‘My tongue’s hanging out now, as it happens,’ he said, stroking her arm.
‘Well, unless you fancy sharing a bed with Murphy I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment.’
‘Let’s try. He must be tired by now.’
They had barely reached the bottom of the stairs before the volume of Murphy’s cries brought them racing back into the kitchen.
‘You’d think he was being murdered,’ said Brogan once he could hear himself think.
‘I wish Edna had ignored her guilt feelings, I really do,’ moaned Mary, sinking into a chair with the orphan in her arms.
‘We could drug him, you know,’ said Brogan and Mary stared at him accusingly.
‘Turning him into a junkie at six weeks? It’s immoral, and anyway…’ her words were drowned by an enormous yawn and Brogan went to fetch the tranquilliser they used for horses which were bad travellers. Mary did not protest.
‘It will have to be a minute dose,’ she warned as he stirred it into a saucer of milk. Within half an hour Murphy was snoring happily and they crept off to bed. Mary slept badly, dreaming of nightmare hounds and dead puppies, with the small round figure of Fred Swallow standing in their midst, looking cross. But when morning came it was clear that Murphy had survived the night and was much refreshed by his sound sleep. He bundled about, falling into his water bowl every few minutes. The children loved him and Mary too felt a reluctant affection, tempered only by the need to follow him everywhere with a large cloth and an armful of newspapers.
Lunch with Fred was a less sophisticated affair than Mary had intended. Banished to the kitchen, Murphy’s wails were clearly audible as they began their smoked salmon. Halfway through the boeuf bourguignon Brogan could stand it no longer and consigned him to an empty stable where his cries could only deafen the horses, and when coffee and liqueurs arrived the atmosphere was every bit as mellow as Mary had planned.
‘I’d be happy to do that show, I really would, Fred,’ said Brogan with disgusting sincerity, ‘but we have a problem.’
‘Just tell me, lad, I’m sure we can sort something out,’ said Fred in a fatherly way. Brogan smiled thinly.
‘Well, I’m not sure there is anything we can do. We’ve got the virus.’
‘You’re ill you mean? Why didn’t you say so?’ Mary could not help smiling as Pat patiently explained. ‘So you see, we might have quite a long lay off,’ he finished.
Fred was silent for a moment, puffing on his cigar. ‘I’d better tell you what I’ve got in mind, then.’ He blew a cloud of smoke. ‘I’ve thought for some time I should have more horses going, I never like doing things by halves. I’m going to take on someone else, as a second string so to speak, I’d be hard put to find anyone as good as you, Paddy.’
Brogan was not flattered. ‘What do you mean?’ he snapped.
‘I’m sponsoring Tim Parsons, do you know him? He’s got two good horses.’
‘He’s got two half good horses, you mean,’ snapped Brogan, ‘and a bloody good opinion of himself into the bargain.’
‘Well, that’s no bad thing,’ soothed Fred. ‘Anyway, I want him to move in here, though with this bug you’ve got the horses will have to stay with me for the time being, I suppose.’
‘He’s not coming here,’ snarled Brogan. ‘What do you think this is, a bloody hotel?’
‘I think you can teach him a lot, Pat,’ said Fred blandly. ‘And anyway—’ he paused and leaned forward, looking Pat straight in the eye ‘- if you want me to stick with you over this spot of bother then you’d better cooperate.’
Brogan said nothing, but a muscle in his cheek twitched. His hand reached up in that tell-tale gesture and Mary turned and caught Fred’s hand.
‘I don’t think I want anyone else in the house just now, Fred. It wouldn’t matter who it was, we’re better by ourselves. Really we are.’
Fred pulled his hand away, irritated with her for siding with Brogan. ‘Tim Parsons is coming here and he’s got to have somewhere to stay. I can’t put him in with the girls now, can I?’
'You can’t put him anywhere,’ said Pat. ‘This is my house, my farm and the girls are employed by me.’ He glared at Fred who glared back, no less eager for a showdown.
A vision of disaster appeared before Mary’s eyes, Fred gone, the money gone, the house sold and she left with nothing and no one.
