Patrick caught at her skirt as she passed. ‘Has he been making up to you?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Because if he has—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. No, it’s simply that we ought to try and make it work, this atmosphere is terrible. Why don’t you both take some of the youngsters to a show? It might help.’
‘I suppose we could. The good ones that is, the others can stay and get fat.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Mary love, the bad ones won’t do any good but we’ll let someone else find that out. We sell them full of oats and promise, say we haven’t got time for them, that sort of thing. The good ones can prove themselves so we let them.’
‘It doesn’t sound very ethical.’ She was slightly shocked. He always seemed so honest.
‘That’s nothing! If I told you some of the tricks my dad used to pull it would turn you white.’ But he didn’t seem disposed to tell her. Wearily, she turned back to the sink, pulling at the waistband of her skirt. It was uncomfortably tight, soon she would have to go into smocks and then everyone would know. There would be winks and nudges, and conversations stopping when she came into a room, even in this day and age.
‘Why the hell don’t you buy some maternity clothes?’
Mary started, she had thought he’d gone into the yard.
‘Come here.’ He pulled her towards him and she stood, hands dripping, as he lifted her blouse and looked at the bulge of her stomach. He gently unfastened the pins holding the straining material and the skirt fell to the floor.
‘No.’ She tried to stop him as he eased her tights and panties down but he ignored her, running his hands over the firm, pale flesh of her belly.
Awash with embarrassment, Mary could not meet his eyes, but he took no notice and knelt in front of her, kissing and caressing while she tangled her fingers in his hair. She wanted him now and parted her legs, pressing his face into her. Just as she felt she could bear it no more he thrust her back against the table, his hands fumbling with his trousers. She murmured to him, for once utterly submissive, but then her eyes widened with shock. Standing in the doorway, lips parted lasciviously and an excited flush on his cheeks, was Tim Parsons.
‘Patrick, he’s watching us!’ she shrieked and Brogan turned, in time to see the door closing.
‘Who the hell cares?’ he muttered and forced her now shivering body backwards. Later he said she had imagined it, but Mary suspected that he was secretly pleased, like a stallion displaying his dominance over a desirable mare. For her part, whenever she thought of it she shrivelled inside. It would only have been worse if it had been her mother, she felt.
Her mother. The guilt that had been building for weeks rose up and engulfed her. The letters kept coming, each demanding that she should telephone and explain what she was doing, and each time she wrote back, vague, non-committal, and said the phone hadn’t been put in. Her thin tale about a job wouldn’t survive one real conversation she was sure, already her mother made it clear that she hardly believed her. There would be such a scene when she found out the truth. Day after day she thought about phoning and day after day she put it off.
Indeed, there was so much else to think about. Within a week Parsons had the grooms in his pocket. His evenings were spent in the granary flat, with all three vying for his favours, which he allotted with undeniable skill. Edna was his prime concern for she could smooth many paths for him, but he led Mandy to believe that were it not for Edna and her jealousy they would be enjoying nights of unequalled passion. Shy Susan, for her part, needed very little more than a warm smile and the occasional arm round her shoulders for her to worship from afar, adoration mixed with terror.
He made no progress with Brogan. Pat set him to work on the horses that were intended for sale, exercising the best ones himself. It soon became obvious that Parsons did not relish the tedious groundwork that had to be done on some of the big, unbalanced youngsters that were in the yard. He soon began pushing to start fast work, but Pat was adamant.
‘Another couple of weeks and that black gelding might start to be fit and might start to lighten the forehand,’ he said flatly. ‘If you rush him now you could finish him.’
‘Well then, what about taking the bay and the chestnut mare to a show? They could both do with an outing and so could I. You must admit there’s not much going on around here with half the nags coughing and the other half thinking about it.’ Pat shook his head. ‘Those horses are for sale. They are not going to any shows.’
‘You must be mad,’ fumed Parsons, ill temper getting the better of him. ‘If they weren’t so fleshy and were given a bit more work they’d be first class. A show or two would do them good.’
