‘Well, where can I put them?’ complained Mary. ‘There’s only the old barn and the roof leaks.’
‘I told you to get it fixed.’
There was a small silence. ‘I forgot.’
‘So it seems. Well then, get it fixed and put them in there. Otherwise they’re out.’
‘Yes, Patrick.’ She was very meek.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Oh God, I never knew a woman like you. Like a lamb one minute, yes Patrick, no Patrick, and then off doing things like this. I hardly dare turn my back.’
‘Don’t worry,’ comforted Mary, ‘I’m not going to buy any more cows.’
He laughed. ‘That doesn’t reassure me at all. Let’s go and finish that wine, it’s freezing out here.’
The next morning he told her that they were to spend the evening at Fred Swallow’s.
‘Can I wear my blue dress?’ she asked. ‘Or would it be overdoing it?’
‘You can never overdo it with Fred,’ he said feelingly, and Mary grinned.
They were happy together that day, confident enough to treat each other to little kindnesses. He fetched her jacket when she was cold, she made his favourite cake. Mary made excuses to touch him, trailing her hand casually across his shoulder as she walked past his chair, only to have it caught and gently kissed.
They were in sparkling mood when they arrived at the Swallows and were laughing as they walked up to the heavy, iron-studded front door. Fred flung it open, bent on his role as the genial host, but he kissed Mary with real affection.
‘You look cracking, lass, you do that. Let me introduce you to Jean.’
Mary turned and met a cold stare from a short, plump woman with small eyes and too-blonde hair. She was also dressed in blue, but blue satin a size too small, her bosom bulging painfully from the sequined bodice.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ rapped Mrs Swallow, turning immediately to Brogan.
‘How do you do,’ faltered Mary to the hostile back and looked questioningly at Fred. He was pink with embarrassment and quickly introduced her to the other couple in the room, a banker and his wife. Mary drank two large sherries too quickly, trapped in conversation with Julie Barnes, who talked of nothing but nappy rash and babysitting problems, frequently turning to her husband for corroboration of some detail: ‘Isn’t that right, John?’
‘Yes dear.’
At long, long last they were called in to dinner. Brogan was seated next to Mrs Swallow who twinkled roguishly at him, tapping his hand playfully and calling him dear boy. She pointedly ignored any attempt by Mary to join in their conversation. Swallow was labouring with Julie - they had progressed to the problems of mixed feeding - which left Mary with the banker. She widened her eyes and gave him a little girl smile.
‘You must be very clever, dealing with figures all the time.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s all training.’ He giggled self-consciously.
‘I just know it would be too much for . . .’ she nearly said ‘little old me’ but stopped herself and substituted, ‘a housewife like me.’
‘I find it hard to believe you’re just a housewife,’ he breathed, gazing down the front of her dress.
‘Well I find it hard to believe you’re a banker. I always thought they were so dull and staid, not at all like you.’ She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘Do tell me how it came about,’ she twinkled, and tell he did, right from his years at school to the present day with hardly a visit to the bathroom missed out. She replied with murmurs, giggles and ‘oh, how clevers’ in what she hoped were the right places, drinking glass after glass of wine and letting her mind wander. At least the food was good she thought, mentally planning her menus for the coming six months. She was rescued by Swallow.
‘What d’you think of the house then, Mary?’ he boomed, leaning back in his enormous oak and red leather chair.
‘Very impressive Fred,’ she smiled. ‘Suits your Henry VIII image admirably.’
Swallow roared with laughter, but his wife sniffed and rose to her feet.
‘We will take our coffee in the drawing room, ladies,’ she announced and they duly trailed out. Mary tried to catch Brogan’s eye as she left but he avoided her gaze, tearing the remains of a bread roll to pieces and rolling a pile of little pellets.
The three women sat round the fire in silence, sipping coffee. Mary was thankful for it, her head was swimming. She tried to repair the damage with Mrs Swallow.
‘Your house is really quite magnificent. Was it your design?’
‘No. His second wife did it.’
