Chapter 9
Mary sat holding her mug, her thoughts in a turmoil.
‘You don’t pick your women very well, do you?’ she said slowly.
He grinned, bleakly. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I thought - everything. Oh Patrick, you should have told me all this before. There was no need to be so secretive.’
‘I don’t like parading my failures. God, I made such a mess of it.’
An uncomfortable thought nudged at the back of Mary’s mind, somewhere near the origin of her headache. When Patrick had wanted to try again he had found a woman so shackled by commitments that she simply could not pull away from him. She was perfect for him purely because of the mess she was in, she could have been anyone. Tears pricked her eyes and she sniffed and pushed at her hair.
‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ said Patrick. He was staring at her and she wished he would not.
‘Will you hit me again?’ she asked. ‘If you’re drunk, or cross, or catch me talking to the postman. Will you?’
He went red and dropped his eyes. ‘It sounds terrible when you put it like that.’
‘It was terrible. You don’t know.’
He came round the table and knelt beside her, pulling the rough wool of her dressing gown aside, discovering bruised flesh that shuddered at his touch. ‘I’ll kiss it better,’ he whispered, and began to mouth little pieces of skin, so gently that the darts of pain might well have been pleasure. She was gasping and crying, needing him and at the same time aware that if she gave in now she would hate herself. He could do what he liked and she would still let him inside. She pushed hard at his shoulders and dragged the dressing gown round her.
‘I don’t want it,’ she said harshly.
‘Yes you do. I’ll be gentle, Mary, I won’t hurt you. Come on, just a little bit, I’m on fire for you and it’s a lovely way to make up. Please, Mary.’ One hand crept into her dressing gown and nudged between her thighs while the other worked at his zip. That did it, he was so sure he could have her. She shoved him away and struggled to her feet, saying, ‘I said no! You can’t hit me one minute and screw me the next. Anyway, it’s time the children were up.’
The look of torment on his face almost made her laugh. A small victory, but one that restored some little measure of self-respect.
Nonetheless he was sweet to her all that day, refusing to let her lift things and insisting that Susan milk the cow. Mary would have thought more of the gesture if he had done it himself. She was pleasant but cool, holding herself back from him. It was all for his convenience, she was sure of it. Still, it was nice to be fussed over for whatever reason, and once again she shelved her plans, such as they were, to go.
* * *
She found the letter after he had gone, it was lying on his desk with a mass of bills and receipts that he had unladen from his pockets. A thick, white envelope addressed in a neat hand, it caught her eye at once and she hesitated for only the briefest moment before opening it. Integrity was for the very young and the very secure she thought, unfolding the crisp pages. She was neither.
Dearest Paddy, she read. Thank you for the flowers my darling, they were wonderful. I would have given anything to have stayed longer but I really had to go. Those three days - and nights - went by so quickly. I do so wish we could see each other more often, every time we meet we have to start again from scratch and there’s never enough time.
You’re having a wonderful season, Paddy, I wish I knew how you did it. I’m afraid Gaytime is right off form at the moment, he doesn’t seem to care what he’s doing - rather like me I’m afraid. Oh Paddy, we had such a marvellous time together, didn’t we? You are always so much fun, and then the nights - well, you were terrific. I’m going to Sawchester later in the month, I only hope Gaytime pulls himself together there. Will you be able to come? Please try. Yours ever, Sylvia.
Mary’s heart was cold within her. She dropped the pages one by one on to the desk, screwed the envelope into a ball and tossed it on to the pile. Even he could not fail to see that she had read it. Fred’s warnings and her own vague suspicions had convinced her that there was someone but for the sake of her pride, if nothing else, she had imagined a casual affair, not flowers and romance. Flowers! And all he gave her was bruised ribs and insults! He was so much fun was he? Dear Sylvia, unencumbered by house and children, was apparently worth entertaining while Mary, dowdy, temperamental workhorse, could safely be expected to endure his silences and moods. Oh, if he were here now she’d tell him just where to go.
