She was scuttling off to her solitary couch when lights dazzled the windows as he turned into the drive. With a sigh she started back downstairs. This was one scene that couldn’t be postponed. He came in like a whirlwind, clutching a brown carrier bag and a bottle of wine.
‘Here, I brought a Chinese meal, I had to drive like the clappers to get it back hot so don’t hang about.’ There was no room for embarrassment in the rush for plates, forks and - impossibly - a corkscrew. In the end he impressed Mary enormously by knocking off the neck of the bottle against the fireplace. They drank out of teacups.
‘Where were you today?’ she asked gently as they finished the bottle.
‘Arranging for the horses to come over. I thought you’d do better on your own.’
‘I bet you did,’ said Mary, with heavy sarcasm. He ignored her.
‘What have you done with my filly?’
‘You really are the soul of tact.’ She put her feet up on a packing case. ‘Your filly is with my neighbour, Jim Pearce. He thinks I’ve gone to my mother.’
‘Hiding your guilty secret? He’s going to get a bit of a shock, isn’t he, when we roll up together to get her?’
Mary said nothing. He leaned over and took her hand.
‘Come on, it’s time for bed.’
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and luminous in the dim light. ‘I thought - tonight - that possibly—’
‘Stop behaving like a frightened virgin. We are going to bed. Together.’ He really was the most boorish man.
‘I can behave any way I like,’ she declared, flouncing to the door.
‘Not when you’re under contract to me you can’t.’ His voice was very hard.
Mary felt as if he had hit her. Her shoulders drooped and her step was heavy on the stairs. She flung another pillow on to the bed then undressed quickly and got in naked. A nightdress, even if she could find one, would surely be superfluous. She sat up to begin with but her head was aching so dreadfully that within minutes she had laid it down. He was locking doors, the sounds echoing in the old house, but she did not hear him come up for she was asleep.
She awoke quite early, with cold feet. She turned over and instinctively snuggled up to the large warm body beside her. She was drifting back to sleep when she realised he was gently stroking her thigh. A vague feeling that something was wrong stirred in her consciousness but it was soon dispelled by warmth, sleepiness and the delicious sensations produced by that stroking hand. A little moan escaped her as the hand moved to cup her breast, sending sharp darts of feeling through her. Suddenly she was no longer passive; she had been too long without a man and she wanted him. She rolled towards him, putting her arms around his neck in the darkness, feeling him hard against her. Her lips moved on his throat.
‘Please, please . . . ’she whispered. He heard and rolled on top of her, letting a great draught of cold air into the bed. Neither of them noticed. He sank into her and she groaned with the familiar pleasure of it. She was as urgent as he, but her climax took her by surprise, leaving her dizzy and gasping beneath him. His breath rasped in his throat as he gave a last desperate thrust before subsiding on top of her. She could hardly breathe, and she pushed feebly at his shoulders. He rolled off and lay on his back, panting. Mary lay beside him, refusing to think. They had made love without a single kiss.
When she woke again it was daylight and a thin rain was spattering the windows. She could hear the children bouncing around and was about to get up when she remembered she was not alone. She shut her eyes again quickly.
‘You’re going to have to wake up sometime, you know.’ He sounded amused, he had been watching her. She turned to look at him. He looked very strong, his shoulder muscles bulging into a thick, tanned neck. The hair on his chest was a fine gold and she would have liked to touch it. Instead, she swung her legs out of bed and started to dress. She tried to hide her acute embarrassment by refusing to hurry, but the cold beat her and she pulled her sweater on with shivering hands.
‘This house is freezing! What do we do about washing? It may be strange to you but it’s an old Yorkshire custom, even in winter.’ She felt much braver with her clothes on. He too started to dress and Mary watched him covertly, pretending to look for a comb.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said cheerfully, wearing nothing but his socks. ‘Six months and we’ll have it sorted out. Central heating and all.’
‘If we live that long,’ said Mary dolefully, venturing into the icy corridor. At least it sounded as if he still expected her to be here in six months’ time. Once Ben was three he could go to nursery school. She needed Brogan for those two years.
