Dairy-Girl

Part One -

“Why does death appeal to you?"

"I would say the same thing some people might say in response to why does life appeal to them: because of its potential. Don't you find it gripping: what might happen once these fleshy vessels cease to breathe? I speak not even of religious and biblical promises of an afterlife, rather quite reasonably of what could occur. Forget the white robes, empyrean light, let's think about this — why would one believe that the destruction of flesh leads to the destruction of mind?"

"Because the mind is the brain, a part of the body." 

"Right, so, explain to me a thought." 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, tell me what a thought is."

"I don't know what to say. It comes.”

"Right, because if you break into the skull you wont find any thoughts; there is no material matter comprising what we think. I’m not declaring that something will happen when I die, or that I'll even be conscious of anything that might happen, I'm just professing my curiosity, my excitement. Think of what might be!"

"And what if nothing?"

"Then my consciousness will not be available to consult itself with regards to its nonexistence. No harm done." 

"Don't you think that if what thoughts exhilarate you most in life are not of your prospects or position but rather the ending of your current state of existence, then your life must be pretty discontenting?"

"Not my life, rather life itself. And I am not discontent, my man, life is discontenting. You seem to be getting muddled up, I’m not planning to eat the barrel of a pistol for lunch." 

It was a morning generous with warmth and consistency. A triviality led one man to the other here, but that lead them to their current pool of discussion.

"So it was with the cat, it might be for the man curious about death." 

"Let me submit that I'd rather be the cat who died of feline curiosity than a dry old one stripped if its inquisitiveness. What's a cat without that? Not a cat, a capricious, housebound fluff-ball. The point of inquiry is that you are doubtful, you want to know more, you’re uncertain as to what you might find. To say that you would suspend your investigatory inclinations lest you might find something you don't like is like saying I won't try a cheesecake because I might not like it." 

"Well what is stopping you from following your inclinations? What prevents you from putting a gun to your head purely out of wondering what might happen?"

"An instinct of self-preservation… Or something of the likes, I suppose."

"So you admit that no matter how curious one might be the could never end their life purely out of curiosity?”

"I'm not sure; I wouldn't like to say." Both men paused. 

  "Well, boy, I better be off."

"Yes. Yes," replied the other with haste. "I'll see you later, then, about a quarter-to-eight?"

"The party is at half-past." 

"What's wrong with some sophisticated indifference?" Quentin huffed, Andre smirked.

"Goodbye, now - and don't get too curious." 

"Yes. Yes. Adieu, Quentin."

  In a distant sector of the same town in which this dialogue took place a girl of fourteen — probably younger — was churning a bucket of milk. An eager bead of young sweat swam down her temple, leaving a shiny trail across her pink cheek. The air around wasn't particularly tepid so much as it was musty, but she had been churning since ten o'clock this morning. She paused labour, her face tickled by gossamer strands of brunette hair swinging in the air, and gazed up into the sky recognising the sharp silhouette of a gliding bird; she noticed its freedom, yet did not envy it. After sighing almost contently she continued to follow the bird with her sight, only to be interrupted by the arrival of a lissom gentleman. 

  The girl lived in the less urban quarters of town, on a farm characterised by its notoriety; its notoriety apparent by virtue of its well-known owner: a tempered and tough lady of an elderly age, also the auntie of the dairy girl. Felice was her name, and harsh resilience was her stamp. She came to own the farm in consequence of her haughty husband's death. During a spring some years ago Felice's lover fell from a horse and broke his back: paralysed from the waist down. This immobility was no less than a curse to a man who prided himself so much on things revolving around physicality — shooting, horse riding, maintaining the farm… He grew depressed and found joy in none of the limited things he was able to do. He passed away bitterly before sixty, some say from sickness, others misery. 

  So that was how fiery Felice acquired the dilapidated, meagre farm. 

