‘Soon be over,’ said Pat, reading her thoughts. Again the incredible pressure and this time the throng round the bed entered into the spirit of the thing, yelling ‘Push!’ as if watching rugby. If she could have found the breath she would have laughed at the indignity of it all, but instead she leaned her damp forehead against Pat’s arm. Again.
‘I can see the hair,’ yelled Pat suddenly. ‘It’s got black hair!’
‘Just take it gently, dear, little pushes,’ said the sister. ‘Five minutes and it’s over.’
Mary pushed and pushed again, in pain but caring nothing for it, anxious only to have it over. Suddenly, with a slip and a slither, it was there. She fell backwards, not giving it a glance.
‘It’s a boy!’ yelled the crowd in unison, almost drowning the first, choking cry.
She opened her eyes to ask Pat if a boy was acceptable and was amazed to see his face wet with tears.
‘Is it all right?’ she asked worriedly and he clutched her to him.
‘Oh darling,’ he sobbed, ‘everything’s wonderful. Just wonderful.’
‘What does he think you are, baby?’ grumbled Mary, watching him flap tiny arms in a Baby grow three sizes too big.
‘It was all I could find,’ apologised Pat, ‘all the smaller things were dresses and my son’s not going to be a pansy.’
‘All babies wear dresses at first, boys or girls.’
‘This one doesn’t.’
‘I don’t suppose you brought a horse for him to ride home, did you? We want to start as we mean to go on, after all. Come on, let’s go.’
The sister was in the hall dealing firmly with a girl on the verge of hysteria. Under her iron gaze the sobs became quieter until the girl was sitting silent, her eyes wide.
‘That’s better,’ admonished the sister. ‘I won’t have you upsetting everyone. There is nothing to be frightened of, as you’d know if you had attended our classes. But you girls always know best. Ah, Mrs Squires, going home I see.’ Mary froze to attention. The sister drew back the shawl and looked long at the sleeping face. ‘He’s a beautiful baby, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘Enjoy him.’
‘Thank you, sister.’ She scuttled out to the car.
‘Do you think she’s human after all?’ she asked Patrick.
‘Hewn out of solid granite, more like. Is John all right in the carrycot?’
‘Thomas is fine,’ replied Mary.
‘Not Thomas, I knew a creep called that at school.’
‘Well not John either, it’s such a stolid name.’
‘What about Daniel?’
Mary was silent, turning it over in her mind. ‘I like it,’ she said at length. ‘Daniel Patrick Squires, it’s nice.’
His foot stamped on the accelerator. ‘Daniel Patrick Brogan you mean,’ he roared, overtaking a lorry on a blind corner.
‘No I don’t. And please be more careful, he hasn’t got a charmed life. He’s my baby and I’m Mrs Squires, so there you are.’
‘He’s my baby too, goddammit! Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that. It’s time we got married, this situation is very bad for the children.’
Mary’s breath caught in her throat. If she had been driving she would have aimed the car straight at a wall.
‘I think I am the best judge of what is right for my children,’ she said icily. ‘Daniel will be registered as Daniel Stephen Squires and you can go to hell.’
Patrick shot her a look of bafflement. ‘You bitch!’
Mary met his gaze with a bland stare and then turned her attention to the scenery, seething with repressed rage.
In bed that night she lay and listened to the snuffling sounds coming from the cradle and wept silent tears into her pillow. Suddenly the form beside her erupted and switched on the bedside light.
‘For Christ’s sake, I can’t stand the sniffing. What’s the matter?’
Mary sniffed. ‘Look, love,’ he said gently. ‘It’s not my fault I’m not Stephen, you know. You’ve got to live with things as they are. If you want to call him Squires then OK, but please not Stephen. Please.’
A thin wail came from the cradle and Mary managed a wavering smile. ‘Daniel Patrick wants me,’ she said and swung her legs out of bed. In her absorption with the baby she never remembered to say that it was months since she had thought of Stephen with anything more than fleeting regret.
‘I thought I’d come and look at my horses,’ declared Fred Swallow, striding briskly from his Daimler. ‘You’ve been taking things a bit too easily up here Paddy, my lad.’
