There are houses into which the morning enters like a long-remembered guest, laying its hand upon the bread as though it had always possessed a right to be served there. Our own could claim no such welcome. The dawn advanced along the lane, pressed against the swollen door, and gained admittance only after protest. The light proceeded a little way across the glass, spread itself with hesitation upon the boards, and faltered altogether when it reached the hearth, for no mother stood ready to greet it.
I rose first, as I often did, roused less by rest than by hunger, which is punctual where comfort is not. The embers lay hidden beneath their ash, cold and unwilling, offended by long neglect. Kneeling, I coaxed them with the kindling Heath had split with careful hands. The flame appeared and retired, appeared again with modest conviction, and at last consented to remain. It crept into the cracked brick with cautious charity, as though it feared to indulge us beyond the smallest kindness.
I set the kettle upon the hook above the fire, for kettles seldom forget their office when cupboards have failed in theirs. The iron gave a small cry as the beam received its weight, and the sound travelled along the ceiling until the house itself seemed to take notice. Such tokens are precious where larger mercies are withheld; even the promise of a song may steady a morning that begins in want.
Arabella stirred upon the narrow bed. Her cheeks, still round enough to imitate comfort, betrayed the lie when she asked in her determined voice, "Is there porridge?"
"Not unless the pot has learned how," I said. "We will have tea."
She rose with the gravity of a little queen and tied her ribbon before the warped glass. The mirror supplied two Arabellas that wavered but nearly agreed. She untied the bow, tied it again with greater defiance, then turned to her play. She became the fishmonger, loud with trade; the neighbour's wife, brisk with opinion; then our mother returning home with counterfeit cheer.
"I have brought us something," she declared, eyes wide, voice stretched with joy. Her laughter broke off quickly, for the house hushed her, as if sound itself were a trespass.
The kettle sighed and then relapsed. I washed the cups that had been washed yesterday, for cleansing what is already clean carries the shape of prayer, and the house, I think, honoured such offerings more than words. I worked the stiff handle of the pump until it gave a grudging cough, and a thin thread of water clattered into the pail and stilled, as if to listen. The cloth traced a damp ghost across the table, faint but insistent, a reminder that no gesture truly vanishes.
Heath's mat lay empty by the door. The latch had spoken once, and he was gone with his stick across his shoulders, eager for labour or for mischief, whichever offered itself first. The air beyond bore salt, tar, and the rank breath of rope. The Atlantic could not be seen from every window, yet its voice ran through the timbers and lingered in the corners. The house carried that voice in silence, and so did we.
The passage divided us. To the left was the room Arabella and I shared, with Heath upon his mat beside the old trunk that sagged at its hinge. To the right was my mother's chamber, more imagined than inhabited. Between them stood the little washroom, poor in its plainness: a chipped tub, a cracked jug and basin upon the stand, and a privy beyond the back step that protested more than it served. When rain pressed in, the plaster rose in blisters; when the air dried, it settled back into restraint. A house keeps its tempers as faithfully as a body keeps its humours, and we had learned to live with both.
"Stand still, Bella," I said, straightening her bow. She frowned and yielded like a cat pretending resistance. In the trembling glass her reflection seemed almost another child, one who might have been better fed or better loved.
"Do you think it will storm?" she asked, not meaning only the weather.
"The tide is loud," I said. "The sky has not chosen."
The stair rose narrow from the scullery to the room above. The rail, polished by lives long before ours, leaned low for me and high for Arabella, who let her palm run along it as if fashioned for her alone. Each step uttered its own complaint. The landing swelled as though considering our weight before allowing passage. The room that served as kitchen and parlour stretched in plain expectation. The iron stove crouched by the chimney and ticked once, shyly, as if to announce itself to the walls.
The latch spoke again and Heath returned, hair dark with damp, skin already burnished with a bronze he never thought to notice. He carried a brimming pail, a bundle of twigs, and a pocket heavy with flint. He cast the twigs by the stove and knelt before it with the solemnity of a priest at an altar. Sparks failed once, failed again, then took their courage. The stove received them with a steady breath.
"The flame will not listen to me alone," he said, smiling a little.
"You will burn the house one morning," I answered.
"Then we shall be warm," he replied, pleased with the old jest.
So we fell into our ceremony. Arabella laid the cups. I scolded the kettle. Heath coaxed the fire. To any eye from without it might have seemed sufficient, for children know how to make ritual out of want. Yet the house, which knew our mornings better than we did, held its silence, and the light upon the wall waited to see what use we would make of another day.
