Wyld Dreamers

rattling in the bucket. She eats the nuts while she’s milked.
Amy’s wrists and hands are strong now, and she’s come to love the rhythmic pull and squirt of the twice-daily task. Spreading her knees, she draws herself right up against the animal and rests her head on Daisy’s scented flank. With alternate hands, she squeezes the milk down the rubbery teats until they flop like flat balloons.
Ten minutes later, the bucket brims with frothy creamy milk. Only a few weeks ago she was not so competent. One day Daisy kicked over the pail and Amy shouted in exasperation as the hard-won liquid trickled into puddles. The frightened cow hid at the end of the muddy yard as Amy found she was crying over the spilt milk.
But she couldn’t help it. Ever since Shirley died, she starts crying at the oddest time and without warning. The lyrics of a song, a dead mouse that Pepper leaves in the boot room, stones that sparkle in a steam brook, she can’t predict what will set her off. David finds it exasperating.
Amy heaves the pail on to the kitchen table.
‘Morning, milkmaid.’ Julian eating cereal looks like Daisy does when she’s chewing the cud. ‘What the hell are we going to do with all this milk?’
Simon is putting bread between the hot plate and hood of the Aga. ‘Do you want a p-p-piece of t-t-toast, Amy?’
Upstairs a door slams. ‘Yeah, thanks. Well, I’ll give some of the milk to Mrs Morle and Lynn and then…’
‘That’ll get you in her good books,’ Julian teases.
‘...and I’m going make soft cheese with herbs from the garden.’ Amy pulls a recipe book off the dresser shelf and starts to flick through the pages.
‘I didn’t know we had herbs here. How very rustic. Pour us a cup of tea, will you, S-S-S-imon?’
‘Yes, there’s thyme and sage and mint. Found them when I dug over the ground. Here’s a recipe. It says… “curdle the milk with lemon juice or vinegar. Once it’s set, hang the curds in a muslin cloth over a bowl overnight and drip out the whey….flavour the curds, sweet or savoury.” That’s what I’ll do then.’
‘It sounds disgusting. Whatever it is you’re making with rotten milk, I’m not eating it.’ David comes into the kitchen. He’s trying to sound cheerful but she can tell he’s irritated. ‘Gerald’s been sick in the bath, Julian. I’ve put him on your bed to recover and told him to clear it up.’ He pours himself some tea.
‘I think it s-s-sounds delicious, your herby ch-ch-cheese, Amy.’ Simon watches her drop vinegar into a pan of milk. ‘I’ll eat it even if D-D-David won’t. You’re such a great c-c-cook.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiles up at him.
Half an hour later the kitchen is quiet. Amy arranges the clean bowls and tea cups on the dresser. She sweeps the floor of crumbs and the mud that’s fallen from dirty boots; it does not, apparently, occur to anyone to remove their wellies before entering the house. Why does she feel it would be bossy to ask them?
In a large bowl, she sprinkles yeast on to warm milk that’s sweetened with honey. She watches as the tiny granules bubble and foam into life, releasing the aroma she’s come to crave. Stirring in wholemeal flour makes the mixture turn ropey. Dusting her hands, she kneads the swollen dough until it’s as tacky as chewing gum. Making two loaf shapes, she punches them down in the pans and covers them with a cloth to ‘prove’. The language of bread makes her happy.
She remembers the pleasure her mother took in household tasks and how she, Amy, would deride her for it. Now she too appreciates the comfort that domesticity can bring. How could she have been so unkind as to mock her mother about something she enjoyed? Emotions clog her throat like uncooked dough.
‘Hallo.’ Gerald is leaning against the kitchen door, dishevelled but infuriatingly he looks composed. ‘Good day. Are you alright?’
‘You made me jump. Morning, Gerald, I’m just a little… it’s nothing.’ She resents being caught in a private moment.
‘Is there any tea?’ He looks around hopefully.
She resists the urge to fetch him a cup. ‘Kettle’s on.’ Is her nose red from crying?
Gerald pours boiling water into a cup, then sloshes milk on the counter. ‘Whatever it is that’s getting you down, forget it, that’s the way.’
As he cuts a slice off one of her loaves, he sings: ‘I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden…’
Spreading butter and jam thickly on to the bread, he goes into the sitting room, slamming the door. Amy puts the loaf back in the bread bin and sweeps the crumbs off the counter.
Maggie is squatting against the back wall of Bramble cottage. She’s meant to be scraping paint off the window frames. But surely it’s important to start only when you’re ready? Her hair needs plaiting or it’ll get full of dust.
It’s getting colder each day. At least the checked shirt and dungarees she found in the airing cupboard keep her warm and, cinched in with a belt at the waist, makes her look like a proper farm girl. Digging into her pocket, she finds her tobacco and rolls a breakfast cigarette. Helen’s out the front: Maggie can hear her calling to Bob, so she won’t notice this slow start. Helen’s amazing, she knows so much about building. Bob confers with her on most decisions. She’s strong, too, lifting bags of cement just like the men. But has she forgotten how important it is to pace the day?
Maggie is enjoying life here. She’s not a country girl, not like Amy, who delights in having dirt under her fingers nails. But living in this group, practically a commune really, is a hoot. If it means you have to scrape paint, then so be it.
There’s always new people staying, someone Seymour has suggested should visit or Julian’s friends, someone who’s been thrown out of a squat or been kicked off their pitch