‘I think he might, darling,’ she said at last. ‘We shall have to see if he can get it in his sleigh.’
A week before Christmas she was in despair. Anna talked constantly of her pony and Mary could find nothing. She would rather risk her daughter’s heartbreak than let her mount any of the headstrong, temperamental and above all huge ponies being advertised as ‘ideal for small child’. It was Sam Downes who came up with Moonlight Matador, a name so unpromising that she would not have bothered to go and look but that Sam would have been offended. He was owned by a distant relation of Sam’s, a farmer near Garrowby, a youthful, chatty man as Mary discovered on an afternoon of rain and wind. The exotic sounding Moonlight Matador stood on his little black hooves four square against the elements, raising his head at the sound of their voices to come trotting to the gate, eyes bright, ears pricked. Mary studied him as he gently nosed for titbits. He was a dapple grey, his coat thick and shaggy as befitted the outdoor life he was leading. His head was small and intelligent, hinting at a Welsh cross somewhere about and he was narrow, an essential for a child’s pony. Two of the farmer’s children had learned to ride on him and he was obviously the family pet. Mary had no hesitation in paying over the odds for him but she used her own hoard; she could hardly expect Brogan to pay for this. The farmer promised to deliver him on Christmas Eve, when he would be smuggled into a loose box.
She drove home in high spirits for Brogan would be back later that evening and she was looking forward to boasting of her find. At least he would be interested, Stephen had never cared much for her horses, corn and cattle were his delight. In the event when the travellers did return it was late and they were tired, cold and hungry and once thawed out had far too much of their own news to tell to be interested in the minor events on the home front. Patrick had done well, a win and two seconds, all against good competition. He was elated but was doing his best not to show it in front of Tim. That was the worst of having a stranger in the house, Mary thought, you could never fully relax. Parsons had had what everyone assured her was the worst possible luck. One of his horses had gone badly lame halfway through a competition and the other had unaccountably taken to putting in a stop when asked to jump at speed.
‘We should take Fred’s advice,’ said Tim pointedly and Edna looked embarrassed.
‘Any more tea, Mary?’ asked Pat and Tim slumped back in his chair. Mary made a mental note to grill Pat on that at the earliest opportunity.
Her moment came as they were undressing for bed, no longer a mad scramble to beat frostbite but a luxurious ritual cushioned by thick carpets and central heating. She often felt guilty as the boiler roared away, heating the whole house when only she and the children were home, but since Brogan had omitted to tell her how to alter the timer and she was certainly not going to ask, she was happily impotent. Nonetheless she hurried into her nightdress, hating Brogan to see how huge she was getting and tonight he seemed not to notice, flinging himself on the bed with a contented sigh. ‘God, I’m tired. Everything OK?’
She nodded. ‘What did Tim mean? He was a bit cheesed off, I thought.’
‘You can say that again. He came to grief through his own stupidity and now expects me to lend him one of my novices so he can ruin that as well. I told him where to get off.’
‘But he’s not that bad a rider, is he? Would it hurt?’
‘Not the horse perhaps but me, certainly. Anyway Fred’s on his side so I’m damned if I’ll give in.’
Mary sighed. They were heading for big trouble with Fred and she was not looking forward to the explosion. She felt that when the split came Pat would pack his bags, up stakes and depart for Ireland leaving her - where? She preferred not to think of it.
‘I’ve got some news as it happens.’ She perched on the edge of the bed, unaware of how pretty and feminine she looked in her pink, high-necked nightie, its folds falling softly over her enlarged breasts and swollen body. ‘I’ve bought a pony!’
‘You’ve what?’ It was almost a roar.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I used my own money. It’s for Anna, for Christmas and you’ve no idea the trouble I had, I’ve looked at dozens…’ she trailed off worriedly as he leaped to his feet and strode round the room. He seemed almost speechless, clutching his hair and mumbling, turning several times to say something only to clutch his head again and continue his pacing. Finally he halted in front of her.
‘Patrick…what is the matter?’ she asked faintly, expecting at any moment to be knocked to the floor.