  Dying also at different juncture was Felice's brother. Something determined had taken hold of him and it did not let go until it had squeezed every last breath from the humble man. His name was Marston; his wife died giving birth to who, at this point in this narrative, is churning milk, which left him with one child and no lover at a time where he’d a mere reason to live and no money. Marston lived plain, his demeanour strikingly consistent, mature, his house virtually the same; most commendably he displayed total unflagging love for his motherless daughter, a love sometimes spoke of in the rural county — well, not ‘spoke of’ as such, rather sensed. 

  Completely counterpoising Marston's laxness and love was his sisters flame. If, in anger, he would bark, Felice would roar. This contrast may or may not have drove them apart, however, distant though they were, Felice remained the closest kin to take care of his daughter when, herself age seven, Marston took his last breath.

And these series of events leave us with an understanding as to why Juliette is now stirring milk for her churlish auntie in the town of Vetford, moments from meeting Quentin. 

 "Excuse me, young lady; you wouldn't happen to know the owner of this farm, would you?"

"Of course. That's my auntie, Flora."

"And where might I find her?"

"If you'll be so good to wait here I can go and call for her."

"I admire you readiness, little lady, but I'm not much one to wait long in patches of mud. It makes me feel like a penniless..."

  The word vagrant might have been uttered, or something worse, had Quentin not assessed the level of pauperdom distinguishing this farm, and feeling the pure presence of a peasant girl. He smiled instead of finishing his sentence, observing the dirtied clothing worn by his young interlocutor. Juliette peered back with childish niceness. However, interrupting their glares was the sudden emergence of Flora. 

  "And who is it whom must suffer such a discourteous glare of yours? Where are your manners, Jules?" Quentin did not think the look seemed discourteous at all, rather sweet. 

"My name is Quentin Parker, madam, here to enquire about this land and property which, this young lady informs me, belongs to you." 

"She has told correct, Mr. Parker. Would you like to come into the house where we can discuss things in privacy. Continue making milk, you!” 

  The gentleman followed Flora, conscious of the mud dirtying his boots. (The ground was moist from recent rain.)

  The farm was decaying. In the eyes of Flora is was just ‘old’, but with its shabby beams and rotting wood Quentin saw it to be crying out for productive attention. 

"Would you have some milk, Mr. Parker?" 

"Um, yes actually. Thank you," replied Quentin, still twisting his head around to examine the building. 

"It wont collapse, I assure you," said Flora, taking a seat on a chair appearing even more on the precipice of inutility than the roof she was referring to. 

"So.. what can I do for you other than provide you with milk?" 

"I stopped by to make a proposition. My friend and I are looking to make an entrepreneurial endeavour. Both of us have a reached a point where we feel ready to commit to an potentially fruitful idea," said Quentin, his eyes lighting up upon the phrase "fruitful idea." We like Vetford, and..."

“—Do you live here?" 

  Slightly taken back by Flora's interruption Quentin replied, "Yes," only to continue his point. 

"But we wish to invest in a place we know. Both of us in fact have spent considerable time here and want to know the atmosphere of the place we wish to begin building our foundations. We want land here.” 

"You're a businessman."

"Not exactly. Somewhat.”

“Why don’t you try the milk." 

  Uncertain as to how much Flora was paying attention, Quentin sipped the milk, also wondering if the lady's lexicon was the reason for her apparent lack of understanding. 

"So, Mr. Parker, I think I know what you're going to ask." Swallowing a mouthful of milk, Quentin gestured for her to continue. "You want to buy my farm." 

"Well... yes,” he replied, laxly.

”It's not 'well yes' it's just: yes. Yes Flora, I want to buy your farm. But sadly, Mr. Parker, it's a no from me."

"Without reviewing an offer?"

"If your offer wont throw me into a castle of luxury then yes, it's a no." 

Quentin perceived there to be no room for negotiation, and this startled him. 

"How is the milk." 

"Delicious," he replied, knowing full well that thoughts about the quality of the milk could not have been further from his mind. 

"Good. So is this meeting settled? 

