anneoftheisland | anne the schoolteacher

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billy,
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anne the schoolteacher

Anne had found the butter churn -- very basic and homemade, but very nearly what she would have used back at Green Gables -- in the compound, where someone obviously kept it to protect it from the elements. The cream she collected herself, in the process keeping the kitchen supplied with enough milk to last a little while, as not nearly enough people on the island appreciated the importance of a glass of milk. While she was sure she would never be friends with the goats, quite, she thought they at least had an understanding now, after a few days of milking.

More importantly, she'd chosen a couple of books to start with, one that she was familiar with and one that she thought they might explore together. Billy would not be a typical student, after all, and there were no requirements for what she must teach him, so she thought she would give him the chance to choose.

So after hauling the churn and the bucket of cream outside, and slipping the two books into the pocket of one of her favourite skirts, she had only to take a seat by her apple trees and wait for Billy to arrive.

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Billy nodded quickly at that. "I guess it is, yeah. Hey, like, um, viewless wings, I get it."

"You do get it," agreed Anne readily. "Why don't you pick another passage to look at? Any one you like. Or of course we could look at the mechanics of the poem, but I suspect you're more interested in studying the text of it, and the meanings behind what is written."

Billy gestured for Anne to pass him the book, and took it from her as he kept churning.

"Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath,"

Billy read.

Knowing what she did of him, Anne had been wondering whether or not Billy was going to bring up that particular passage. "Does that one mean something particularly to you?" she asked him, for his answer was far more important than hers.

"The guy, he loves this nightingale's song and the escape it gives him, and the escape of booze and drugs, but sometimes it's not enough. So he's tempted by death, too, with the idea of the peace it might bring," Billy said, still speaking slowly but with a little more confidence.

Anne just nodded at him. "Keep going," she said softly. "Keep talking, Billy. What's it saying to you?"

"Usually death is something scary or bad, but Keats is hurt by whatever he's suffered, and so he's sort of ... asking for death, calling for it. It almost sounds romantic, the way he puts it."

Billy was quiet for a while, he didn't want to upset Anne again but he continued anyway. "Near the end for me, I was depressed all the time, nothing made me feel better: not my music, not alcohol. All I wanted was to stop feeling bad, and death seemed like the easiest way. It was almost seductive."

"It's okay," said Anne after a moment. "This is what it's all about, what the poem makes you think and feel and remember. That's why we have art at all, isn't it, Billy? You and Joe helped teach me that, that it's not always pretty, that it should be honest."

Billy looked at Anne seriously. "Honesty is always beautiful. It's the only way art should be done. Any art."

Anne just smiled at him. She was starting to understand that herself, more than ever. "Do you like the poem, Billy?"

"I do," Billy smiled, starting to churn again. He couldn't really tell if anything was different yet. "Thank you for picking it, Anne."

"I thought it might be a very good place to start," said Anne, satisfied. "Especially when, upon rereading it last night as I prepared our lesson, it meant more to me than it ever had. Would you like me to take over the churn again, Billy?"

"It was a great first poem, you picked a good one. And I think I got it," Billy said, working the churn rhythmically. "How long does this take exactly?"

"It depends," said Anne. "Sometimes it takes hours, though the milk was soured when I put it in, so it shouldn't take nearly that long. It might even be ready soon."

Billy couldn't imagine doing this for hours. For butter? Billy didn't like butter that much. "Should we check it?" Billy asked.

"Sure," said Anne, "you can take a peek inside if you like and tell me what you see. You'll know if it's separated or not yet."

Billy stopped churning and took a look inside. "Hey! I think it's done. It looks buttery, at least." He moved aside so Anne could see.

Anne peeked and there were, indeed, lumps of butter floating around in the buttermilk. "Okay, now we move on to the next step," she told him. She hadn't been able to find any sort of cream ladle, but she'd found a broad wooden spoon that would have to serve as cream ladle and butter pat. "You can scoop the lumps of butter out of the buttermilk and put them in the bowl. We'll want to save the buttermilk for the kitchen, I'm sure they'll have plenty of uses for it."

"What can you use buttermilk for?" Billy asked, picking up the spoon and the bowl. He handed the bowl to Anne as he started to scoop the butter out of the churn.

"Well, you can drink it if you like," said Anne, "though I must confess I don't particularly care for it. It's perfectly wonderful for baking, though, and it's clear that there's someone in the kitchen who likes to bake or we wouldn't have any bread at all."

"True. Good thing to, 'caues I sure as hell couldn't do it. Poutine's as complicated as I get." Billy grinned and spooned the butter into the bowl. It was kind of lumpy, but it looked good.

"I would very much like it if you made that again," admitted Anne, "but I think we have almost no cheese anymore, and I'm not nearly so confident at making cheese as I am at butter. Is that all of the lumps of butter now? If so, I'll show you how to work it."

"I'm sure there's someone on the island who can make it, or maybe the bookshelf will help us out." Billy nodded, swirling the spoon around for the dregs. "And yeah, I think that's all of it."

"I can make soft cheese all right, with a little practice," said Anne, "but really, I think what we need are more goats." She took the wooden spoon from Billy and with the bowl firmly lodged in her lap she started smushing the lumps of butter against the sides. "There's still some buttermilk in the lumps, you see," she told him, and very clearly there was. "It's got to be worked out."

Billy nodded, watching Anne smooshing the butter together. He tried to remember how Tiffany used to make her cheese, but the only thing he knew for sure was that it involved covered buckets and weird smells.

"I'll never take butter for granted again," he said. "Or cheese."

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