Mary subsided, then tried again. ‘Are you interested in showjumping, Mrs Swallow?’
The woman sighed and gave her a look of loathing. ‘No, I’m not. I should tell you, miss, that if it weren’t for the damned horses Fred would be abroad in the sun, where he belongs, instead of here. We could have a villa in Spain, the Bahamas, anywhere, have some fun out of life.
I keep telling him, get out of it while we’re young enough to enjoy ourselves.’
‘But you could go to the shows with him, couldn’t you? You’d have some fun there, surely.’
The fat shoulders wobbled with emotion. ‘Fun? You call that fun? Freezing cold and what do they talk about, horses, horses, horses. And the people. Paddy’s a very sweet boy, I will say that, but the girls!’ She gave Mary a look of scorn, saying pointedly, ‘They’re scheming hussies all of them, out for what they can get, hanging round the boys as if they were pop stars. Disgusting I call it.’
Mary gave up. Jean Swallow had her cast as a showjumping groupie who had seduced Brogan and might well have her eye on Fred. Julie Barnes was droning on about the symptoms of measles and she listened in virtual silence. Her smile was radiant when the door opened and the men finally returned but it faded rapidly as she saw John Barnes heading for the seat next to her.
Would this evening never end? She had looked forward to it so much and now it was like being on the rack. Brogan and Fred were talking business, a whisky bottle between them, but at last they rose, somewhat unsteadily, and the party broke up.
The night air was blessedly cool.
‘I’ll drive,’ offered Mary but Brogan took no notice and sat behind the wheel.
Mary climbed in, saying, ‘Thank you so much, it was lovely,’ to a stony Mrs Swallow. She leaned back in her seat as they drove off, closing her eyes but was jerked awake by the screech of tyres as they cornered on two wheels.
‘Do be careful Pat, you’ve had an awful lot to drink you know.’
‘Shut up,’ he snapped and stamped even harder on the accelerator.
Mary hung on to the seat, her foot pressing an imaginary brake as the car raced through the darkness, the headlights picking out rushing trees and hedges. When they squealed to a halt at High Wold House she was shaking and her palms were wet with sweat.
She went quickly into the house and sent Susan off to bed in the granary flat.
Brogan leaned drunkenly against the door.
‘Do you want some coffee?’ she asked hopefully. He frightened her, she could feel his tension. He said nothing and she tried to push past him to go to bed. It was as if she had touched a coiled spring, he pushed her back into the kitchen, hitting her hard on the side of the head. She crashed against the table, a singing noise in her ears. The world looked strangely yellow. He was coming at her again and she retreated behind a chair.
‘For God’s sake Pat, what’s the matter?’
‘You know damn well, you bitch! All night you’ve been at it, leading him on, how stupid do you think I am. Just waiting for the chance I suppose. When’s he coming round then? Friday? Saturday? I saw you whispering to him. Didn’t you?’
He made a lunge and caught her arm. She tried to speak calmly.
‘Don’t be silly Pat. He was the most boring man I’ve ever met, surely you could see that? You’re just tired, you’ve had too much to drink.’
‘Drunk am I? Not too drunk to see your little game, you W
HORE!’
He started to shake her, his fingers digging into her shoulders as her head rocked backwards and forwards, until she could hardly see.
He flung her away from him, her back hit the worktop and she slid to the floor. She watched him through half-closed eyes as he hunted for the whisky bottle. Her breathing sounded loud and she tried to quieten it, he must not notice her. He was coming round to her now, she had to get away. She started to crawl towards the door but the slight movement enraged him. He kicked her viciously in the ribs and she sprawled full length, turning her head seconds later to be noisily sick on the floor.
‘You bitch,’ he said again, standing over her.
‘Leave me alone,’ she muttered. ‘Please leave me alone. Please.’
He ran his hand through his hair and sank to the floor beside her. If only she could get away. She had never felt so frightened, one wrong move and he would kill her, she was sure of it. He started to cry, great drunken tears, his face twisting like a child’s.