Patrick stiffened as every head turned. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked tautly.
‘Missed the show last month, didn’t you? With not a word to me. And you’ve done nothing with the horses you bought, nothing at all, and it’s my money standing idle. I like my people to work, none of your Irish dawdling in Yorkshire, thank you.’
‘Let’s discuss this in the house, shall we?’ snarled Pat, aware of Tim Parsons’s smirking face.
‘Nay, we’ll see the horses,’ rapped Fred.
They stood at the paddock fence in silent contemplation. Fred could not tell one from another and always before Pat had been prepared to give him an informative commentary, but today he said nothing.
‘When will they be ready for sale?’ demanded Fred. ‘We made good money on the last lot, what’s the matter now? They look really well, they do.’
Patrick shrugged. ‘When I’m away at shows I can’t be working horses.’ Suddenly all his pent up rage at Mary, Tim, the lovelorn Edna, rose up and engulfed him. He swung to face Swallow, his voice low and furious. ‘You’re the one that wants me at every show, large or small, week in and week out. It’s bloody stupid, the horses get stale and so do I. And then you want to start horse trading, and want to tell me how to do it. Christ, you can’t tell a horse’s arse from its ear!’ He spoke with real venom, towering over Swallow’s self-important little figure.
The man swallowed hard. While he wanted Pat to heel he had no wish to finish with him yet awhile. Success like his was hard to find, however much you were prepared to pay. ‘Now look here Pat, I don’t want to quarrel with you over this.’
‘Is that so? Bawling me out in front of my staff, telling me I don’t know my job, that’s all touch your cap and pass the time of day, is it? Since I came in with you I’ve put you on the map, Swallow, but the more you get the more you want. You’re a bloody vampire.’ He turned and strode back to the yard, the shorter man almost running to keep up with him.
‘Now, Paddy, I can see you’re under strain,’ he soothed as best he could while trotting. ‘It was tactless of me to bring this up when you’ve a new baby in the house and everything. Why don’t we forget it for now and look at the jumpers shall we?’
Patrick stopped and turned to face Swallow, so suddenly that Fred nearly bumped his nose on his chest.
‘And let’s pretend we’re friends. Right, you pay the piper as you’re so fond of telling me, so let’s all dance to your tune. Come on.’
They began with Knight Errant, the wise old horse lifting his head with interest as they entered his box.
‘Why are his legs bandaged like that?’ queried Fred and Pat snorted.
‘Because he’s been pulled out at every tuppeny gymkhana for the past six months.’
They continued the round without speaking, finishing with Tim’s two mounts. One started nervously as they approached and began to sweat while the other slunk away into the farthest corner in case they wanted him to come out and do something…
‘Pretty pair aren’t they?’ asked Pat with heavy sarcasm and Fred innocently agreed.
‘What about the horse that was ill?’ he queried and Pat moved on to High Time. He paused to light a cigarette while Fred continued to the door of the stable and blithely opened it.
‘No!’ bawled Pat, extending a long arm and hooking his fingers in Fred’s collar. The horse was taken unawares by Fred’s rapid entrance and equally speedy exit and relieved his fru
strations by squealing and thundering round the box. Fred adjusted his tie and cleared his throat.
‘That horse is dangerous,’ he quavered.
‘Yes, isn’t he just?’
‘You’re going to get rid of him I hope!’
‘Good God, no. He’s got real promise and I know how keen you are on winning, Fred. Couldn’t waste a horse like that. He’s starting work tomorrow, why don’t you come and watch?’
‘No, no thank you, Pat, as you know I like you to handle the practical side of things, it’s my job to put up the money. Let me know if you’ve any problems, I’m always glad to help. Love to Mary.’ He walked quickly to his car, his stride no longer a jaunty bounce.
Pat went to talk to Mary. ‘He was scared witless,’ he said with contempt.
‘Not surprised, you frighten everyone at the moment.’ Mary heaved yet another load of nappies, sheets and babyclothes out of the washing machine and sat down at the table. She yawned capaciously.
