‘Do I detect a frost?’ cooed Tim into her ear as she stood at the sink.
‘Go to hell.’
‘Oh dear, we are touchy today. Is the nasty man being horrid to you?’
‘Thank God you’re going to Ireland. Perhaps the boat will sink.’
‘We’re flying actually.’
‘Even better, I can pack a bomb with your socks.’
‘What, and lose dear Patrick too? Things must be bad.’
She did not reply and pushed past him to the table. He hung around whistling for a few moments before going into the yard.
‘See you in three weeks,’ said Brogan awkwardly.
‘Is that all?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Look Mary - you’ll be all right, won’t you?’
‘Please don’t worry. No doubt we shall survive.’
‘If you didn’t want me to go you could have said so! But it would have choked you, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, it would,’ said Mary, meeting his eyes for the first time. ‘I can manage perfectly without you, thank you. Goodbye.’
He stood for a moment, then swore violently and stormed out, slamming the door. All the plates on the dresser trembled and chinked. She sank into a chair, ashamed to find her knees weak and her eyes wet with tears.
Chapter 13
Things began to go wrong almost at once, starting with a telephone call from Susan’s widowed mother. She had fallen on the ice and cracked her ankle and she wanted Susan at home to look after her. Mary was dubious, feeling that Brogan would have been firm in a refusal, for Susan was not an only child and she was needed here. But in the face of tearful distress she gave in and Susan was despatched to the bedside. Edna was scathing.
‘How are we supposed to manage?’ she demanded. ‘Are you going to muck out, work horses, clean tack? Well, are you?’
‘I’m sorry, Edna. Perhaps we can get some help from the village. I’ll do what I can, you know that.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, you work too hard as it is,’ relented Edna. ‘I’ll cope.’
‘We always seem to be saying that, you and I,’ sighed Mary. ‘Women’s Lib has a lot to answer for.’ Edna nodded despondently and they sat together in a moment of rare harmony.
The weather became bitter and Mary and Edna slithered around all day on the icy ground. Ben and Anna fell over so often that they refused to go out and Mary had to do all her outside work in short snatches interspersed with dashes to the house to see what havoc the children had wrought. Once she found them merrily crayoning on the walls and she was suddenly so angry that she rushed out again and went to talk to Violet. She dropped hot tears on the cow’s back and felt bereft. When she returned the mural was even more extensive but this time she could be rational. After all, it was hardly their fault when she left them alone so much. Susan had spoiled her, always willing to look after the children at a moment’s notice, fitting in her other work as and when she could. It had not seemed such a luxury at the time but now she saw it for what it was. Once again, the horses could not be worked. ‘We should have a covered school,’ fumed Edna, as they sat together in the kitchen one evening.
‘He won’t spend money when he doesn’t mean to stay,’ said Mary flatly.
‘What? You mean he’s going to move?’
‘I should think so. Back to Ireland probably. That might be what this trip’s about, I don’t know.’
‘But what about…?’ Edna met Mary’s stony glare and subsided.
‘I shall have to think about another job, then,’ she said at length.
‘Oh, I should think he’d take you with him. But you could always work for Tim, you’d like that wouldn’t you?’
Edna coloured and looked confused. ‘I don’t think so,’ she muttered. ‘I’m not so stupid I can’t see what he’s like. Buttering me up suits him, that’s all.’ Her misery was obvious and pathetic.
‘Edna, please don’t be upset about him, he’s a conceited worm. There’ll be someone who’ll see how nice you really are.’
The girl sniffed. ‘Who’s going to fall in love with someone like me? I’m too big and clumsy, I don’t know the first thing about clothes, in fact all I do know about is horses. Men fall for you so easily, you don’t know what it’s like to be me.’
