A Summer Frost

by Elizabeth Walker

  Mrs Bennett said nothing for a long moment. ‘You’re wrong Mr Brogan,’ she said at last. ‘I feel sure you would never let Mary down as Stephen did, leaving her destitute. Sometimes I just don’t understand her.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ said Brogan morosely. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  When Mary returned she found her mother decorously sipping gin and tonic and discussing bridge.

  It was Mrs Bennett who first noticed that Carol was unhappy. The girl was always so quiet that Mary tended to overlook her but when her mother found her sobbing in a corner she was perturbed. The grooms were Edna’s province but she was taking less and less interest and Mary felt guilty. She should have noticed.

  ‘It’s not the first time she’s been crying,’ said Mrs Bennett as she prepared to leave. ‘Her eyes have looked very red several times. But she wouldn’t tell me what was the matter, it’s probably nothing, you know how things are at that age. But I think you should know.’

  ‘Thank you, Mummy. I’ll have a word with her today.’

  They kissed and Mary stood waving until the car was out of sight.

  She cornered the girl in the tackroom and saw that she did indeed look peaky, tired and strained with violet shadows beneath her eyes. But she insisted that nothing was wrong.

  ‘Well, has somebody upset you, Carol?’ Mary demanded at last. ‘It’s no use saying there’s nothing the matter because I can see there is. Is it a boyfriend?’

  Carol’s huge brown eyes brimmed. ‘He doesn’t love me any more,’ she wailed, and cast herself into Mary’s arms.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ insisted Mary, mentally running through the contenders and finding only the butcher’s boy, who had acne and was surely beneath even Carol’s notice.

  ‘Him! Tim! Mr Parsons,’ sobbed Carol, and cried harder.

  A horrible thought occurred to Mary. Carol’s father was a strict, rather stupid man who had uttered dire threats about ‘getting into trouble’ on the only two occasions Mary had met him.

  ‘You’re not pregnant are you?’ she asked, her voice squeaking with fright.

  The girl shook her head. ‘But he doesn’t love me any more,’ she said again and choked into her handkerchief.

  Piece by piece the story came out. With Edna in love and Susan too cautious, Parsons had been without admirers and he had turned to Carol for company. Young, pretty and impressionable, she had fallen for him with an ease that he had found amusing at first, and then plain tedious. She would have died for him, and in return he exploited her, making her groom his horses and clean his tack for the scant reward of a few breathless kisses and easy compliments in the hay barn. If he had left it there Mary would have thought nothing of it, but he didn’t. He borrowed money off her, although she earned a pittance, he made her clean his boots, sew on his buttons, cook meals for him at midnight. It was almost as if he was seeing how hard he could kick his dog before it no longer came when he called. Then he made her sleep with him. She was afraid, a virgin, and didn’t want to, but Tim plucked her like a ripe plum. There was nothing to worry about, he’d be careful, and besides, he loved her. Didn’t she love him? In a fever of love and self-sacrifice Carol stepped out of her jeans and let him use her as he liked. He pushed her back on the hay, forced himself between her virgin thighs and when she cried out told her to shut up or someone would hear. It was over in seconds, he zipped up, patted her cheek and told her to hurry up and get dressed, she had work to do. His parting gift was the used condom, with instructions to dispose of it.

  Since then he had virtually ignored her; when she spoke to him he pretended not to hear, when he looked at her it was if she wasn’t there.

  ‘It’s awful,’ sobbed Carol. ‘I don’t know what to do. I love him!’

  ‘Still?’ asked Mary incredulously and Carol nodded, pushing strands of wet hair aside with grubby fingers. Mary stamped on the impulse to shake some sense into the silly child, and tried to find words of comfort. There was nothing that would console. At last she said, ‘Do you want to leave, Carol? You could you know, if it would make you feel better. What do you think?’

  The girl caught her breath and tried to stop crying. ‘I’d like to go home. I want me mum.’ Filled with guilty relief Mary agreed that she should leave at the end of the week.

  She marched back to the house imagining what she would like to do to Tim, and for that matter all men who took what they wanted from women and then abandoned them. Susan had taken the three children for a walk, since bouncing Daniel along country lanes in his pram seemed to soothe him, and Anna and Ben enjoyed the exercise. The kitchen was quiet and still, with only the usual puffing of Murphy keeping vigil at the fridge door. He had not gone on the walk because Susan said he ran away and refused to come when she called, which he did when Mary took him as well but she hated to admit it.

  Tim came in. Mary jumped and glowered at him, her body rigid with loathing.

  ‘What have I done now?’ he queried with his special, charm-laden grin, usually reserved for Edna when he brought a horse in filthy.

  ‘Where’s Patrick?’ snapped Mary, determined not to answer him. She didn’t trust herself to speak with control.

  ‘He’s gone to the village I think. But come on, Mary, you’ve been nice to me lately. Tell me what I’ve done and I’ll say sorry. Goon, you know you’ll feel better.’ He slid an arm around her waist and she pulled away from him, flouncing over to the sink and starting to dry dishes. She was wearing a pale pink short-sleeved T-shirt tucked into an Indian cotton skirt. Her anger had stiffened her nipples and they were clearly outlined against her thin top. Tim leaned on the draining board next to her and slipped a finger inside the waistband of her skirt.