"It would be sound to say so. Thank you for your time, Mrs?..."

"Flora, just call me Flora." 

"Well, Flora, if you ever change your mind you'll find me living in Harley house." Quentin rose to depart. "You needn't accompany me leaving; I can find my own way."

"Then you take care, Mr. Parker." 

  Quentin, in addition to being befuddled by the rapidity of his meeting with Flora, was a slender chap, tall, prim, eyebrows thick, jaw prominent, wallet full. He saw the world through a pair of deep brown eyes scratched with odd patterns, and his dense and dark stubble created a bluish stain upon his defined face. Although, Quentin didn't walk upright and high, instead he strolled a little hunched, a tad droopy, and most were correct in their thinking that he did so very unawarely. “Prop him up and he’d be a handsome man,” say the gossipy groups of drama-seeking maids.

  When he stepped outside from the farmhouse his woody eyes descried the milk-girl once again. Combatting his rejection by Flora, Juliette infused him with a pleasurable sensation, such as one might receive in observing the warming naivety of a young, pleasant child. She recognised his observation and waved, sending little breezes of joy to brush his face. Quentin questioned whether they emanated from the soft relief in feeling cool air brush his recently flushed face — because of Flora’s blunt decline — or Juliette’s little wave; and just as softly as she flexed her hand, the thought of how many pretty women may be at the gathering tonight entered Quentin’s mind, and he left the farm eagerly, cooly lured by lust. 

Part Two -

While Quentin was moments from being urged to "try the milk" his friend, Andre, was deciding what to wear for the gathering. He knew his friend, his partner in busines, had swaggered over to the farm with the offer — the one that got calmly and curiously rejected. Much of their business held little space in Andre’s mind; never thinking anxiously about the potential of the plan, it simply skimmed through his mind with the coolness of a pebble on the ocean while his faculty remained focused considerably more on what collection of fine ties he had procured. The farm was distant.

The party itself was still hours away, making it pointless to actually put on what Andre had chosen; yet Andre had made a valued reservation in his heart for vanity, - if any can be found is such a place - and his rehearsed process of pulling jackets from his wardrobe and sliding trousers up his legs sometimes lasted just shy of three hours, which was, in this case, approximately how long it was until a quarter-to-eight.

Quentin arrived at the room and pre-party conversation ensued between the pals. Quentin told him about the farm, about ‘Flora the adamant’, and he told her about the milk-maid.

“Do you ever think about children, Andre?" 

  Turning around feigning disconcertment, Andre replied:

“Catamites?” falsely squishing his eyebrows. 

"Oh, give off! I don't mean like that, you idiot. Do you think about having children?" 

"No."

"No?" 

"Never. Well, that's a lie - the only time I think about having a child is when I'm mentally summarising all the reasons why it would be utter stupidity to have one. You look as though you think different... Do you?"

"Not sure."

"You should ask yourself: do you want to be anchored to a set of unessential responsibilities? It’s a no-return ticket, fatherhood.”

"You see, that's the point. Like death: you bite this cheesecake and can't just spit it out if you don't like it, and the cheese could be really testing, repulsive even.”

“Indeed... Though, I don't know," added Andre, giving a look of someone drowsily accepting their lack of knowledge only for their own vanity in the hopes that their humble exhibition sprinkles them with virtuosity and their modesty falls like confetti, "I understand that not everyone is me with my inclinations, but what I fail to understand is why anyone would want a child.”

"You said it wrong, chap; it should be: I understand that everyone is not me with my inclinations, so! I fail to understand why anyone would want a child."

  Andre smiled. "Quite true," and after a patch of silence, he continued. "I suppose it might be interesting to see the product of your 'sewing the seed'. I don't like that uncertainty though. Who will the child grow up to be? A someone? A nobody? A vagabond or vagrant? A saint? A killer? A fat-fingered peasant? What if your son is a scoundrel?”

"That's considerably influenced by you. The uncertainty isn't: 'Who will the child grow up to be?' but: 'What will I tell them?' That's where my doubt lies.

