Read by Jennifer Tan
The sun rose over the Vale of York and in the village of Easingwold farmers awoke and made their way to the fields at first light. It was the eve of market day and by sundown the last of the meat was to be slaughtered and portioned, the ripe fruit harvested and the wool spun, dyed and bundled.
As the morning frost melted plunge-kirns of milk were churned and the thick yellow butter strained, salted and rolled into pats. The women worked quickly and spiritedly, eager to finish before the midday heat turned the fresh milk sour. Bacon was butchered and hung, yearling lambs rounded into pens for auction and older beasts laid to rest for legs and saddles of mutton. By early evening harvests were bountiful and spirits high as the people of Easingwold looked forward to a prosperous day of trade.
In Rosewaldon Cottage, between the old whitehouses and the burnt-out flour mill, Ava Morgan sat quietly and alone. She had not toiled as the other women had that day and the sacks of wool she had left out to spin lay untouched beside the hearth. She had been sitting since morning and had barely moved after gripping the oak table to steady herself shortly after sunrise. She could not remember in all her twenty four years ever sitting so still for so long. Her hand rested softly on her belly, as it had been since dawn, and she sat watching the fire he had lit for them before he left.
She knew he would be home soon. He would bound through the door and pick her up, spinning her around in his arms and kissing her cheeks and her nose. He would bring gifts from his day; chops from Oswald’s pigs or a mutton shank from Peter Sullivan’s slaughterhouse. He would be happy! His eyes would dance and sing and he would give thanks for the light and the love in their lives. He would not arrive home as he used to, for weeks and months on end, his head bowed low and his body weary. His eyes would not lie sullen and lifeless as they had for all those nights when she had searched them for some sign of forgiveness. Forgiveness for that which she could not give him. Forgiveness that never came. Not until that bright winter dawn three months earlier when, exhausted and drenched, they all three had lain together on the cold stone floor laughing and weeping; their faith restored and his heart full once more.
Yes; today he would be joyful. But Ava knew that, sooner or later, her husband would go upstairs.
As she heard Henry Mulligan’s dogs bark she knew that dusk was approaching and she stood, slowly, wiping her face with her apron. She washed and peeled potatoes and cut them in half, gripping the knife tightly as she pushed it through the starchy flesh. She dropped the potatoes into a pan and watched as the water began to bubble and spit. She salted cooked turnips and beets, laying the slices on a plate and covering them with a cloth. She worked slowly and methodically, without haste or fuss. She arranged the food on the table with two bowls and placed his pewter mug on the far side, by the fire, where he always liked to sit. Cider was poured, the lantern was lit and the butter and salt laid out within reach of his chair. She prepared their supper as she had done every other night of their married lives; even though she knew that they would not be sitting down to eat that day.
She cracked the crust of a small loaf with her thumbs and watched the fibres of soft dough cling together as she ripped them apart. She arranged the chunks in a basket and noticed, as she never had before, the white cloth that lined it. Before she knew what was happening a hand that seemed not her own reached forwards and swept across the table; sending the basket of bread into the fire and his pewter mug crashing onto the flagstones. The movement was so sudden and forceful that it thrust her small frame forwards and she clutched the table to stop herself from falling to the floor. She stayed there, with her chest pressed against her knees and her head between her legs, listening to the wicker basket crackling in the flames. She did not move again until she heard the faintly squeaking hinges of the front gate as it opened, and the gentle clinking of metal as it closed.
The sun was now setting over the vales and hills of Easingwold as farmers trundled home, weary and hungry and full of hope for the day that was to come. Children ran to greet them with excited smiles and expectant hands and ears, hoping for gifts of fruit and stories from the fields. Bread was broken, prayers were offered and thanks given for a day rich with the promise of prosperity.
And in Rosewaldon cottage, as she heard her husband approaching, Ava Morgan slowly raised her head. She turned towards the door; the evening meal laid out and her hand resting on her belly where love had grown for all those days and nights.
He would ask where there son was and she would not speak. He would look at her face, and he would take the stairs two at time, and he would know before he reached the bassinet what he was to find. And she would sit by the hearth and listen to his howls and sobs, and close her eyes, and pray to God that she too might be taken that night.
The Homecoming by Joanna Bell was read by Jennifer Tan at the Liars' League Wine, Women & Song event at The Phoenix, Cavendish Square on Tuesday 13 April 2010
Joanna Bell trained as an actor at Central School of Speech and Drama and went on to co-found theatre company Lucid Muse. She lives in North West London and this is her first short story.
Jennifer Tan trained at The Oxford School of Drama. Theatre includes A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Pillars of the Community, Plasticine and After the Dance (OSD), The Caucasian Chalk Circle (Shared Experience), Cinderella (Lyric Hammersmith) and Carless Talk (Momo Theatre). Voiceover work includes Smokescreen, an online educational game for Channel 4.
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