Mrs. Cook by Marele Day

Author:Marele Day
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, FIC014000
ISBN: 9781741153491
Publisher: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd
Published: 2003-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

COOK COTTAGE

The door opened a crack and Elizabeth saw an eye looking out, a dull watery eye, the centre of a ripple of wrinkles. ‘It’s James,’ her husband announced. ‘And Elizabeth.’ The door opened fully and Elizabeth saw an older, stooped version of her husband. He had not come to meet them when they had alighted from the coach. ‘He is almost eighty,’ James had explained. Nevertheless, he greeted Elizabeth warmly and held her hand in his.

James Cook senior bid them come in and shuffled after them in his house slippers. ‘Kettle’s on the fire. I’ve got tea.’ Elizabeth heard the roll of the moors in her father-in-law’s voice, and a hint of the Scottish brogue he’d carried with him across the border.

They walked along a short hallway of red stone floor and whitewashed walls. There was a dark timber wall-stand from which hung tools—a shovel, two pitchforks, a mallet. All cleaned and well-oiled, in as perfect condition as the day they were made. Elizabeth could see here the same pride and care for instruments and tools that James had.

They entered the main room of the house, where a thin fire licked the bottom of a cast-iron kettle hanging from a hook. ‘Set yourself down, girl,’ James senior said to his daughter-in-law, and patted a place on the bench built into the wall beside the fire. Its twin jutted out from the opposite wall.

Elizabeth sat down, taking care to tuck her skirts away from the fire, meagre though it was. The room was furnished with an oblong table, chairs, a sideboard with drawers, and a shelved display case, in which were arranged pewter plates. Elizabeth noticed one pewter plate by the fire, with a smear of hard gravy still visible although an attempt had been made at wiping it clean. At the end of the room were two tiny bedchambers, with a single bed in each. In one of the chambers Elizabeth could see a framed embroidery sampler but it was too far away for her to read the text.

‘How are you, Father?’ James asked.

‘Father is it? Too big to call me Da, are yer?’ said the old man.

Elizabeth felt anxiety knot in her chest. It’s nothing, she told herself, just that father and son haven’t seen each other for a long time, not since the Seven Year War, not since she and James married.

Elizabeth shivered. She wanted to put a few more lumps on the fire, but it was not her place to do so. James senior didn’t seem to feel the cold. His woollen jacket must have provided enough warmth, even though there were buttons missing and his shirt poked out in those places.

‘How are yer wee bairns?’ At times his accent thickened so much Elizabeth could hardly understand him.

‘Not so wee any more,’ answered James. ‘Jamie’s just turned eight and Nat’s not far behind.’

‘Are yer hungry? Would yer like oatcakes? It were James’s favourite when he were a lad.’

James looked away. It was less a question of oatcakes having been his favourite than that was all there was.

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