‘I’m not doing so well either,’ sighed Mary and went to put the kettle on. ‘Let’s have some coffee and talk about something more cheerful.’ Another batch of calves was ready for market but Mary felt too tired and ill to go. She had not felt like this in either of her two previous pregnancies and it worried her. She lay at night waiting for the baby to kick, sure it was dead, then filled with short-lived relief when the movement finally came. Third time unlucky she thought, running through the various deformities the child might have. Spina bifida seemed most likely with Down’s syndrome a close second. She mentioned her fears to no one and was not comforted by the doctor’s bland assurance that all was well. If it was, then why did she feel so ill? He was only being kind, she would know the truth soon enough and he did not want to worry her.
Eventually she asked Edna to take the calves. They were getting far too big for the little pens and had voracious appetites, besides which they set up a hideous bellowing whenever Mary came into view.
‘All you think about is food,’ she grumbled as she piled yet more hay into the boxes. ‘I wish I was a cow.’
Edna loaded them into the wagon without complaint, which only added to Mary’s guilt.
‘I do hope it’s not too much bother,’ she quavered for the third time.
‘Go and lie down, do,’ said Edna firmly, and Mary went.
Shortly after Edna left for York market it started to snow, at first just a few flakes blown by the wind but gradually increasing until the day became a mist of whirling white. Mary stood at the window peering out into the blizzard, willing it to stop. Edna must get back, she must. By half past three it was dark. Mary jumped as the phone shrilled and ran to answer it.
‘Edna? Edna, is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’ The line crackled and buzzed. ‘You sound very faint. Where are you?’
‘I’m at Sam Downes’s. I can’t get through, the road’s solid. The drifts are really deep, I’ve never seen anything like it. Will you be all right tonight? I might make it in the morning.’
‘Of course I’ll be all right. I’m just so relieved you’re safe, I had visions of you being stranded. Come back when you can, I’ll manage.’
She hung up and went again to the window, feeling none of the confidence she had tried to send down the phone. The voices of the children drifted from the sitting room and she gave herself a mental shake. What was a little snow, after all, it would be gone in a day or so. As she had said, she would manage. She went to fetch her boots, for animals must be fed whatever the weather.
Edna sat in Sam Downes’s big, stone-flagged kitchen and shivered. The miserable fire in the old-fashioned grate made almost no impression on the dank air and her breath rose in clouds.
‘Bit nippy I’m afraid,’ apologised Sam.
‘Oh no, no.’
‘Perhaps you’d like a drink.’
‘Coffee would be nice.’
‘Oh. Yes. Now, where’s that jar.’
‘I’ll do it if you like.’ At least it would stop her freezing to death and her lack of domesticity was as nothing compared to Sam’s incompetence. He meekly accepted her brew and made appreciative noises.
‘I’m sorry to land on you like this,’ she said.
Sam spluttered into his cup. ‘Only too happy. Not everyday I get a lady like you on the doorstep. Thing is - what will people say?’
‘What do you mean?’ Edna’s bossy manner was returning.
‘Well - your reputation.’
She was cast into confusion. No one ever thought of her as a real, live woman with a reputation to lose, it was always only Edna, and she didn’t count. She looked up at the burly farmer and blushed a deep, rosy red.
; ‘I’m sure I don’t mind about that,’ she said gruffly and jumped to her feet. ‘Let’s see what I can do about that fire.’
When she went to bed that night Edna felt as if she were in some incredible dream. Sam hovered about her, snatching coal scuttles from her hand as if they were poisoned, rushing to open doors and pull out chairs. So unused was she to this that they frequently wrestled with door handles and chair backs, each jumping dramatically if their hands so much as touched. He accompanied her to the door of her room and said goodnight so formally that she was tempted to laugh.
‘May I - may I call you - Edna?’ he said hoarsely.
‘Oh. Well yes, if you want to - Sam?’ She swallowed convulsively, went hot all over and turned to dash into her room. The door was stuck but she gave a mighty heave and forced it open so violently that she fell in a heap on the floor.
‘Edna - my dear - are you all right?’ Sam was bending over her, lifting her as if she was the most fragile porcelain.
‘My big feet. I’m so clumsy!’ wailed Edna.
‘You? Big? I never saw a more handsome woman. The first time I saw you on a horse I said, there Sam, there’s not many like that these days, more’s the pity. That’s a really fine woman, that is. Hardly had the courage to speak to you, I can tell you.’