‘Which is what we want the buyer to think.’ Pat stared hard at him, cool blue eyes meeting hot brown ones. ‘It’s time you learned some patience, Parsons. Your own two nags could do with some of your time, instead of bribing Edna to go and do it. You can’t just pull them out at a show, blast off and win, not unless you want to be a nine days’ wonder that is.’
‘I’ve been doing all right up to now.’ Tim’s voice had become slightly shrill, he was losing his accustomed confidence in the face of Brogan’s greater knowledge and experience.
‘You’ve done fairly well at County shows with two very expensive horses bought ready-made,’ replied Brogan. ‘The horses are worse now than when Daddy bought them for you and you haven’t learned anything.’ He looked at the furious young face opposite him and relented somewhat. After all, as Mary said, everyone had to learn and God knows what Tom Spence had had to put up with from Patrick himself. He resolved to be patient. ‘You’ve got talent, Tim, but you’re wasting it. If you want to be good you’ve got to work. There are no short cuts, not doping or rapping, none of the little tricks you’ve heard of. You’ve just got to work.’
Parsons coloured slightly, confirming Pat’s suspicions. His mare had been that much too keen at the August show. Fred had no idea of course, and wouldn’t have cared even if he had known. His only yardstick was the rosette which the mare had won after a round three parts out of control. She had almost reared over backwards in the paddock afterwards and came out the following day lethargic and drained.
Tim went sullenly back to work, but continued his campaign behind the scenes. Edna asked Pat about the black gelding.
‘I think Tim may be right, Paddy, the horse is better than we think. Perhaps he should do a show or two.’
Brogan stared at her in amazement. He knew he was no longer the brightest star in her sky but he had never expected it to cloud her judgement of horses.
‘Damn it, Edna, you know as well as I do the horse is the biggest coward ever foaled. Show him anything over three foot, and quite a few things under it for that matter, and he goes to pieces. I’ll admit he’s good looking but he’s useless.’
‘But are you sure, Paddy? I mean if I spent more time with him, built his confidence more. Tim says…’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure he does. Well, lover boy might thrill you but he doesn’t do anything for me. Or Mary for that matter, she calls him Gorgeous George.’
Edna looked at the floor for a moment. ‘Paddy, about Mary - is she pregnant?’
He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Yes. I suppose it’s obvious. I should have told you.’
‘I saw her without that overblouse thing she’s been wearing. Do you think she ought to be doing the calves and things?’
He turned to look out of the tack room window. It was raining, a thin, persistent drizzle that might go on for ever. ‘She never complains, but then she doesn’t say much at all nowadays. And she’s so damned independent she won’t let anyone help.’
‘Yes, isn’t she though? She’s the sort of woman who’d kill herself changing a wheel rather than ask for help, even though a dozen lorry drivers would stop if she just winked. Stupid, really.’ Edna looked ruefully down at her strong, large hands, roughened by work that no man ever felt moved to help her with. Brogan heard her sigh and felt a sud
den warmth towards her. It was odd how their relationship had improved since Parsons had arrived. Sex complicated so many things.
‘Looks aren’t everything, love,’ he comforted, unwittingly plunging her still further into depression. ‘But you don’t want to get too keen on Parsons, he’s only amusing himself.’
Edna nodded and made for the door. She felt like crying, but large, bony women only looked ridiculous when they cried and embarrassed everyone.
‘I must go and see High Time,’ she muttered, and tripped over the doormat.
Of the three horses that had contracted the virus, High Time was by far the worst affected. Secondary infections had set in and they had serious doubts about his lungs. Despite all their care he could still end up with broken wind, puffing and coughing at the least exertion, his magnificent promise come to nothing. They would simply have to wait and see, and in the meantime he was put on a long course of vitamins and medication. He received two injections a day, and the poor lad was beginning to feel like a pincushion. Whenever anyone approached the box, for whatever reason, he retreated to the farthest corner and stood there trembling, sweat forming visibly on his neck, his eyes showing white. As he gained strength boredom became a problem and he would stand for hours, idly kicking the heavy woodpanelling. The dull thumping became the accepted accompaniment to work in the yard. He started to worry Brogan.