 "Mine lies in whether it'll be pleasing to look at."

“Do you know Victor Hawford, the tailor? He once had a friend who had a boy but the boy's father travelled as extensively as the mother worked, so, rather a lot of the child's time was spent in Victor's care. Victor and the child formed quite a bond. He would teach him handwriting, numeracy, make him lunch and show him all kinds of epic novels and all the rest of it. The father eventually returned home after some long months away only to hear his son tell him as a rebuttal in a heated scenario that Victor was his true father. Naturally they stopped their son from learning from and spending time with Victor. Victor moved out of town, and I think it rather upset the child. I suppose the less time you spend with your child the greater the fear of how they are utilising that time. What are they up to, because they’re going to be a man one day: what kind of man? A man from you, doing things a man is capable of doing.”

"Yes yes. Slimy little cretins. But don't worry, Quenty-pie, your child will be fine with me." 

"If I ever wish for my child to cultivate ideas crippling to their sound functioning and fruitful for inflating vanity then I'll consult you, Andre, I assure you.” 

"And if you want them to harbour some delusional notions that encourage a life of fanciful optimism then I know of a wizard a few streets away." 

Part 3 -

The party proceeded. A large room began to gradually fill with a bunch of people somewhere between mediocrity and zeal; the odd dame was divine-looking, and the odd man had a charm with depth, however most were, put simply, simple.

Andre approached a rigid Quentin.

“What are you looking at like me like that for?”

“I thought you said these gatherings were nonsense? I’ve been watching for ages - you look like you’re having the time of your life.”

“I’ve got to smile, old chap. There’s no point in coming if you wear a frown: that wont get you inside anyone.”

“Where's the point in coming if you think it a superficial masquerade.”

“Masquerades are fun! It’s like a little Venetian carnival inside a shabby old… Yes, well, but there is a point in coming… Look, tell the—the thing between your legs your stance; I suppose you might find more delight in talking to yourself all evening like a miserable fart? Don’t you want to treat your snake? I’ve been talking to the most marvellous little lady, you know - quite impressionable but by god she’s... well, not sublime, but still attractive, just over there.” Andre, subtly motioned towards a particular direction for which Quentin had absolutely no concern. “Her naivety is the gateway to her groin. It’s too easy! Anyhow, Quenty-pie, Cheer up, nincompoop! Have a drink.”

Quentin was left mildly influenced by his phallocentric friend. He did in fact find himself a drink. but could not drown his feeling of alienation. When Andre said the word ‘naivety’, he thought of the milk-maid. Still, he pushed himself to chat. During these deplorably trivial confabulations he could not help but summon another image of Juliette or the farm in his head. He watched his interlocutors jaw gyrate with an empty stare, feeling a noticeable sensation as he processed the discordant sound of collective mutterings, the forced radiance of the filled room and the smiley social masks of the people in it. The idea of sitting by a fireplace in a bohemian little farmhouse teaching Juliette her grammar appealed to him far more greatly; and it was this occasion which allowed him to become so aware of his fondness for the girl.

*

.

*

Again we find Quentin talking with Flora. Quentin comes under the guise of making another offer, but something internal lies begs to inquire about Juliette.

"How old is she?” He asked. Both gazed at the girl, manoeuvring with her numinous but meagre might, genuinely.

"She'll be fourteen in April. Terrible luck. Her mother passed away during birth, then my brother. I don't think she's like other girls, I'm not sure. What are girls like nowadays?" turning to Quentin, who was still enraptured by the working lass. 

"Her education… is it?"

"It's worse than patchy, that's for sure. I think she might have a few mental issues.” Quentin felt the contrary. To him, she seemed like a girl with a reason to frown every single day, but struts forward in naive bliss. 

