Skinner has been up since four. He milks his cows twice a day by hand. He is down to a dozen now, and they line up at the gate in the paddock waiting to be let into the milking shed. A lifetime’s habit brings both the cows and Skinner to the gate every morning at this hour when everything is in darkness, even in summer.
It is light now and he feels the effects of a bad night’s sleep. Skinner has always been a good sleeper, has always slept the sleep of those who rise early and labour through the day. It is Skinner’s dilemma that has kept him awake at night lately and he has made his decision. He will approach that light. At least, he will go to Miss Carroll’s tent and he will present her with a small gift. They have spoken before when she comes for her water, but only briefly. The gift, he imagines, will bring them more to say. Perhaps. A start at least.
He is standing on the back veranda, where he has nightly gazed upon her light, looking out across his paddocks where his cows munch happily, their udders drained. He holds his gift. Or, rather, three gifts. In one hand is a small metal container of fresh milk, in the other a block of butter and some cheese. His milk, his butter, his cheese. He thought long and hard about what his gift should be, and these items, the product of his labour, are the result of deep consideration. A gift, he thinks, must be carefully chosen because it can mean many and varied things. It can be a welcome, the kind of welcome that anybody who has lived in a community for a long time extends to a newcomer. An act of generosity that is likely not to be repeated. But it might also be the way a small community such as theirs draws others into its circle, making it stronger. There, it says, we have given you this; now you are one of us. Now we have you. For with this kind of gift comes obligation. And those who do not wish to be drawn into the circle of the community (and Miss Carroll gives every indication of being one of those), who have always lived on the edges of a community, are faced with a choice when presented with such a gift: to accept or refuse. It is an awkward moment, for such a gift is an invitation, albeit an intrusive one to the likes of Miss Carroll, and a refusal of it a snub. And snubs are never forgotten. A gift may also be a way of saying thank you in such a way as to close the book, a way of seeing off a debt or an obligation for those who feel the obligation of such communal courtesies. A service has been rendered, it says. A payment made. Book closed. We need not bother each other again. But, and this is the gift that Skinner brings to Miss Carroll, a gift can also simply be an expression of care. A way of saying, I have watched you carrying your bucket to and from my farm; I have watched you walking to and from the butcher’s, baker’s and grocer’s. You have entered my world, you and your light, and my world welcomes you into it.
This is the way he would like his gift to be received. And with this intention in mind he opens the gate at which the cows line up in darkness and closes it behind him before walking across his paddock towards Miss Carroll’s tent.
Soon he is standing on the road where the journalist and the photographer stood the previous day, contemplating her tent. It is light, still early, but she will be up. It is, he suspects, both her habit and her pride. It has been her habit, he imagines, to rise early all her life. She has that look. And in age it is pride that keeps her rising early, for it demonstrates both to herself and the world that she is still active and still of use to herself and that world. And confident of all this he calls out a simple hello. But even as he inwardly pronounces it a simple hello, he knows it isn’t. For although they have talked before, this, he knows, is different. This time he has come to her. She has not come for water; they have not passed, as they sometimes have, on the Old Wheat Road. He has come to her. Furthermore, he has come with a gift. This, in short, is a visit.
Moments after he calls, the flap of the tent opens and she pops her head out. She is wary and at first the look on her face does not speak of welcome, but as soon as she sees it is Skinner the look softens and Skinner draws confidence from this change of expression. He is, all the same, stiff and rigid, his toes pointed slightly inward, leaning to one side, a faint smile spread awkwardly across his face. A manner that says, I am here but if you wish I can go. The manner of someone unused to calling, to making a visit.
‘Mr Skinner,’ she says, stepping from the tent.
‘Miss Carroll,’ he returns.
