Another Governess / The Least Blacksmith: A Diptych (3 page)

Spot is grown. He is a man. The Master must be an old man, a very old man. I did not realize the Master was such an old man. The Master walks with a stick. He beats the floor with the stick. He beats the walls with the stick. We hear his cries and the blows of the stick. We hear the Master on the stairs. We hear the Master in the hall. We hear the Master pass the door. Spot crawls toward the door. Tamworth crawls after. Master, says Spot, but the Master does not stop. He is going up to the tower, around and around the spiral steps to the tower. From the tower, the Master can see what happens in the orchard. He can see through the black boughs of the apple trees. He can see through the black boughs and into the black brush of the forest, the bushes and brambles, the mud and the rocks and the leaves. He can see the shapes crawling like lice in the forest, even through the milk on his eyes.

The brickmaker had a daughter. She lived by the beck, hard by the beck. She lived alone by the beck. The brickmaker worked in the brickfield and his daughter lived by the beck. The brickmaker made bricks with refuse and clay. He mixed one part refuse to five parts clay. The beck had a stone bed and between the stones, clay. When the brickmaker's daughter pried up the stones to scoop the clay, the water clouded. The water clouded gray blue and the clouds thinned in the currents of the beck, carried downstream in the beck, gray blue streaks in the beck stretching down to the village at the bottom of the gorge. The brickmaker's daughter scooped the clay into a bucket. She carried the bucket to the brickfield. To get to the brickfield, she passed through the village. The brickmaker's daughter followed the beck through the village and every now and then she clouded the water with a handful of clay. One day the billposter saw the brickmaker's daughter veer from the beck. She veered from the beck with her bucket. She crossed through the churchyard. She stopped by the bakery, by the open ditch by the coal heap by the bakery. She put down her bucket. The open ditch was narrow and the brickmaker's daughter stood with one foot on either side of the ditch. She stood astride the ditch with her skirt hanging down and she made water into the ditch. She picked up her bucket and she returned to the beck, to the black bank of the beck that flowed through the village to the brickfield. She followed the beck. From then on, the billposter watched for the brickmaker's daughter. The brickmaker's daughter came down the steep path toward the village with her bucket. She passed through the village. She braced the bucket on her hip, or she tilted the bucket forward so the base of the bucket rested on her thigh. Sometimes she veered. She veered from the beck to the bakery. She made her water, upright, astride the open ditch by the coal heap by the bakery. Finally, the billposter could not contain his curiosity. He came out from behind the tree where he had been pretending to post his bills. Let me carry your heavy bucket, said the billposter. He had a black beard and he smiled through the black beard at the brickmaker's daughter. He lifted her bucket from where she had set it on the coal heap and he carried her bucket to the beck. He followed the beck to the brickfield and the brickmaker's daughter followed behind. When they arrived at the ridge overlooking the brickfield, the billposter put down the bucket. He sat on a stone and he pulled the brickmaker's daughter across his knees. He tickled her ear. He folded up her skirt and inspected her buttocks. Her buttocks bore a mark, two white protuberances, like the paps of a ewe. The billposter struck a tack into the larger protuberance with his long-handled hammer. The skin broke but did not bleed. The brickmaker's daughter grunted. Struggling, she stretched out her hands. She pulled the rim of the bucket. She tipped the bucket and her hands sank into the clay in the bucket. The billposter lifted her from his knees and she stood before him, upright, with her gray blue hands hanging down at her sides. Clouds had thickened in the sky. The billposter felt as though he were being pressed into the stone and grew afraid. He rose and moved forward. He pushed the brickmaker's daughter so that she toppled backwards from the ridge. She landed below on the brickfield. Her impact forced the gray blue moisture up through the earth and the gray blue moisture lay like a stain on the earth around the brickmaker's daughter. The billposter picked up the bucket. He emptied the bucket onto the brickfield from the ridge so that the brickmaker could mix the clay with the refuse and so fill his wagon with bricks.

