A Summer Frost

by Elizabeth Walker

  He was still smiling. In a spurt of anger she marched up to him, kicked him hard on the shin and stormed over to the sink. She started to peel potatoes, her fingers flying. At least she had wiped the smile off his face she thought viciously, listening to his extensive range of swear words. If he came over here she’d stab him with the potato peeler.

  Ben was awake, shouting to be rescued from his cot and she went to get him. He was pink and rumpled, very warm. She spent some minutes holding him close but he wriggled. To her surprise Brogan was still there when she came down. He was smoking.

  ‘I want you to think about it.’ He was blowing smoke rings.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow. You’ve nothing to lose, you know.’

  ‘If you discount reputation and self-respect, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘They won’t keep you warm at night.’ He walked to the door. ‘See you tomorrow, love. You think about it.’

  She waited until the sound of his engine had faded to a distant purr and then sank limply into a chair. He was right of course, she had absolutely nothing to lose. If she stayed on her own she would be well and truly in the poverty trap, the children would be farmed out heaven knows where while she struggled to find a job, and anyway, what could she do? Nothing that would pay very much, that was certain. Suppose she moved in with her parents? For a moment she toyed with the idea, imagining herself welcome, loved and indulged, but she knew it was a lie. The reality would be rows and complaints, hurt silences and scratched rosewood. And she knew she could not live with her mother-in-law.

  She wondered what Stephen would say if he could see her now, seriously considering becoming a kept woman. She wouldn’t of course. It would be the terraced house in Leeds, child minders and a job in a factory. She sighed and went to start the lunch.

  She lay in the bath for ages that evening, letting her thoughts drift. Finally she had to get out, there was no more hot water. She dried herself slowly, thinking about Patrick Brogan. What kind of man was he? He seemed very rich, but then one never knew; expensive cars can always be hired and promises are easy to make. Was there money in show jumping? There must be or Fred Swallow wouldn’t be interested. The man was certainly Irish and really that settled it, she wasn’t going to live in Ireland.

  She wiped the steam from the mirror with a corner of the towel and studied herself. A pretty face - dark hair, huge green eyes and soft, curving features - but lately she had looked white and strained and new lines had been drawn on her forehead. Giving the mirror another rub, she stood on a chair to look at her body. No stretch marks thank goodness and the worry of the past few months had put paid to any flab left after Benjie’s birth. Yes, she looked slim and fit and small breasts were fashionable these days after all. She thought of Brogan’s hands and her nipples suddenly hardened. Climbing down, she hurried into her dressing gown. It was very thick and unbecoming but practical in the draughty farmhouse. Central heating had been one of their dreams for the future, when they would banish damp walls, peeling plaster and smoking chimneys. Now it would be someone else’s dream. She went to bed.

  Chapter 3

  She was awake early. The stupid man hadn’t said what time he would come. Perhaps he wouldn’t come at all - but anyway, it was best to be prepared. Suppose he came for lunch? She could hardly give him beans on toast but on no account must she appear to have made an effort. Steak and kidney pie would be ideal - she could casually offer to stretch it to accommodate him and if he didn’t come the left-overs would keep them going for at least two days.

  Then there was the question of clothes. In fact, this did not present too great a problem as her wardrobe seemed to have conspired recently in a campaign of mass disintegration, so she quickly settled on her least awful pair of jeans and a tight red sweater. She knew red suited her, it made her skin look very white. A little, a very little make-up and she was ready.

  The morning crawled by. The children seemed determined to get their matching denim dungarees and pale blue sweaters absolutely filthy and Jet, shut in the sitting room, was scratching the remaining paint from the door. All this effort just to tell him to get lost, she thought dismally, and her stomach turned over as she heard a car.

