I ran my fingers over the coins, sniffed old grease nickel and the tinge of nutmeg on my skin. It stung my nose and I sneezed. I put the lid back on, pushed the tin under my bed. My heart beat loud under my nightie. It was time to meet the day.
I went down the back stairs, held the lamp high, smelled kerosene like a miner. When I reached Mr and Mrs Borden’s door I put my ear against it, waited for their bed to squeak, waited for Mr Borden to pass gas, for Mrs Borden to roll over in bed. I didn’t have to wait long. Oh, how I knew them.
Down the stairs, in the kitchen, the clock struck double time to mark the half-hour. Five thirty.
Outside, the faint wind-chime sound of glass bottles, the milkman dropping off fresh fattened milk. It would be our turn soon. I stood by the side door and waited until he arrived.
‘You beat me to it, Bridget.’ He placed his wooden crate on the step, stretched a bit.
‘It was too hot, couldn’t sleep.’
He handed me a bottle, cool to the touch. ‘Old Borden say anything more about going off to the Swansea farm so you can have some peace and quiet?’
‘They’ll go nowhere now. Last night I heard Mr Borden sayin’ he’s got some property sales he wants finalisin’. That got Miss Lizzie all boiled up.’
‘Nothing new there.’ His mouth had the habit of opening too wide when he spoke, always showing his chipped teeth.
‘It’s just ’cause she misses Miss Emma. I don’t reckon she’ll be comin’ home anytime soon.’
‘I’d stay away too.’
‘It’s not always bad,’ I said. Oh, but it gets bad.
‘You girls all say that.’ He bent down to pick up our empty bottles, hips cracked from the strain. Not even Mr Borden’s body did that. He lifted his crate. ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.’
‘Sure, sure.’
He left. I took the fresh milk inside, unscrewed the lid and took a sneak sip from the bottle. The thick cream, a taste of grass. I set the milk in the icebox in the scullery, went about stacking a fire for the stove. On the kitchen counter was the large pot of mutton broth we’d been eating at luncheon for days. The thought of having to eat it one more time made my stomach flip. I went outside, got some fresh air. I heard a pigeon coo in the barn and I got to thinking that Lizzie would be up soon to check on her beloved birds, gently nursing them against her chest, stroking a wing, a head, letting them feed off seed from her hand. She should’ve long been out of the house and into her own family. Birds are no substitute. Once, she asked me to come into the barn and help keep the pigeons still while she checked for lice. I held the birds against my chest, used my left hand to stop necks from moving. I was afraid I’d strangle them. Their little claws at my wrists, not a thing I was used to, nor what I liked. Lizzie parted feathers, leaned in close, said, ‘Pretty, pretty bird,’ and whistled. The pigeons cooed. I’d never seen her face soften so quick.
‘Ever think of gettin’ a dog, Miss Lizzie? It’d be nice ta have one runnin’ about.’
She preened her pigeon, nipped her fingers together like tweezers, pulled a little critter from its body. ‘And risk them being hit by horse and cart around here? I wouldn’t have it.’ She squished the critter between her fingers, wiped her hand on her skirt. Lizzie spread the pigeon’s wings, all delicate, and said, ‘Look how far you can go!’
I began preparing breakfast. From the icebox out came the thick-cut pork steak I got from Whitehead’s market two days before. Oh, the meal I was going to make. Spoons of butter, salt and pepper, bread to scoop the juices. A little something nice to start the day. I did things and I did things.
There was hard, loud walking down the back stairs, like bricks falling on bricks. There was a cough. Mr Borden. He was on the bottom step when he said, ‘Bridget, where is the castor oil?’
‘Sir, we don’t have any left.’
His arms crossed his stomach and he leaned against the doorjamb.
‘Would ya like a chair, Mr Borden?’
He waved me away. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m queasy is all.’ He took a moment before heading out the side door. I rushed after him, heard him heaving in the backyard, long and deep, a cow labouring. I hoped he’d not messed himself. I did not care to clean his suit.
When he came inside, he eyed the steak. ‘You’ve cut the meat too thick.’ He poked the pork with his finger. Mr Whitehead’s butcher boy had cut it. I thought it a fine cut.
‘They said it was a large pig, Mr Borden.’
He grunted, let me alone, went to the sitting room and I heard him pull a book from the bookshelf, pass wind, old trumpet. The frypan reached its heat and I lumped butter into it, watched the creamy yellow melt and bubble, begin to brown. On went the pork. The sizzle. I set about making johnnycakes and the morning continued like always.
Later, Mrs Borden came down, just as pale. ‘You right, marm?’
She shook her head. ‘My stomach is feeling violent.’
‘Again? Mr Borden is the same.’
She rubbed her balloon stomach. ‘I’m beginning to think we’re being poisoned.’ The drama of her, how she sweated, pulled her face tight.
‘I’d never, marm.’
She came close, touched my elbow. ‘I didn’t even think it.’
‘Is Miss Lizzie sick too?’
She shrugged. ‘You’d know as much as me.’
I flipped the pork steak. Her stomach made all kinds of noise. It wasn’t long before she took herself out the side door like Mr Borden had, and was sick. When she came back, she wiped her arm across her mouth, said, ‘Do we have any castor oil?’
‘None, marm.’
‘Oh dear.’ She scratched at her temples and left the kitchen.
I went back to cooking and soon breakfast was ready. I set everything on the dining table and cut the pork steak into portions. Mr Borden came in to see, said, ‘Go get Lizzie. I want her eating with us.’
I nodded. I didn’t like the chances. I went into the scullery, over to the sugar sack. Inside was a little thimble and I filled it with sugar, put it in my apron pocket, went up the front stairs, made them holler under my feet. As I got closer to Lizzie’s bedroom, I heard, ‘As the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.’ She’d been saying the prayer for weeks. There was no love in what she said, no rhythm or heart. I’d a mind to tell her sometimes: He is deaf, it doesn’t matter how much you pray, things go unanswered.
I knocked on the door.
‘What?’
‘Miss Lizzie, yer father says ta come down for breakfast.’
Her feet across the carpet. She opened the door. Half her hair was plaited and rolled on top of her head, the other half in auburn semi-curls dragging below her shoulders, a horse’s mane. ‘What are we having?’
‘Pork steak.’
She chewed the insides of her cheeks, puckered her mouth. ‘Is there anything extra special for me?’
I shoved my hand into my apron pocket, pulled out the thimble. Lizzie snatched it, licked her pinkie and stuck it in, sucked sugar. ‘Are they waiting?’
I nodded, she sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll be . . .’
‘They’ve been sick this mornin’.’
‘Really? How bad?’