I dip the hem of my dress in the pitcher of milk. I clean the skin on my face. I pick between my teeth. I pick beneath my nails. I am pretty and clean. I squeeze gray milk from the hem of my dress. I straighten my dress. I am pretty and clean for the lesson. Spot notices that I am clean. He stands on his feet, his big feet. He totters. He walks toward me. He lifts his shirt. It hurts, says Spot. He puts my hand on the lump. He whimpers. He moves my hand back and forth on the lump. He comes closer. He is very tall, very thick and tall. On his feet, he looks grown. He bends his neck and rests his brow on the top of my head. He breathes on my face, my pretty, clean face. Spot is tall. He is grown, but I can tell that he is hardly a man. His breath is wet. His breath smells spoiled, sweet and spoiled. Around the hard lump, his belly is soft. The buttons on my dress sink into his belly. Black buttons disappear in his belly. Sometimes there are currants in cakes, black currants sunk in the cake. There is a lesson about black currant cake. Two girls ate a black currant cake. They spread cloth napkins on their dresses. They put their hats on the grasses. They lifted the wedges of cake with their hands. They were great big girls. They flattened the grasses. Their teeth turned black. They laughed. They picked each other's teeth. They licked each other's teeth so the teeth were white and clean. They spread cream on the cake. They put their blackened fingers in cream. There are lessons in the nursery. There is so much to learn. I work my fingers between Spot's belly and the buttons. My fingers get wet. They slide on Spot's skin. I bend my fingers so my nails dig in Spot's skin. Spot does not act like a man. He whines. The fluid from his lips drops on my face. Go to your desk, I say. I poke with my fingers. I jerk with my head so Spot's brow slips and his face comes down fast. He takes a big step so he does not fall. He lifts his head. His chin is wet and he does not shut his mouth. He does not smile. Go to your desk, I say. In the corner of the room, there are two desks. Each desk has its bottle of fluid. Each desk has its pile of books. I walk to the desks. Tamworth is crouching beneath a desk. She puts her hands on her knees and looks between her legs. She makes her mess beneath the desk. Her legs shake. She looks at me.

On the desks, the books are black. The spines are black. The covers are black. I open the books. Inside, I see black. The children have ripped the pages from the books. I lift a book by its spine. The covers tap together. I make the edges of the covers tap together. The book has black jaws. I laugh. How will the children read the books? I nip Tamworth's arm with the book. I nip her shoulder. I nip Tamworth's nose with the book. She laughs. She knocks the book from my hands. The jaws fall open. The Master's dogs have black, speckled gums. The Master's dogs are old. Their teeth are worn low in their gums. The Master's dogs have stiffened in their hips. Their back legs are stiff when they run. The Master's dogs make their mess in the orchard. They cannot crouch. They make their mess like cows in the field. They lift their tails. They run through the orchard, their mess falling behind. Their mess is yellow fluids. I could not wipe it from the apples. The skins on the apples are cracked. The fluids seeped beneath the skins. The Master's dogs leak fluid in the house. The Master lets his dogs in every room of the house. The nursery door is locked from the outside. The dogs inside the nursery have been inside for a very long time. The children have scattered the piles of hair.

There are two chairs in the nursery. The children sit on the chairs. I sit on the rocking horse. The rocking horse creaks. I am very slim, but it creaks. Dust falls from the withers. Nits rise from the withers. I sit astride the rocking horse. The saddle is hard. I tighten my legs. The saddle rubs. It hurts. I lean forward and back. I make the rocking horse creak. The hips have stiffened. The hips creak. The legs are very straight. Nits swarm around the nostrils of the rocking horse. Nits lay their eggs in the nostrils. They crawl between the lips. Tamworth feeds the rocking horse cake. She crumbles cakes in her palm and presses her palm on the lips. She fills the gouge between the lips with cake. She fills the nostrils with cake. Now mess, says Tamworth. She puts her mouth by the ear. Mess, says Tamworth. Nits settle on her cheeks and she slaps the nits. Her cheeks blotch. She tugs the mane with her fist. She slaps the neck. She slaps my leg. Make him mess, says Tamworth. She puts her hand on my neck. She pulls my dress. She tries to sit astride the horse. I push her back. Mess, says Tamworth. She slaps the haunch of the rocking horse. She lifts the tail of the rocking horse. I stand up and the rocking horse rocks forward and back. The withers bump my sex. It hurts. Blood is running through Tamworth's mouth where the hindquarters pushed her lips against her teeth.

