The egg-wife easy-jogs to market

by Anne Howkins

smoothing through the mossy-cushioned lanes. She catches the auspiciousness of a day when the midsummer sun and full moon nod to each other — pockets it in her apron to cushion the smallest eggs. She oils into the marketplace as if floating a few inches above the cobbles, defying gravity, her brim-full baskets unruffled.

The other wives are lubberly-limbed laying out their wares, thrashing about like hens caught in netting. She nods to them; catches the scent of trepidation from a newcomer, her wide-eyed face pale as the morning’s moon. The new wife, hollow with yearning like the rest, flinches at the cackled clatterings echoing round the marketplace. The other wives, all broody-bellied fret for the egg-wife’s composure, for her craft, for her produce.

She will not bargain with customers like the other wives. Her well-husbanded flocks of geese and ducks, hens and pullets, bantams and quail lay the finest eggs—yolks as yellow as any sun that ever rose. By midday her baskets are empty, the market is quiet, and she signals the other wives to bring her their barter.

Rainbow trout from the fish-wife, punnets of berries from the strawberry-wife, finest Jersey Royals from the potato-wife, and a jug of cream from the milk-wife. The newcomer, the swine-wife, brings a bacon flitch which will keep the egg-wife breakfasting like a queen till winter.

Their barter heaped in her baskets, the egg-wife delves into her apron, she hands each wife a tiny parcel wrapped in the gold and silver of this auspicious day, advises careful husbandry is needed for successful hatching. The wives trill their gratitude, then smooth themselves away, clutching jubilant expectation tight against their bosoms.

The egg-wife trots homewards under an empty sky, her baskets brim full, her empty belly hungry for the gift she cannot give herself.

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