  It was only Jim Pearce in his battered Morris Minor. He had the farm to the north of her and had been very kind in recent months. He reached over the front seats - the rear ones had been removed decades ago and the space was used for an assorted cargo, sometimes including the odd pig - and produced a chicken. It was still warm, and he advised Mary to pluck it at once. Not today I won’t thought Mary, even if I have to take the eyebrow tweezers to it tomorrow. She put it to one side and invited Jim in for coffee, it would pass the time.

  The man was glad to sit down out of the wind. Fifty years of scratching a living on too small a farm with too little money had taken their toll and he was permanently tired. Each winter was just a little harder to bear than the last. Mary wondered how long it would be before he too had to leave. The little farmers would all have to go in the end.

  They talked companionably of crops and weather, stock and prices. Suddenly Jim thought of an interesting snippet of news.

  ‘Heard about High Wold House, have you?’

  ‘You mean that place about ten miles away? I heard it was for sale.’

  ‘So it was, though who’d want it I don’t know. Way up in the hills, gets all the worst weather and the house is in a real state. Take a mint to fettle that I can tell you.’

  ‘How much land?’

  ‘About forty, mostly grass. Anyway, it’s been bought. Now who d’you think it was?’

  Mary laughed. ‘I can’t guess. The Queen? Lord Halifax? Go on, tell me.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Patrick Brogan. Now what do you think of that? There, I can see I’ve surprised you. And there’s more. He’s done some sort of deal with Fred Swallow - buying horses, bringing them on, that kind of thing. That’s why he wants to live here.’

  Mary found her voice. ‘He’s in show jumping, isn’t he?’ She sounded anything but normal but fortunately the farmer didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Yes, and very good he is too. Me and Betsy always watch him on the telly. He’s moving from Ireland I heard, it should do wonders for the horse trade hereabouts and I said to the missus, Betsy, I said, what about Mary’s filly?’ He looked at her triumphantly.

  She got to her feet. Her legs felt most peculiar and she leaned on the table. ‘I’ll think about it, Jim. I don’t know if I want to sell just yet. Anyway, I must pluck that chicken—’

  Pearce took the hint and picked up his hat, bracing himself before opening the kitchen door. It was a raw day and the wind raced across the flat fields and hurled itself against the house. Mary waited until he had started the car and then went back into the kitchen. Ben had crawled right over Anna’s bricks, ruining what she assured her mother had been an airport, and the resultant war took five noisy minutes to settle. She heard the door open just as she finished rebuilding the runway, diverting Ben with some pegs.

  ‘Forget something Jim?’ she called without looking up.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you but it isn’t Jim.’ The voice was unmistakable.

  Mary stood up. She couldn’t remember when she had felt so embarrassed, but she was pleased to see that he too had dressed with care - smart grey trousers, sports jacket and tie.

  ‘Really Mr Brogan, it is usual to knock you know.’

  ‘Do we have to be so formal? My name’s Patrick.’

  ‘So I gather. I’ve found out quite a bit about you since yesterday as it happens.’

  ‘I thought you might. This place has a grapevine that makes telephones look ridiculous.’ He sat on the old pine table, swinging his legs and fiddling with his watch strap. Mary realised that he too was nervous.

  ‘Are you living there now?’.

  ‘High Wold House you mean? No, I move in at the end of the month. I’d like it very much if you came too.’

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nbsp; There was a silence, tense and unpleasant. She turned to face him.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  He looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Are you married - or anything? I mean, it seems strange, asking some woman you don’t know to live with you. I wondered if you had a wife somewhere.’

  The question plainly bothered him. ‘I’m divorced. It’s been over a long time and it’s nothing you need think about. I haven’t seen her in years.’ His manner shut her out. She wanted to ask more but his face warned her away.

  She gulped and said, ‘But why us? We’re nothing very special you know. Just a rather pathetic little family that’s hit a bad patch. What’s in it for you?’

  He smiled and rubbed his cheek in a gesture that Mary was beginning to recognise. ‘It’s quite simple really. I don’t like living alone and I don’t intend to. The house is very isolated and I’m away quite a bit, especially in summer. I think you could cope with it. And anyway—’ he slid easily off the table and stood in front of her, studying her face intently

  ‘- you’re so very lovely, Mary.’