The children eat and mess. The dogs eat and mess. The Master eats. He messes. There are pails for the Master's messes all through the house. Only the rocking horse does not mess. The food stays in the mouth and nostrils of the rocking horse. It greens. It hatches nits. In the kitchen, the cook takes meat from the hooks. The cook shaves the coating that forms on the meat, the green coating that forms on the meat. On the hooks, the meat grows boils. It buzzes. The cook digs out the boils with a very thin knife. She chews a sprig of fresh mint. She rubs mint on the meat. She freshens the meat. The Master likes the fresh meat. In a grand house, the Master eats meat every day. He eats meat from white plates. That is mint jelly on the meat. It is fresh. There is a white pot of sugar. He sugars the meat. No, he sugars the tea. He likes the tea very sweet, very sweet and white with fresh milk. The brown tea turns white. The children eat cakes in the nursery. They grow. They need to eat and eat. They eat. They drink milk. They make their mess. They eat. They mess. They are good children. They tear the pages from the books. They use the pages to clean what remains of their mess. They clean their bodies from what remains of their mess. They clean their bodies. Spot is a man. He can clean his own body. The torn pages of the books are crumpled in the corners. Spot is not like a pig. He is not like a dog. He is good and clean. He is like the Master. I see now that he is like the Master, very like the Master. He belongs in the grand house. Tamworth is not like the Master. She must be like the Mistress, red and fat like the Mistress. There is no Mistress. I would know if there were a Mistress, a red, fat Mistress. A Mistress does not tolerate offal on the staircase, flies and hornets on the staircase. She does not tolerate boils on the meat. The Mistress has gone away from the house. She is buried beneath the tree in the garden by the house. She is buried too deep to come up. The dogs cannot reach her.

Where is your globe? says Spot. Yes, says Tamworth. Her jaws move slowly. A cake rests in her mouth. She lets her jaws hang. Spot's face is moist. Spot stands. He is very large. His legs quiver. The fabric of his trousers is too thin. I see the shapes beneath the fabric and the stains on the surface of the fabric. Tamworth rubs the redness of her lids and nose, the webs of veins that raise the skin on her lids and nose. It is not time for books, says Spot. It is time for globes. Spot's eyes are moist. They are brighter. He watches me closely. The Master is near. The Master is in the hall. He paces the hall. We hear him pass. We hear him pass. Spot jerks with each blow of the stick down the hall. He jerks. His legs quiver. He lifts his fat hand and pokes the dirty skin of his face. He pulls a white thread from the corner of his mouth. He puts the thread on his trousers. He watches me closely. He is standing. He is taller than I am. He is wider than I am. Your hair is black, says Spot. Today your hair is black. You have forgotten your globe. I turn my back on Tamworth and Spot. I face the door. I face the crib. I face the rocking horse. I want to sit down, but I will not sit on the rocking horse. I do not have a globe. I have a dress. I have a ribbon. I have stockings and shoes. The dress hangs on me. A button dangles. A globe is a map, says Spot. A round map. A map is flat. A flat map. Find the nursery on the map, I say. The nursery is not flat. It is not round. The nursery is neither flat nor round. The nursery is a shape, I say. Spot takes Tamworth by the neck. He drags her from the chair. He pushes an arm between her legs. He lifts and Tamworth twists. She hops. Spot drags her around the crib. He hits Tamworth's head on the leg of the crib. The crib does not move. A sound comes from the crib. A short sound. Above the crib there is a map. The map is on the wall. Spot has thrown food at the map. Tamworth has thrown food at the map. Porridge has wetted the map. White tea has wetted the map. I walk to the map. Where is the nursery? I say. Find the nursery on the map. The grand house is not on the map. The moat is not on the map. Where is the orchard? I say. Where is the forest? Where is the river? Where are the farmer's fields? Spot points to the map. He says the name of the town. He points to a spot on the map. He says the name of the town. No, I say. That is not the town. That is not the middle of the town, the hot middle of the town, the dusty middle of the town. I did not stand there, on that spot, in the town. The spot is wrong. There is no road on the map. There is no ditch on the map. There is no fire on the map, the fire where the bone boiler sets his pot, where the fat rises to the top of the pot. I skimmed the fat from the water in the pot. I ate the fat. The fat was fresh and hot with a good salt taste. The bone boiler struck me on the face with the flat of the knife. He struck my neck with the flat of the knife. I saw the knife turn over. I saw the flat of the knife. I saw the edge of the knife. I lifted my skirt. The ditch was deep. The river was high. I walked through the river. I held my skirt higher than the river. I slept in a malt barn. I slept in barley rushes on the floor of the malt barn. It smelled sweet. I could hear the bone boiler on the road. I could hear his dogs on the road. I put barley rushes between my legs. They prickled. I put barley rushes between my legs so the dogs would not smell me. I felt the prickle of the rushes. The light came through the cracks in the weatherboards. The sun rose. The light came through the weatherboards. It was cold in the malt barn and I drew my arms inside my dress and folded them tight against my body so my arms pressed against my breasts. I did not like the feel of my arms against my breasts. The dress is too big. It hangs on me. I can easily slip my arms inside. I draw my arms inside. I shut my eyes. I touch my breasts. I do not like the feel of my fingers on my breasts. Beneath the smell of the nursery, I smell the sweetness of the malt barn. I open my eyes. I look at the spot on the map. I touch the curded teats on my breasts. They lengthen. They prickle.