Mary jumped down, calling, ‘Jim, Jim, it’s me!’
She was ridiculously pleased to see him. She hadn’t realised how isolated and friendless her life had been of late. He hurried out, wiping his gnarled hands on the sides of his trousers.
‘Well, Mary lass, I’ve been wondering where you disappeared to. It’s right good to see you, I’ll say. And pretty as a picture. Come on, come see that blasted filly of yours, you’ll have been worrying about her I dare say.’
‘We thought we’d take her today Mr Pearce, if that’s convenient.’
Brogan’s words as he climbed from the cab brought the farmer up short.
‘Aren’t you - I mean - well, bless me, Mary, I never thought you’d sell that quick, I didn’t really!’ He gave her a sly wink, intended to convey that he thought she’d done really well in hooking such a prestigious buyer.
Brogan strolled to Mary’s side and placed a casually possessive arm round her waist. ‘Come along, darling, let’s see the filly. We must get home before dark you know.’
Jim Pearce looked from one to the other in obvious bewilderment. ‘Well . . . Mary, you’re not . . . I mean you’re working away, aren’t you?’ He looked at her hopefully. She was stiff with embarrassment, her cheeks flaming.
‘I’m living at High Wold House, Jim,’ she said flatly.
The little farmer looked at her for a long moment. He sighed. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, lass. Still, you know what’s best I suppose.’ He turned and led the way to the filly.
They hardly spoke on the way home. At last, Mary said, ‘Why did you do it?’
‘People have to find out sometime. You can’t hide for ever. And anyway, what are you ashamed of?’
‘Stephen has only been dead six months.’
‘But he is dead. And look at the mess he left you in, damned irresponsible if you ask me.’
‘You know nothing about it. You don’t know what it’s like to be poor. Look at you now, throwing money about as if there was no tomorrow. I only hope you can afford it, I should hate to be destitute twice in as many months.’
‘Oh, but you’ve always got your escape fund, haven’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I gave you, plus what was left from the sale. You’re sitting on that like a damned broody hen. You buy food, things for the house, clothes for the kids, all with my money, but nothing for yourself. And you won’t touch your little nest egg. Not if your life depends on it.’
‘I don’t need anything,’ said Mary defensively. He snorted in derision.
‘All right, well I can’t spend that money. It makes me feel safe.’
‘Then why don’t you spend mine? For Christ’s sake woman you don’t even possess a decent pair of jeans.’
‘I don’t know. It would feel so - immoral, somehow.’
He laughed so hard that the horse box swerved dangerously and Mary squawked in alarm.
‘Do be careful! I really don’t know what’s so amusing. It’s not as if I need many clothes, we never go anywhere.’
‘We’re going out on Friday week, as it happens. Dinner at Fred Swallow’s. So, leave the kids with Susan and go and buy some clothes. That’s an order.’
‘I don’t think I want to meet Mr Swallow.’
‘Pity. His house is incredible.’
She was silent for a while. ‘What sort of thing do I wear?’
‘God, I don’t know. Something glamorous.’
‘Kept women are supposed to have wardrobes full of black suspender belts and see-through nighties. Shall I stock up with those as well?’
‘That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said so far,’ he grinned, turning into the yard.
‘I was joking,’ she said coldly, opening the door. He caught her free hand and raised it to his lips, placing a long, sensuous kiss on her palm.
‘I wasn’t,’ he whispered.
Mary pulled her hand away and ran to the house, ignoring the giggles of the watching grooms.
Chapter 5
Once she had made up her mind to spend money Mary found it an odd and invigorating experience. Setting out that morning in her least dreadful underclothes, much-washed jeans and a sweater, she resolved that Brogan should be taken at his word however much it cost him. She resolutely ignored the whisperings of her thrifty conscience, flitting from shop to shop with an ever increasing load of parcels. When Stephen had been alive she had limited her purchases only to the barest essentials, making as many of her clothes as possible. Not that she had needed many, there had been no money to spend on outings and besides, they had found a rare pleasure in just being together. The comfortable closeness of their life was a world away from the tension of living with Brogan, swinging from rage to indifference, passion to humour in a moment.
The memories threatened to cloud her day and she walked quickly into yet another boutique and began rifling through the dresses with firm, decisive fingers. A pale blue silk cocktail dress caught her eye and she whisked into the changing room without even a glance at the price tag, something she had never done in her life before. It fitted perfectly and she gave her reflection a grin which she quickly replaced with a bored stare when the assistant appeared.
‘That is absolutely wonderful!’ gushed the woman, and for once it might have been true. The bodice was tight, with shoestring straps, but the skirt was full, to mid-calf, with the folds studded with tiny rhinestones. The silk hung softly, clinging as she walked emphasising the leanness brought about by hard work and worry. It was a very sexy dress, and just the thing for Fred Swallow. She wrote the cheque with a flourish and swept into the street to stand trembling against a pillar box. You could buy two calves for the price of that dress.
Feeling chastened she arrived at the hair salon for her appointment with Henry and sat in dumb humility as he lifted a lock of her hair, letting it fall from limp, exhausted fingers.