  ‘Three children and a figure like this. No wonder Paddy can never wait to get home, I’d break a few records if you’d give me a cuddle.’

  Mary turned and glared at him. ‘I’m not Carol,’ she said slowly. ‘You may be able to convince sixteen-year-old virgins that you’re the greatest lover there is, and even she thought your performance pretty substandard, but I am a different proposition. I don’t like men who are vain, selfish, lazy, opinionated, mean, greedy and seducers of children. I don’t like you, Tim.’

  The young, tanned face before her flamed scarlet and then paled. ‘She’s been lying to you. I never touched her, not once.’

  ‘I think you are the liar, Tim. But don’t worry, she’s leaving at the end of the week and if I have any say in the matter so will you.’ She didn’t think for one minute that she could get rid of him, for she suspected that Fred, and possibly Brogan, would think she was being hysterical. Still, it alarmed Tim and that was worth doing.

  ‘You bitch! You would, wouldn’t you, all for the sake of some stupid kid who’d let anyone crawl all over her. And who the hell are you to be so high and mighty, your husband wasn’t dead five minutes before you were letting Paddy stuff you.’

  ‘God, but you’re revolting! Get out, Tim, I don’t want you in my house.’ Two high spots of colour stained Mary’s cheeks and she trembled with rage that owed something to the realisation that Tim spoke the truth.

  ‘Like hell I’ll go,’ said Tim, and grabbed her by the shoulders. Mary hit him, hard, across the face, intending to wipe that smirk away once and for all. ‘You bitch,’ said Tim again, and reached for her breast.

  Mary screamed, and the sound echoed in the empty house. There was no one to hear. Her T-shirt ripped beneath Tim’s iron hands, she felt him clutching at her flesh and as she pushed him away she felt his teeth in the skin of her neck. She gasped, her hands flew up to strike and in that instant, he tore at her panties, thrusting stiff fingers into her. She kicked and her sandalled foot met the muscles of a leg made hard by riding, and this time the mount would be her. Fear seemed to refine her senses, and she could feel every bevel in the sink edge pressing into her back and at the same time seemed only conscious of Tim’s hands, probing and clutching. She could feel herself losing this fight. She thought herself st
rong, but against Tim she was a butterfly. Murphy was barking, hysterical yaps from underneath the table. Again she screamed and began to claw at Tim’s face, leaving the marks of her nails in bloody furrows on his cheek. He hit her then, hard, rattling her teeth in her head and she slipped and almost fell, clutching at the sink for support. Her hand closed around a pan and she hit him with it, without strength, knowing that she was lost. The face above her was mask-like, absorbed, she was nothing now but a body to be used.

  And then the door opened and Patrick came in. The struggling couple froze, a tableau of conflict. There was a long and terrible silence. Tim’s hold on Mary slackened and she sank to the floor, shaking with sobs that she struggled to contain.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ said Brogan, and he meant it.

  Tim backed away, his hands feeling the work surface behind him for a weapon that was not there, the blood from his cheek running down his neck like a network of arteries. ‘She asked for it,’ he muttered. ‘She plays you like a fish but she’s nothing but a whore. Leads men on and then says no, she gets what she deserves.’

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ said Brogan again, as if surprised that what is often said so lightly should now be so much intended. Then he lunged, catching Tim unawares, hitting him so hard in the gut that the younger man doubled over in agony. He tried to straighten but Brogan was on him, his blows falling with the sodden sound of boots on wet earth.

  ‘No! Patrick, stop it!’ The words came from far away, they had no meaning until repetition caused him to listen. ‘Patrick! Stop!’

  He looked down to see Mary clutching his legs, struggling to stand. ‘Just - just make him go away,’ she said shakily. ‘Please Pat. Just - away. Please.’

  Tim groaned. Had he really a moment ago been going to destroy him? As if in a dream, all sound muffled, Patrick dragged him to the door and out into the yard. Mary stayed where she was on the floor, and after a while there was the sound of a car. Patrick came back. He was pale, he had never before shown such emotion and it embarrassed him. Sober, aware, he had known himself capable of murder. He had not believed it possible to feel such rage and now that it was gone he felt drained, exposed and raw. He took off his jacket and draped it round Mary’s shoulders, turning his eyes from the bloody gash on her neck. If he looked he would choke on fury.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked bluntly, and because of what he felt it came out sharp and accusing.

  Mary shuddered and looked fearfully up at him. He was going to blame her, she knew he was. ‘I was cross because of Carol,’ she said shakily. ‘He’s been horrible to her and she was so upset. And she’s leaving, it seemed best…and when he came in, all smarmy charm, I lost my temper and said things - and he said things - and then he grabbed me. It wasn’t my fault Pat, I didn’t lead him on!’

  Patrick looked at her, tearful and bloodstained, her skirt torn, one breast showing its pink and tender nipple, and thought that women like Mary never had to lead men on. That she was unconscious of her attraction was part of it, she walked like a child amongst men’s thoughts and never knew.

