the
consequences of what he was about to do.

The door closed and his steps began again.
But they went back to his own bed, not towards her. Through the
thin wall she heard him muttering as he undressed and climbed into
bed; curses against her, she had no doubt.

Amy let her breath out on a sigh, and
realised she had been holding it for some time. She put the candle
on the chest by her bed and got undressed, then took a book from
the neat row and held it close to her as she slipped between the
sheets. She propped the pillow behind her and snuggled down to
indulge in the almost forgotten luxury of reading in bed.

Dark glares and a stony silence from Charlie
were her reward at breakfast the next morning. Amy looked back
calmly when she had to look at him at all, smothering an occasional
yawn. She had indulged herself a little too long with reading, but
to be weary from self-indulgence was almost a pleasure in
itself.

The sky threatened rain; not strongly enough
to keep Charlie from his work, much to Amy’s relief, but enough for
her to keep David inside with her all morning. She was grateful for
the placid nature that made David content to potter about the house
after her while she worked. He played with Ginger, dragging a piece
of paper on a string behind him to entice the cat, while Amy made
the beds and tidied the bedrooms, scrubbed the kitchen floor and
dusted all the rooms. When Ginger grew tired and curled up in a
sunny corner of the now-dry kitchen floor to sleep David curled up
with him, stroking the cat’s soft fur.

Amy left the potatoes she was peeling and
sat down for a moment to watch them, smiling at the sight. She was
lucky to have a child like David; he was as delightful as Malcolm
was difficult.

‘Ginger’s asleep, Mama,’ David said, looking
up at her.

‘That’s right, Davie. Pussy cats need a lot
of sleep.’ She held out her arms. ‘Come and have a cuddle with
Mama, just for a bit. I’ve got to start making pudding in a
minute.’

David readily clambered onto her lap, put
his arms around her neck and planted a wet kiss on her lips.
‘You’re pretty, Mama. Your face not funny now.’

‘Thank you, Davie.’ She squeezed him
tightly. ‘Ooh, you’re good at cuddles, sweetie. Mama loves cuddling
her Davie.’ She wound one of his dark ringlets around her finger
and smoothed his curls down over his collar.
My pretty little
baby. Too pretty to be a boy
.

‘When can I go to school, Mama?’

‘Like Mal? Not till you’re five. That’s a
year and a bit away. So soon,’ she mused. ‘You’re growing up so
fast.’
Ann’s six now. I bet she looks just like Davie, except
even prettier
. If anyone could be prettier than David.

‘I going to be big like Mal.’

‘Of course you will, Davie. Big and strong,
so you can help Papa. Hop down now, darling, Mama’s got to finish
making lunch.’

Charlie came in for the meal looking as sour
as he had at breakfast; Amy was glad that Malcolm was safely away
at school and unable to make his father any grumpier. Charlie did
not usually take much notice of David, even had the younger boy
been inclined to naughtiness. There was an element in Charlie’s
expression that made her a little uneasy: a touch of malice along
with the surliness. It made her wonder if he had spent the morning
plotting some way of getting even with her. But frustrated
annoyance was much plainer than the malice; if he had indeed been
trying to plot retaliation it seemed to have been in vain.

Amy lifted David onto his chair and tucked a
napkin into his collar before she dished up for the three of them.
When Charlie had said a rapid grace and begun eating his own food
she started to cut up David’s chop into manageable pieces for the
little boy.

‘What are you doing?’ Charlie asked.

‘Cutting Davie’s meat up for him,’ Amy
answered simply, wondering why he should suddenly take an interest
in something she did every day.

‘He’s big enough to feed himself. Leave him
alone.’

‘He can’t manage the chop, Charlie. His
hands are still a bit little to handle a knife and fork with
meat.’

Charlie fixed her with a grim stare. ‘I said
leave him alone. You’re babying that boy.’

It was not worth making a fuss about. He
would see soon enough that David was not capable of cutting his
meat. She took up her own knife and fork and began eating in
silence.

David looked from Amy to Charlie and back
again, a puzzled expression on his face as he tried to fathom what
was going on over his head. Amy motioned towards his plate. David
picked up his fork and stabbed at the meat.

The chop was too heavy for his little hand.
It fell off the fork and landed on his helping of carrots. David
stabbed at it again, knocking a few slices of carrot onto the
table. He looked guiltily at his father, picked up the carrot
slices and stuffed them in his mouth, then picked the chop up in
both hands.