‘Bad night again?’
She nodded. ‘He had wind. At least I suppose it was that, sometimes I think he just likes watching me stagger round the floor at two in the morning. The others were never like this.’
‘You should leave him to yell, you’re too soft,’ said Pat irritably. She did not bother to reply, he would never understand the invisible cords that bound her to the baby, pulling her to the cradle even before she was properly awake.
‘If he wakes tonight, you leave him,’ warned Pat. ‘This is wearing you out.’
In truth he was jealous thought Mary, thinking of his set face as he watched her breastfeeding. She would be absorbed in the baby, crooning to him as he struggled to find the nipple, laughing as he guzzled away and she would feel Pat’s eyes on them. The moment she looked up he would make some excuse to leave for he could not hide what he felt. He gave nothing yet demanded her all.
‘Are you going to keep High Time?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘Now I am, yes. He’s my anti-Fred insurance, I only have to pull him out and Fred’ll be gone.’
‘He’s not the only one. Anyway if he does get to a competition he’ll be too busy savaging the audience to bother about the jumps. They mightn’t like a horse that eats people. And what a job for you.’
Brogan leaned back in his chair, putting booted feet on the table. Mary did not dare protest. ‘More fun than bawling Tim out night and day anyway.’
‘What for now?’
He avoided her eyes. ‘Oh, you know. Any more tea in the pot?’
That night Daniel woke at eleven, only an hour after he had been fed, and began to scream. They had just gone to bed and Brogan wanted to make love.
‘Leave him,’ he whispered, his lips travelling from shoulder to breast to plum-coloured nipple. Mary lay rigid, her mind filled with the baby’s cry. Pat’s hands were caressing her thighs and she pushed him away with sudden impatience.
‘I must go,’ she insisted, grabbing her nightgown, but a strong hand dragged her back to the bed.
‘I said leave him,’ he hissed, forcing her on to her back, her wrists held above her head. He rolled on top of her and thrust between her legs, making her cry out. He vented his anger on her with every brutal stroke until at last he was finished and lay panting beside her. Mary knew she should have felt ravaged and yet somehow she did not. She caressed his cheek with a gentle hand.
‘That bloody baby’s still crying,’ she murmured and pulled the sheet over her naked shoulder.
He sighed heavily. ‘I’ll go.’ He swung his legs out of bed and reached for his dressing gown.
‘Mary. Mary, wake up, you’ve got to feed the baby.’
She clawed her way out of sleep to find a grey morning and Patrick standing over her, holding Daniel. The screams ceased the moment her breast touched the baby’s cheek, his mouth searching for the milk. Pat got back into bed.
‘Did you manage him all right last night?’ she asked. ‘I’m afraid I went to sleep.’
‘I walked him up and down a bit and he went off.’
‘Perhaps you’ve got the magic touch.’
He gave her a sideways look and grinned. ‘Don’t think I’ll do it every night.’ But in fact from then on she had only to lie still and he would go, quietly and without fuss. Once she went to offer help and found him downstairs in the rocking chair, crooning Irish lullabies. She felt an intruder and withdrew, leaving him alone in his private world with his son.
Chapter 16
Reluctantly and with much grumbling Fred approved Patrick’s schedule for the season. It irked him to surrender but at the same time he had to acknowledge that unless he gave Pat more rope he would leave. It made Fred feel powerless, which he hated, and in retaliation he came back again and again to the subject.
‘I don’t see why you can’t do more shows,’ he insisted and then held up a restraining hand. ‘I know your views but look at Tim, his horses come out twice as often as yours.’
‘But they don’t win twice as often, do they Fred?’ Patrick sat on his temper, determined to retain control. He would choose his time to go and it wasn’t yet.
‘Aye, you’re right there,’ agreed Fred, for once in the mood to compromise. He had scored a little victory that day and could afford to be mellow, eating Mary’s fruit cake and drinking Pat’s scotch. They had sold two Irish horses to another stable, against Pat’s advice but the price was good. Patrick wondered how pleased he would be if either of the nags started winning, as well they might. Damn Fred, for a clever man he could behave like a fool.
