A Time for Courage by Margaret Graham

zig-zag.
    Joe moved nearer. ‘Here take it.’ His voice was louder now, ‘But just by the rim. It’s hot, you see.’
    Yes, she did see. And yes, the cup was hot. She could feel it as she took it from him. The cup was hot and the air was hot and the thought of the two bodies rose again.
    The tea was sweet. She did not usually have sugar. Joe must like it. So
he
was to blame for her mother’s illness; her father was to blame, and not his daughter, and not her mother either, for how could she force a man as strong and powerful as her father away from her or, for that matter, to take measures to prevent children if he did not choose to do so. There was no relief in the knowledge that the guilt was not hers just anger that the blame had been laid on her at all and revulsion at the thought of his body on her mother.
    She finished the tea. It tasted strange. It must be because of the milk Joe had poured from the brown medicine bottle. Yellow blobs of cream had floated on the top of the tea. She had tried to catch them with her lips as she drank but they had melted before she could. And still there was anger and it was growing. Anger at her father. Pity for her mother. Anger at them both for blaming her for the illness and still the dull ache of her new knowledge.
    Joe was taking his boots off. I’m going for a paddle,’ he said and drew his socks from his feet. She looked away. His feet had hairs on the toes. She had not seen a man’s foot before and it shocked her. It was ugly and big and powerful. So different from hers. Men were very different, weren’t they? Was her father hairy like that, were his joints large, his bones thick?
    ‘Come on,’ he called as he turned towards the water.
    She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not allowed.’ Not wanting to be too close to his maleness.
    He walked carefully over the grass and stones, down to the sloping bank and over, stepping in, pulling his trouser legs up. ‘It’s lovely,’ he called as though he had not heard. ‘Come on in.’
    But she wanted to think, to try and hold the facts. To push the images away.
    It’s wrong, she thought, for Mother to have to go through all this illness when it’s not necessary. It is wrong of him. She was making herself think the words slowly and clearly or they would run away too fast, letting the pictures of the two of them together take over. But it is also wrong of Mother to let him. But she had no power, had she? She had no power. Oh Mother! And pity was mixed with rage again.
    She looked at Joe, at the coolness of the water and her mouth felt hard, as though it was in a straight line, as though her lips had disappeared completely. She wanted to hurt them both, to break their rules as, in her mind, they didn’t deserve her obedience. She took off her boots and stockings, rolled up her sleeves and undid her button. She would be brown tomorrow when she went to the mine, but what did it matter?
    She walked on the grass, her skirt held up with her hand and she felt a freedom that was quite new. The earth crumpled beneath her feet as she slipped down the bank and it moved between her toes. Her feet were grey with dirt. Joe spun round and laughed. ‘Good girl,’ he said and turned back as she slid her feet into the water.
    It was cold, so cold, and her toes gripped the bottom. Stones slipped over and round her feet, carried onwards by the water. ‘Are you all right?’ Joe asked. And she knew he did not mean the water.
    She looked across at the bank opposite as the water dragged at the earth and swept some away. ‘Yes, I’m quite all right, thank you.’ She stooped and let her hand fall in the water. She caught some and let it trickle through her fingers. She stooped again and cupped some. It was quite clear.
    ‘I’ll teach you to tickle some trout if you like,’ Joe offered, watching as she stood so quietly.
    ‘Do they like it then?’ she queried.
    Joe laughed. ‘You do me good, Hannah Watson,’ he said. ‘No, it means we’ll