Violet duly arrived the following morning, walking daintily down the ramp of the trailer and into the box as if she had lived there all her life. Mary and Susan spent most of the afternoon hanging over the door looking at her.
‘They say Jerseys are very docile and she seems to be,’ said Mary happily, watching in fascination as Violet blinked her long eyelashes and chewed the cud, her jaw moving lazily from side to side.
‘When do you milk her?’ asked Susan.
Mary noted that the magic ‘we’ was no more. ‘Now,’ she said dolefully.
Sadly, milking cows is not easy. Mary heaved and prodded, poked and tugged, and was rewarded with a swingeing kick.
‘I'm not sure that you’re as nice as you look,’ she complained, and Violet’s sour expression made it clear that she returned the compliment.
‘Be firmer,’ advised Susan, from the safety of the door.
‘Firmer! My hands are like jelly already. I should have realised when I saw that farmer, his were like spades.’
‘So will yours be soon,’ comforted Susan.
Mary’s face became pained. ‘That will be nice.’
After an hour’s sweated labour there was a bucket of milk.
‘It’s bound to get easier,’ said Susan cheerfully, but Mary only sighed. The thought of tackling that cow night and morning for the foreseeable future depressed her utterly. Nonetheless, within a week she could do it. Twenty minutes flat, night and morning, to achieve a pail of creamy yellow milk topped by a froth whipped up as she sent the jets whizzing into the bucket. It was fun! They had custard, and blancmange, and cocoa, and rice pudding and still the milk flowed. In desperation, using Brogan’s money, Mary bought three calves from a dealer and installed them in the box next to the cow, and at last some sort of order started to emerge.
‘I thought we were going to drown in it,’ said Susan thankfully, as they presented each new arrival with its bucket of milk.
‘We almost did,’ agreed Mary. ‘You don’t realise how much four gallons is until it’s washing around the kitchen.’
The weather was warmer now, and Violet went out to graze during the day. As Mary walked her in from the field one day she reflected that this was as she had imagined. A quiet spring evening, a slight chill in the air, the snipe calling far away and the sound of soft cow feet on the muddy path. They strolled along, enjoying the idyll, until suddenly Violet thought of her tea, waiting for her in the yard. She took off at a run, hotly pursued by Mary who was handicapped by giggles. Trust a cow to bring you down to earth with a bump she thought, watching the pink udder swing obscenely from side to side as Violet careered down the path. She gave up the chase, the old girl would wait for her, and sauntered along on her own, quietly content.
Fred Swallow was in the yard when she wandered in.
‘I was nearly run down by a cow,’ he spluttered, ‘it went in there! I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Don’t worry Fred, it’s only Violet,’ soothed Mary. ‘She only kills on command. Come and be introduced.’
Swallow peered at the cow from a safe distance, keeping his light tan brogues well out of reach of anything nasty.
‘Does Paddy know?’ he asked as the milk swished into the bucket.
‘Er . . . not exactly.’
‘I thought not. Well, it’s your funeral, I suppose. What you want with a cow beats me. Nasty, smelly things.’
‘It’s an investment, Fred. And we had a milk problem, they wouldn’t deliver.’
‘You’ve gone too far the other way, I should think. What do you do with it all?’
Mary wordlessly led the way next door. Fred was silent as she fed the calves and said nothing until they were seated in the kitchen, drinking scotch. He took a deep breath.
‘Mary, love. Far be it from me to interfere. You know best, I’m sure you do. But Paddy is running a jumping stable here, not a bloody farm! Next it’ll be hens and ducks and things. It’s just not on, you know. He’ll be livid and he’ll have reason.’
She was very much on the defensive. ‘He said I could do as I liked and I have. We are going to have a few geese as it happens, they arrive tomorrow, but it’s nothing very terrible. It’s not as if I’m neglecting the house or anything.’
He took a sip of his drink. ‘Well, I’ve warned you. Just don’t ask me to house the brute if he throws it out, we have enough trouble with the Pekinese.’ He leaned back and gazed round the room. ‘House is coming on, isn’t it?’
