‘You look so serious.’ Molly’s voice sang with laughter.

‘Do I?’ He did not have the temperament to entertain silly girls. Even one with such ripe lips.

‘And why do you find it so hard to look at me? Is my face disagreeable to you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then why must you look at your feet?’

She reached out a hand and tipped his chin so that his eyes met hers. He was determined enough to hold her gaze, but powerless to stop the blush spreading over his face.

‘Perhaps you’ll be less serious on May Day,’ she said, releasing him. ‘I have new clothes to wear and I hope you’ll be able to look at me then. Will you ask me to dance?’

He would rather dress the sow in a petticoat and gambol with her down the village street. ‘I’d be delighted,’ he lied.

His mistake, this day, was clumsiness. Often after church he made some error and Father, having given all his goodness to God and his affection to a headstone, combusted into rage.

Coming in, skittish with dread, he swung the door too hard and knocked over that day’s milk.

‘Oaf,’ Father yelled, as Daniel knelt by the puddle and mopped it up. ‘You know what you’ve just lost me? Know what that’s worth?’

Daniel kept his head to the ground.

‘Never mind the stink it’ll leave.’

Daniel stood to take the soaked rag outside.

‘You listening to me?’

He raised his eyes in time to see a fist, feel the blow slam into his face and send him spinning, door handle cracking into his forehead.

Daniel folded to his knees, milk soaking through his breeches. No blood this time. Through his fingers he saw Father’s legs step in front of him, his chest then face as he knelt.

‘Son,’ he said. ‘Why must you always goad me so? You know I anger swift.’ With gentle touch now he pulled Daniel’s hands free, peered at his face. ‘Not hurt, not too much. Here, let me help you.’

He lifted Daniel to his feet, sat him at the table near the fire. Reached out a hand that hovered over Daniel’s head then withdrew.

‘Bite to eat, perhaps?’

Daniel nodded and forced a smile. Father heated a pan to make sops and dripping, as Daniel knew he would, as he always did. He was sick to the stomach, a feeling worsened by the scent of the warming milk. One he would always associate with pain, and his father’s regret.

Summer Sky

The well, like all that once made up our hamlet, is tainted by death.