An hour later when her rage had cooled she sipped a cup of tea and decided she would say nothing. They had made no promises to each other and as long as this woman did not threaten her home, what did it matter if he amused himself at shows? The thought of Patrick in bed with the unknown Sylvia made her swallow convulsively. Did he come home and compare performances? What did Sylvia get up to in some dingy little caravan? Once again she felt the hot, hurt anger but the memory of the sad little tale Patrick had told her returned like cooling rain. It was not a playboy she had to deal with, just a bad case of bruised male ego. Mary put her cup on the table with a bang and jumped to her feet, resolving to tidy cupboards for the rest of the day and to think of Patrick not at all. For the most part she succeeded.
When next he was home she was polite but distant. She knew he must have seen the letter for his desk was again beautifully tidy in the way he liked to keep it and the white pages nowhere to be seen, but nothing was said. Two days later he brought her some flowers, expensive hothouse blooms tied with a bow. He stood in the kitchen looking slightly ridiculous.
‘Here. For you.’ He held them out as if offering a baton in a relay.
‘Why, Patrick, how lovely. So thoughtful.’ She strolled slowly to the waste bin, took a last long breath of the perfume and thrust the flowers head first into the potato peelings and cold rice pudding. ‘So thoughtful,’ she said again, and slammed out of the room.
In bed that night they lay without touching, unable to sleep for the silent tension that fizzed in the air. Suddenly he reached for her and she squeaked with fright.
‘I’m not going to hurt you, damn it,’ he snarled, dragging at her nightgown.
‘You surprise me,’ said Mary shakily, trying haphazardly to fend him off, but he seemed all hands. He was determined and she gave in, resolving to lie like a log and to hell with him. He seemed not to notice, heaving himself on top of her and pressing deep hot kisses on to her throat, and by some reflex she found herself running sensuous hands over the muscles of his back. Dropping her arms guiltily on to the bed she resumed her rigid pose and then began to giggle.
‘Shut up and open your legs,’ he ordered but she was racked with laughter now and was shaking like a jelly.
‘What the hell is so funny?’ he demanded, but she could not speak, or resist as he thrust into her. The familiar warmth began to spread in ever widening circles and her giggles changed to groans of pleasure. It was only as she came to climax that she looked into his flushed, absorbed face and wondered if he was thinking of Sylvia, but the thought was lost in the moment of release.
In the morning he was gone again, off to another show. Their relationship puffed along like a slow train, constantly interrupted by stops at every station, never getting up speed. But after all, thought Mary, did they want to get to the end of the line?
The horses were to be rested. As Patrick said, Knight Errant was showing signs of tendon trouble and they all needed a break from the incessant travelling. It seemed quite reasonable to Mary, but not, apparently to Fred Swallow.
‘Can’t think why they can’t make Sawchester,’ he muttered irritably to Mary as she painstakingly tried to get a new calf to drink from a bucket. The trick was to sink your hand into the pail of milk, encourage him to suck your fingers and then to withdraw them. Usually it took only seconds for the calf to empty the bucket with the efficiency of a fire hose but this one was proving somewhat dim.
‘Animals
are not machines, Fred,’ she said firmly, ‘as you can see.’ The calf once again withdrew a milky nose and mooed unhappily.
‘What happened to its mother?’ asked Fred curiously. ‘Dead is she?’
‘I’ve really no idea, I shouldn’t think so.’ A thought struck her. ‘Good heavens, Fred, you don’t think all these calves are orphans, do you? There’d be a terrible mortality rate amongst cows if they were, the RSPCA would be up in arms and all the dairy farmers bankrupt. Calves are hardly ever reared on a cow these days. Their only mum is a bucket.’
‘But that’s cruel!’ He sounded shocked.
‘Yes, it is a bit,’ agreed Mary, ‘but they get used to it, you know. And jumping lame horses on hard ground is a great deal more cruel, I can assure you.’ The bucket was empty at last and she straightened up.
‘You might be right,’ Fred admitted grudgingly and she gave him an affectionate pat.
‘Let’s go and have a drink, Fred. Tea.’
