Ladies From Hell by Keith Roberts

considered. “Problem the second,” she said, “is making the handover. Because I am not, repeat not, going to put myself inside your reach.Not yet awhile. I guess that’ll set us back right to square one. So what I propose …” She reached, almost in slow motion, for a thin wooden pole, some four feet long, that lay on the hut floor. It looked as if at one time it might have been a curtain rod. “What I propose,” she said, “is the coward’s way out. That way I managed to live to my present healthy age.”
    Very slowly, she began pushing the saucepan of water toward the bunk. “According to the book,” she said, “this shouldn’t scare you none. You got a critical distance, ain’t you? Well, what’s coming inside it is your saucepan. And you know what water is, don’t you? Water don’t hurt …”
    The pan lay within the Rural’s reach. She tensed, trembling; relaxed again slowly as the stick was withdrawn. “Attagirl,” said the American once more. “Tell you what. Next time, you just come straight out and say you’re havin’ gas. OK?” She laid the pole down. She said, “Well, go on honey. There’s your drink.”
    The Rural stayed huddled; and the other sighed. “Well,” she said, “I guess we can’t win ’em all …”
    Something bounced and crashed down the embankment a few yards from the shack. The Rural’s head jerked round sharply, then back to the American’s face. “Well, how about that?” she said, intrigued. “Honey, this becomes more and more encouragin’. Because whatever you are or not, you are
not
deaf …”
    The Rural was exhibiting strong anxiety symptoms. Her eyes flickered rapidly, from the stranger’s face to the window and back.
    “I wonder what’s eatin’ you now,” said the American girl. “Let’s just try and work it out. Your food parcel’s come, ain’t it? Like you knew it would. Somebody up there looks after you real good. And you want it bad. ’Cause if you don’t get out there pitching, one of your little hairy pals along the way is goin’ to get there first. Only you can’t get out there. Because there’s no way past me. You can’t work me out at all, can you? There’s just no way.”
    She uncoiled herself again, gradually. “I am gettin’ mighty stiff,” she observed. “You have got very much the best part of this deal.” She strolled from the hut, stoopedto the crate, hefted it and returned. “Problem solved,” she said. Then she grinned. The Rural, apparently, had not moved; but the handle of the saucepan was turned round the opposite way. “That is my girl,” she said. “Honey, you’re comin’ along just fine. Just like that puppy dog I told you about …”
    She crossed the shack, set the battered cardboard container down. “I am going to start turning my back on you just a little more,” she said. “Which may, or may not, be a capital error.” She found the can opener, used it and returned with a faint groan to her place by the door. “Pork and beans,” she said with a grimace. “Ain’t you just the lucky one …” Once more, the pole was brought into use; the opened can inched across the floor to stand finally beside the saucepan. “From the looks of you that’s how you generally eat,” said the American girl. “So I don’t have to tell you to mind your fingers …”
    The Rural stared at the open can, and back to the door. The problem was baffling, insoluble. The light of the long day was fading; and the stranger still barred the way, still held her prisoner. She had decided, almost certainly now, that she was not the Thunder-thing; the Thunder-thing had claws, not a soothing voice with brook-water in it. Also—and again a far memory stirred—she had given her drink, and food. Her mind grappled with the concept of giving. Surely there had been someone else, long ago, who had given such things to her. Someone warm …
    She found herself stirred by wholly-forgotten emotions. She moistened her lips, stared