Sometimes he’ll hold one up to the light and squint at it mistrustfully. When he’s satisfied, he fumbles inside his clothes and brings out his pouch purse. There are never many coins in it, and I wonder where he keeps the rest of his money, given that he has the eggs from more than fifty hens to sell. He has never told me his name, but Mary Pascoe called him Enoch. The smell of him catches my throat as he leans towards me to hand over the money. His glance slips sideways, waiting for me to be gone.
This week there is one egg as dark as a chestnut. I pick it up and weigh it in my hand, then curve my fingers around it. I increase the pressure on it. The egg doesn’t crack. I press a little harder, and then harder again until the shell crushes in on itself and slime oozes through my fingers. My skin crawls. I shake my hand to free it, but the egg clings, dripping from my fingers. I tear up a tuft of grass and scour myself furiously with it. The egg has gone. I am clean. I clench my fists to calm myself, but the panic inside me is too strong now and I lay the wooden tray of eggs on the ground and stamp into them, crushing them. I stamp and stamp, sweating, until the shells are mashed into the straw.
There are no eggs now. I have nothing to take up to Enoch’s. Very slowly, trembling and looking away, I empty the mess into the bushes, scrape the tray, wash it in the stream and put it to dry. The hens peck up and down their run, unconcerned. The chicken wire is strong and good where I’ve repaired it. I wash the slime off my boots, and then everything is as it was before.
I am afraid that I will end up like Enoch. I want to see Felicia, but I’ll wait until dark so that no one sees me go into the town. I’d like to take her something but I can’t think of anything that she’d like, until a memory comes to me of the Gethsemane gardens we used to make at school, at Easter time. There was fierce competition, among the boys as well as the girls. We would lash twigs together to make the three little crosses, and girls would bring in flowers wrapped in wet moss. Tiny wild daffodils, herb Robert, primroses, violets with their smooth leaves. If a girl liked a boy, she’d bring in flowers for his garden. We shaped the hill of Golgotha, and to one side of it the tomb with the stone rolled away from the entrance. I remember one girl brought in a piece of broken mirror and made a pond in hers, with flowers all around. We were envious of her and wished we’d thought of it first. The gardens were laid out on a long table to be judged.
Felicia always liked flowers. She had her own patch in the garden, full of nasturtiums, cornflowers, candytuft and sweet williams. The kind of easy flowers that children grow. She used to make posies of them. She gave me a posy of marigolds and love-in-a-mist, but I dropped it as soon as she was out of sight. I hope she didn’t find it wilted on the ground. I’ll take her a bunch of violets wrapped in wet moss, as the girls used to bring them in for the Gethsemane gardens.
I wash myself and comb my hair. I have a clean shirt and my old Sunday trousers, which I haven’t worn since before I went away. They were in the bundle that the neighbours kept for me. I must have grown while I was away, because the trousers are too short, but not so that it matters. I clean my nails carefully, and pare them with my knife. Around seven o’clock, towards sunset, I set out for the town. I walk quicker than I mean to, and it’s not dark enough by the time I reach Giant’s Cap. I sit there, waiting, while the sea thuds in beneath me. Frederick and I used to say that there were lions living in the sea caves under Giant’s Cap. Slowly, the line of surf grows dim. In the windows a few lights show, like buds. The tide is out and I climb down awkwardly, because of the violets, and make my way along the rocky shore to the sand. When I reach Venton Wenna, I dip the flowers head-down in the overspilling
This week there is one egg as dark as a chestnut. I pick it up and weigh it in my hand, then curve my fingers around it. I increase the pressure on it. The egg doesn’t crack. I press a little harder, and then harder again until the shell crushes in on itself and slime oozes through my fingers. My skin crawls. I shake my hand to free it, but the egg clings, dripping from my fingers. I tear up a tuft of grass and scour myself furiously with it. The egg has gone. I am clean. I clench my fists to calm myself, but the panic inside me is too strong now and I lay the wooden tray of eggs on the ground and stamp into them, crushing them. I stamp and stamp, sweating, until the shells are mashed into the straw.
There are no eggs now. I have nothing to take up to Enoch’s. Very slowly, trembling and looking away, I empty the mess into the bushes, scrape the tray, wash it in the stream and put it to dry. The hens peck up and down their run, unconcerned. The chicken wire is strong and good where I’ve repaired it. I wash the slime off my boots, and then everything is as it was before.
I am afraid that I will end up like Enoch. I want to see Felicia, but I’ll wait until dark so that no one sees me go into the town. I’d like to take her something but I can’t think of anything that she’d like, until a memory comes to me of the Gethsemane gardens we used to make at school, at Easter time. There was fierce competition, among the boys as well as the girls. We would lash twigs together to make the three little crosses, and girls would bring in flowers wrapped in wet moss. Tiny wild daffodils, herb Robert, primroses, violets with their smooth leaves. If a girl liked a boy, she’d bring in flowers for his garden. We shaped the hill of Golgotha, and to one side of it the tomb with the stone rolled away from the entrance. I remember one girl brought in a piece of broken mirror and made a pond in hers, with flowers all around. We were envious of her and wished we’d thought of it first. The gardens were laid out on a long table to be judged.
Felicia always liked flowers. She had her own patch in the garden, full of nasturtiums, cornflowers, candytuft and sweet williams. The kind of easy flowers that children grow. She used to make posies of them. She gave me a posy of marigolds and love-in-a-mist, but I dropped it as soon as she was out of sight. I hope she didn’t find it wilted on the ground. I’ll take her a bunch of violets wrapped in wet moss, as the girls used to bring them in for the Gethsemane gardens.
I wash myself and comb my hair. I have a clean shirt and my old Sunday trousers, which I haven’t worn since before I went away. They were in the bundle that the neighbours kept for me. I must have grown while I was away, because the trousers are too short, but not so that it matters. I clean my nails carefully, and pare them with my knife. Around seven o’clock, towards sunset, I set out for the town. I walk quicker than I mean to, and it’s not dark enough by the time I reach Giant’s Cap. I sit there, waiting, while the sea thuds in beneath me. Frederick and I used to say that there were lions living in the sea caves under Giant’s Cap. Slowly, the line of surf grows dim. In the windows a few lights show, like buds. The tide is out and I climb down awkwardly, because of the violets, and make my way along the rocky shore to the sand. When I reach Venton Wenna, I dip the flowers head-down in the overspilling
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