Mary grinned at him fondly. ‘Yes, we’ve got hot water at last. Did you bring the wallpaper?’
He had and they spent half an hour wrangling over it. Swallow felt that the dining room, tall and gracious with deep windows, would be best presented in red flock, of the type often seen in Indian restaurants. Mary held out for green and gold and at last he gave way.
‘It’s your house I suppose,’ he muttered and then realised his error.
‘Well, what I mean . . .’
‘Don’t be coy, Fred. It’s not my house as we both well know. What about this for the sitting room?’ She indicated a delicate cream stripe.
‘Bloody washed out if you ask me,’ he declared and chose orange squirls instead.
By the end of the evening they had sorted out most of the decorations. Swallow’s influence had pushed Mary into being rather more adventurous than she was at first inclined but she was well pleased with the end result.
‘I think it will have flair,’ she declared, making some much needed coffee.
‘Still think the lounge needs more zip,’ he mused, looking regretfully at his rejected choice.
Mary patted his greying head. ‘It’ll be lovely, you’ll see.’
Fred was silent for a moment and then burst out with a suddenness that made Mary start. ‘You know, Mary, I hope Paddy appreciates what he’s got in you. You don’t want to let him take advantage. He can use women you know, and I’d hate to see you hurt. I would that.’ His ears were rather pink and Mary was touched.
‘It’s all right, Fred. I’m not pinning my hopes on him. But with the children so young . . .’
‘Yes. Well. He’ll be on the telly tomorrow night you know.’
‘Who, Patrick? Good heavens. I shall have to watch.’
‘I shall be there too, as it happens. Driving down tomorrow.’
‘Then I shall definitely watch, Fred. You won’t tell him about Violet, will you?’ she added anxiously.
He grinned, looking suddenly boyish. ‘Nay, lass, I’ll keep me trap shut. Take care of yourself.’ He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and left.
She was stationed in front of the television well before the showjumping was due to come on. She felt strangely excited although she could not say why, and relieved her feelings by eating her way through a box of chocolates. There were only three to go when the programme at last came on, and almost immediately she saw Fred Swallow, talking to someone in the collecting ring as the initial announcements were made. It was the first time she had ever seen anyone she knew on television and it was an odd sensation, almost as if they weren’t quite real. Fred was overacting for the camera, laughing and talking with far too much animation and Mary felt rather embarrassed.
To her relief the camera soon switched to the jumping. Horse after horse appeared and each time her heart gave a bump as she realised the rider was not Brogan. She was beginning to wonder if Fred had been mistaken when there he was, calm and confident on the striking bay, Knight Errant. The crowd gave a roar - he was popular it seemed - and then he was jumping. It was a faultless round, gracefully executed, he was every bit as good as Swallow had said. Mary was fascinated, this calm stranger seemed to have nothing to do with the man she knew. The camera followed him out of the ring but he seemed oblivious of its presence, handing the horse over to a waiting Edna and strolling off to talk to a small, pretty girl in riding clothes. She sparkled up at him and Mary felt her stomach contract. Swallow was right, this was not a man to trust.
The jum
p-off was very close, all clear rounds with split seconds between them. Brogan showed little sign of strain, perhaps just a slight hardness about the jaw. He was pushed into second place by the smallest margin, and it was only then that Mary felt she knew him. His fingers strayed briefly to the broken cheek in a gesture which she recognised as one of tiredness or indecision. But the smile was still there, again for the small dark girl. Mary switched off the television quickly, busying herself tidying the room and preparing for bed. She did not own him, she did not seek to do so, but if he must be unfaithful - and that word alone meant a commitment which he probably did not feel - then she would rather not know. As so often recently she missed her dog, his presence now would have been a small but comforting thing. She went to bed thinking of him, it was safer than thinking of Brogan.