‘Mary. Dear Mary.’ He was all patience. ‘There is one thing at which I am an expert. You may be able to beat me hollow on everything else under the sun but in this one thing you don’t stand a chance. What is that one thing, Mary?’
‘Horses, Patrick.’
‘Correct. And what have you just bought?’
‘A horse.’
‘Correct. And how much did you pay?’
She told him.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Well, I know it was a lot but he really is a lovely pony, you’ve no idea - well perhaps you have some idea but - anyway, I don’t care what you say, I like him.’
‘Do you realise I could have borrowed a perfect child’s pony indefinitely from at least a dozen people?’
‘You never said!’
‘I never knew you wanted one!’
They were silent for a moment. Brogan sighed heavily and collapsed on to the bed. ‘Why don’t you talk to me?’ he asked, forcing his voice to deliberate calm. ‘In future, damn it, you will tell me what the devil you’re doing, or else. And when I’m away I will telephone daily and be told the truth, not just yes Patrick, thank you Patrick, everything’s fine Patrick, I can manage. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Patrick. Thank you, Patrick. And while we’re being honest, Mrs Harding has got to go.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘The woman’s a ghoul, that’s what. Her entire conversation is breech births, forceps deliveries and days of anguish, I can’t stand it! Also she’s filthy. And lazy.’
‘Anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘Then I’ll tell her tomorrow.’
‘I feel a coward, don’t you think I should?’
‘No, I’ll let you off. Fred might know someone better, he’s got to have some uses I suppose.’ He turned off the light and they were silent. Mary could not get comfortable and scrabbled around, finally sleeping curled close to Brogan’s back.
Christmas Eve’s muddle offended even Mary’s less than ordered soul. The grooms were all going home for Christmas, as was Tim Parsons and everything had to be left ready so that Brogan could manage with the help of a couple of girls from the village for two or three days. Mary gave presents to the grooms, perfume for Edna, makeup for Susan and, pointedly, soap and bath essence for Mandy. In return she received a book on bloodstock, a horse brass and a tea towel with a picture of Red Rum on it. No one could say the girls were not dedicated she thought, resolving not to tell Brogan in case he was preparing to give her a horsey headscarf. Tim Parsons cast her into confusion by presenting her with a beautiful, expensive and totally desirable cashmere shawl. Thankfully she had not yet given him the small box of cigars intended for him and could substitute the silk tie destined for Fred. She then had to race off in the protesting van to find something else for Fred, not an easy task in a village with three shops on Christmas Eve. When she returned, with an over-priced copper kettle, Moonlight Matador had arrived.
He stood quietly, dwarfed by the vast loose box, apprehensive yet more than hopeful of good things to come. He seemed very scruffy, mane and tail tangled and mud in the long winter coat, and for a dreadful, disloyal moment Mary felt ashamed of him and quailed before the expected criticism. The pony remained quite self-possessed, stepping forward daintily to sniff at Brogan’s pockets.
‘Well, little man, looking for sweeties are you?’ He stroked and patted the little animal, paying particular attention to his
belly and back legs. Then, with a swift movement he picked up the metal water bucket and dropped it with a loud clang. The pony jumped, snorted and went to sniff the bucket.
Brogan laughed. ‘Takes more than that to upset you old stager, eh? We shall have to see about smartening you up.’ He marched off to get brushes and combs, leaving Mary staring. Grooming horses, even the superior Knight Errant was, in Brogan’s opinion, a job for women. She returned to the house to finish stuffing the goose.
By evening the children were beside themselves with excitement. They had helped to decorate the Christmas tree, holding each glass ball and tinsel garland with reverence. Pat put the plug on the lights and they all stood round in the gathering dusk for the lighting up ceremony.
‘There you are - Christmas!’ he declared.
‘Oh Mummy, it’s like stars,’ breathed Anna.
‘Mum, Mum, Mum!’ bellowed Ben, hands reaching and clutching for the sparkling jewels. In the end they made a barricade from the clothes airer, an obstacle which Ben viewed as an assault course provided by kind providence entirely for his amusement. He was carted bodily off to the kitchen to eat fish fingers and prepare for bed. The tension of the night was beyond him but his sister was in turmoil. By seven o’clock, the ritual of hanging the stocking completed, she was in tears.
