A Sad Loss
by Ralph Alcock
It was still his house he reminded her. And it was still his farm, even if it was, now, the smallest one in the dale.
The house needed modernising, she’d told him.
Can’t expect her to follow the old ways, his son, Robert had said.
Wouldn’t have said that before she came along.
And the farm; fences and buildings needed repair, it needed newer machinery and it was too small - too small to support all of us, she’d said. He liked things the way they were. He hadn’t asked her to move in. But Alice had married Robert and she’d insisted they live at the farm. She wanted changes.
Bloody woman. Over my dead body, he told her; told them both.
The dog was in his chair, in the front kitchen next to the black range. The arms of the chair were singed from the years it had spent close to the coal fire that once burned in the hearth. He could almost feel the heat it used to give, toasting one side of his face pink and scorching the hairs on his arm nearest the fire, while his other hand and his other cheek remained cold and pale. There was no fire there now, of course. There hadn’t been since Jean had died. Angina, the doctor said. She’d been warned to take it easy, but there were always things to be done. She never stopped. Not until she stopped. Not until they buried her. They were all there; glaring at him, accusingly. Worked her to death, they said.
The dog gave him a one eyed glance and slid, serpent like, off the chair and onto the floor. It cowered slowly away, its head low and the white hairs along its back standing, bristle thick. It gave a low growl and its rubbery lip curled briefly exposing a yellow canine. It was her dog, Alice’s. She’d brought the mutt with her. It was almost a collie, apart from the whippet like body and thin legs. Ugliest dog he’d ever seen and no farm dog. Shep she called it. Mutt he called it.
He kicked it, kicked it hard. He prided himself on not swearing, not in public. But in his head he swore. Fucking dog. And when there was no one there he swore. Fucking dog. He lashed out again. Fucking dog! He couldn’t kick her, but he could kick the hell out of her bloody dog. He’d tied it up the other week and beat it with a yard brush after he’d caught it with a dead chicken, blood dripping from its mouth.
She knew something had happened, especially when it ran off whimpering when she’d picked up the yard broom. He’d shown her the chicken with its head dangling, its neck nearly torn in two and its innards hanging like yellow globs of fat.
Had to be taught a lesson, he told her. It’s a working farm. Can’t have a dog killing chickens. He’ll get a taste for it. Might have to tie the dead chicken round its neck and leave it until its rank and crawling with maggots. Put the dog off chickens, he told her with a self-satisfied sneer. Have to be put down if it killed anymore chickens.
He’d heard them arguing. Her thin whining voice leaked under their bedroom door and filled the passageway. 2
Robert – you’ve got to do something. We can’t go on like this. That’s why there’s never any money.