‘You shouldn’t have done it to me. I thought you were perfect, but you’re just like her. None of you care, not really. You’re all the same, cows, bitches, whores!’ He aimed a punch at her but missed and sobbed harder.
She lay very still and after a long time he lolled against the wall, apparently asleep. She crawled away an inch at a time, every nerve stretched, until she was in the hall. She clung to the stair rail trying to pull herself up but her legs gave way and she crouched there trying to muffle her crying. At last she crept up, stair by stair, and into the bathroom to sponge her face and wash the sick from her hair. There was no sound from downstairs and she thought it was safe to go to bed. She pulled the bedclothes over her head and slept.
She woke to a grey dawn and lay there wondering what to do. If she had any pride she would pack and leave of course, but there was nowhere to go. What had she done to spoil it all? He should have seen, surely he must have seen, what she thought of that man at the party. Yet he had called her whore.
She sniffed and rubbed at a tear. Did he have to use that word? It was one that had often been in her mind these past weeks, selling her body in exchange for a home, but it had never felt like that somehow. He shouldn’t have called her that. Tears threatened to swamp her and she sat up stiffly and tried to think. The drink was to blame, of course. But if he did this every time he had one too many she might end up dead. Odd, really, when she had never thought him a violent man, for with the children, and the horses, and up to now with her, he was gentle; kind. It just showed how little she knew him.
Oh, but she was sore. Her ribs ached and one wrist hurt when she spread her fingers. Heaven alone knew how she would milk the cow. God damn the man, she’d give a lot to make him feel as she was feeling now. But at least her face was unmarked, saving her the final humiliation of people knowing. That would be more than she could bear.
The room seemed very cold, but then she had ice in the pit of her stomach. Her old dressing gown was warm and familiar, and there were two conkers in the pocket, withered with age, their gloss quite gone. Softly, praying that he still slept, she crept downstairs.
He was asleep on the kitchen floor, snoring, his face blotched and slack. He still lay in crumpled jacket and trousers, his tie cast off in the heat of the row and several buttons gone from his shirt. His body hair was a lovely golden colour, like corn. Some of her rage ebbed as she looked at him for he was Patrick again instead of the mad stranger she had seen last night. And Patrick did not hit people. The room stank of whisky and vomit and she flung the windows open, careless of the blasts of freezing air that filled the room. He woke while she mopped up the floor, rattling her bucket in an orgy of cleanliness. She would wash it all away, everything, and it would never have happened. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’
To her horror all her control dissolved and her eyes flooded with tears. If she spoke she would cry, so she said nothing and instead crashed volubly about the floor, water and soapsuds flying. ‘Mary, will you stop that? You’re soaking me.’
‘Go to hell.’ A few tears escaped and she brushed them away, refusing to let him see how hurt she was.
He heaved himself up from the floor, grimacing, and slumped into a kitchen chair. ‘I’d like some coffee if you’re making some.’
‘Does it look as if I’m making some? But perhaps you think this is how you do it, the amount you help around here. Still I don’t suppose it matters, you can always find some stupid woman to slave for you.’ It was an irrelevant argument and also thin, because Patrick was quite helpful when he was there, laying tables and so on. Far better than Stephen if it came to it, for whom the kitchen had been more in the line of an alien planet.
‘I’ll rephrase that,’ said Patrick tightly. ‘Would you please make some coffee. I would like some for my headache.’
She sat back on her heels and erupted in fury. ‘Your head aches! What about where I hurt? You threw me about this place like some kind of rag doll and for what? Some stupid idea about me and that creepy little man who was about as attractive as Quasimodo and a lot less nice and - and - you called me names. I hate you, Patrick Brogan.’
His face was as white as paper. ‘Nobody forced you to come here. No one’s making you stay.’
‘You think that because I’ve nowhere else to go you can beat me up. You’re not giving me any charity, I work for my keep, in bed and out of it.’