‘I don’t - I don’t - I don’t want Father Christmas,’ she sobbed and Mary started to laugh. Seen from her daughter’s viewpoint Father Christmas must indeed be a shady character, creeping into people’s bedrooms in the middle of the night. He was only one step removed from a burglar and yet, it seemed, her parents were powerless to keep him away, in fact they encouraged the rascal.
‘Never mind darling,’ she soothed, unpinning the sock, ‘we’ll leave this downstairs for Father Christmas to fill and then Daddy will bring it up here. Will that do?’ She smoothed the tangled curls, plumped the pillow and switched off the light.
The grey dawn, so cold that there was ice on the insides of the windows, saw a very different Anna, racing through the house in her thin nightie clutching an armful of knobbly parcels.
‘He’s been, he’s been!’ she shrieked and Mary opened half an eye. She was tempted to order the little girl back to bed but one look at the flushed cheeks and delighted grin and she heaved herself up. She heard the boiler gurgle into life as she lifted a bewildered Ben from his cot and by the time she returned Patrick was awake. They tucked themselves beneath the covers in an uncomfortable row, elbows and heels poking painfully as excitement mounted. All was over in a sticky, noisy half hour, leaving a tide of paper lapping round the bed.
‘But, Mummy,’ queried Anna combing the hair of a new doll, inexplicably christened Tango, ‘where has Father Christmas put my pony?’ She looked worriedly around as if it might somehow be hiding beneath a toy engine or inside one of her plastic saucepans.
‘If he’s brought one I should think it would be in the stables,’ mused Pat.
‘Tell you what, I’ll go and have a look while you get dressed.’ He scrambled into some clothes and rushed off, leaving Mary to persuade two wriggling children to stand still for at least the time it took to put on jeans and a jumper.
The wind caught them the moment the door was opened, worrying them like a wild dog with a lamb, glad to have something to chew. The pony gazed at them enquiringly; red ribbons decorated his mane and tail and a tinsel garland hung round his neck.
‘Oh Pat, he’s beautiful!’ gasped Mary.
‘Grand little chap, isn’t he?’ agreed Pat.
‘Oh, Mummy, is he all mine? Father Christmas doesn’t want him back?’
‘No, he’s all yours,’ assured her mother, ‘provided you let Ben have a turn now and then.’
‘He can have turns when I’m tired,’ declared Anna. ‘Stand up, old lad.’
She walked confidently to the pony and gave him a slap, a miniature Edna.
Once round the yard and they were blue and gasping with the cold. Only Anna wanted more and she could hardly close her gloved fingers round the reins. She was summarily removed from her perch and thrust into the kitchen to recover next to the Aga.
‘Do you think it’s going to snow?’ asked Mary. The tales of streams frozen solid and drifts higher than a man had seemed laughable in the milk and honey days of summer, but not today.
‘Too cold perhaps. I don’t know.’ Their eyes met over steaming mugs of tea. ‘Here. For you.’ Pat was holding out a small parcel.
She unwrapped it with stiff fingers, wondering how to feign pleasure if it was a horse’s head brooch. It was not. The dim morning light gleamed on silver and sapphire blue. Silent, she slid the bracelet on to her wrist, an incongruous sight next to the thick ribbing of her sweater. She tried to speak but the tears came.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s the most beautiful present I’ve ever had,’ she whispered. Sniffing, she tried to smile. ‘And I’ve got something for you.’
It was with some trepidation that she gave him a shooting waistcoat and a book called The Amateur Gun. He was a keen shot but rarely managed to accept any of the invitations he received. Nonetheless he seemed pleased.
The snow came on Boxing Day, huge wet flakes whipped into swirls by the wind, blotting out the sky in minutes. Work outside was a battle against the cold, doors frozen shut, metal catches burning fingers. Mary milked in the quiet barn, comforted by the small noises of the cow cudding, jumping involuntarily when she coughed. The snow cast an eerie white light over the steading, making it appear fragile and impermanent. It was hard to believe that the grey walls had withstood hundreds of years of the worst that the hills could provide and had been there still to welcome each spring. It was harder to believe that there would be another spring. The world would be cold, wet and white for ever.
