The gift of cotton in mud (Completed)

Petra

Petra twisted her fingers between shivers, feet frozen to the spot she battled to pass by every morning. Cold from the stained concrete floor pushed through her rubber boots; something she could never become used to, though all her years were spent on the lands of Tara: a farm nestled in the Free State. The hundred year old house had wooden windows established to guard cattle kraals rather than invite in the sun, yet a warm kindness had always been present to welcome strangers and embrace friends. But now Petra's soul lived under a shadow. For weeks an invisible grey cloud hung about, having precipitated the night her husband fell before his killers. Now it was impossible for her to move uninterrupted between the bedroom and the kitchen. The darkened patch on which she stared had been washed every day since, but only seemed to soak her husband's blood deeper, and she feared she could never welcome another stranger at the house again. 

Eventually she became unstuck and moved on to the enormous kitchen. A cat sitting on the wooden island licking his lips at an out of reach cupboard, interrupted his stare to wail at her. It was a wretched sound he had recently adopted—somewhere between hunger and heartbreak.  Petra stroked his grey lines. "It's okay Chookie."

He gave another wail.

"You're not handling this part of our journey very well. I ache for him too, but getting fat isn't the answer."

His eyes challenged her sensibilities while an extended claw pierced her cotton skirt.

"Ouch, I see I don't have a choice!" She reached for the cupboard and retrieved a nearly exhausted box of Chockits biscuits. "Just one then."

"Is that your breakfast?" Her daughter Laura materialised, hair wrapped in a bath towel, an ever present hand gun weighted the pocket of her fluffy, pink dressing gown. "Why don't you have the muesli and yogurt I bought you from Woolies?"

"It's not for me," Petra replied.

"Of course it is!" Laura searched the black packets she had dumped on the counter the night before. "Crabs, this is a mess. Where's Cynthia?" Her hands went to her hips. "What time does that woman come in?"

Laura's surprise visits always seemed to pull the greyness closer, though Petra did not want to admit to it. "The biscuit is for Chookie," she said. "He's very naughty, I know. I'm fine, I've already eaten."

"What did you have?" Laura snorted and opened the fridge. "I'm worried about you, Mother." She said hurriedly, "I come all this way to see you because I'm worried about you here in the sticks, no one looking after you. I can't sleep thinking of the things that might happen to you... that has already happened." The fridge vibrated shut and Laura began to attack the lid of a yogurt tub with her manicured hands.

"I worry about you too." Petra eased the Ayrshire double cream yogurt from her daughter's extended nails.

"Why?" Laura asked with a raised penciled-in brow. "I told you, Kete and I are fine now. We just need to board that plane and leave this awful country. Kete says–"

"Porridge," Petra interrupted. The yogurt lid burst open.

"Excuse me?"

"I had porridge before I fed the chickens and tea between that and letting the goats out." Petra clutched her stomach. An uneasy notion pressed inside, all set to spew out, but she held it in as her daughter would certainly despise the idea.

"Oh." Laura shifted. "You're still trying to do everything yourself." She snatched the yogurt back. "I swear all these people just hang around here to watch you work. And those kids–" She nipped a spoonful of creamy yogurt into her mouth and closed her lips. "Oh–oh wow. This is so good. Better than your farm porridge, and probably healthier too. Yes," she pointed with the spoon, "Tara should have a break from your porridge."