- Vol. 03
- Chapter 04
He grips his pitchfork like a crozier his glare direct, confronting, ready to stare down all comers. She looks elsewhere.
"We are Good People here," he says, "tidy, clean, every furrow ploughed straight everything in its place, every weed and wild flower eradicated." She says nothing, drops a wilting posy in the bin.
She makes biscuits serves them for his breakfast with bacon, he pours molasses over them sticky clinging. He stabs a rasher. "Bred, killed and cured right here on the farm," he boasts. She fed her every day, pretended, when it came to slaughter to be busy elsewhere. She never told him she had given her a name. Such foolishness.
They go to church on Sunday his overalls and shirt laundered pressed she is buttoned tight to the throat but a wayward strand of hair curling gently has escaped.