Ladies From Hell by Keith Roberts Page B

crate, a plate on her knee. Above the plate, regularly, moved a little bright stick. She watched it, fascinated; and the other paused. She said, “What’s the matter now, honey? What’s wrong?”
    Almost it was as if the dream switched back on. She held her hand out, mewing; and the Warm One laughed. She said, “Sure you can, Babba. Look, Jack, look at that. She wants to be a grown-up girl …”
    She blinked; and the American was standing staring quizzically down. She said, “You want to eat with a
fork
? OK, honey, you go right ahead. Here …” She held her arm out. The Rural pressed back against the wall; and she laughed. “Oh, no. You want it, you take it from me. Come on. I ain’t going to bite …”
    The shiny stick poised tantalizingly in the air. She stared, at it and the plate; and her fingers went out and snatched. The American girl watched, fascinated. She said, “Honey, I just can’t figure you out …”
    The thing was awkward at first; the food skidded away, theplate all but overturned. Then it was as if an old, forgotten skill came from somewhere. She broke the food with the side of the tines, pressed with the points. A morsel came up, on the fork; and she transferred it to her mouth. She ate steadily, her eyes on the other’s face, till the plate was cleared.
    The American watched closely, head on one side. She said, “Are you just copyin’? Or …” She shrugged. “Anyways, it don’t make no odds. As my old Prof used to say, ‘Build on what you’ve achieved …’” Very deliberately, she took a cloth from her pocket, damped it with a little water and wiped her mouth and chin. Then she walked forward, keeping a wary eye on the fork still gripped in the other’s fist, laid the cloth on the bunk edge. She turned her back, busying herself with the breakfast things; but she knew that, clumsily, the Rural followed suit.
    The American poured water from a kettle into a bowl. “What we could use,” she said, “is a little soap. You got any soap?” She peered at the great mound of boxes and cartons that filled the back of the little place to head height. “What you got in there? Soap, I wouldn’t wonder. You just store anythin’, don’t you? Anythin’ that rolls down. Like the butane cylinders. You didn’t know what they were. But you fetched ’em in anyways.” She stacked the dishes beside the little stove. “You got any clothes here?” she said. “That thing you’re wearin’ ain’t fit to be seen. What’s left of it. Started out white, I shouldn’t wonder. Come to that, so did you …”
    She put her hands on her hips, surveyed the tiny place critically. “You know,” she said, “this could be OK. Needs a scrub-out with carbolic, ain’t nothin’ else going to save it. But they pay for fishin’ shacks smaller’n this in the States. Needs a hammer, some nails, fix up that window … We’d be like bugs in a rug. Or maybe that is an unfortunate choice of phrase …”
    She started hauling at the crates and bales, lifting them down, peering inside, setting them behind her in a growing stack against the wall. The Rural watched, baffled, from her bunk. “I guess you’re wonderin’ about me,” said the American girl. “Well, sometimes I get to wonderin’ about myself. I’ll tell you somethin’ now for a start. I could have killed you yesterday,straight off. No bother, no fuss. Splat, just like that. ’Stead of talkin’ myself hoarse all day, losing most of a night’s sleep. Wanna know why I didn’t? You don’t? Well, you’re goin’ to anyways.” She yipped. She said, “Well, Goddam. Cigarettes. Gauloises too. How the Hell’d you come by
them
…” She tore a packet open, felt for her matches. “I guess they’ll burn like horse droppin’s,” she said laconically. “But a smoke’s a smoke …” She inhaled, critically, blew through her nostrils and shrugged. She said, “Well, I tasted worse …” She laid the cigarette down, and went on with her