Rachel stretches her arm over her shoulder and fumbles to undo the covered buttons at the back of her neck. She slips the silk blouse over her head and lays it flat on the kitchen table. She bunches a tea towel and runs it under the cold tap, dabbing at the yellow stain on the neckband. The mark is stubborn and only a small amount soaks into the tea towel.
‘Damn! I should have used sticky tape before I wet it. Why didn’t I think?’
She shivers, lifts the thin lace strap of her white bra back onto her shoulder, runs cold water into the Belfast sink and plunges in her blouse. It bobs to the surface; the white fabric mirroring the white porcelain, a bright yellow scar spreading into the clear water.
She rests her hands on the edge of the sink and observes herself in the mirror hanging on a nail hammered into the window frame. Putting both hands behind her back she unclips her bra, and lets it fall down her arms and onto the floor. She breathes in and holds her shoulders back, willing her breasts to rise with her rib cage. She cradles them gently, lifting them higher up her chest, allowing her string of pewter pearls to tuck into her newly formed cleavage. The pearls look dull and lifeless against her dry, crinkled skin.
Lifting her hair from the back of her neck, she unfastens the diamante clasp of her necklace and runs the pearls through her fingers. The smallest ones at the ends are cool, but the king pearls in the centre glow with warmth, as if they should have their own heartbeat. She runs the warm pearls over her front teeth and feels their secret roughness and knows they are a treasure to be prized. They were hers by right, or they would have been, after her aunt had died. Her uncle knew she’d taken them. He’d caught her admiring herself in the biscuit tin lid, propped against the wall in the shed where the farm hands drank their tea and the yard dogs slept.
‘You don’t need those, lass.’
Rachel had turned bright red.
‘A fine looking girl like you doesn’t need trinkets.’
‘I only borrowed them.’
He stood behind her, said quietly, ‘Lift up your hair.’
She scooped her black hair up into a ball at the back of her head.
‘How old are you now, lass?’ he whispered.
‘Nineteen next, uncle …’
He kissed the back of her neck, his moustache tracing her skin like a spider’s legs. She watched her blurred vision in the biscuit tin lid, her hands still holding her hair in place.
Her uncle brought his hands round to press tight into her belly and she let out a low, soft moan.
‘Undo your blouse,’ he whispered.
She closed her eyes, left one hand to hold her hair and started to undo the pearl buttons. Under her blouse was a huge, white, lace brassiere.
‘Undo it.’
For this, she needed both hands. Her uncle pulled her blouse off and down her arms, then cupped her breasts gently in his rough hands. He put his chin on her shoulder; his stubble scratching her bare skin,
‘There, that’s how pearls should be seen.’
She arched back her head, stuck out her bottom and exulted in the power of her body. Her uncle rubbed himself against her, twisted her hand behind her back and pressed it against the front of his trousers. She felt something hard, violent. Suddenly she was afraid and tried to pull away,
‘Uncle! Please!’
He turned her around and looked at her with a puzzled expression. ‘What’s the matter, lass?’
‘What was that?’ she said, pointing to his groin.
He laughed softly, ‘Do you mean to tell me you’ve never been serviced?’
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, picking her blouse up from the straw.
‘You know, like the bull does to the cow, like the ram does to the sheep.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well, I never. A little prick-teaser like you. I thought you would have had a string of men. Sex, Girl, I’m talking about sex. What you felt was my prick.’
Rachel put her blouse on and started to button it up, ‘I never knew.’
‘Would you like to?’
She blushed, angry with herself for the colour in her cheeks. She looked up, defiant, ‘I have a boyfriend.’
‘What? That George fellow? Well, he hasn’t serviced you. That’s obvious. I should say you’re well ripe for it.’
She picked up her bra from a straw bale and shook it, ‘I’d better get back. I’m supposed to be baking bread.’
She turned towards the door.
‘Rachel?’
She looked back. He held out his hand, ‘The necklace.’
Reluctantly she undid the clasp and dropped it into his large, open palm. He held them up to her face, ‘They suit you well. Would you like them?’
‘Would you really give them to me?’
‘Your aunt has no use for such a lovely necklace, but you …’ he shook his head, ‘they’d bring you pleasure, wouldn’t they?’
She nodded.
‘You could give me pleasure,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘I’m out rabbiting tonight and, when I get back, I’ll be in here skinning them.’