Mary’s temperance campaign had been greeted philosophically by Fred, who merely doctored her brew with a hip flask when she wasn’t looking. It wouldn’t last long, he thought. He was visiting her more and more frequently, finding the casual atmosphere created by two small children a welcome change from his palatial home, inhabited only by his frosty wife and a battery of cleaners, not to mention a snappy Pekinese. His access to Anna and Ben had to be limited though, since his tolerance tended to be short-lived. Today was no exception.
‘Ride-a-cock horse to Banbury Cross,’ carolled Anna, ‘to see a fine lady ride on a white horse.’
‘What’s the next bit, sweetheart?’ smiled Fred, laying a hand on the golden curls.
Anna fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘And then she fell off and got all muddy and everyone said it was her own fault and went to see if the horse was all right,’ she announced.
Fred recoiled and turned to the podgy Ben, lifting him on to his knee.
The baby gave an enormous belch and beamed toothily, drawing a reluctant grin from the redoubtable Mr Swallow.
‘He’s a grand lad, Mary,’ he chuckled and she nodded. She could take endless praise of that sort.
‘Mummy, a lorry, a lorry!’ shouted Anna, and sure enough the wagon was drawing into the yard. Mary wished Fred would go, everyone would be on their best behaviour until he did. It was not to be, he was paying for these moments when he could feel truly involved with the beautiful, shining horses stepping so daintily down the ramp and clattering into the boxes.
Mary uttered a silent prayer that Patrick would humour Fred today. Over the past weeks he had taken a perverse pleasure in upsetting the little man, ignoring his bouncy figure at shows and cutting him short when he did manage to buttonhole him. The trouble was that Fred believed he had bought Patrick, and true or not his tactless display of power and money was driving Pat to open rebellion.
Fred would stride over to him as he completed a disappointing round.
‘Not up to standard today, my lad,’ he would declare loudly. ‘The money I’ve laid out on that horse, I expect better than that.’
It was only bluster for the benefit of the interested audience, but to Patrick it was like fingernails on a blackboard. He challenged Fred at every opportunity, making him the last to know when a horse went lame or a show was cancelled and relying on his charm to avert the resultant storm. But he was becoming less and less willing to find the honeyed words and Fred was daily more difficult to appease. Today the little man struck a confident pose in the middle of the yard, cigar in hand, and impeded everyone’s progress.
Edna rushed around, more than usually poker-faced in the presence of the sponsor. She ignored Mary completely, rapping out orders to Mandy and Susan in her determination to be seen to be running a tight ship.
Brogan was in contrast alarmingly casual.
‘Sorry about this, Fred,’ he said, giving Mary a perfunctory kiss and lighting a cigarette. ‘Time we all had a rest, I think. Coming in for a cup of tea?’
He strolled towards the house and Fred scuttled along behind. Mary’s heart sank. Surely it wouldn’t hurt Pat to humour him a little, to let him feel that he was calling the tune? She noted the angry red of Fred’s neck, cut into fleshy folds by his collar and hurried inside. Here again Brogan, with his extra inches and calm air of authority, was annoying Fred.
‘I want you to do that show on the twentieth,’ Fred was saying.
‘Can’t be done,’ replied Pat, throwing himself into a chair. ‘It’s only small beer and I want to keep the horses fresh for next month. Sorry, Fred.’
‘Now look here, Pat, I’ve got a client I want to take to that show and I want you there. And that’s final.’
‘You could take a couple of the youngsters to Barnham, couldn’t you, Pat?’ interrupted Mary, sitting on the arm of his chair. She stroked the hair over his ear, willing him to compromise.
‘Perhaps.’ His tone was truculent but Mary beamed at Fred and walked over to him, taking his arm and leading him firmly to the door.
‘There you are then, that’s settled. Why don’t you come over for lunch tomorrow, Fred, we can discuss things more fully then. Give my love to Jean. You must bring her over sometime.’ She gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek and waved until his car drove out of the yard. Brogan’s face was amused.
‘You’re wasting your energy, Mary. I’m not doing that show.’
‘Fred will pull out if you don’t, is that what you want?’
‘He’s a pain in the neck. I’ve had one or two other offers as it happens, I don’t need him that much. He thinks he owns me.’