By the end of the day she was really wondering if she could take it. Brogan left the house entirely to her, informing her as an afterthought that the builders would be starting next week. He had more important things to take care of - namely the stables. There, the builders started today. Fond as she was of horses Mary was amazed at Brogan’s complete obsession with them. To him, they were simply the most important things on earth. His abstraction when discussing damp courses and boilers for the house contrasted completely with his long and enthusiastic discourses on hay racks, feed stores and exercise yards. They were to have a jumping course in the bottom paddock, an all weather area in the long meadow and crosscountry fences built into all the field boundaries. When Mary asked if they could please have two bathrooms, he said, ‘Bathrooms? Yes, of course you can have bathrooms. Look, you see to all that, I’m busy.’
So she decided to have three. She was sure he wouldn’t notice.
In the meantime she had to cope with conditions that would have brought tears to the eyes of pioneer women on the Oregon trail. She liked to think that she understood fires but it took her most of the day to fathom the mysteries of the boiler. Eventually she established that it had to be brought to a white heat by feeding it half a tree twig by twig before you dared ask it to accept anything from the pile of anthracite outside the back door. Once lit, however, it heated the water with creditable enthusiasm.
Cooking was another matter entirely. They were to have an Aga, Brogan informed her. Mary was thrilled and demanded to know whether it would be installed this week or next. He lifted his head from the plans of the stable block for long enough to take another cheese and pickle sandwich and to say that no, that would come when all the other work was finished. She could manage with the old electric one he’d brought, couldn’t she? It had been his mother’s until she bought a new one.
That afternoon Mary confronted the monster. One of the builders had jury-rigged the connections and she felt sure that she was well on the way to an early grave if she so much as touched it. Nonetheless, the children must be fed. They all sat down at six o’clock to a meal which Mary felt to be a triumph of ingenuity; she had found just the right size book on which to stand one of the front legs, had jammed the oven door shut with a piece of wire and knew which ring she must on no account use unless she wanted to fuse the lights. She had in fact done this and since no one was the least interested in her plight had taken the fuse out and substituted a rusty nail. She almost wished it would set the house on fire.
The children were in bed by seven and since the kitchen was the only warm room in the house, Brogan worked at the table while Mary washed up and searched for more and yet more mouseproof containers. They were in bed by ten.
This set the pattern of their days. Brogan worked outside, transforming the ancient buildings into lines of loose boxes worthy of a racing stable. To Mary’s unspoken fury, a large modern flat was being constructed with all speed in the granary. This, Brogan informed her casually, was for his girl grooms. The man is a brute, thought Mary viciously as she lowered herself into three inches of rusty water in the bath; she had let the boiler go out. That very day a shining white bathroom suite had been delivered post haste to the granary. And it was not as if the grooms even needed a bath - they weren’t even here!
She, on the other hand, was daily fighting a losing battle ag
ainst the piles of brick dust the builders were producing. No sooner had they knocked holes in all the walls for central heating pipes than they bashed all the plaster off for the new wiring and when they finished that they dug the floors up for the damp course. The final indignity was when the plumbers got to work; within hours the toilet no longer flushed and buckets of water had to be carried to it up two flights of stairs.
‘I thought being a kept woman was supposed to be a life of luxury,’ she complained to Brogan that night, filing her blackened nails. He just laughed, poured her a drink and went back to reading Horse and Hound. Conversation between them was polite but limited. Mary never used his name but he never mentioned the fact. They behaved almost like strangers.
During the day, that is. The nights were a very different matter. From the moment they got into bed there was a warmth and intimacy between them that took them both by surprise. They made love often, sometimes tenderly, sometimes with violence and passion, whispering their need for each other in the dark. Come the morning they rose and went their separate ways as if the night had never happened.
Chapter 4
The horses were to arrive at the end of March, half to High Wold House, to fill the hastily completed boxes, half to Fred Swallow, who was to put them up until the work was finished. Brogan was anxious to start working them; the season was getting under way and he had been idle too long.