  Again there seemed nothing to say. The air was thick with meaning. She moved away, saying loudly, ‘We need to settle a few things. You’ll keep us all, will you? Pay all bills and so on, clothes, food, the lot?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And I get the money for the horse?’

  ‘You’ve got the cheque. It won’t bounce.’

  ‘It had better not. When would you like us to move in?’

  ‘At the end of the month. Do you want to take your furniture?’

  This was starting to sound like an interview with the bank manager. Mary looked round the kitchen. The old, battered table, the rush matting on the tiled floor. She thought of the shabby sofa in the sitting room where she and Stephen had sat together in the firelight talking and planning, looking forward eagerly to the morning. The nights in their big double bed under the patchwork quilt made by his grandmother in her youth.

  She sighed. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t think it will quite suit this arrangement.’

  He stayed to lunch and they drank champagne. He had brought a bottle and she wasn’t surprised. He left soon after, saying he’d be back in a week or so to show her round the house, but she could organise everything herself couldn’t she? She could. He kissed the top of her head and was gone.

  Mary told no one of the arrangement. Living with someone you loved was one thing but this smacked horribly of prostitution. She did telephone her parents but said she had taken a job as a housekeeper. She dreaded the neighbours finding out, as they surely must. They would be so shocked. Still, he had said the place was isolated, perhaps she need not meet many people.

  They drove to see the house on the last day of February. Occasional flurries of snow hit the car windows as they threaded their way through lanes that became narrower and steeper by the minute. The house could be seen from some distance away, standing tall and square amidst a jumble of outbuildings, its only shelter a small clump of leafless trees. No other dwelling could be seen, just the dark brown and greens of the rolling hills with here and there the wavy grey line of a road.

  The drive was potholed and muddied, leading not to the front door, but as in all Yorkshire farmsteads, to the courtyard at the back. Mary got out of the car slowly, unaware of the bitter cold. This farm had been young hundreds of years ago. The barn roofs, of red pantiles, sagged and leaned. Doors hung askew in walls that bulged alarmingly and the raised walkway that led to them had crumbled completely in places, with the result that the central sunken area, originally intended for manure, was now half filled with assorted rubble, weeds and litter. She turned to look at the house. Dead creepers clung to the walls, surrounding windows that were dirty and cracked. The grass growing in the gutters could be seen even from here, and the house was three storeys high. She would look round later, first she must see the garden.

  All around was rubbish only dignified by age. Old cans, bottles and bricks lurked in every grassy clump to trip her. Then she saw a brick archway where once must have stood a wrought-iron gate. She climbed through and stood staring; it was a walled garden, knee high in weeds and half filled with scrap. But here, where the wind always blew and spring came in June it was everything, a haven of shelter and sunlight. She might even keep bees she thought excitedly as she made her way back to the car, suddenly aware that for the very first time since Stephen’s death she had something to build. Only now did she realise how hard it had been to pull everything apart, piece by piece, and to be left with nothing. She needed this place and most assuredly it needed her.

  He was smoking a cigarette, his coat collar turned up, listening to the radio. Mary climbed into the passenger seat, sat for a moment and then looked at him.

  ‘If you’ve got the money,’ she said slowly, ‘I can make this place . . . beautiful!’ She sighed happily and then was galvanised into action. ‘Come on, I haven’t seen the house and I have to pick the children up at five. Have you got the key?’ She was already halfway across the yard. Brogan laughed softly and opened his door. This was a strange one and no mistake.

  The house was as Mary expected, dark, cold and damp. The kitchen was a nightmare of peeling plaster and cracked tiles. As they opened the door a flash of movement confirmed Mary’s worst fears. They had mice. An ancient coke boiler lurked in one corner, daring anyone to touch it. Apparently it heated the water, although where it dispensed its bounty was a mystery as the sink sported only one wobbly cold tap.