‘Well, I think you should swallow your pride for another season at least. And even then, you don’t have to lose him altogether. Take it steady, Pat.’
He got to his feet and took her by the shoulders, pushing her against the table, his thighs hard on hers.
‘I’m boss around here, sweetheart,’ he whispered and bent to kiss her.
‘Excuse me,’ said Edna’s voice, primly. Brogan looked at her briefly, before turning back to Mary.
‘What do you want, Edna?’
‘It’s High Time. I think he’s sickening for something.’
‘Damn. All right, I’m coming.’ He released Mary, hitching his jeans irritably, but he had to grin as he met her eye.
‘Can I come?’ she asked and he nodded.
The bay gelding was standing in his box looking slightly depressed.
‘He’s sweating up,’ said Edna and Brogan nodded. The horse’s feed was untouched in the bucket and his nose was beginning to run. Mary noted the rapid rise and fall of the darkened flanks and felt a twinge of apprehension. The horse did not look well at all. Brogan felt for the pulse, all his attention focused on the problem.
‘Right, Edna, get him into the far box, right away from the others, then call the vet. No one but you touches him and you don’t go near the other horses without a complete change. Get on with it.’
‘I’ll phone,’ said Mary and rushed to the house, thankful that she no longer had to race to the village to make a call. Brogan followed her some minutes later.
‘What do you think it is?’ she queried.
‘Virus. It’s bad this year, quite a few people are out with it.’
‘But don’t you have them vaccinated?’
‘Oh yes, but there are different strains and they change, and then you catch it just the same. Not as bad, perhaps, but bad enough.’
‘Will they all get it?’
‘I hope to Christ they don’t. You were right, I’d better be nice to Fred.’
Later that evening they all sat round the kitchen table, drinking coffee in depressed silence.
‘How long would you be off if they did all get it?’ asked Mary at length.
‘Three months I should think. And just when we were doing so damned well.’ He banged the table angrily and the cups jumped.
‘By the way, Mary,’ Edna sounded strained, ‘I brought you something.’
Ma
ry could recognise an olive branch when she saw one. ‘Really? How lovely!’ She gave Brogan a nervous glance. ‘What is it?’ she hissed as Edna went to fetch whatever it was. He just grinned. Edna returned some minutes later with a cardboard box covered with a blanket, the bottom edges dripping slightly.
‘I forgot about him with all the fuss,’ said Edna apologetically, setting the damp parcel down on the clean kitchen table. Mary gritted her teeth and lifted the blanket. Inside, on a bed of wet straw, sat a large, grey-haired puppy, his eyes milky-blue with babyhood and bleary with sleep. He leaped up to Mary, putting his smelly feet all over her clean blouse. She looked at Edna’s anxious face and sighed slightly, then gathered the infant to her bosom.
‘He’s beautiful,’ she said warmly. ‘What sort is he?’
The girls all started talking at once.
‘An Irish Wolfhound,’ said Mandy.
‘He’s only six weeks old,’ said Susan.
‘I thought another Alsatian, but Paddy suggested him,’ said Edna.
A warm, wet flood cascaded down Mary’s front and she stared accusingly at Pat, who smiled sweetly.
‘I knew you’d like him,’ he said.
‘What on earth possessed you to suggest something so big?’ she demanded some hours later. She was mopping up yet another enormous puddle with exhausted patience. She had no idea when she would get to bed, if at all, every time she left the puppy he shrieked in anguish and woke the children.
‘I was being funny,’ said Brogan, moving his feet out of the way. ‘I should have realised Edna has no sense of humour. But it was nice of her, wasn’t it?’
‘I’d be a lot more impressed if she was sitting up with it tonight instead of me,’ muttered Mary sourly. ‘What shall we call him?’
‘He’s your dog, you decide.’
‘How about Paddy? He is huge and thick, after all.’
‘Thanks a lot. Wouldn’t Murphy do as well? Less confusing.’
‘How right you are. I’d hate to see you galloping round the side of the house with your tongue hanging out every time I opened the back door and called. Murphy it is, then.’
A Summer Frost Page 10