‘How many do you have?’ asked Mary one day, at breakfast. Ben threw his feeder cup over his shoulder, the top came off and milk swilled round the floor.
‘Fifteen at the moment,’ he replied, deftly moving his feet out of range of the flowing tide. Such incidents never seemed to annoy him, he just did not get involved. Quite a sensible policy really, thought Mary as she mopped up. Many breakfasts with Stephen had been marred by remarks like ‘Can’t you make those children eat properly?’ and ‘Are we never to have a civilised meal?’.
The children’s attitude to him was very different. He made no attempt to win them over yet they adored him. Anna was his shadow and wherever he went on the farm there followed a little figure in a blue anorak, red wellingtons flashing in her efforts to keep up. Mary had tried to discourage her by keeping her in the house as much as possible but as soon as her back was turned Anna was off. She was surprised that Brogan never complained and often worried in case his policy of non-involvement extended to letting Anna fall into the cement mixer, or at least wet her knickers. One day Anna had been gone so long that she left Ben asleep in his cot and went in search of her. Brogan was mending a gate in the long meadow and a familiar little figure was with him. They did not see her approach and she was able to watch as they worked in obvious harmony, Anna handing nails and even the hammer on request.
Brogan looked up in surprise as Mary hurried to them.
‘Is she being a nuisance?’ she gasped apologetically.
He was off-hand. ‘Not too bad. Do you want her? Go on, Anna, back to the house.’
The little girl started to protest but was silenced by a stern glance. Mary tried not to feel resentful. He had no right to hold such sway over her child. At least Ben still loved her best, she told herself, but even he would cling to Brogan’s trousered leg, yelling, ‘Da, Da, Da.’
She went for a walk on the day the horses were to arrive. She felt very shy of the unknown grooms and dreaded their knowing stares. They would almost certainly know more of Brogan than she did and it was likely to prove humiliating. He never spoke of his family or his wife, he seemed to have no past.
The day was cold, but bright and sunny. The promise of spring was in the air, in the tiny buds on the hawthorn and the new greenness of the winter wheat. Jet ran wildly through the fields, chasing rabbits both real and imagined. He needed more exercise. When Stephen had been alive Mary had taken the dog with her when she went riding, leaving her husband with the children. The dog was starting to look quite portly, she thought sadly.
When she returned the yard was filled with noise and bustle. She stood unnoticed by the gate, a child holding either hand. Horses were being led from an enormous green and yellow horse wagon with the words ‘Patrick Brogan’ emblazoned on the front and sides. Each animal wore a matching green and yellow rug, a travelling hood and bandages on legs and tail. Mary paid them scant attention and concentrated on the grooms. There were three, all girls, all young. They wore what was almost a uniform in the horse world, jeans, jumper and green quilted jacket, and they were working with smooth efficiency. Mary dreaded them noticing her, but she had to walk through the yard to the house. She was halfway across when one of the girls caught sight of her, stopped what she was doing and marched confidently over.
‘I say,’ she called out in somewhat mannish tones, ‘you can’t just walk through here you know. What do you want?’
To her horror Mary felt herself blushing. Surely at her age she should have grown out of that. ‘I live here,’ she said weakly and began to walk on, but the girl pushed herself in front of her.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ she said crisply, taking her by the shoulder with one firm, brown hand. ‘Paddy!’ she bellowed, and Brogan appeared from within the barn.
He strolled over. ‘What’s up, Edna?’ he enquired lazily. The girl looked like an adoring spaniel presenting a dead bird to its master. ‘Why are you clutching Mary like that? Let her go, girl, do.’
‘She says she lives here,’ explained Edna in incredulous tones.
Brogan took out a cigarette. ‘So she does. She’s what you might call the mistress of the house.’ He bent his head to a match, drew on his cigarette and blew a long cloud of smoke. ‘Come on, love.’ He threw an arm casually round Mary’s shoulders and together they walked to the house. Edna was left to stare furiously after them.