The morning held together as well as it could, each of us faithful to our little part. Yet beneath the small order we kept, another duty waited. My glance fell to the wash-pan near the wall. It had stood too long, and the sight of it pressed against me with an urgency I could not ignore. The house seemed to draw its breath about that corner, as if reminding me that neglect gathers weight when left unchallenged. I rose, knowing I could not turn away again.
The pan had stood for weeks unattended. A film stretched thin across the top, and the peelings beneath had swollen to pulp. The smell reached us before I touched it. It filled the room with a breath so foul and heavy that every mouthful of air tasted of decay.
I set my hands within, meaning only to cleanse, and was betrayed at once. The water stirred though I had not moved it, and from below there rose a host of pale creatures, shameless in their writhing, breaking the surface with dreadful eagerness. The stench, long imprisoned, was loosed in its full violence. It seized my throat so sharply that I could scarcely breathe for its offence. It reeked of corruption, thick and sour, a waste that clung to the tongue and seemed to creep into the chest. No softened word of decay could disguise it. It was filth, and it mocked me.
Arabella squealed and clapped her hands over her mouth and nose. Then, true to her habit, she bent and heaved in imitation, sharp sounds muffled through her fingers. "Serpents," she gasped between false retches, "a dish of serpents for the lady." Her laugh came quick but faltered, fear stronger than play.
Heath hurried forward, his face drawn with worry. "Clara, do not," he said quietly. "Leave it."
But I could not. To flee seemed worse than to endure. I plunged again, though the creatures slid like insults across my palms, and the reek swarmed closer, until even the boards beneath my feet seemed to groan with reproach.
I bore the pan to the door. The foul water slopped upon my gown, and the ditch received what I could not bear. I scoured the tin with sand until my knuckles bled and rinsed until my arms shook, yet the smell clung, as though it had written itself upon me. The house shifted in its joints, and I felt its gaze. It had seen the neglect I did not yet understand. It knew the mother who did not return, and the father who sought tavern and card-table over his own. Where I perceived only filth in a basin, the house saw long years of waste, and pressed its knowledge upon me in silence.
When I returned, nothing had moved, yet everything was altered. Arabella sat hushed, her ribbon fallen into her lap. Heath crouched by the fire with a face too grave for his years, feeding twigs as if they might answer him. I dried my hands, but the smell rose again each time I drew breath.
"It is done," I said.
Heath shook his head. "You should not have. You should not." His voice was low, but his eyes were full of care.
Evening crept in, and the house grew weary of its own silence. The boards sighed more often. The windows dimmed with a film of salt and damp. The stove breathed low, each tick unwilling to count another hour. Hunger sat with us, lean and insolent, daring us to deny it.
We denied it with play. Heath built a fort of chairs and called it his ship. He planted his stick for a mast, and Arabella made her ribbon a flag. She gave orders in a captain's voice. Their laughter rose bright, and for a little while the house held its breath, as if guarding the fragile joy that children can conjure from want.
When darkness pressed against the windows, we yielded. We tidied, for tidying is an admission that the day must end. I spoke the prayers Mama had once taught us. "God keep us. God bring her home safe. God let the morning remember us." Arabella's amen floated like a feather. Heath's fell like a stone. Mine was the sound of a door pressed with all my strength, a door that did not move.
The fire sank to embers. Shadows crept until the room leaned inward, not in menace but in weary knowledge. I thought of the basin, of the pale creatures, and how the house had watched in silence. It remembered what I had done, though it offered no comfort. I told myself I had not fled, that I had endured. The stillness gave no answer, and it was kinder than laughter.
When I lay down, the boards beneath me felt stern yet faithful, as though they knew more of endurance than of comfort. Beyond, the Atlantic moved in its endless measure, and the house bore that sound in its ribs, pressing it upon us with the weight of truth.
Thus ended the day, without miracle and without collapse. It left behind the quiet that falls when children have done all they can. Hunger remained, and grief, and a little hope, yet sleep came, for even the weary are owed that portion. As the hush settled over us it spoke what we had no strength to refuse. Childhood was gone. Gone with the foul water cast into the ditch, gone with the creatures that slipped through my hands, gone with the morning that entered and found only us. Should childhood ever return, it must knock upon some other door.