‘I think I ought to tell you something,’ she said shakily. They were hardly interested.
‘What?’ snapped Brogan flinging himself back in his chair, as relaxed as piano wire.
‘What, my dear, what have you to tell us?’ purred Fred, winning points for care and control.
‘Well, it’s just - perhaps you don’t think it’s important but - I’m pregnant. And I think it would be nice if we had the house to ourselves - for a bit.’
She stared at her hands, surreptitiously watching Pat out of the corner of her eye. The colour had drained from his face but his eyes bored into her like chips of blue glass.
‘Don’t pretend, Mary. Don’t play games.’ He was begging her to say it wasn’t true. Damn him, damn all men.
‘I wish I was making it up,’ she snapped, hating herself for the wobble in her voice. ‘But I’m not and I’m pregnant and I don’t want someone else in the house.’
There was a silence. In the distance Murphy was still wailing.
‘But Mary,’ said Fred at length, ‘you’ve got the wrong idea about young Parsons. He’s a nice chap, friendly. Look, tell you what, I’ll give him strict instructions to help out, lifting things for you, that sort of thing. He won’t be any bother at all. But I’ll leave you two to talk things over. Lovely meal, my dear, delicious.’ He wafted out on a tide of cigar smoke, delighted with himself and with Mary’s news. A bit of family responsibility would show Patrick Brogan how independent he could afford to be.
‘I thought you had one of those coil things fitted,’ said Patrick. He sounded quite calm, she thought.
‘I did. I’m the failure rate. And do you know I never even considered it would happen to me. Damn, damn, damn. Damn it to hell.’
‘What are you going to do? Get rid of it?’
She looked up at him, suddenly furious. ‘Now listen here, Brogan, don’t think you’re sending me off for an abortion just to save you some inconvenience. This is nothing to do with you any longer, you leave me and my baby alone. We will manage.’ She thought of Ben as he had been that morning, warm and cuddly, singing in his cot, and wrapped her arms protectively over her stomach.
‘It’s my baby too, you know.’ She saw that she had hurt him and was surprised. After all, she was just one of the crowd for him.
‘You don’t have to bother about it. I can cope. I don’t…’ she had been about to say ‘need you’ but stopped herself.
‘But I’m not your beloved Stephen, isn’t that it, Mary? You’d rather die than depend on me.’ She said nothing because it was true. Her security lay in her independence, in her untouched heart and her building society passbook, not in him.
‘You could have told me. God Almighty, I’m not some sort of ogre.’
‘No, no, of course you’re not.’ She ran a hand through her hair. How to tell him that she had needed Fred’s protection, for her baby if not for herself. If Pat had taken it badly she could well have ended up like Barbara. But then she looked at him and saw that he knew her thoughts anyway.
‘I’m going out to the horses.’
‘Yes.’
She was left staring miserably at the polished table, awash with dirty glasses and half-filled ashtrays. She thought about her baby.
Chapter 10
Late summer had been beautiful, the barley rich and ripe, turning the fields to cloth of gold. She had wandered with the children down country lanes, marvelling at the bloody splashes of poppies hiding like thieves under the hedgerow, where the farmer couldn’t reach. Sometimes she met her neighbour, Sam Downes, as he prowled round his acres rolling ears of corm between his fingers and
muttering. It was a good year and a good harvest, so Sam was happy to chat about this and that. He was lonely, a widower with his children, all girls, grown up and gone away. She met him once when he was checking the crop and then again when she took the children to see the combines rolling through the fields like neolithic monsters, devouring all in their path.
‘Been a grand month,’ he commented, taking a break from the dust with his flask of tea and a sandwich. The children were playing in the straw, throwing it up in clouds.
‘It’s not been a month since I saw you last has it?’ said Mary and he nodded. She was surprised. Time was slipping through her fingers as silently as a pure silk scarf.
Later, walking home, she felt rather sick. It was the sun, she thought, and the dust. Were it not for the harvest she would be praying for rain. But then, was it really a month since she had last seen Sam Downes? A whole month? Little things clicked into place and by the time she reached the house she was certain. The test had been a formality, she had no doubts. It was late September and she was about two months pregnant, which meant April. A spring baby.
