One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

She flashed me a smile. “Of course. It’s like I said, we look out for each other here.”

I didn’t reply. I wondered if that still held true where Patrick Owen was concerned.

With our break over, I went back upstairs to the carding machine, sitting on Lottie’s pillow to keep it from the filthy floor. One day soon, I would tell her the truth. Return the pillow to her and admit I made Lieutenant Blackwell’s supper each night. She would be angry, no doubt, at both my lies and my foolishness. Would likely speak to me in the same brusque tone she reserved for Maggie. I hated the prospect of that coldness. We look out for each other – and with each day I saw just how important that sisterhood was. With too much ease, the horrors of the factory were becoming commonplace – the settler taking a woman up against the factory wall, the girl sent back to the spinning wheels to birth her overseer’s child. Talk of what the men did to their lodgers in the night. How were we to survive this place without another to lean on?

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, two male convicts appearing in the warehouse, guarded by a marine. One of the men was a familiar face; most mornings when I returned to the factory he’d be gallivanting around the place with a kiss for any woman who’d let him near. He grinned at the young girl sitting closest to the door. Picked up one of the sacks of cloth that sat in the corner waiting to be taken to the government stores. He murmured to her in words I couldn’t hear over the thudding of the looms. But the thump of the soldier’s rifle I did hear, as it struck the man on the back of the skull. He pitched forward, dropping the sack and spitting out a line of cursing.

“Keep your mouth shut and do your job,” the soldier barked. I turned my eyes away hurriedly. Found myself turning the handle of the carding machine faster, in time with my racing heart.

Footsteps again, as the marine and the convicts disappeared. My tea sat heavily in my stomach. I could hear the thud of the rifle blow echoing in my ears. I’d never known of a place in which the balance of power was so one-sided.

The thought made me turn the wheel faster, as though by throwing my energy into the carding machine, I might let some of it loose from my body. I fed the fleece into the whirring drums, eyes glazing over.

I thought of Blackwell. I’d not seen the same brutality inside him, but perhaps it was naïve to assume it wasn’t there. I had made an active decision not to fear him. An active decision to trust him. But I knew there was every chance it might turn out to be a foolish choice. The men in red coats literally held our lives in their hands. Perhaps it was wiser to fear the hand that wielded the power. Grow too close and he could burn me alive.

I felt a sudden burst of pain in my fingertips. Heard myself cry out. And then a hand on my arm, yanking me backwards before my fingers were drawn into the teeth of the carding drum.

I toppled from my stool, landing heavily on the floor beside Maggie. I gasped for breath, gripping my stinging fingers with my other hand. Maggie put a hand to my shoulder.

“Careful, girl,” she said, her face close to mine. “Careful. Got to keep your mind on the job.”

I tried to reply, but my mouth just hung open. I opened my palm to see a rivulet of blood trickling down my fingers. Pain was pulsing through my hand, but I knew it could have been infinitely worse. I nodded at Maggie, unable to form words.

She got to her feet, picking up Lottie’s pillow from where it had fallen beside me. She brushed the muck from the bottom and sat it back on my stool. Then she reached down and offered me a hand.

“Thank you,” I murmured. And as I climbed shakily to my feet, my throbbing hand wrapped around hers, I couldn’t help but stare at the chain of bruises reaching up her arm.

*

“Are you all right, Eleanor?” Blackwell asked as he came into the hut that night. I was rattling around the place, in an attempt to make supper, unable to keep from trembling. All I could think about was what would have happened had Maggie not yanked me back from the carding machine. I reached for the frying pan and sent it crashing onto the floor.

I picked it up hurriedly and slapped a slab of meat into it. “I’m fine.”

Blackwell hung up his jacket. “Has something happened?”

I shook my head, unwilling to speak of it. Thinking of my near accident made me feel as fragile as a bird. And fragility was something I could not afford to show in this place.

“Nothing happened.” I took the frying pan to the hearth and sat it over the embers. I knelt on the floor and stared into it, watching the edges of the meat darken. The smell of the cooking flesh made my stomach turn.

I heard Blackwell at the washbin and kept my eyes fixed to the pan. For not the first time since I’d come to his hut, I was struck by the utter impropriety of our situation; of having a man who was not my husband so close upon me, washing, dressing, sleeping, breathing. In the fortnight we’d been sharing the hut, we’d fallen into an uneasy, wordless arrangement in which I’d dress beneath my blankets, and disappear into the garden while he washed and clothed himself each morning. In which he’d turn his back while I lifted my stockings and laced my stays.

On more than one occasion, the