Chapter 7
Her life became very full over the next weeks. Violet and the calves took up several hours a day and the dozen newborn goslings keeping warm in the airing cupboard kept her busy for a week. But, as the house took shape she was able to concentrate on the garden, at first just removing scrap and slashing nettles. She constantly hoped to find an ancient and beautiful sundial or statue embedded in the undergrowth, but had to content herself with old pram wheels and bottomless buckets. As she worked one day, energetically heaving and scything, she realised that she was almost happy. Insecurity and loneliness had no meaning on this sunny day, the walled garden echoing to the wild shrieks of the children playing on what had once been a lawn. They would have a bonfire for the rubbish, the children could help. Ben was enthralled and had to be stopped from putting his hands into the licking flames, almost transparent in the thin spring air. Mary and Anna fed their creation with sticks, finding a primitive satisfaction in watching leaves shrivel and branches turn black, then red, before crumbling to dust.
‘Hello, everyone.’ It was Brogan, looking tired and dishevelled in jeans and sweater. Mary felt her face flame, she could think of no way to greet him. The children had no such problems, they ran forward, Anna crying, ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ Ben thankfully wordless. They hung on to his knees, skipping with excitement, and he bent to talk to them.
‘What have you been doing? Have you been good?’
‘Oh yes, and we got a bonfire, look! And we got Violet and that man came.’
He looked up at Mary. ‘What man?’ he snapped accusingly.
Mary spread her hands. ‘She means Fred Swallow,’ she said softly. She felt a spurt of anger as she thought of the small, dark girl. There were rules and rules, it seemed.
‘I didn’t expect you,’ she added coldly.
‘I’m only back for two nights. Thought I’d see how things are coming on.’
There was an awkward silence, broken by Anna tugging at Brogan’s hand and saying, ‘Come see our bonfire, Daddy.’
‘He’s not Daddy, darling, he’s Uncle Pat,’ said Mary firmly.
‘It’s all right, I don’t mind if you don’t,’ said Brogan easily, and Mary opened her mouth to say she did mind, but then closed it again. The best policy was intensive indoctrination of Anna in private.
They stood round the fire, Brogan watching for a time as Mary worked, hampered by Ben clutching her hand. Finally he took the rake off her and did it himself, transforming her higgledy piggledy pile of sticks into a neat heap from which smoke and discreet little flames issued decorously. She had much preferred her own inferno but of course this was more efficient. Brogan caught her eye and grinned.
‘Not so pretty, but works better,’ he said and Mary suddenly felt in sympathy with him. She reached up and kissed his cheek affectionately, saying, ‘Come on, it’s time for tea,’ and starting to gather up the tools.
‘Mary.’ His voice was almost a whisper but it sent a warm tide through her. He caught her arm, fingers digging into the flesh and dragged her to him, kissing her so hard that their teeth met before their tongues did. His hands were tearing at her clothes, he had her breast, and then his teeth were there, biting hard. She gasped and pulled away violently.
‘The children,’ she croaked, remembering them rather too late. For a moment she thought he would hit her but then his face cleared and resumed its usual calm. He touched his cheek.
‘Yes. Tea, you said.’ He strode to the house.
Susan joined them in the kitchen and the tension relaxed. Mary buttered bread on her brand new work surface and heated soup on her bright red Aga and waited for a compliment that never came. At last she could stand it no longer.
‘Haven’t you noticed anything?’ she said plaintively. Susan sniggered.
Brogan looked blank.
‘The kitchen,’ wailed Mary, waving her arms dramatically.
‘Oh,’ said Brogan and she threw a tea towel at him, wishing it could be the teapot. He laughed knowingly and she knew he had been getting his own back for the scene in the garden.
‘I did notice, actually. Very nice. Very nice indeed.’
‘You didn’t want tiles with gold flecks in? Or onions on the wallpaper?’
He looked mystified. ‘There isn’t any wallpaper.’
Indeed there was not. The walls were rough plastered and painted white, against which glowed old pine cupboards, some with glass fronts, holding the chunky blue pots they used for every day. The floor was quarry tiled in dusky red, with plain rush mats here and there. The Aga warmed the room and the kitchen clock filled it with its loud tick.
‘It’s just that Fred had all these ideas,’ explained Mary, sitting down.
‘You haven’t put any into practice, have you?’ squawked Brogan, looking apprehensively towards the hall door.