The thought of telling Brogan had turned her cold, and she had convinced herself that she needn’t do so yet. After all, he had not meant to father it and now that it was there, growing inside her, it was her own. His was the bread she ate, the bed she slept in, but the children were hers, he had no claim on them, not even on the tiny bud that hid where no one could see. She would keep it safe from him, she would keep it to herself, the pleasure, and the pain, were hers by right. It was her baby.
That he knew how she felt was something she had not bargained for. It put a wall between them though they pretended together that the child did not exist. They never spoke of it, to each other or to anyone else.
Fred told only his new rider, the ubiquitous Mr Parsons, about whom Pat said almost nothing. Mary prepared a room well away from their own and determinedly furnished it with two armchairs filched from the sitting room. The man would have to realise that he was not to have the freedom of the house, and in particular the sitting room, to witness the miserable evenings she and Brogan spent together, hardly speaking. The warmth that had crept unnoticed into their relationship was gone and she was aware of its loss as she had not been of its presence.
* * *
Susan had applied for her driving test and every breakfast was marred by her study of the highway code. She insisted that Mary test her until finally she refused to look at the book again. Really, the girl must have the mental capacity of a snail she thought, buttering toast amidst Susan’s offended silence. She was a very good driver, but when it came to memorising the stopping distances or even something obvious, like the sign for a slippery road, she agonised and thought and asked for clues, before coming up with the wrong answer every time. Wearily Mary picked up the book again.
‘Just once more,’ she offered and Susan blossomed.
They were locked in combat over motorway hazard signs when there was a knock at the front door. This in itself was odd because no one ever went there, they always came to the back, but she seized the excuse and raced to answer it. The bolts were stiff, unused, and she wrestled with them.
A young man stood there, deeply tanned, hands in pockets. He was dressed in crisp jeans and white shirt casually unbuttoned to show a gold medallion on his smooth brown chest. Brown eyes smiled warmly at her but she did not respond.
‘Well, hello gorgeous.’
‘Mr Parsons I take it.’
‘And you are the delectable Mrs Squires. I see what Fred meant.’
His accent was unmistakably southern and very confident.
‘Do you have any luggage?’ Mary was chillingly formal.
He gestured to a small red sports car obstructing the lane, being snarled at by a tractor trailing a load of muck.
‘Would you please pull into the yard? And use the back door in future, we always do in Yorkshire.’
‘Good heavens. Well, when in Rome I suppose.’ He showed no signs of moving but just stood there staring at her.
‘Quite. Well, if you don’t want to be lynched by the Roman mob, namely Mr Hobson who is driving that tractor, I suggest you move your car. Now.’
She shut the door firmly in his face and raced to the kitchen. Brogan was there.
‘He’s here,’ she squeaked, rushing to deal with the wet patch under the table. Murphy always went there and no one ever noticed until they sat down for a meal. It was most off-putting.
‘Who, for God’s sake?’
‘The interloper, Parsons. All charm and good looks. I’m going to hate him.’
Brogan chuckled, a sound not often heard these days. ‘He thinks he’s one hell of a ladykiller. Why aren’t you impressed?’
‘Oh, he’s like Gorgeous George, the tom cat in Anna’s book. Why should I be impressed when he so obviously is?’
Brogan sighed. ‘He’s like that about horses, too. You can’t tell him anything, he knows it all.’ He strode angrily round the kitchen, hands thrust deep into his pockets. ‘God knows why I should have to be his wetnurse. If it wasn’t for this damned virus I’d tell Fred to take a running jump at himself and to take lover boy with him.’
She flapped at him. ‘Watch out, he’s here. Do come in, Mr Parsons.’
‘Why, thank you. Hello Patrick. I’m sorry to land on you like this, old chap. Wasn’t my idea as I’m sure you realise.’ He held out a hand, but Brogan pointedly ignored it. Parsons was not discomfited.
