Free Muck by Craig Sherborne Page B

the kitchen. Christine stands, stuffs a handful of dags in her pocket and asks, “Who has milk and sugar in their tea?”
    “Oh, I see,” Feet says with a small laugh, confused. “I’d said to myself, ‘Champagne.’ I just assumed. I’m sorry.”
    Christine picks off a dag and glances at the Jims. The Jims look at each other. They scratch their heads in identical timing and bite their lower lips as if confronted with a problem which must be solved this moment, now. Christine goes into the kitchen. The puff and squeal die away. She re-appears with the champagne.
    The Duke leans over and whispers to Feet. She frowns and stares into the stream. Then, pressing her fingers to her throat as if to keep laughter down, says, “White with one, please.” She lets up two sneering chuckles, the way she does when she’s put out, cross. “I hope we haven’t offended you by bringing alcohol into your house.”
    The Duke smiles across the stream to the Jims. “It probably wasn’t appropriate.”
    Feet frowns an apology to the Jims. “My husband says this is a strong religious area—Brethren wasn’t it? We just presumed that since this is a special occasion.”
    “We’ll know for next time,” The Duke declares.
    The hall-voice this time is stronger, more insistent. “Who is it then?”
    Christine ignores the question, puts the champagne bottle on the sideboard and goes into the kitchen.
    That nodding silence again. Then Feet uncrosses her legs and says, “I admire people of religion. Not that I go for it myself. But my word, I’ve thought of starting a religion. What other business gets away with paying no taxes? Makes the lurks we can claim pale by comparison.” She lets up a hearty laugh.
    The Duke laughs with her but tries to catch her eye to hush her.
    Jim senior leans forward. “We had a bottle of beer in the house once. But we gave it to Rosie.”
    Jim junior nods that he remembers.
    “Rosie?” Feet inquires, pointing to the hall as if presuming the name belongs to the voice from down there.
    “We drenched old Rosie with it to bring her gas up,” says Jim junior.
    “Goodness,” Feet leans back, shocked.
    “She had the bloat,” says Jim senior.
    Jim junior gets up from his armchair and takes a framed photograph from the mantelpiece. He steps through the stream to show us Rosie, a palomino-pale Jersey. “Super milker was Rosie.” Another photograph. “This one here is her mother, Lil.”
    The Duke and Feet perform admiration with muttered Ohs and “My word.”
    This is the opportunity to display my scars and my new knowledge of Jerseys. If I take the photographs from Jim junior, make my movements very slow, leaning well forward into the sun stream, even my red prickle spots will be clearly in view.
    That is exactly what I do. I reach out to take the photo- graphs, and I’m in luck. Jim junior doesn’t want to let either photograph out of his grasp. He actually hugs them away from me. My fingertips are allowed only to touch Lil’s frame, which they do, my scars held up right under Jim junior’s nose.
    “I dip in iodophor. Is that what you do?” I blink at the two Jims, then blink downward so their eyes will follow mine to my scars for admiring the O shape and the white and purple infections.
    Jim junior hasn’t a clue what I’m directing him to do. I give him a hint. “Your Jerseys probably kick less than our lot. Jerseys are much better natured, don’t you think?”
    Jim senior nods, “Rosie was a gentleman.”
    The scars are not attracting the attention I expected. Yet, I should take that as a compliment. My scars are so convincing they are considered little more than part of the everyday way of things by these two men with splintery wood hands.
    Feet wrinkles her brow and shifts to the edge of her chair for a closer inspection of my scars. “You must be very clumsy,” she says.
    I pull my hands back to my lap, my face suddenly so hot that surely it will split with blood rage.
    I unclench