‘Mary,’ he said one day, ‘don’t let the children anywhere near that horse, will you. I don’t like the look of him.’
‘He’s not infectious any more, surely.’
‘No, but he reminds me of a horse I knew once.’ His hand strayed to his cheek.
‘Was it a kick?’ she asked and he nodded.
‘He was a funny animal, not at all like High Time really. Very placid most of the time but he’d been laid up for a while after a bad fall. It turned him in some way. He’d come at you suddenly, for no reason you could see, ears flat, head like a snake. But he was a good horse.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mary feelingly, ‘now I suppose you’re going to say it was your fault he kicked you.’
‘Well, it was really. I only went in for a second, I should have tied him up but it didn’t seem worth it. He reared on me. They fended him off with pitchforks and dragged me out, all very dramatic.’
‘My God! And High Time reminds you of him?
I hope you’ve told Edna, she’s doing him, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, she can cope, she always does. But watch the children.’
Mary nodded. It was just one more thing to be kept constantly in mind. Sometimes she felt like a juggler desperately trying to keep a dozen balls in the air at the same time. Before her pregnancy she had revelled in it, always occupied, always interested, but now she longed to crawl into bed and stay there for ever.
Apart from the rest it would have kept her away from Parsons. Often she would turn and find him watching her with an expression that was almost wistful. He was like a winter-starved wolf looking at food, longing to take it but fearful of the consequences. He made excuses to be alone with her, standing too close, but not so close that she could legitimately complain. In lighter moments she could see that Parsons was only young, self-opinionated and over-sexed, as even Ben might be one day, but somehow he bothered her. In self-defence she took to smocks at last, the bigger the better, and kept the children by her as much as she could. Since they usually dogged Brogan’s footsteps Patrick assumed that she had decided to keep them away from him, but he would not challenge her and she could not explain, so it only added to the chill. She so much wished Tim had never come.
Chapter 11
Autumn was upon them, its first sign in those high hills not the changing leaves, nor the evening chill, but the wind. They would lie at night and listen to its howl amongst the chimneys, roaring in the trees and gusting softly in at ill-fitting windows. Odd bangs and tinklings punctuated the night and in the morning they would find doors pulled from their hinges and the cats’ bowls smashed in the yard. It rained a lot that year and the stock poached the fields but at High Wold House all was bustle as the virus burned itself out and the hunting season began. Young horses, unsure of themselves and their role in life, grew up in the excitement and company of a day following hounds. Twice a week Mary would wave goodbye to Brogan and Tim Parsons as they set off, looking immaculate, only to return hours later covered in mud, exhausted and in rare good humour. They would flop down by the Aga, a whisky in hand, and tell Mary the story of the day.
Sometimes it would be a blank, trekking coldly from covert to covert without a sniff of a fox, but occasionally it was perfect. Hounds would find almost at once, their snuffles and whines deep within the trees and brambles turning to the cacophony euphemistically called ‘music’ as they found the line. They would pour from the wood, a river of brown and white, flowing over fences with scarcely a pause. A ripple of excitement would pass through the field at the sound of the horn and the horses would start to sweat. This was the time of greatest strain for Brogan and Tim, both mounted on youngsters already overcome by the unaccustomed company and the chill open air. Tension was released in a series of bucks, an attempt to bolt or sudden switching into reverse, to the fury of anyone standing behind them. Everyone cursed and swore.
At last, at long last, they were off and fighting to prevent the horses going flat out. There was a long day ahead and exhausted horses make mistakes. They made mistakes anyway, too green and excited to negotiate fences as wiser horses did, slowly and with care. They would race towards them, get too close, have a moment of indecision and then do a last minute scramble. It took a very good horseman to keep his nerve and let the horse work it out when at any moment he might be turned upside down in a ditch. In the end it was worth it though, to see excitable babies turned into keen, competent performers.
