The Black Swan

“A nice little walk will do you good,” she said. “I was thinking ... if we had a little dog cart... we’d be able to get into Bradford to shop comfortably.”

“That sounds as if we are going to be here for a long time.”

“Oh, good heavens no! I reckon we’ll be out of here in a few weeks. The dog cart would be useful, though, wherever we were.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“I’ll talk to Roland about it. We both will.”

I was silent and Kitty brought in toast and coffee.

I came out into the fresh air. It was wonderfully invigorating. I stood outside the house and asked myself which way. I gazed toward the dwelling on the horizon and decided to make my way in that direction.

The keen air revived my spirits to some extent and I picked my way carefully over the springy turf. I was wondering whether I might tell Roland that I had met Joel again. He was so kind and understanding. I felt at moments that it might be helpful to talk to him; but at others I realized how difficult it would be.

I could see the farmhouse now. It appeared to be in a little hollow-to give it shelter perhaps. I imagined how the wind would come sweeping across the open space. The land was cultivated here. I could see sheep grazing and as I came near to the house, some cowsheds. The people who lived here would be our closest neighbors. Not for long, I could hear Phillida saying.

Somewhere at the back of my mind I thought that it would be comforting to have neighbors... even though they must be almost a mile away.

I was close to the house now. I could see its gray stone clearly... similar to ours. I saw the courtyard with a few fowls roaming around, pecking at the earth. There was what appeared to be an orchard at the side of the house. I walked toward this and a childish voice called, “Hello!”

A girl was seated on a swing fixed between two trees and a boy was pushing her. They looked about eight or nine years old.

“Hello,” I replied. “Do you live here?”

They nodded and the boy pointed in the direction of the farmhouse. The girl stretched out her legs and moved them so that the swing rose higher. I stood for a moment, watching.

Then the boy said, “You from Gray Stone?”

“Yes. And you must be our nearest neighbors.”

“Reckon.”

The girl scraped her feet along the ground and brought the swing to a standstill.

“Happen you won’t stay long,” she said. “People don’t.”

I stood watching them for a second or so, and as I was preparing to walk away, I heard a voice calling: “Daisy, you in that orchard?”

“Yes, Mam.”

A woman came into sight. She wore a print apron over a dark brown skirt and cotton blouse. Her hair was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck and several strands had escaped from it.

“Oh,” she said, stopping short when she saw me. “You must be one of them from Gray Stone.”

“Yes,” I told her. “We’ve only just moved in.”

“How long will you be staying there? People don’t stay long at Gray Stone.”

“No. I gather it is let out for short periods.”

“Well... seeing as we’re neighbors ... if only for a short while... come in and have a glass of cider.”

The invitation was given spontaneously and I felt it would be churlish to refuse.

So I said I should be delighted to.

She took me through an orchard to the house. We crossed the yard where the chickens were rooting about for food, and she led the way into a large kitchen It was warm, for there was a huge fire with an oven beside it. I could smell something savory cooking.

“I’m Mrs. Hellman,” she said, “the farmer’s wife. Them out there swinging is our two... Jim and Daisy.”

“It is nice to meet you and so kind of you to invite me in. I’m Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

“Don’t come from these parts, I see.”

“Oh, no.”

“From the South, reckon.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re at Gray Stone with your husband?”

“My husband and my sister-in-law.”

“Oh, the three of you. Got any help up there?”

“We brought a maid with us.”

“That’s good for you. There’s not much to be had round here... not unless you have them living in.”

“Yes. We are a little isolated here.”

She moved to a barrel. There was a tap at the side and she poured the cider into two pewter mugs.

She set them on the table and smiled at me.

“We like to be neighborly up here, you know,” she explained. “We’re blunt... and honest... none of that waltzing around what you’re trying to say to cover it up and make it sound nice. We say what we mean... and if them that hears it don’t like it ... well, they must take it as it comes.”

“Perhaps it’s the best way.”

“So you’re only staying for a short while?”

“We’re looking for a house.”

“So you’re settling up here?”

“If we can find the right house.”

“In Bradford, I suppose. That’s a fine town.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

“What sort of house are you looking for?”

“Something not too new. I rather like old houses.”