Shortlist Saturdays: Ours by Emma Johnston

The old stove smoked as she pulled the muffins out and placed them on the table. It had probably been there since the house was built, dutifully making meal after meal, feeding growing families and heating the small kitchen. She felt, in time, that she’d come to understand the stove, and so the smoking didn’t bother her. Besides, she’d never owned a stove before, but this one was hers, completely hers, and she was ready to fill it with cookies and baking bread and hot soups bubbling on the stovetop. Today, on their first day, it filled the room with the welcome smell of warm strawberry muffins, berries picked from her garden that very morning.

  “Take your boots off, they’re covered in mud, yah,” she said as he walked through the front door, bringing in a flurry of late spring scents and cascading sunshine. His shoulders ached, and his hands were blistered; he and that worn shovel had been working hard. The soil was thawed, but heavy with spring rain.

The hinges creaked as he closed the door behind him; it was okay, because for the first time in his life, it was his front door. An old, creaky, slightly misshapen door, but his. Maybe he’d oil it tomorrow. Homeowners did that sort of thing.

  He smiled at her, as he took off his muddy boots and hung his hat on the coat rack. The boots were a bit tight, but they had new laces and good soles, he would never turn down a practical pair of boots.

  She was pulling hot muffins from the tray, wisps of pale hair falling out of the haphazard bun she’d thrown up so many hours ago. The baby cooed in the highchair at the table, and they both looked at the child and smiled.

  He came over and kissed her temple; she leaned into him and then nodded to the washbasin. “How’s the little man doing?” he asked, tussling the child’s hair as he went to wash his hands.

“Happy as a clam.” She smiled, breaking off a piece of muffin and blowing on it gently before placing it in front of the baby. The boy gurgled happily and she grinned. Such a sweet child, how lucky they were.

  They sat together at the simple wood table, barely 3:00 in the afternoon, but tired from a long day. She’d been scrubbing the house, top to bottom for hours. Her knees ached, but who could be upset about cleaning your own home?

She served the muffins on slightly chipped plates, nothing fancy, but theirs. He poured them both a coffee into tin mugs, not their first choice, but there was no greater luxury than sitting in the middle of the afternoon and enjoying a hot cup of coffee.

  They finished eating and the baby reached out to be picked up. 

She grinned, swinging him into her arms.

He loved watching her with the baby; she was new to this, but she was a natural. He’d always known she would be.

He cleared the table, while she sang a gentle, made-up lullaby, until the baby drifted off to sleep.

“I’m going to gather the eggs,” she said eventually, placing the baby in a small, wooden crib in the corner of the kitchen. She tucked him in with a white blanket. She’d always imagined her child having a bright, yellow blanket; it reminded her of daffodils in the spring and freshly churned butter. She would sew one for him before the summer was up.

  “Bundle up,” he said as she went to leave the house, “there’s a cool breeze out there. It doesn’t seem to be as warm here in June as it was further south.” She nodded and reached for the knitted sweater hanging by the door. It was too big for her, and a rosebud pink, not her favourite colour, she was too pale to like pink, but it was warm, and it hung low on her body, it did what it had to do, and how upset could she be? It was hers, a warm, pink sweater.

She gathered the eggs, and the hens clucked at her angrily. They expected their eggs to be collected in the morning, this would never do! She hushed them and promised to be out bright and early the next day. They were her chickens now; she would have them loving her in no time.

  On the way back to the house, she stopped to pick some tulips by the barn; she hadn’t noticed them in the darkness of dawn that morning, but they were colourful and bright and swayed along the wood like a parade of colour. Next spring she’d be sure to plant crocuses… perhaps some bluebells. She would love her garden to be full of bluebells.

Inside, he wiped down the dishes and searched the cupboards as he put the plates away. They’d need to go to town and stock up on some supplies, maybe a week before they ran out of flour and the sugar wouldn’t last much longer. He silently vowed never to let the cupboards be empty. There would always be food for his family. Flour for bread, eggs, butter, fresh vegetables from the garden. This was the perfect home to raise a family.

  He frowned slightly at the black and white photograph hanging on the wall by the sink. A hairline crack running through the glass. He took it down carefully, and removed the picture. Placing the frame on the counter, he then went and scooped up the baby who nestled into his shoulder and went out to find his young wife.

She stared calmly at the freshly-turned soil behind the house, her basket of eggs and flowers at her feet. He slipped his free arm around her slender back, pulling her close.

He hoped one day she’d be plump, filled to the brim with the food and comforts he could provide her.

  “What do you think of Gladwell?” she asked, as a mild spring breeze played around the edges of her dress.

“Are you glad, my dear?” he asked her.

“Both,” she replied looking up into his face. “I am so glad to be here, with you and this little bundle.” She rubbed the baby’s back. “And I feel well for the first time in years. Free, happy.” He smiled and nodded. “Gladwell it is.”

  “And the baby?” he asked, pulling the blanket gently back from the sleeping child’s face.

“Perhaps, Henry,” she said, “after that dang horse.”

He laughed gently. “Ah Henry, what a loyal and stubborn animal. I like it!”

“Henry then,” she said. And ran her fingers through the tight little curls on the baby’s head. Not like their hair, which was straight and wispy, but they didn’t mind. He was theirs.

He surveyed the large yard, the small, but solid house, the freshly-dug soil waiting for her flowers. “Well, Mrs. Gladwell, little Henry. What do you think of this new life?”

She grinned. “It’s perfect Mr. Gladwell. It’s perfect, because now it’s ours.”