‘What a terrifying girl,’ exclaimed Mary as they reached the safety of the kitchen.
‘She is a bit,’ he agreed. ‘But she’s a damned good groom. You should try to make friends with her.’
‘I didn’t know you were called Paddy,’ she said softly. He met her eyes.
‘You don’t speak to me at all.’ His voice was thick and she knew he was thinking of last night. She had taken the lead, her hands and lips stroking him into readiness before she sat astride him, pushing him deep within her. Afterwards he had held her very close and had called her his darling girl, kissing her hair. She had pulled away from him, turning her face into the pillow, as so often taking refuge in silence. He had stroked her back, whispering her name, but she had still not replied. Eventually he slept, but it was a long time before Mary did so.
He sighed, sounding tired, and walked to the back door. His hand was on the knob when Mary spoke.
‘Patrick! Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘So we are going to communicate, are we? Thank God for that. Yes, tea would be lovely.’
‘I don’t think I’m going to like that girl,’ said Mary, filling the kettle.
‘Edna? Why ever not, she’s a bit bossy but that’s all. She’s a cracking rider too, so don’t think I’m getting rid of her on your account.’
‘I don’t think she’s going to like me much either.’
‘She’ll just have to put up with it then. She does what I tell her anyway.’
Mary searched in a packing case for some cups. Would this kitchen never be finished? ‘Has she got a crush on you?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Don’t know. Yes, probably. Me and Knight Errant.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘My best horse. Look, hurry up with that tea and I’ll introduce you to him.’
Edna was grooming the horse when they walked up.
‘Leave that now please, I want to show him to Mary,’ said Brogan, going into the box.
‘He’s had quite enough upset for one day,’ replied the girl, not even pausing.
‘Don’t push your luck, Edna.’ His voice was quiet but menacing. She flung her brushes violently into the box and stormed out, giving Mary a look of such venom that she recoiled.
He was uninterested. ‘What? Oh, never mind that, what do you think of this fellow?’
Mary looked at the horse properly for the first time. He was tall, about 16.3 she thought, but so well made that he looked smaller. His head had the unmistakable quality of the thoroughbred but the legs were so powerful that Mary suspected something more plebeian somewhere in his ancestry. He was in beautiful condition, the deep browns of his coat gleaming in the fading afternoon light. Brogan threw a rug over the big gelding, pulling his ears affectionately.
‘Seen enough? What do you think?’
Mary laughed. ‘Now I know you paid far too much for my filly. With something like this you don’t need her.’
‘No, no, your filly’s good.’ He caught her eye and grinned. ‘Not that good, but then I had my reasons. That reminds me, we must go and get her this week. Out you come now, Edna will want to get on.’
They moved round the rest of the boxes and Mary was hard put to it not to show how impressed she was; she wasn’t prepared to let him have things too much his own way. She was introduced to the other two girls. One, Susan, was quite pretty in a plump way but she was very shy and obviously terrified of Brogan. The other, Mandy, had been well primed by Edna. She gave Mary a cold stare, running a grubby hand through fair hair darkened by grease and too little washing. Mary felt a pang; the bath would be wasted on that one. Feeling an outsider, she trailed back to the house, alone.
Jim was washing out his little milking parlour when they drove the horse box into his yard. His dozen or so dairy cows were his pride and joy and he never begrudged the hours of labour that went into squeezing a tiny profit from them. His equipment was old-fashioned and unreliable, but there was no hope of replacing it, or of enlarging his herd to economic proportions. It was only a matter of time, thought Mary sadly, drawn back into the insecure world she had known for so long. To a farmer, too little money meant that nothing could ever be done properly. You could never buy the best in stock or machines, which meant that illness or breakdown were everyday occurrences, eating into precious time and even more precious energy. So often Mary had heard a big, prosperous farmer pouring scorn on the squalor and filth of a neighbour’s yard, knowing nothing of the treadmill on which the man laboured, day after day.
A Summer Frost Page 4