‘Shouldn’t have thought you’d notice me with Mary around’, said Edna with an embarrassed laugh.
‘Mary? Well she’s nice looking in her way, I suppose. Bit scrawny for my taste though, all big eyes and hair, looks as if she could do with a decent meal. Wears all those floaty bits and pieces too.’
Edna could hardly believe it. Here, in real life, was a man who thought she was beautiful, enormous hands, beaky nose and all. Odd that she had never really noticed Sam before. He was very - comforting. She sighed in content, casting a last look round the grim little bedroom with its brown paint and faded wallpaper before turning out the light. A true Yorkshire farmer, Sam’s money never showed. Not everyone’s idea of heaven perhaps, but enough for her. More than enough.
During the night the wind rose again, bringing with it further snow and biting cold. By morning the earth had lost all sign of man and had become supernatural, the thin light sparkling diamonds from the blanketing white. Roads and hedges had ceased to exist and the isolated steadings were reduced to insignificant huddles of snow-spattered stone, hardly noticeable. Edna scratched at the ice on a window and gazed in amazement at the scene. There was no way she could return to High Wold House today and she felt a tremor of anxiety as she thought of Mary alone there.
A knock came on the door.
‘Edna - I’ve - er - I’ve brought you a cup of tea. Thought you might like it.’
‘That is kind of you. Just look at the snow!’
‘Aye. Be with us a fair time this will.’
She nodded, touched to see that Sam had abandoned his ancient green sweater in her honour and was looking uncomfortable in his go-to-market tweeds. Her own choice was limited to the jeans and jumper she had come in, but she rummaged in her bag for a lipstick. She rarely wore make-up but today, she felt, was special. Dancing downstairs she felt light-hearted and for once irresponsible, pushing away the tiny niggle of doubt. Anyway with snow this deep there was nothing she could do. This was to be her day and she intended to enjoy it.
There was a very different awakening for Mary, although the scene from her window was much the same. Loneliness had never frightened her before but then, she thought, she had never been truly alone. Friends and neighbours had always been within reach, albeit at the end of a ten-minute drive but there should she need them. No amount of need would bring them now. Her eye lighted on the telephone and she smiled in relief.
How stupid of her to panic like that, if anything went wrong she had only to lift the receiver and they would send a helicopter; she had seen it on television, fit young men in combat jackets rushing to the aid of stranded farmers. Comforted, she dressed and began the day.
The work was unending, and made so difficult by the snow that she had to force herself only to concentrate on the immediate task, refusing to think of all that was left to do. If she allowed her mind to jump ahead she simply ground to a halt, defeated by the enormity of it, and she could ill afford such wasted moments. January days are short at the best of times and if the snow came again she would have to retreat inside. The leaden sky spurred her on and she struggled round the boxes, up to her knees in snow, throwing great bundles of hay to the animals. The water pipes in the yard were frozen and she spent hours lugging bucket after bucket of water from the one working tap. When she came to High Time he rushed to the door, trying to bite, but she waved and shouted, driving him away so that she could thrust a bucket in. By two o’clock she was exhausted but she had finished, and she went inside to make the children some lunch. They were not hungry having spent the morning stuffing chocolate biscuits and she was too tired to eat. What would happen tomorrow, she thought, when there are no more chocolate biscuits? She was dropping to sleep in the chair, giggling at the thought of summoning a helicopter for an urgent consignment of sweets, when the lights went out.
At intervals over the next two days she found herself muttering ‘I will manage’ and ‘I can cope’ in an attempt to strengthen her resolve, but the words had an increasingly hollow ring. No electricity meant no heating, no lights, no television, no radio. Fortunately they had the Aga and the coal fire in the sitting room but that was all, and the hours between darkness and the children’s bedtime, lit only by the flicker of candles, were a triumph of playacting.
‘I’se frightened, Mummy,’ Anna would wail, struggling to climb into a lap already occupied by Ben.