Part 4 -

A fire jolted nervously when a swift and hearty breeze rushed down the chimney, and the worn doors rattled from the outdoor gusts. Suddenly the temperature dropped; the air itself seemed to be possessed by a cold and aggressive spirit as it speedily attacked everything in its path. Hhanging lanterns nearly blew off their hooks, dead leaves came to life and men held on to their hats with such true worry, authentic anxiety.

Then the rain came. 

Half-two in the afternoon. Rounds of aqua shot from the black, tempered clouds and smashed against the roofs of the village houses; colossal cracks of thunder seemed like the cries of a lovelorn god and the sky turned a bruise-blue perhaps thereby. In an instant, everyone who was outdoors was caught in an assault of fat rain falling from the sky. They rushed to and fro, ushering one another out of the way in a measly frenzy, scanning for the best place to hide from the storm which most hoped would last a mere hour or two. Some dashed into their cottages with their wetted younglings; some plodded miserably with work equipment in their hands looking quite glum as though the rain were a perfectly infuriating preclusion of work; others stood under porches by thresholds holding out their hands to calculate the sheer amount of water beginning to fall; but one young girl stood still, peering up at the sky, her ginger hair dripping and her eyes blinking as rain rapidly interspersed onto her midday face. Contrary to the archetypically dark theme of the rain, the oppression of a storm, this process of suspending action - and thought - and just tilting her head back to look up infused this girl with a bright joy, a glowing pleasure greatly amplified by the quick disappearance of everyone, but bluntly terminated by the voice of Juliette’s auntie. 

"Jules, what in god’s name are you doing? Get inside!” But this girl was not Juliette. Flora’s niece had gone, abandoned her and the farm and the milk duties and that agonising vocal, which now, once Flora had grown concerned for the whereabouts of her niece, began to twist into a frightened one.

“Jules! Jules! Where are you?!”

Not especially far from Vetford, stomping determinedly through the meaty mirth was Juliette, alone and equipped with only an amalgamation of dynamic thoughts and emotions boundlessly supplemented by what she inferred to be her auntie’s innate hate for her. Her disbelief in her aunt’s love for her had tickled her long enough: it had now formed a grasp on the girl.

“What are you doing out here alone in this weather?” said a voice from a drenched figure on a drenched horse, a voice that perhaps projected in a more composed atmosphere would have sounded silvery.

“Shouldn’t I ask you the same thing?” answered Jules, in an irritable tone. The rain continued to wax worse.

“Where are you going?”

“To find shelter.”

Despite the curiosity aroused by Jules in the man, it was no position to be exchanging much dialogue; rain seemed to be more shot from the sky than falling, voluminous roars of the skies grew louder, impelling the anonymous horseman to offer his assistance.

“I can offer you a ride to the nearest town which I believe is Vetford?”

“Is that where you’re going?”

“Not if there’s somewhere closer.”

“I know a place: I’m going there. If you let me ride with you, you can take shelter with me until the storm passes. There’s a fireplace. It’s an old house about a mile that way,” said Jules, ignorant to the chain of events she had fated herself to. Her cute, mousey face, streaming with water, peered up at the rider, her eyes speedily blinking from the rain splashing into them, evoking not pity in the man, but the overwhelming feeling of an opportunity.

“Of course, little lady. Hop on.”

After an approximate mile of difficult and messy riding the pair arrived at the house. It looked more like a rustic cabin than a place of residence — it was small in size and obviously derelict, and situated ‘far enough’, as the horseman thought, from the nearest town.

“I assume this is the place you were talking about?”

“Yep. That’s it. Now, c’mon. Let’s get inside - I’m freezing!”

The two dismounted the horse to approach the front door, Jules leading. Her tiny and sinuous figure, partially visible from her thin, soaked clothes, the horseman sucked up with his eyes which now assumed an expression of fiendish resolve and a harrowing dark glow. Tenebrous though this shack seemed, Jules illustrated only her own form of pluck.

“It’s locked. Let’s try the back.” The nameless man said nothing in return, but acquiesced with a mouth salivating, a tad open, releasing sluggish, sinister breaths.