‘Tim’s settling down nicely then,’ said Fred.
‘No he is not,’ replied Mary sourly. ‘Look, I’m sorry Fred, it would be different if he wasn’t living in the house but I would like you to find somewhere else for him. We have little enough privacy as it is.’
‘Complaining about me again, Mary?’ said a lazy voice from the doorway. ‘If you will make love here, there and everywhere you’re bound to have some uncomfortable moments.’ He tweaked her cheek to show that he was joking.
‘It’s you and your sneaky ways, Tim dear,’ she said thinly.
‘I think we’ve got a grand little team,’ said Fred cheerfully, ‘so let’s drink to a good season.’
Mary sighed but obediently raised her glass. The constant bickering exhausted her, she was always waiting for the final bang, like a member of CND.
Patrick was approaching content. The travelling got him down of course but he loved to come home. There was peace in the house, a feeling of common purpose that had at its centre a small, pink baby. Life was never simple and the problems never went away, but when in the evening he sat and looked at Mary, and knew that overhead there slept three healthy, happy children, the emotion of it caught in his throat. If only he could hold on to it, this time of grace, and keep them all safe in the circle of his arms. But Mary did not want it. His happiness was tinged with foreboding.
He began to do a lot of work with High Time, almost to the exclusion of everything else, and it began to pay dividends. At first Pat simply tied him up and groomed him for long hours, until the horse was forced to relax in his presence. Once he could get a saddle on him he took him to the farthest field and went right back to basics. The slightest noise would send the horse into a paroxysm of rage which he vented on the nearest available object. As long as Pat remained on top he was safe but on more than one occasion he had hurdled the hedge, closely followed by a furious horse.
But gradually things improved until grouse flying up from under the horse’s feet or the shout of a farmer in a nearby field occasioned no more than a shudder. His ability was undoubted and if the aggression unleashed by his illness could be harnessed Pat was sure he had a winner. He said as much to Mary.
‘Stephen used to say the same sort of thing about our bull, and it nearly killed him,’ she replied and then winced as Patrick slouched out, slamming the door. She should not have mentioned Stephen now, especially since her mother was coming to stay.
Brogan was away when Mrs Bennett arrived and she and Mary spent a peaceful two days together. The relationship seemed to function best when they resumed their well-tried mother and daughter roles and rejected any attempt to communicate as one adult to another. The children in no way impeded this since they were subordinate to Mary and she was under her mother’s direction. It was Brogan who added the unstable element.
‘Mary, it is time Anna was in a dress, she wears trousers far too much,’ Mrs Bennett stated.
‘Yes, she has some very pretty dresses too,’ Mary replied meekly.
‘Trousers are the only practical wear for the country,’ broke in Brogan, casting a withering glance at Mrs Bennett’s pale blue jersey suit.
This was a declaration of war and over the next four days Anna was whisked in and out of clothes like a Paris fashion model, into dresses by grandma and into trousers by Mary, who had to endure Pat’s sarcasm every time he saw the child.
Then, there was Mrs Bennett’s attitude to Daniel. ‘You poor little thing,’ she crooned, not specifying exactly what he was suffering from. ‘What has he done to you, then?’
‘Just what am I supposed to have done to him?’ rapped Brogan.
‘Oh! I didn’t hear you come in.’ Mrs Bennett tried never to be alone with him, but Mary was upstairs bathing Ben and Anna and there was no escape.
‘Have you had a good day?’ she tried feebly and he sneered.
‘You’re not so brave to my face, are you? Go on, what have I done to Daniel?’
Mrs Bennett took a deep breath and clasped her hands. ‘If you must know you’ve made him illegitimate and in my day that was a dreadful thing for a child to be. I only hope things have changed.’
Brogan gave a hard laugh. ‘So Mary hasn’t told you, then? She’s the one who’s made him a bastard, not me. Madam likes her independence too much and after all, as you so often say, I’m not a patch on Stephen.’ He almost spat the name and flung himself into a chair.
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