Spilt Milk by Amanda Hodgkinson Read Free Book Online Page A

their lace curtain tent. She was sweating, the heat of their two bodies making her feel weak. These were the dog days of early summer, and the night was sultry with heat. The window was open in the hope of finding a breeze, the room quiet but for their breathing and the sound of mosquitoes whining. She had discovered the suitcase a few days ago, packed and hidden under the bed.
    Vivian felt Nellie touch her hand under the covers, and rolled against her. Nellie may have a quick temper, her feet might be cold in bed all year round, she might hate darning and always sew a crooked seam, but Vivian could not bear to think of life without her. To lose Nellie would be to lose a part of herself.
    ‘Don’t you ever long for another life?’ whispered Nellie.
    Vivian closed her eyes. Of course she did. The wheelwright’s wife feeding her baby came into her mind. There was the scent of the river in the room. And something else. Woodsmoke in Nellie’s damp hair. Fish scales and waterweeds, the nicotine perfume of pipe tobacco on her skin.
    She wrinkled her nostrils, pushing Nellie away, pulling the sheets up to her chin.
    ‘You and I don’t need to stay here for ever,’ said Nellie. ‘Not now it’s just the two of us.’
    ‘This is our
home
,’ Vivian replied. How could they possibly leave here? They were meant to be here. They were sisters. She hated Joe Ferier with a passion that shocked her. She could picture him perfectly. His dark eyes, his scarf loose around his throat, revealing the soft dip of collarbone. She would drown herself in the river rather than let Nellie leave her.
    A day later, Vivian saw Joe walking across the fields. He was easy to spot, even at a distance. With his arrogant loping gait and black hat, he looked more like a landowner than a hired hand.
    Vivian left the cottage. She would talk to him. Ask him to explain to Nellie that he could not take her with him. The sisters would not be separated. She would make sense of all this, as she always tried to make sense of everything.
    As a child, Vivian thought she had been chosen by God to understand the connections He had made in the world. She had believed He wanted her to become a schoolteacher one day. She’d counted the number of fine fronds that made up an owl’s wing feather, noting in an exercise book that the dry hollow stem of the feather and the tiny elements of it all were part of a whole pattern of connecting things. Everything was God’s secret. A feather might be as soft as a girl’s cheek, but it was also as dry as a corn stalk, strong enough to carry a bird in flight and as light as a whisper. It was all those things. A river could be no more than a snake of silver in the grass, or it could be wide enough to holdthe whole sky in its reflections, but it was all water, tiny drops of cold that filled rain butts and church fonts alike. A man could be handsome and given to walking with a swagger, and yet hold the key to everything without even knowing it.
    When she saw him, she pretended to be surprised.
    ‘Not working?’ she asked. ‘I hear Langham is worried about the harvest this year because of the drought.’
    ‘Well, I’ve worked my hours in any case,’ said Joe. ‘I’m not labouring for Langham now, so he can’t hire or fire me as he chooses.’
    He wished her well, tipped his hat and began to walk away. Vivian called his name. She asked if he was a believer. He looked surprised.
    ‘In what? God, you mean? I suppose so. I think I doubt everything I believe in, and believe in everything I doubt. That suits me fine.’
    Vivian said doubt was not a pleasant feeling. She preferred to be sure of things. She and her sister were fortunate. They never doubted each other. They were bound together by love, like a good woven cloth made of the warp and weft of shared blood and history, the way family ought to be.
    He laughed, pushing his hat to the back of his head.
    ‘Is that right? And which way are you walking, Miss Marsh?’
    A drift