  Eventually they discovered a bathroom of mammoth proportions, the actual fittings hiding embarrassedly in the farthest corner. Mary felt no desire ever to get into this bath, brown stained and flaking as it was, even if the taps worked, which seemed doubtful. She looked accusingly at Brogan.

  ‘We’ll have a new one,’ he said apologetically, and led the way next door.

  ‘The master bedroom,’ he announced grandly. Mary refused to meet his eye. The room was lovely, with windows on two sides giving marvellous views of the hills, and a curly plaster cornice. It was light even on this wintry afternoon. Stephen would have loved it, thought Mary, and her mood became shadowed.

  ‘We must go,’ she said gravely, and they returned to the car in silence.

  The old van wheezed up the last incline in bottom gear, shuddering with the effort. Mary turned thankfully into the drive. The removal wagon was hard behind her and for one dreadful moment she had thought it was going to crush her faithful little car beneath its gleaming wheels. An even more enormous pantechnicon already stood in the yard and the humble van crouched next to it like a mouse at the feet of an elephant.

  In the end she had brought some of her own furniture, the children’s beds, her wedding presents and so on. Try as one might to abandon the past it just was not possible. Besides, she needed the security of familiar things around her; she could not help but realise how perilous her position was likely to be. At least she would have the money if he did abandon her. She had put it in the building society, it seemed the safest thing to do.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, Benjie pinched me,’ wailed Anna and Mary hurried to let them out before blood was shed. Jet jumped out unbidden and began a tour of inspection, his mere presence driving the removal men back into the safety of their cabs.

  ‘’Ere missus, the dog’s loose,’ one called nervously and Mary sighed. Her first task would be to find an outhouse for the dog.

  ‘Is Mr Brogan around?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Said he’d be back around ten tonight,’ replied one of the men, apparently uninterested in her novel domestic arrangements. Thank you very much Mr Brogan thought Mary. I am obviously expected to work for my keep.

  The next few hours were chaotic. Confronted with furniture she had never seen before and a house in which she repeatedly lost her way, she evolved a simple system. Tables, chairs and china were all deposited in the vast front room and everything else went upstairs. They j
ust went along corridors and if they found a room with nothing in it, put something down. Things came to a halt when Mary discovered them trying to shove a piano upstairs. She diverted them to the dining room and declared a tea break.

  The cooker wasn’t connected and the electric kettle had the wrong plug, but one of the men attended to that. They drank out of a wondrous assortment of vessels, sitting on packing cases in the darkening kitchen. The children were cold and a little frightened. Anna asked continually to go home while Benjie just sucked his thumb and trailed around clutching his blanket. If she did nothing else, thought Mary, she must make their room habitable. The problem was, which room was it to be? She finally settled on a small bedroom above the kitchen. The wallpaper was peeling but it faced east and would catch the morning sun. Best of all, Anna’s bed was already there and she only had to locate the cot. By the time she had found it and some bedding the men had almost finished. She said goodbye to them as if they were friends of a lifetime for after all, they had been through much together.

  ‘I should let that dog out, missus,’ they advised sagely. ‘Bit lonely up here. You want to be careful.’

  She thanked them but did not do as they said, Brogan would not appreciate the welcome.

  They had ham sandwiches and milk for tea and the children cried and complained throughout. Mary knew how they felt. She too wanted a fire, familiar things and her own bed. She too wanted to go home. The children slept eventually but they were restless, muttering and occasionally crying out. Mary felt very gloomy which she knew was only to be expected after such a day. Somehow, knowing that didn’t make it any better. She wished for company, but at the same time dreaded Brogan’s imminent arrival. The men had unpacked a huge, brass-knobbed double bed which they placed unerringly in the master bedroom. She made it up, pointedly with only one pillow. She would sleep in the room next to the children tonight, surely he couldn’t demand a night of passion on the day they moved in. Apart from anything else, she was exhausted. It would be best if she was in bed when he came back.