Mary always wanted to know if they caught anything.
‘Don’t think so,’ Brogan would reply, time and again.
‘I can’t think why they call it a blood sport, it’s more like jogging for foxes,’ she commented, having stood and watched a fox emerge calmly from a wood, yawn and saunter off unconcerned as the hounds hunted madly for his scent.
‘I think it’s the followers who bleed,’ muttered Brogan, nursing a knee rammed against a tree.
‘But you want to go, the fox doesn’t.’
‘Come off it, you’d go too if you weren’t pregnant. I’ve seen you, little orphan Annie with her face pressed to the window.’
She had to laugh, it was true. He ruffled her hair. ‘Next year,’ he said and she looked at him in surprise. She never thought further ahead than tomorrow.
Hunting mornings were very hectic and it was on one such, with haynets, rugs, bandages and hoofpicks scattered everywhere in a turmoil of horses and people, that Mary’s mother arrived. Brogan looked up irritably as the car drove in.
‘Oh Christ, some damned sightseer no doubt. Edna!’ he bellowed, ‘go and see what they want.’
Sighing, the girl left her bandaging - it had taken her half an hour to do three legs as it was - and marched over to the car, as welcoming as an angry hornet. A trim, elegant lady with silver hair, dressed in a navy blue suit, smiled charmingly up at her.
‘I’m looking for my daughter,’ she said, forestalling Edna’s aggressive questioning. ‘Mrs Squires.’
‘Oh. Well - er - you mean Mary, I suppose.’ She looked round wildly for support but no one was taking any notice.
‘Yes, indeed. This is the place, I take it?’ Her fastidious gaze took in the blowing straw and snorting horses. ‘Yes,’ she mused, ‘it’s just the thing Mary would like.’ She looked expectantly at Edna.
‘Well - er - that is, I don’t know…if you’ll excuse me!’ She turned and ran towards Brogan, feeling more than usually big and clumsy in the face of such fragile elegance.
‘Paddy!’ she hissed. ‘It’s Mary’s mother!’
‘You deal with it,’ he said abstractedly, sorting through a pile of bits.
‘For God’s sake Paddy, will you listen! It’s Mary’s mother!’
‘Indeed it is,’ said a cool voice behind them. Brogan stood up slowly, wiping his hands on his trousers.
‘Er - how do you do, ma’am. I’m Patrick Brogan.’
‘And I am Mrs Bennett. I would like to see my daughter, please.’
‘Yes. Well. I don’t really know…’ his eyes met Edna’s in desperate entreaty. No amount of disguise could hide the fact that Mary was nearly five months pregnant. The coming scene appalled him.
‘I think she’s out,’ he said desperately.
‘Then I will wait in the house.’ She opened her Italian leather handbag and removed a pair of suede gloves which she put on with elaborate care, stretching and smoothing the fingers. It was a gesture Mary would have recognised. Her mother always put on her gloves when preparing for battle, once, incongruously, whilst wearing her dressing gown.
‘I don’t think - perhaps you could come back this afternoon? We’re very busy, as you can see.’
‘I shall get in no one’s way, Mr Brogan. I merely want to see my daughter.’
‘Oh God.’ He ran a hand through his hair. Panic must have improved his hearing, as above all the clatter of the horses he heard the back door open and Mary’s light step across the courtyard. She appeared round the corner, pretty and healthy in a dark brown smock with cream lace at neck and cuffs, but unmistakably pregnant.
‘Mummy.’
Her mother turned. ‘Oh Mary. Mary, my little girl!’ Her voice broke and she clung to her daughter, giving little sobs.
‘Come into the house, Mummy.’ She looked over her mother’s shoulder and held out a packet to Brogan. ‘Your sandwiches,’ she said matter of factly.
He took them and stood turning the bag in his hands. As the two women moved away he leaped into action, racing round like one possessed. Edna looked at him blankly.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he yelled urgently, thrusting a bucket into her hands, ‘before she gets over the shock!’
A Summer Frost Page 12