Advent by Jane Fraser

Author:Jane Fraser
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Honno Press
Published: 2020-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Back at the farm, the day has started. Jack is already up and in the milking sheds, his stomach will be calling for breakfast soon.

He sits on the three-legged milking stool his father had made him in the wood shed. He’d fashioned three of them, all exactly the same, out of an old yew that had been uprooted in the churchyard the night of a great storm. Lovely piece of wood, this, he’d said. Beautiful grain. Love an old bit of yew. At the side of the stalls, the other two stools are empty now. Jack wonders how George’s morning is going so far. He misses him already. Can’t believe his brother is doing this for him.

The distinctive sweet smell of the cows is thick in the air: a pungent early-morning mix of warm milk and cattle-breath, the heat of the hides, the dung and ammonia in the hay. It’ll take twice as long this morning without George. He feels a lesser half of a whole. The sum of their parts seemed always greater than their individual selves. “The twins –” this. “The twins –” that. When they were younger they’d tried to earn a few shillings at the quarry, only to be asked by the owner if he could have the two of them work for one wage.

He tugs on the pink teats of the swollen udders of cow number five. Another seven to go, though there’s pleasure in the tough rhythmic pulling of his hands drawing down the milk, the release of the liquid into the pail wedged between his knees. The moon is still up, its light comes through the open section of the Dutch-barn door, bathing the floor at his feet in milkiness to match the contents of his pail. He hopes the moon and the stars will continue to shine down on him from now on.

He’s absorbed in the sight of his own hands as he milks: strong, big-knuckled hands. Even the fingers have a strength of their own. And they’re his father’s hands there in the lonely dawn. And George’s too, though George is more particular about his. Vain bugger. Couldn’t care less, himself. Long as they’re clean. He remembers that their finger prints are distinct, though, will leave different imprints on life.

The solitary low of the Jersey in the next stall breaks his thoughts. He rises and places the almost-full pail next to the door, taking care not to spill a drop. He picks up his stool and moves along, positions a fresh pail under the udders and gets into rhythm again. After a few tugs, the milk starts to flow. He likes the patterns of his life: the repetitive and familiar daily grind, the ongoing beat and predictability of the changing seasons. It’s part of who he is, in the blood. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do for George what George is doing for him.

“Bye, girls,” he says to the cows as he leaves. “Take you down the bottom fields later for a bit of an airing.

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