room and he followed her into the scullery. She was putting on warm, outside clothes.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked
She looked at him in astonishment.
‘On guard duty of course. It’s my turn.’
‘Guard against whom?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’
She turned away. Joe, rebuffed, went back to the kitchen. Otto was again on his own and Joe could think of nothing to say to him. After an awkward pause he made his way in the dark until he found his room and, more puzzled and bewildered than before, watched the moon rise behind the hills.
The other girl, Kathryn, fetched him at sunrise.
‘I’m to show you the farm.’
She took him, in the early light, past the house. He paused by the carved front door.
‘It’s beautiful.’
She waited impassively and made no comment.
Her loosely bound fair hair swung on her back as she went ahead. ‘What one would call well built,’ he thought. Her face was round, high cheekboned but well covered and too fleshy for his taste. She had blue green eyes and a repellant air of self-sufficiency. He wished it were Belinda showing him round. She was closer to his vague, undefined model of femininity.
Had she been on guard duty all night?
They turned right down an incline. A fast-flowing stream running into lower pastures, where cows and oxen grazed, fed a mill race below a water mill, smaller and squatter than others Joe had seen. Its sails were furled. Kathryn continued downhill, Joe following, to a network of barns and sheds, old but well maintained.
Four dun coloured calves inside a palisade set up indignant, high pitched bellows. Kathryn patted their outstretched noses but walked on under a wooden arch into a cobbled yard. She fetched a bucket and three legged stool from a dairy and motioned Joe to follow.
‘You have to get the cows.’
Trembling with uncertainty, unwilling to make a fool of himself in front of this commanding girl, Joe boldly opened the field gate. The cows, thick set and shaggy with horns curving upward in a generous sweep, Joe noted that they were the same variety as those he had seen by the river, walked sedately to a paddock where Kathryn was shaking feed into wooden mangers.
‘You’re to milk them,’ she said.
Joe had been taken round enough farms to know the routine, but only with the use of machines. As far as he knew no one ever milked by hand, his only model for this extraordinary activity being from an illustration in a childhood book nursery rhymes. It was not the ideal model. He walked tentatively to one cow, seized the stool and set it down, well distanced from her back legs, the bucket balanced precariously between his knees, his head well away. The cow swished her tail across his face. Kathryn watched him sardonically and he felt himself flush as he tried pulling at the two teats facing him, with no effect.
‘Don’t you know how?’
No, he bloody well didn’t.
‘Yes, of course I do!’
He gave them a hard, simultaneous pull. The cow stopped feeding, turned to look at him, and kicked her back leg into the bucket which fell to the ground. Kathryn picked it up, rinsed it in the stream and took the stool from him. She placed it close by the cow, murmured quietly, and rested her head intimately against the animal’s flank. Joe, feeling inadequate, stood back and watched her expert movements.
‘You do the back two first.’
She pulled at the teats with thumb and forefinger until a trickle of milk came out, then bunched her hands into closed fists, opening and closing them in a quick rhythmic motion. The milk spurted out, making a billowing foam. It smelled strong and sweet.
She handed him the bucket and he took her place, imitating her as best he could. He succeeded in extracting only a small trickle.
‘Not like that.’
‘You bloody well milk it then.’
He kicked the stool aside, threw the bucket down and stalked off.
‘It’s not an it, it’s a she!’ she called after him.
Joe went downhill with as
‘Where are you going?’ he asked
She looked at him in astonishment.
‘On guard duty of course. It’s my turn.’
‘Guard against whom?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’
She turned away. Joe, rebuffed, went back to the kitchen. Otto was again on his own and Joe could think of nothing to say to him. After an awkward pause he made his way in the dark until he found his room and, more puzzled and bewildered than before, watched the moon rise behind the hills.
The other girl, Kathryn, fetched him at sunrise.
‘I’m to show you the farm.’
She took him, in the early light, past the house. He paused by the carved front door.
‘It’s beautiful.’
She waited impassively and made no comment.
Her loosely bound fair hair swung on her back as she went ahead. ‘What one would call well built,’ he thought. Her face was round, high cheekboned but well covered and too fleshy for his taste. She had blue green eyes and a repellant air of self-sufficiency. He wished it were Belinda showing him round. She was closer to his vague, undefined model of femininity.
Had she been on guard duty all night?
They turned right down an incline. A fast-flowing stream running into lower pastures, where cows and oxen grazed, fed a mill race below a water mill, smaller and squatter than others Joe had seen. Its sails were furled. Kathryn continued downhill, Joe following, to a network of barns and sheds, old but well maintained.
Four dun coloured calves inside a palisade set up indignant, high pitched bellows. Kathryn patted their outstretched noses but walked on under a wooden arch into a cobbled yard. She fetched a bucket and three legged stool from a dairy and motioned Joe to follow.
‘You have to get the cows.’
Trembling with uncertainty, unwilling to make a fool of himself in front of this commanding girl, Joe boldly opened the field gate. The cows, thick set and shaggy with horns curving upward in a generous sweep, Joe noted that they were the same variety as those he had seen by the river, walked sedately to a paddock where Kathryn was shaking feed into wooden mangers.
‘You’re to milk them,’ she said.
Joe had been taken round enough farms to know the routine, but only with the use of machines. As far as he knew no one ever milked by hand, his only model for this extraordinary activity being from an illustration in a childhood book nursery rhymes. It was not the ideal model. He walked tentatively to one cow, seized the stool and set it down, well distanced from her back legs, the bucket balanced precariously between his knees, his head well away. The cow swished her tail across his face. Kathryn watched him sardonically and he felt himself flush as he tried pulling at the two teats facing him, with no effect.
‘Don’t you know how?’
No, he bloody well didn’t.
‘Yes, of course I do!’
He gave them a hard, simultaneous pull. The cow stopped feeding, turned to look at him, and kicked her back leg into the bucket which fell to the ground. Kathryn picked it up, rinsed it in the stream and took the stool from him. She placed it close by the cow, murmured quietly, and rested her head intimately against the animal’s flank. Joe, feeling inadequate, stood back and watched her expert movements.
‘You do the back two first.’
She pulled at the teats with thumb and forefinger until a trickle of milk came out, then bunched her hands into closed fists, opening and closing them in a quick rhythmic motion. The milk spurted out, making a billowing foam. It smelled strong and sweet.
She handed him the bucket and he took her place, imitating her as best he could. He succeeded in extracting only a small trickle.
‘Not like that.’
‘You bloody well milk it then.’
He kicked the stool aside, threw the bucket down and stalked off.
‘It’s not an it, it’s a she!’ she called after him.
Joe went downhill with as
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