The Seary Line by Nicole Lundrigan Page B

fed them all week. Waythey goes at a Sunday meal.”
    â€œGeorgina got mine all taken care of. God bless her.”
    â€œI needs time to iron those cloths for the service. But I expects I’ll get them done by sundown.”
    â€œWell, I think I’ll take a spell,” Mrs. Primmer said. She sat on the step that led to the altar, shook her head. “Don’t know what’s to become of the men. What’ll they do?”
    â€œDoubts if the Fullers’ll extend us either bit more credit,” Mrs. Burden said. Her voice cracked, and she put her hand to her mouth. “Don’t know how we’ll make it through the winter. The girls’ll have to come out of school. Work to get by.”
    â€œThey don’t deserve this. The men driving themselves into the ground. All for nothing.”
    â€œNo need to be heading off to the camps this winter. There’d be nothing to do with the logs they cuts.”
    â€œThe river’ll be empty. Nar man out on the logs with his pickpole and peavey.”
    â€œSure, that’s no kind of life, anyways, if you asks me. Sleeping on those old bough beds. Eating old bologna, a scattered baked bean, gingersnaps if they’s lucky.”
    â€œSurprised it’s not the death of the load of them.”
    â€œEvery year, John’s a shadow of hisself when he comes out.”
    â€œAnd do you know what they does with all that wood?”
    â€œNo, maid.”
    â€œShips it to the States, they does, where they uses it to make the insides of pianos. Can you fathom it? Our men near killing themselves so that some uppity rich youngsters can play their pianos.”
    â€œI never knowed.”
    â€œMrs. May got a piano.”
    â€œWell, that’s different.”
    Mrs. Burden whimpered, pressed her side into the wall by the door, knuckles in the mouth now.
    â€œNo point to belabour it,” Mrs. Hickey chided. She was on her knees, both hands gripping a wooden brush. As she scrubbed, her backside, like two over-risen loaves of bread bound together, waggled. She sat back onto her calves. “Who amongst us is going to cast the first stone, hey? Like I always says, you can’t unring the bell, ladies.”
    Curious about how it might feel to live inside such a grand body, Delia began to stare at Mrs. Hickey as she worked. A hint of jealousy bristled within Delia when she noticed Mrs. Hickey’s body jiggling. Every few swipes of the scrubbing brush, the woman would pause, reach her soapy hand behind her and tug at the hem that was riding up over her backside, exposing her slip. Delia ran her lean hands down over the bodice of her dress, felt her ribs beneath the fabric. Skin pulled over bones, her body was nothing more than a series of emaciated racks. Mrs. Hickey, on the other hand, had surely managed to establish such a form by denying herself nothing. Plenty of lard, white sugar, heaps of dripping scrunchions. Her hefty skeleton was tucked deeply away, safe inside thick layers of fat, a good foot of room between her soul and the outside world. Delia wondered if she might be happier if she had Mrs. Hickey’s hips, her doughy folds. And she had the sudden urge to put her arms around her, squeeze the softness, feel the warmth that such a pelt might offer.
    Delia stood, daubed more lemon oil onto her cloth, and began to wipe down the pulpit. “It’s good fortune that Percy makes furniture in the winter. He’s guessing it’ll tide us over until the mill is built up again.”
    â€œâ€™Tis a pity we idn’t all as fortunate,” Mrs. Well said, words a caustic drip. Then, with smugness, “Doubts there’llbe much sales, though, when nar man got a job.”
    â€œHe thought of that. But he says most things he makes goes across the harbour anyways.”
    â€œWell, now.” Mrs. Hickey hoisted herself to her feet, face mottled like beetroot smashed on white china. “I don’t believe