‘Here!’ Charlie said sternly. ‘You eat that
properly—don’t go eating with your fingers like a savage.’

‘I can’t, Papa—’

Charlie pointed a warning finger at him.
‘Don’t speak at the table, boy. You know the rule.’

David cast a pleading look at Amy, but she
could only look back helplessly. He dropped the chop back onto his
plate and tried stabbing it again, more energetically this
time.

The chop skidded across his plate and slid
into the boiled potato opposite it. Meat and potato flew off the
plate and onto the table. David reached out to grab at them, and in
his haste he flipped the whole plate over, scattering what was left
of his meal over the table and the floor.

David stared at the mess he had made, and
turned to his father with tears filling his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Papa.
I didn’t mean to.’

Charlie reached out and gave David a clout
over the ear. ‘I told you to keep quiet! Look at the mess you’ve
made, you young fool.’

David let out a wail of pain and fright. He
clambered down from his chair to bury his face in Amy’s lap. She
put her arms around him and held him close, stroking his hair.
‘It’s all right, Davie,’ she soothed. ‘You couldn’t help it.’

‘Why can’t that boy eat properly?’ Charlie
demanded. ‘It’s high time he learned. You still feeding him like a
baby, at his age.’ He glared at David sobbing in Amy’s lap. ‘How
old is he?’

‘Only three, Charlie. Just a little
fellow.’

‘Old enough to behave himself. When does he
turn four?’

‘In August,’ Amy admitted.

‘He’s nearer four than three, then. What are
you doing, keeping him in dresses at that age? Eh? Time he was in
trousers.’ He looked at Amy’s hand stroking David’s long curls, and
Amy could almost hear his mind ticking over.

‘Time that boy had a haircut,’ Charlie said
suddenly.

‘No!’ The cry of protest was out before Amy
could call it back. ‘Don’t cut his hair, Charlie, not his pretty
curls. He’s too little.’

‘Aye, it’s time he had a haircut,’ Charlie
repeated, grim satisfaction on his face as he saw how much the idea
upset Amy. ‘He’s nearly four. I gave his brother his first haircut
at three years.’

But Malcolm had not had beautiful black
ringlets tumbling down to his collar, framing a face with huge blue
eyes and a rosebud mouth. Malcolm had not been a walking image of a
lost daughter. Amy clutched at David, and her distress communicated
itself to him, making him sob more than ever.

Charlie went off to his bedroom, returning
with a pair of scissors. He took hold of David’s arm and yanked him
from Amy’s grasp.

‘Right, get on this chair, boy. And stop
that bawling.’ He gave David a slap across the head which, if it
was intended to still the child’s sobs, failed miserably. Amy felt
tears running down her own cheeks, but she bit back the words of
protest that rose to her lips, knowing she would only make things
harder for David by arguing.

When Charlie had dumped him unceremoniously
on the chair, the sight of the large scissors waving around close
to his face made David wail even louder. He tried to squirm away
from the terrifying blades, but Charlie took a tight grip on his
arm and lowered his face till it was close to his little son’s.

‘Now, you behave yourself, boy. Keep still
and don’t make a sound, or I’ll teach you a lesson. Understand?’ He
shook David’s arm. ‘Understand?’

David gulped back a sob and gave a little
nod. ‘Yes, Papa,’ he said in a voice that was more of a squeak. He
held himself rigid, following the movement of the scissors with
nervous flicks of his eyes.

The blades sliced off long coils of black
hair at every cut. Amy watched helplessly as the pile of shorn
curls around the chair grew thicker.

Charlie had nearly finished when the
scissors brushed against David’s ear for a moment. The child gave a
yelp of fright and a small start, then screamed as the blades
nicked his ear.

‘You cut my ear off!’ he wailed.

‘Stop that,’ Charlie roared, emphasising his
words with another slap. ‘Stop crying like a baby. It’s your own
fault—I’d not have cut you if you’d kept still.’

But David only howled the louder, patting at
the ear that now had a small spot of blood on it.

‘I warned you, boy. I told you to behave
yourself.’ Charlie snatched a handful of hair at the top of David’s
head, where it was still long enough to grab at, and held it
tightly so that the child could not move. He snipped the last few
curls off close to David’s scalp, then dropped the scissors on the
table.