Free Signals of Distress by Jim Crace

Dry Manston
    S ABBATH SNOW was coming in from Canada, preceded by a morning of tepid and deceitful air. There was no frost and just an ounce of wind, but anyone could
tell that cold was on its way. The sea was pearly with pilchard shoals; seals and porpoises were seeking shelter close to shore; cormorants meditated on the rocks and did not fish; and there were
hardly any penitents in Wherrytown who’d left their beds for morning prayers with Mr Phipps.
    At Dry Manston the cattle from Quebec stood in squads or lay under the few low thorns between the high ground and the beach, their backs against the wrecking sea. Miggy and her mother hoped it
would be easy to trap one of these mournful, docile cows. They’d have fresh meat, and what they couldn’t eat within the week, they’d salt. They were up and out soon after dawn and
planned to have one killed, butchered and concealed in an hour. They each had rigging ropes, flotsam from the Belle : one rope round the neck would hold the cow, one round its hind shins
would bring it down. It should only take a single blow with a rock between the eyes to make the beast insensible. Then perforate the spinal column with a knife and cow was beef. That was the
principle at least. They’d never had to kill a cow before. They hadn’t had the chance. The most they’d done was club a seal to death and skin it on the beach.
    The cows were wary and unpredictable. They wouldn’t let the Bowes get close. They put their haunches in the air, hauled their bodies from the ground, and stood, face on, whenever Rosie or
Miggy approached. They lowed in protest at the cold. They weren’t fooled by gifts of grass. They backed away. They ran.
    It was amusing for a while. Rosie tried all kinds of tricks to trap a cow, and entertain herself. She crept up on the cattle from behind, but got no closer than before. She tried to hypnotize a
cow with weaving hands. She’d seen a donkey hypnotized that way at the farthing fair in Wherrytown. She made a sudden dash – with no success – and then fell down into the spongy
bracken, laughing unselfconsciously. Miggy was embarrassed by her ma. She wanted beef. She was too old to be amused.
    ‘We’ll never get one if you fool around,’ she said.
    ‘Don’t be so frownin’, Miggy. We’ll never get one anyway. Those cows in’t wanting to be caught. I’m getting back indoors. My feet and back are soaking
through. You coming with me, or will you stop and sulk?’ Rosie was annoyed. Her daughter wasn’t much of a companion. She was as clawed and joyless as a cat.
    Miggy let her mother go. She liked to be out on the coast alone, the windswept heroine. Besides, she’d seen a distant figure on the path. It wasn’t usual to see strangers – or
officials – walking on the Sabbath. That’s why Miggy and her mother had chosen Sunday to help themselves to beef. There was a chance, then, that it was Palmer Dolly. Might he come by?
And let his black hair mix with hers? Miggy wanted to be kissed. What must it be like to be kissed by someone other than your ma? More nourishing than beef! Sometimes at night she practised kissing
her own mouth. She wet the insides of her lips and let them slide. She teased her palate with her tongue. She skimmed her chin and cheeks with her fingers. She licked the tissue on her palms. She
found that, by touching the folds between her legs, she could reproduce the breathless tremble that she felt when she encountered men of her own age. A better place than home was just a touch
away.
    She’d not been alone for long when she discovered one of the shipwrecked heifers, grazing in an impasse of rocks and furze above the coastal track. She only had to stand resolutely at the
open end and make a noise to trap the cow. It backed in more deeply. It dropped its head, either in resignation or to butt its captor. Miggy looped a rope round its neck and kept it back by
slapping its nostrils. What should she do, with Rosie gone?