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Cream
It was time to go; it just was. Bevvi was going to pout
about it. He was sort of a priss, anyway. Not that I usually minded. He wasn’t
like anyone I knew… no, not really, and that saucy mouth of his was plenty of
fun. But he wasn’t going to like it.
It was near to sunup like usual when I heard him coming up
the road to the front door. I was so used to hearing the clinking of the milk
bottles that I woke up ready for him every Thursday for the past five months. I
didn’t bother about shoes, stuffed my nightshirt into a pair of trousers and
that’s all the ceremony we stood on. I’d get dressed proper afterward, when I
slopped the pigs at dawn.
I snuck downstairs for the last time: Skip the second stair,
skip the eighth and there’s not another squeak to worry about since our first
floor’s flagstone. I eased the door shut behind me, and lounged on it. He liked
when I watched him set out the milk. “I’m a professional, at heart,” he’d told
me once, striking a pose. Fine by me.
He straightened from the stoop. “Good week, Arlo?”
“Good enough,” I shrugged, but I made sure to smile. “You?”
“Juba’s got a sore tit. Mrs. Figg’s gonna give me one, if I don’t get it sorted soon.”
He blew out his cheeks, but then he flashed his crooked grin. Bevvi laced his
fingers around the back of his neck, flapping at me with his elbows. Here it
came, the same thing he’d asked me since he started on our route—even after I’d
gathered what he meant and started saying yes. “Fancy a spot of cream, then?”
I did, I really did. But… “Yeah, Bev, I got a thirst. But I
should tell you, I’m off to Greengate today-tomorrow.”
He did pout, playing a little, “Well, then, we better tide
us both over.” He made haste enough, his hand on me right away, working. “Bring
me something back?”
Couldn’t do it. “That’s the thing, you know. I’m not coming
back, Bevvi.”
He took his tongue from out of my ear and frowned. “What do
you mean, ‘not coming back?’
“I’m going to enlist, see a thing or two,” I answered, not
wanting to explain over-much.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking away. After a
minute, he said, “You’re going for good and you couldn’t tell me sooner?”
“I just decided yesterday. If it helps, you’re the first to
know,” I said, not too happy. Pouting I’d figured on, but he seemed pretty sad.
“You going to tell me why, then?” he whined, sullen.
He folded his ropey forearms on his milkman’s chest. Didn’t
hurt his looks… I wanted this to go well, out of all the good byes I was about
to be saying. “It’s Ersla, Bev. Yesterday night we were setting out the table
for supper and she asked ‘Should I set out a spot of cream, tonight, Arlo’? I
didn’t think anything of it and I said I could do without. Then she said, ‘Yeah, I s’pose you’ve had
your fill’, and I took her meaning.”
Bevvi scratched his head, “You’re head of the house, what do
you care if she knows?”
I smiled a little helplessly. “Well… It seems like a good
time, whatever. Always wanted to see the city and so I’m going to.”
He thought for a second, looking off to the horizon, and
scrubbed his hand through his short, orange hair. “I’ll tell you, Arlo: If I
don’t get Juba’s udder set right and Mrs. Figg gives me the can, maybe I’ll do
like you are. If they’ll take a pig farmer, they’ll take a dairy hand, you
know?”
“I don’t expect I’ll see you, then; I know you’ll get her
sorted.” He gave a little smile at that, the straightest and the saddest I’d
seen on him. I cupped his chin in my hand. “I got a powerful thirst, Bevvi. How about it? The last
sip’s sometimes sweetest, I heard.”
That’s true, as it turns out.
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