The sun was warm on the cow’s back, the day had been mild, and she was making her way into the yard for the afternoon milking. The new grass was coming through now, watered by rains from the south and dried again by the cool winds that followed.
Today the pale heat was tugging at it, rousing it from its sleep. The cow’s hooves moved slowly, her udder swinging its old rhythm and her brown eyes cast towards the troughs of feed by the cowshed.
Deirdre Broderick was waiting there for her impatiently. Here she came, slow as you like. Deirdre tut-tutted and rubbed her bony knuckles. Arthritis. Here she was for milking. It was the same routine every day of their lives, in a rhythm demanded by nature and duty. Just as surely as the sun rose to start each day, the cow needed to be milked. Month after month, year after year, the warm milk flowed through her udder. It was an endless bounty that Deirdre had sworn to collect despite her age, her frailty and a resentment, which had never left her.Continue Reading