‘Thank God we’ve no stock in the fields,’ gasped Brogan, bringing a rush of cold air into the kitchen. His coat and boots dripped pools on to the floor.
‘I’ve made some soup,’ said Mary, handing him a mug. It was thrilling to see how hard it was snowing. She secretly hoped for it to be feet deep, but in the evening it stopped and the frost came. Nonetheless the road was impassable and it was clear that it would be some days before anyone could get through to them. The snow had drifted, cars had become trapped and until these were removed the snow plough was useless. They settled down to days of isolation and found it surprisingly enjoyable. Once the stock had been fed - there was no question of exercise - they were free to do exactly as they liked.
On a clear, cold morning they went sledging in the snowy fields, sliding down sitting on plastic sacks. Brogan and Anna were typically reckless, not braking until the last minute, often with disastrous results. Time and again they hurtled head first into the hawthorn hedge, crawling out bruised and prickled only to pick up their sack and do it again.
Mary and Ben, in silent agreement, made a ponderous descent at half speed. Afterwards they sat in the kitchen drinking hot soup and wondered whether to spend the afternoon playing Ludo or watching old films on television. Mary sighed in content.
‘This is lovely, almost like when Stephen was alive,’ she said without thinking. There was no reply. She glanced at Brogan and saw that he was staring fixedly at his mug. ‘I just meant - like a proper family. No Tim or anyone—’ She had the feeling she was only making it worse.
He rose to his feet. ‘By the way, I shall be going to Ireland for a few weeks. Fred wants to buy some horses and I can see my family at the same time. I might ask Tim to come along, it might amuse him.’ He went out into the yard, not bothering to find a coat.
Mary mentally cursed her stupidity, she should know by now that he hated her to talk of Stephen, however obliquely. It would be so much easier if she knew what his feelings for her were. As time had gone on, they had become comfortable together and sometimes even friendly, but too often they turned to claw. Not in bed of course but she discounted the sex, it deceived. For her part she knew much of the conflict was rooted in her
own insecurity, but for him - there was a hardness she could not penetrate. He had loved Barbara with a youthful passion that had turned bitter and he could never hope to regain that, nor would she wish him to. She and Stephen had travelled that road together and had come through to the wide and sunny plains of friendship, understanding and accord. This was what she sought to recapture, but Patrick? He seemed more inclined to demand devotion in return for supporting her and the children, but to give nothing of himself. He would probably like her to be madly in love with him so that he could gaze upon her fawnings with Olympian detachment. You’ll wait a long time for that, she thought fiercely, fastening Ben’s nappy so tightly that it was almost a straitjacket. He went pink and patted worriedly at his bottom, saying ‘Mum, Mum’ in a bewildered way. She relented and let it out.
Did Brogan think she would beg him to stay, she fumed?
‘I will manage,’ she announced, somewhat to Anna’s surprise. After all the girls would be there, the baby would wait until April and the weather man had forecast a thaw. She did not need Brogan.
Sure enough, it was raining when she woke the following morning, a drizzle that turned the snow’s magic into grey, slushy reality. Life returned with the rivers of mud that flowed into the yard. The road was flooded near the village and it was mid afternoon before Edna and then Susan appeared.
‘Er - I don’t think Mandy’s coming back,’ said Susan shyly.
‘What? Why ever not?’ Edna had lost none of her sharpness over Christmas.
‘She rang me. She’s got a job with a racing stable. Thinks it’ll be more fun.’
‘More boys you mean,’ snarled Edna and Mary had to agree. Racing stables tended to be somewhat lusty; Mandy would be in her element.
The rain continued that night and all the next day as Brogan and Tim prepared to leave. Everyone sloshed about looking bedraggled with the exception of Tim, who was immaculate in bright yellow sailing oilskins.
‘Thinks he’s at bloody Cowes,’ muttered Brogan, but Mary ignored him. She was getting quite good at it.
A Summer Frost Page 14