‘Only some,’ said Mary with a sweet, revengeful smile.
She took him on a tour as soon as the children were in bed. He liked the dining room - green and gold - and the hall - white with red carpet - but stood silent at the sitting room door just staring. Mary’s heart sank.
‘Don’t you like it?’ she quavered.
He turned a fierce, blue gaze on her. ‘How much did that carpet cost?’ he demanded and Mary almost giggled.
‘Nothing,’ she said lightly. He seized her arm.
‘Now, look here madam .. . .’ he began but she stopped him.
‘All right, I’ll explain. Yes, it is Persian, it is valuable and it’s on loan. My parents lent it to Stephen and me when we got married but we never had anywhere to put it. And when I saw this wood floor, and thought of it polished, it seemed - perfect. That’s all.’
‘Oh. I see.’ He let her go and studied the room. The walls were pale cream, making the colours in the carpet sing. More furniture was needed - the few pieces were dwarfed and the chairs huddled round the ornate Victorian fireplace. The curtains were natural, heavy linen, braided round the edges in red and gold. The effect was warm, rich and slightly exotic.
‘We need a sofa,’ he declared. ‘If not two.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Mary noncommittally, thinking of the expense of the unseen three bathrooms. Spending money still came hard, she had taken to asking everyone to send accounts and then paying by cheque. The time lapse made her feel less spendthrift, though she still had nightmares in which she stood barefoot in the wind, the children crying for food. She would have liked to tell Brogan about it, but of course she would not.
Fortunately most of the bedrooms were still being decorated and Brogan curtailed his inspection after a quick glance.
‘What colour do you want for our room?’ asked Mary as they went downstairs. ‘I haven’t decided on anything yet.’
He put his arm round her as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and nuzzled her neck.
‘Anything you like,’ he whispered, pulling her on to the carpet.
He was urgent, refusing to wait. He wanted her now, right now, while she was warm and smiling and open, before she had time to close and turn away, like a flower in the night. When it was over she sighed and licked a droplet of sweat from his shoulder.
‘Oh Mary,’ he murmured, but she did not repl
y.
Later that night they sat in the kitchen - the sitting room seemed far too grand to use - and chatted with unusual warmth.
‘How did it go?’ asked Mary, sipping red wine. He was in the rocking chair in front of the fire.
‘Pretty well. Horses could have been fitter, but Fred’s pleased. You warm enough? Come and sit here.’ He tossed a cushion on to the floor by his feet and Mary sat on it, leaning back against his legs.
‘Has Susan taken good care of the horses?’ she enquired, really meaning had he seen Violet yet.
‘Haven’t looked. Tomorrow’s soon enough. I must be getting old or something.’ He yawned and reached for the bottle of wine.
‘Well, there’s something I should mention began Mary and fell flat on her back as the legs she was leaning against removed themselves at speed.
‘What’s happened? 'They’re not dead surely? She hasn’t sent them all lame, has she, what can you expect, stupid girl like that, I should never have left her in charge . . . ’ His words drifted back to Mary as he raced across the yard, she trailing in the rear.
‘But it’s nothing to do with the horses!’ she shrieked.
There was a silence. ‘What do you mean?’ Brogan had returned to face her.
‘It’s this.’ She turned and led the way to Violet’s box.
The little cow was lying down but struggled to her feet as they switched on the light. She mooed plaintively, and was answered by a small chorus of moos from the neighbouring boxes. Brogan closed his eyes for a moment and then went to inspect, finally returning to Violet.
Mary started to gabble. ‘It was because of the milk, you see, they wouldn’t deliver, and there was Violet and she didn’t cost much, mind you when you get to know her you can see why, but she was an investment you see, and I’ve made some money on the calves already, so it’s not as if I squandered it . . .’
His shoulders had started to shake and she realised with relief that he was laughing. ‘When I said you could spend money I meant on the house, not on a blasted herd of cows,’ he gasped. ‘I should be furious, but I’m so glad it’s not the horses. But you can’t have these boxes, I need them.’
A Summer Frost Page 7