‘Good heavens, why? Look what fun it is, having candles. I’m not frightened and Murphy isn’t either, are you, Murphy?’
The dog gave her a sideways look and crawled under the table.
‘Thank you, Murphy,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t think the wolves would have had much to fear from you.’ She wished she hadn’t thought of wolves, the night was tailor-made for red-eyed, slavering brutes to appear out of the dark to scratch at the door.
‘Let’s play trains,’ she cried, too loudly, but the children jumped up in excitement. Twenty minutes of chuff-chuffing and it was tea-time. ‘Baked beans, your favourite.’
Even Ben looked askance, for this was the fourth time in three days, but there was nothing to be done. The freezer was clamped firmly shut and she dared not open it for fear of ruining the entire stock of food. She might have to tomorrow, but for tonight it was baked beans or starve.
When the children were in bed she sat huddled by the Aga and admitted her defeat. Perhaps if Edna had come back, or if the electricity had not failed, or if she had not been pregnant, then it could have been all right. But it was not all right and she was increasingly anxious. This morning she had slipped in the barn and banged her head. What if she had been knocked unconscious, what would have happened to two small children left alone, up here, in the worst winter the country had seen for years? She wished she could blame someone for her plight, but the only name that came to mind was her own. Brogan would have stayed if she had asked him. It was time to ask for help.
As she lifted the phone her thoughts were on the conversation she was to have and it was seconds before she realised it was dead. It could have been like this for days but she had been so immersed in the struggle to keep going that she had given no thought to the lack of calls.
‘Just as well I didn’t know before,’ she said firmly, trying to calm the flutter of her heart and the sick churning of her stomach. ‘After all, the snow can’t last for ever.’ Neither can we, murmured a small, insistent voice.
Always before in times of strain she had found comfort in her possessions, the hand-knitted tea cosy or the print of York Minster bought on a rare family outing with Stephen when Anna was very small. Tonight even these deserted her, looking alien in the yellow light of the candle. Stifling sobs of panic she rushed to the stairs, desperate
to hide beneath the bedclothes and shut out the world. The banging of a door broke the silence and her mind froze. It came from the yard. Who - or what - was out there?
‘Do be sensible,’ she whispered severely to herself and tiptoed to the window, dragging a reluctant Murphy with her. He was if anything more miserable than she, but at least he was warm and alive.
The yard was brilliant, with moonlight and there, stark against the snow, huge and unreal, was a horse. He stood proudly, sniffing the air, his breath curling in plumes from his nostrils. Mary giggled with relief for escaping horses, if not exactly common, were at least usual enough not to occasion terror. She was halfway to the back door when a thought struck her. The horse had no rug on, in fact he was unclipped. Her thoughts whirled madly and then crystallised, for there was only one horse it would be. High Time.
Wrapped in a blanket she sat at the window and watched him as he circled the yard, tramping the snow at a walk only to break into a brief, plunging gallop which ended abruptly as he met the deep drifts at the entrance.
‘Why can’t you run away somewhere,’ she hissed, but she knew he would not, preferring to stay with the other horses in the comparative shelter of the buildings. She contemplated leaving him there and staying safe in the house until someone came, but she knew she could not. It could be days and the very thought of Violet’s pain if she was not milked upset her, let alone the lines of patient horses waiting trustfully for food that would not come. It was her fault High Time was out and she would have to put him back.
She rose purposefully to her feet and fetched the large stiff broom from the cupboard, not much as a weapon perhaps but the best she could do.
When the horse was rummaging in the farthest corner from the house she opened the door and crept silently along the wall to his box. Once there, she pinned the flapping door back and crept on her way, fetching hay and feed as quietly as she could. The horse knew she was there of course, she had no illusions about that, but as yet her presence had not alarmed or annoyed him. Having made his stable as inviting as possible, she resumed her cautious progress until she was behind him and could drive him towards it. The night was so quiet that she could hear the flutter of birds roosting in the warmth of the barn and when she spoke her voice startled even her.
A Summer Frost Page 15