Hard-Luck Diggings: The Early Jack Vance, Volume One (44 page)

I consult my maps—there’s the Andes, the Atlas, the Altai; Mt. Godwin-Austin, Mt. Kilimanjaro; Stromboli and Etna. I compare Siberia above Baikal Nor with the Pacific between Antofagasta and Easter Island. Arabia is hot; Greenland is cold. Tristan da Cunha is very remote; Bouvet even more so. There’s Timbuktu, Zanzibar, Bali, the Great Australian Bight.

I am definitely leaving the city. I have found a cabin in Maple Valley, four miles west of Sunbury. It stands a hundred feet back from Maple Valley Road, under two tall trees. It has three rooms and a porch, a fireplace, a good roof, a good well and windmill.

Mrs. Lipscomb is skeptical, even a little shocked. “A good-looking girl like you shouldn’t go off by yourself; time to hide away when you’re old and nobody wants you.” She predicts hair-raising adventures, but I don’t care. I was married to Poole for six weeks; nothing could happen that would be any worse.

I’m in my new house. There’s lots of work ahead of me: scrubbing, chopping wood. I’ll probably bulge with muscles before the winter’s over.

My cats are delighted. They are Homer and Moses. Homer is yellow; Moses is black and white. Which reminds me: milk. I saw a Sunbury Dairy delivery truck on the highway. I’ll write them an order now.

My mailbox is battered and dusty; one day I’ll paint it: red, white and blue, to cheer the mailman. He delivers at ten in the morning, in an old blue panel truck.

When I mail the letter, I see that there’s already one in the box. It’s for me—forwarded from the city by Mrs. Lipscomb. I take it slowly. I don’t want it; I recognize the handwriting: it’s from Poole, the dark-visaged brute I woke up from childhood to find myself married to. I tear it in pieces; I’m not even curious. I’m still young and very pretty, but right now there’s no one I want, Poole least of all. I shall wear blue jeans and write by the fireplace all winter; and in the spring, who knows?

During the night the wind comes up; the windmill cries from the cold. I lie
in bed, with Homer and Moses at my feet. The coals in the fireplace flicker…Tomorrow I’ll write Mrs. Lipscomb; by no means must she give Poole my address.

I have written the letter. I run down the slope to the mailbox. It’s a glorious late autumn day. The wind is crisp, the hills are like an ocean of gold with
scarlet and yellow trees for surf.

I pull open the mailbox…Now, this is odd! My letter to Sunbury Dairy—gone. Perhaps the carrier came early? But it’s only nine o’clock. I put in the letter to Mrs. Lipscomb and look all around…Nothing. Who would want my letter? My cats stand with tails erect, looking keenly up the road, first in one direction, then
the other, like surveyors planning a new highway. Well, come kittens, you’ll drink canned milk today.

At ten o’clock the carrier passes, driving his dusty blue panel truck. He did not come early. That means—someone took my letter.

It’s all clear; I understand everything. I’m really rather angry. This morning I found milk on my porch—a quart, bottled by the Maple Valley Dairy. They
have no right to go through my mailbox; they thought I’d never notice…I won’t use the milk; it can sit and go sour; I’ll report them to the Sunbury Dairy and the post office besides…

I’ve worked quite hard. I’m not really an athletic woman, much as I’d like to be. The pile of wood that I’ve chopped and sawed is quite disproportionate to the time I’ve spent. Homer and Moses help me not at all. They sit on the logs, wind in and out underfoot. It’s time for their noon meal. I’ll give them canned milk, which they detest.

On investigation I see that there’s not even canned milk; the only milk in the house is that of the Maple Valley Dairy…Well, I’ll use it, if only for a month.

I pour milk into a bowl; the cats strop their ribs on my shins.

I guess they’re not hungry. Homer takes five or six laps, then draws back, making a waggish face. Moses glances up to see if I’m joking. I know my cats very well; to some extent I can understand their language. It’s not all in the ‘meows’ and ‘maroos’; there’s the slope of the whiskers and set of the ear. Naturally they understand each other better than I do, but I generally get the gist.

Neither one likes his
milk.

“Very well,” I say severely, “you’re not going to waste good milk; you won’t get any more.”

They saunter across the room and sit down. Perhaps the milk is sour; if so, that’s the last straw. I smell the milk, and very nice milk it smells: like hay
and pasturage. Surely this isn’t pasteurized milk! And I look at the cap. It says:
“Maple Valley Dairy. Fresh milk. Sweet and clean, from
careless cows.”

I presume that ‘careless’ is understood in the sense of ‘free from care’, rather than ‘slovenly’.

Well, careless cows or not, Homer and Moses have turned up their noses. What a wonderful poem I could write, in the Edwardian manner.

Homer and Moses have turned up their noses;

They’re quite disappointed with tea.

Their scones are like stones, the fish is all bones;

The milk that they’ve tasted, it’s certainly wasted,

But they’re getting no other from me.

They’ll just learn to like fresh milk or do without, ungrateful little scamps.

I have been scrubbing floors and white-washing
the kitchen. No more chopping and sawing. I’ve ordered wood from the farmer down the road. The cabin is looking very cheerful. I have curtains at the windows, books on the mantel, sprays of autumn leaves in a big blue bottle I found in the shed.

Speaking of bottles: tomorrow morning the milk is delivered. I must put out the bottle.

Homer and Moses still won’t drink Maple Valley Dairy milk…They look at me so wistfully when I pour it out, I
suppose I’ll have to give in and get something else. It’s lovely milk; I’d drink it myself if I liked milk.