‘This hair has been totally neglected!’ he shouted and everyone turned to gaze in accusation at the sinner. ‘What can I possibly do with this? It’s had nothing done to it, nothing at all!’
Mary looked wildly around, realising that unless she made a stand she would shortly emerge with an Afro perm at the very least.
‘I just want a decent cut,’ she declared in ringing tones. ‘I know it’s difficult, but that’s what I want.’ Henry glared at her in the mirror and she cringed.
But, a mere forty-five minutes later, she had her new style, sleek, shining and beautiful.
‘I knew you could do it if you tried,’ she said kindly to Henry as she left.
Brogan was in the yard when the van made its usual noisy entrance but he was talking to Edna and did not turn round.
‘I’ve spent a small fortune,’ said Mary hopefully, longing to show off her purchases even to an unresponsive audience. ‘And I’ve had my hair done,’ she added.
Brogan turned his head. ‘Oh? Very nice. Look, I need Susan, run along and get her there’s a good girl. The kids have been driving her mad and she’s got better things to do than baby sit for those horrors. I thought you’d be back hours ago.’
He resumed his conversation leaving Mary deflated and near to tears. The man gave with one hand and then took away with the other, she thought furiously as she flounced into the house. She should have foreseen this, of course. To him she was just another employee, much the same as the grooms but with responsibilities on a more personal level and a more flexible wage structure. As such, he expected her to be a credit to him and her lovely dress was simply part of her pay. Clenching her fists into tight balls, her stomach churning with suppressed rage, she forced herself to speak calmly to Susan and the children, then began to prepare the tea. The children were hanging round her legs, showing their drawings and telling her of the little happenings of their day and gradually she was soothed. In the future she would remember that the relationship was strictly business.
Brogan and the grooms were reaching a fever pitch of activity and Mary felt very mu
ch out of it. They began working horses at seven-thirty in the morning, walking and trotting endless circles, changing horses constantly. They all ate breakfast in the house at eight-thirty and the conversation was always of horses, exercise programmes and forthcoming competitions. Mary felt like a waitress, producing full plates, removing empty ones, pouring cups of tea and toasting bread, all without a word spoken to her. At nine o’clock she was left amidst the wreckage and they started serious jumping. Brogan returned to the house for lunch but he rarely spoke, he was too preoccupied with entry forms and timetables. He continued with this until three while the girls had a well-earned rest, then he went out again to ride yet more horses, leaving Edna to supervise grooming and strapping in the stables. They were leaving to start the round of shows in two weeks’ time, only Susan remaining to care for the horses to be brought out later in the year.
‘How long will you be away?’ asked Mary over lunch one day.
He was distracted. ‘Oh, I’ll ring you.’
Mary sighed. ‘You can’t. The phone’s not connected.’
‘What? Oh, of course it isn’t, I forgot. Well, chase them up while I’m away. I’ll write or something.’
She tried another tack. ‘Can I take the filly out this afternoon? Susan said she’d look after the children.’
‘Your filly you mean? No, that’s not on, I’m afraid. Edna’s been working her and has just about got her going, we can’t risk having her spoiled.’
‘But she was my horse! I’ve been riding her for ages!’ She was very offended.
‘Yes, and it showed. You’ve been letting her get away with murder, good thing we caught her when we did.’
‘Well, isn’t there anything I can ride then? I never get out of this damned house and the builders are driving me mad! Jet needs the exercise too.’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I suppose you could have Merlin for an hour. He wouldn’t take too much harm. Talk to Edna.’ He returned to his paperwork.
She found Edna in the tack room, sorting bits.
‘Patrick say I can ride Merlin.’ She felt like a schoolgirl reporting to the games mistress. Edna looked at her with unconcealed scorn, her tall, thin figure radiating confident superiority.
‘Well, if you must you must, I suppose. But don’t blame me if he carts you all over the countryside.’ She took a saddle and bridle from the loaded racks. ‘Go and tack him up. I’ll come and check him over before you set off.’
Mary scuttled out, wishing she had never started this. Edna was on her own ground and would not hesitate to make the most of it.
Merlin was a twelve-year-old, and on the way down in the world of showjumping. He had never been one of its brightest stars but he had been consistent and would no doubt soon be sold on to some up and coming youngster who could learn from the old horse. He opened his mouth obligingly when Mary offered him the bit and ambled into the yard with as much enthusiasm as a seaside donkey. Edna bustled up and tightened girths and buckled straps officiously.
‘Just make sure you don’t bring him back in a lather,’ she ordered as Mary swung herself into the saddle. She could feel Edna’s eyes upon her as she started up the lane, Jet following close on the horse’s heels.
The countryside calmed her, as it always did.
From Merlin’s back she could see over the hedges to the gentle roll of the hills, dipping smoothly down to the valley. Tractors worked in the distance, ploughing and harrowing, each followed by its flock of gulls, feeding on the worms in the newly turned earth. She sniffed the tang in the air, made up of rain and grass and living things, and wondered how it was that she could live in this paradise and see so little of it, engrossed as she always seemed to be in the house and its occupants.
