Read Online Spilt Milk by Amanda Hodgkinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Hodgkinson
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falling apart. It wouldn’t last another night homeless, and neither would she.
Trixie took her to a green-tiled shopfront with pig carcasses hanging from hooks in the window. A great row of them dangled like giant sugar mice, waxy and pink and bright with raindrops. To enter the shop and stand in its cold interior with its smell of meat and pine sawdust, Nellie had to lower her head and walk under a bower of dripping pigs’ trotters.
Trixie’s brother, Nathan Rumsby, wore a spotless striped apron. He was a bland-looking man with small eyes, close set and framed by thick lashes, so it was hard to tell what colour they were. With his butcher’s cap on his head he came up to Nellie’s shoulder. When he took it off, revealing a head of fine blond hair, he was an inch shorter.
The butcher said he hadn’t heard of any Joe Ferier, but he had a room she could have if she worked hard. He couldn’t pay her much, but she could start right away. He’d feed her and she’d have lodgings for free.
‘Hard work rewards itself,’ said Nellie, thanking him. She was surprised to hear Rose’s favourite phrase slip so easily from her lips.
As the weeks passed, Nellie became immune to the loneliness within her. The work wasn’t so bad here. It was blood she scrubbed out from under her fingernails these days rather than earth. Not what she had imagined, perhaps, but she clung to her new life, believing that this was what she needed, this solitude, a chance to see what fate had in mind for her.
She saw Eddie again by chance, walking by the docks, but he looked straight past her, as if he didn’t know her, and she decided it was better that way. He was a married man. It made her blush to think of his invitation to share his feather bed.
One night in October when the moon shone through hercurtainless windows, she woke and saw the butcher standing in the room. He was naked, his skin as bloodless as uncooked tripe. There was a curved thickness to his thighs, his belly round and solid. She heard him go away, the door closing behind him. Nellie pulled her blankets around herself.
The next day Rumsby acted as if nothing had happened. His eyes, which she finally worked out were a dirty moss colour, were as restless as ever, flicking over her and then away to the carcasses he was cutting up. The next night he was there again, at the foot of her bed. And the night after that. After a while, Nellie slept through his visits, only waking to hear him make a small groaning sound, his naked feet slapping the bare floorboards as he hurriedly left the room.
Winter wound its scarf of frost around the town. The bacon in the butcher’s shop carried diamond-sharp ice crystals in its thick bands of fat. Nellie worked 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., six days a week. Her days off she spent looking for Joe. She often went down to the docks. She thought he might be there, thinking of finding a ship to sail to Southampton, where the steamers left for America. She liked the docks and stood on the quay, watching the trading ships and the barges heavy with cargo. They drifted low in the water, loaded with coal, coke, malt, lime and bricks. It was amazing to see how this stretch of their river, so many miles away from home, was solid with traffic. To think of the isolated stretch of river her own cottage sat on.
On Sundays, she tidied the flat and the butcher visited his mother, taking meat pies and parcels of pork for her. Rumsby dressed up then, a good hat and a thick wool coat, his boots polished, his beard trimmed. He rubbed lard into his fingers to make them soft because he said his mother liked to hold his hand. Nellie couldn’t imagine anybody would want to hold his hands if they knew what he did in her room at night.
At Christmas, he invited Nellie to accompany him. His motherlived in a house near the park. Nellie sat on an upholstered chair with the stuffing coming out of it. The striped wallpaper on the walls was faded and falling down in places. Trixie
Trixie took her to a green-tiled shopfront with pig carcasses hanging from hooks in the window. A great row of them dangled like giant sugar mice, waxy and pink and bright with raindrops. To enter the shop and stand in its cold interior with its smell of meat and pine sawdust, Nellie had to lower her head and walk under a bower of dripping pigs’ trotters.
Trixie’s brother, Nathan Rumsby, wore a spotless striped apron. He was a bland-looking man with small eyes, close set and framed by thick lashes, so it was hard to tell what colour they were. With his butcher’s cap on his head he came up to Nellie’s shoulder. When he took it off, revealing a head of fine blond hair, he was an inch shorter.
The butcher said he hadn’t heard of any Joe Ferier, but he had a room she could have if she worked hard. He couldn’t pay her much, but she could start right away. He’d feed her and she’d have lodgings for free.
‘Hard work rewards itself,’ said Nellie, thanking him. She was surprised to hear Rose’s favourite phrase slip so easily from her lips.
As the weeks passed, Nellie became immune to the loneliness within her. The work wasn’t so bad here. It was blood she scrubbed out from under her fingernails these days rather than earth. Not what she had imagined, perhaps, but she clung to her new life, believing that this was what she needed, this solitude, a chance to see what fate had in mind for her.
She saw Eddie again by chance, walking by the docks, but he looked straight past her, as if he didn’t know her, and she decided it was better that way. He was a married man. It made her blush to think of his invitation to share his feather bed.
One night in October when the moon shone through hercurtainless windows, she woke and saw the butcher standing in the room. He was naked, his skin as bloodless as uncooked tripe. There was a curved thickness to his thighs, his belly round and solid. She heard him go away, the door closing behind him. Nellie pulled her blankets around herself.
The next day Rumsby acted as if nothing had happened. His eyes, which she finally worked out were a dirty moss colour, were as restless as ever, flicking over her and then away to the carcasses he was cutting up. The next night he was there again, at the foot of her bed. And the night after that. After a while, Nellie slept through his visits, only waking to hear him make a small groaning sound, his naked feet slapping the bare floorboards as he hurriedly left the room.
Winter wound its scarf of frost around the town. The bacon in the butcher’s shop carried diamond-sharp ice crystals in its thick bands of fat. Nellie worked 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., six days a week. Her days off she spent looking for Joe. She often went down to the docks. She thought he might be there, thinking of finding a ship to sail to Southampton, where the steamers left for America. She liked the docks and stood on the quay, watching the trading ships and the barges heavy with cargo. They drifted low in the water, loaded with coal, coke, malt, lime and bricks. It was amazing to see how this stretch of their river, so many miles away from home, was solid with traffic. To think of the isolated stretch of river her own cottage sat on.
On Sundays, she tidied the flat and the butcher visited his mother, taking meat pies and parcels of pork for her. Rumsby dressed up then, a good hat and a thick wool coat, his boots polished, his beard trimmed. He rubbed lard into his fingers to make them soft because he said his mother liked to hold his hand. Nellie couldn’t imagine anybody would want to hold his hands if they knew what he did in her room at night.
At Christmas, he invited Nellie to accompany him. His motherlived in a house near the park. Nellie sat on an upholstered chair with the stuffing coming out of it. The striped wallpaper on the walls was faded and falling down in places. Trixie
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