‘I see you’re not too happy. But please don’t worry, I’ve got strict instructions not to make any work for Mary - I hope I can call you that - now she’s—’
‘You mind your own business about what she is or isn’t!’ Brogan sounded vicious and for a moment Mary felt quite sorry for the newcomer. He wasn’t to know he had entered a hornet’s nest.
‘I’ll show you to your room,’ she said quickly.
‘Why, thank you.’ Parsons treated her to his most beguiling smile. She stared back, blank-faced.
‘You’ll have to share a bathroom with the children,’ said Brogan. ‘Which is pretty hard on them.’
Mary was thrown off balance. ‘Er - actually Pat, I forgot to tell you. The guest bathroom is finished.’
‘The - guest bathroom?’
‘Yes. Come along, Mr Parsons, I haven’t got all day.’ She scuttled out, exposed at last as the profligate she really was.
She led the way upstairs in silence. As she paused at the bedroom door Parsons caught her arm. ‘Mary - I do want us to be friends, you know. This may be a little awkward at first but I’m really quite nice when you get to know me. Honest Injun.’ He was all boyish charm and in fairness Mary had to admire his tactics. Pat would be a hard nut to crack so first get the women on your side. A lifetime ago she might have fallen for it, but not now. She smiled up at him.
‘Of course we can be friends, Tim - I may call you that I hope? It’s just that our little family does need some privacy. So I’ve given you some chairs up here for the evenings, although you are very welcome to eat with us, of course. Let me know if you need anything.’ She walked briskly down the hall, reflecting that she might yet make a good landlady. Did she dare ask him not to bath more than once a month? That would soon get rid of him.
She was baking when he wandered back into the kitchen.
‘Mary dear - I wonder if you could introduce me to everyone? I feel very much the new boy I’m afraid.’
‘Of course, Tim, I’d be delighted. Sit there, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’ She turned the radio up and ignored him. Ben, who was playing with his bricks, hid under the table with Murphy.
‘Excuse me.’ He had to shout above the radio. Mary turned it down.
‘Yes?’
‘This child has been sick on my trousers.’
Mary hastened to look. ‘Good heavens, that’s just a burp, you had me worried for a minute. Wipe it up with this.’ She handed him a cloth and returned to her work.
Parsons took ad
vantage of the relative silence.
‘What sort of dog is this?’
‘An Irish wolfhound.’
Parsons laughed. ‘Paddy’s choice I suppose, he’s very idiosyncratic about his origins. How do you find it living with someone so Irish?’
‘I take it you mean “what’s a girl like me doing in a place like this?” and if so I decline to answer. Come on, I’ll show you round.’
Mandy and Susan were sweeping the yard and stood tongue-tied as Mary introduced the newcomer.
‘I do hope you lovely ladies will give me a little extra help until I find my feet,’ he twinkled with a grin. Susan blushed furiously while Mandy slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and looked at him under her lashes. Oh dear, thought Mary, we shall have trouble if that girl starts washing more often. Edna came out of one of the boxes and they walked over to her.
‘Edna my dear,’ carolled Parsons, catching her hands in his. ‘How lovely to see you again.’ He turned to Mary, still holding Edna’s hand. ‘Edna and I are old friends. She’s often helped me at shows, haven’t you, my sweet?’
To Mary’s horror, Edna gave a coquettish giggle and turned rather pink.
‘Well - I do like to help when I can,’ she said breathlessly.
‘At least I have one friend in the camp,’ he replied, casting a glance of triumph at Mary. She felt thoroughly annoyed.
‘Edna’s got quite enough to do for Patrick without helping you,’ she snapped and then wished she’d kept quiet. Why was she letting him bother her? She was tired, that was it, tired and worried and unhappy. She managed a wan smile. ‘I’m sure all the girls will be glad to help you out, Tim,’ she added kindly and was rewarded by a look of complete bewilderment. That was the way to handle the creature, keep him off balance.
After supper that night, a silent, difficult meal, Tim retired to his room, chased out by a coolness that bordered on the rude.
‘We’re being mean,’ said Mary to Patrick as she cleared away the dishes. ‘He’s young and silly but he won’t always be like that. It’s not his fault he’s here.’
A Summer Frost Page 11