‘I got the impression you enjoyed the bedroom side of things. You like men, Mary.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Oh God, I hurt. No, stay there, I’ll make the coffee. I want some.’ They sat drinking it on opposite sides of the table. Patrick noticed Mary’s hands were trembling and every now and then a tear oozed from the corner of her eye and she flicked it away. He reached across and touched her arm, but it was a sore place and she winced. He withdrew his hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said gruffly. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just so angry.’
‘I don’t know why you were angry. Really there wasn’t anything - was it this way with your wife? You were jealous of her, hit her, that sort of thing?’
He shook his head and ducked away as if from a threatened blow.
‘It’s nothing to do with that. I wasn’t jealous of her, I never thought for a moment that - which was stupid I suppose. I should have thought.’
‘What did she do?’ asked Mary.
‘Look, it’s none of your business and has nothing to do with you. Now leave it, will you? And there’s no point in saying you didn’t do anything last night because whether you liked it or not you tied him in knots. God Mary, didn’t you even notice?’
She sighed and watched a tear splash into her cup. Her nose was running and she hadn’t a tissue but as she hunted through her pockets Patrick pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to her. Oh, it was all such a mess and it was time she did something about it.
‘I think we will go, you know,’ she mumbled through the handkerchief. ‘I don’t understand about last night and if it happened again - I couldn’t bear it. It was just so awful. And I’ve got the children to think of, they shouldn’t be exposed to things like this. No one should. If you can give us a couple of weeks we’ll sort something out, I’ll sell the cow and things for you. It’s best.’
‘Fine mother you are. Better for the kids to be farmed out to nurseries and childminders, living on chips, than to watch the occasional family row. That’s all it was, you know.’
‘Like hell it was! I don’t know anything about you, Patrick. You could be a complete lunatic for all I know, on licence from Broadmoor. Suppose you’re a child molester or something?’
‘Now really, Mary, that’s the outside of enough!’ He was shocked rigid, the colour flooding into his face so that for a moment he looked refreshingly normal.
She choked on a giggle.‘Well, you could be. I don’t know. You never say.’
‘Would it help if I told you?’
She nodded, slowly. ‘It might.’
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br /> Chapter 8
Patrick Brogan was the eldest of three children, and the only boy. His father was a horse dealer, his mother a devout Catholic, which is to say each had their religion. Every Sunday his mother would mount her ancient bicycle long before breakfast and pedal the four miles to Mass. On the same day his father, Charlie, would prop the bar in the pub, drinking Guinness and Irish whiskey and talking horses. He was a small, weathered man with flat Irish cheekbones and a face creased with humour. When he saw a bargain or a horse came good, his eyes were a blue beacon in his smiling face, and Patrick had inherited those eyes, as well as his father’s nose for a horse. Unfortunately for him he also inherited his mother’s conscience. He would stand squirming with embarrassment as his father sang the praises of an aged hunter, armchair ride, jumps and stays forever, you know I’m your man Sean when you want a good horse. But somehow he would unaccountably overlook the nasty little habit the gelding had of putting his stifle joint out once a month and the knowledge bored a hole in Pat’s brain. His thoughts were so loud sometimes that he was surprised no one heard them. Fortunately for his father they did not, and the family prospered.
He could not remember when he did not ride and he was breaking horses almost before he could read. He learned early that the perfect horse has never been foaled. Horses bit, horses kicked, refused to jump or refused to leave home; sometimes they reared, sometimes they shied and sometimes - although fortunately only rarely - they hated men with such violence that they would try to kill. It was a kick from one such that was responsible for his crumpled cheek.
Since a sure way to improve a horse’s price is to have him do well at a show, Pat was to be seen throughout the summer at events all over the county, in the showing classes, or preferably in the jumping. He was good, and indeed it would have been odd if his father’s son had not been good, but he also had drive. He won rounds with saddles slipping, stirrup leathers the wrong length - his father would never spend money on tack - and on horses that had to be flogged into the ring, let alone over the jumps. He hated to lose and as he grew older he did so less and less. It was accepted in the family that he would go into business with his father when he left school and continue with the jumping.
A Summer Frost Page 8