There was a bridlepath some halfmile along the road and she turned down it. She had no idea where it led but had often longed to explore. She set off at a trot, making the transition with an uncomfortable bounce. She was out of practice. Jet sauntered along in her wake, as delighted as she with their temporary freedom. The path was narrow and overgrown and as they rounded a bend Mary could see that it was blocked by a fallen tree. She slowed to a walk and took a good look at the obstacle, which turned out to be only about three feet high although surrounding branches made it rather wide. She turned to take a run at it, wondering anxiously if she and Merlin would still be together in a few moments’ time. She need not have worried, the old horse ballooned over the log, Mary hanging on for dear life, one hand prudently lodged in his mane. They cantered on for a few yards, delighted with themselves, before Mary decided it was time they returned to a trot, and tightened the reins.
Merlin’s ears pricked, he leaned on the bit and started steadily to increase his pace. Not as yet alarmed, she tried again and once more felt that determined resistance and gentle acceleration. They were now flying along the track and Mary began to worry. She sat down hard in the saddle and leaned on the reins, turning his head to her knee as she did so. He merely dropped his nose almost to the ground and continued his headlong gallop, apparently quite happy not to see where he was going. She released him quickly, thinking that he must tire soon, but the horse seemed set for miles. She could hear Jet’s frantic barking far to the rear as he struggled to keep up, realising in some vague way that she was in trouble. If only she knew where the path led, she thought, visualising Merlin careering out on to a main road.
She could see a gap in the hedge some way up the track and resolved to try and turn the horse into it, hauling on his head as if trying to raise a sail. She succeeded and they skidded round the corner and into a ploughed field, still at breakneck speed. He started to slow as his feet clung to the heavy earth and she aimed him straight at the hedge. For a terrible moment she thought he was going to try and jump it but he must have had second thoughts because he finally ground to a halt within inches of the hawthorn, hanging his head and drawing gasping breaths. Mary climbed down, ashamed to find that she was shaking. The horse was in a dreadful mess, plastered with mud, the sweat and foam on his neck cut into great slices by the reins. She looked round for Jet but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had decided to go home.
She spent some minutes trying to smarten the horse up, using her handkerchief supplemented by wisps of grass, but the final effect was not much better than when she started. She remounted and set off at a walk - the exhausted horse was incapable of anything faster - wondering how they were to get home. They were neither of them in any state to negotiate the log. She decided to cut across the fields, hoping the gates would be in the right places, which of course they were not. At last and after endless circles she came out on to the road above High Wold House and turned towards home, dreading her reception. Edna and Brogan were standing in the lane waiting for her, bursting with righteous indignation.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ roared Brogan as she rode up. He had been worried to death about her. ‘Do you realise you’ve been gone three hours? Susan’s got better things to do than look after your brats and I’ve had to send Mandy out looking for you. And what on earth have you done to this horse?’
‘He bolted,’ said Mary weakly.
Edna smirked. ‘Just what I expected. I told you she couldn’t ride, Paddy, and now we’ve got all this work cleaning the old boy up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s broken down.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mary was near to tears. ‘I just couldn’t hold him. I did try, I did really.’
‘Of course you couldn’t hold him,’ snarled Brogan. ‘What’s he doing in a snaffle? He’s got a mouth like a bucket, we always use a gag.’ Mary turned and stared at Edna, who had the grace to flush.
‘Merlin will be getting chilled,’ she said defiantly.
Mary got off and handed the reins to the girl. ‘Thank you, Edna,’ she said gently. ‘I do hope I can return the compliment some time.’ She turned and walked into the house.
‘I’ve spoken to Edna,’ said Brogan when he came in later that evening.
Mary looked up
from her ironing. ‘Jet’s not back,’ she said, failing to keep the wobble from her voice.
‘He’ll be rabbiting. He’ll be back in the morning.’
She was not comforted but turned her attention back to the pile of shirts just the same, wincing as she picked up the iron. There was nothing she could do until the morning anyway. Brogan caught her hand, turning the palm upwards, trying to look at it, but she pulled away.
‘Let me see.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be stupid, let me see.’ He held her wrist in an iron grip.
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Open your hands.’
She did so reluctantly, standing in front of him, palms outstretched.
The raw flesh oozed.
‘Edna should see this.’ His voice was grim.
‘I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.’
‘Why can’t you two get on? She’s not a bad girl, you know.’
Mary turned back to the ironing. ‘She’s jealous. And I can see why, she’s missing out on a lot.’
‘What on earth do you mean? Head girl here, all the riding, all the travel, lots of girls would give their right arms to be in her shoes.’
‘How old is she though? Twenty-eight? Thirty? And no boyfriend, or any hope of one I should think. What will her future be? Horses don’t keep you warm at night and Edna can see the day coming when the travel palls and she’d like to settle down and have some babies. Grooming isn’t a job for one’s middle age.’
‘That’s true. But she’s not that bad looking. Bit masculine, perhaps.’
‘Yes, and can you imagine Edna in a romantic situation? If someone told her she looked gorgeous she’d tell the poor fellow not to be soppy, slap him on the back and go and get two more pints. She’s just not the stuff that dreams are made of.’
A Summer Frost Page 5