It is their way. Whenever their paths cross, whenever they meet, on the Old Wheat Road or when she comes for water, this is the way they address each other. They do not use Christian names. Always Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner. To use first names, it is tacitly agreed and has been from the start, would be presumptuous. Would be to assume a familiarity that they have not yet earned the right to assume, but which one day they might. It is also a way of establishing a common identity. That they are Old World. That this is the way things were always done in the world they knew. One was formal; one did not assume. One did not play fast and loose with people’s names either, for to play fast and loose with the names indicated a talent (and talent is a questionable quality in this case) for playing fast and loose with the people who bear those names.
And so as Katherine approaches Skinner and they begin their conversation, it is as Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner.
‘Good morning,’ he says, nodding.
‘Good morning, Mr Skinner.’ She glances at the gifts, then adds, ‘I heard you this morning, talking to the cows.’
What she doesn’t go on to say is that she listens for him every morning, that she has, over the months she has been on the land, become attached to the sound of Skinner bringing in the cows for milking. It is, in the same way that her light is for Skinner, a comfort. What’s more, a comfort that neither of them is aware of providing the other. So the sounds of Skinner at dawn and the sounds of the cows have now become synonymous with her mornings and ease her into the day.
He looks down at his gift. ‘I thought you might need these,’ and he holds out the milk in one hand and the butter and cheese in the other. He does not say he thought she might ‘like’ his gift, for liking something does not make it necessary. But if something is needed it adds weight to the gift. Makes it appear considered, not a mere fancy.
‘They are yours?’
‘Yes,’ he nods, emphatic. ‘The milk’s as fresh as the dew,’ he says, handing them to her. ‘And the butter and cheese are tastier than anything you’ll buy from the grocer.’
It is then that she smiles, Skinner’s gifts in her hand and arms, a large smile. The kind of smile that does not just come from the lips but the eyes as well. And it occurs to Skinner that she has not received many gifts. That she is not the kind of woman upon whom gifts are often bestowed. And it just might be that she is also acknowledging the care and consideration that have gone into the gift. It is with this smile that Skinner imagines he can also glimpse the previous Miss Carrolls, the Miss Carrolls who eventually lead you back to the girl. All still there, like those dolls that sit inside one another. For Skinner has noticed this in people — how an unexpected pleasure not only lights up people’s faces, but gives you a glimpse of what they were. Releases the child in them. Gifts can also do that.
‘Well…’ His hands now empty, Skinner is not sure what to do with them or with himself. For to stay, after the giving of the gift, might be to imply that the gift was merely an excuse to talk. And idle talk, like the use of first names, would cheapen the exchange. So Skinner looks back to his farm as if to imply that work awaits him, when, in fact, the work of the morning has already been completed. Of course, he could find things but the truth is he doesn’t have to leave. But now that his hands are empty and the gift is given, he can find no just reason to stay. ‘Well then…’
‘Thank you, Mr Skinner,’ Miss Carroll says, Skinner noting that the smile is still on her face and in her eyes — that glimpse, that shadow of what she once was, the child, the girl, the young woman all still hovering about her.
But before he leaves, and he is distrustful of the impulse because it was not part of his intention as he walked across his paddock, but all the same, before he leaves he suggests (and it is more in the manner of a suggestion than an open invitation) that when she next comes for her water that she might like tea, adding that he also makes his own cream, creating, as he does, a picture of bread and jam and cream.
She nods and Skinner notes that there might also be trust in that nod; that if his gift has established anything it has established that. Trust. And so he leaves her standing by the road, one hand holding the pail of milk, her other arm clasping the butter and cheese to her chest.
She turns as Skinner walks back. A gift has been given, a gift has been received. Trust, quite possibly, has been won. And, he observes as he trudges back to his farm, hope has entered his heart. He has come nearer to the source of the light that draws him out onto his back veranda each night, and upon which he will gaze again tonight, knowing that Miss Carroll has nodded in response to his suggestion and that, having nodded, Miss Carroll, when she next comes for water, will stay for tea and he will create a table of fresh cream, jam and bread when she does. He has come nearer to the source of the light. And the glow of the light, like the petal of a rose, has not been bruised by closer inspection.