  ‘Get washed and put some clothes on,’ he said abruptly. ‘There’ll be hell to pay when Fred hears.’

  ‘He won’t think I - good God, Patrick, it wasn’t my fault! Except that I didn’t take enough notice of what was happening to Carol, and neither did you

  ‘Of course I knew what was going on. It wasn’t important. The girl asked for it, she couldn’t have been more of a bleeding doormat if she’d tried. I did tell him to make sure he didn’t get her pregnant which I hope to God he hasn’t, and with any luck she might show a bit more sense in future. It wasn’t anything to do with you.’

  ‘Patrick! This place isn’t a brothel! Her father trusted us to take care of her.’

  ‘Neither is it a convent, as you should know,’ snapped Brogan. ‘So he was a bastard to her, if it was my daughter I’d be livid, but I hope any child of mine would never be that stupid. Oh for God’s sake go and get washed, I don’t want the children to see you like that.’

  It was a difficult evening. Mary felt shocked and betrayed, her head ached and there was skin under her fingernails. She scrubbed her hands until they were red. ‘What’s that funny mark on your neck, Mummy?’ asked Anna and Mary turned, too quickly.

  ‘Nothing, darling - I scratched myself.’ She saw Susan’s wide, disbelieving gaze. However little she said everyone would know what had happened.

  Brogan was whitefaced and withdrawn. ‘Put the kids to bed, Susan,’ he ordered and she went at once to do so. He met Mary’s eye. ‘You too. Bed.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Like hell you are. He’s gone, he won’t come back. You’re quite safe.’

  ‘Of course I am. After what you did to him I should think he can hardly stand anyway. Pat - you don’t think I led him on, do you?’

  He sighed. ‘Mary, Mary, sometimes you are so bloody stupid. Go to bed. I’ll bring you some cocoa.’

  She went, sinking into the pillow with relief. Sometimes Patrick was impossible to understand.

  Sharp at nine the following morning Fred Swallow drove into the yard.

  ‘I want a word with you Paddy,’ he said darkly. Without speaking Patrick led the way into the sitting room. The door closed. Trembling, feeling physically sick, Mary stood outside. She could hear every word they said.

  ‘You’ve gone too far this time, Paddy. You and women. But I didn’t think you’d soil your own nest.’

  ‘What’s the slimy little bastard been saying?’ Patrick almost sounded amused.

  ‘The girl, Carol. Pretty little thing I admit but for a man like you to get involved—’

  ‘It isn’t true, Fred.’

  There was a silence. ‘So? And what’s your story?’

  ‘My story is my business. I don’t seduce stable girls.’

  ‘Must be your only scruple then. I was warned when I took you on but I thought you’d settle down. Then there was that Sylvia creature and God knows who else, and now this—’

  Mary could bear no more. She fled upstairs and sat frozen on the bed until after a long, long time Fred’s car drove off down the lane. Patrick came to find her.

  ‘I didn’t tell him.’

  ‘Are you finished? You and Fred?’

  ‘Probably. The contract runs out at the end of the year anyway and I don’t think I’ll renew. I’d better put out some feelers for someone else to take me on. Look, are you all right? You look like a ghost.’

  She was shaking too, like a woman in shock. She longed to scream at him, demand to know if Fred had been telling the truth. Were there other women? Still? But what right had she, a woman who had allowed yesterday to happen. When Patrick slid his arms around her she lay and shuddered, flinching involuntarily as he touched her. But afterwards, despite herself she took comfort in his warmth. Faithless or not, she needed him.

  The headline jumped out at her in letters three inches high: ‘SEX SPLIT IN JUMPING STABLE’.

  ‘This is about us, Jim?’ She looked at the farmer in bewilderment. He nodded.

  ‘Thought you wouldn’t have seen it, it’s not the sort of Sunday paper you take. This un’s Mrs Milne’s, she buys a bit of milk off me and I saw this on the step. Couldn’t miss it really.’

  ‘No. Just a minute, I must read this properly.’

  ‘Scandal hit the world of showjumping today with revelations from one of its rising stars, twenty-three-year-old Tim Parsons. In an exclusive interview he has detailed the bizarre lifestyle of Patrick Brogan, the topflight Irish born rider now based in Yorkshire. Parsons, son of wealthy stockbroker Sir Roderick Parsons, left the stable last week after a row over riding practices and Brogan’s seduction of a sixteen-year-old stable girl. Brogan is divorced but lives with his mistress, a young widow by whom he has a son. “I wouldn’t like my daughter to work there,” said Parsons, refusing to say more. He also attacked Brogan’s treatment of his horses, which are jumped to the point of lameness and then dosed with the controve
rsial painkiller butazolidin. “One animal has turned savage,”says Parsons, who has now joined the Leicestershire stable of Mark Felton.’

  There was a blurred photograph which Mary now saw was of Patrick.

  ‘Come on, love, sit down,’ soothed Jim, ‘no one will believe it.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘Yes, they will. We can’t prove it isn’t true, one of the horses is savage, one of the girls was seduced, by Tim as it happens but we can’t say that, and she won’t tell. No one will care about the truth. Oh God.’

  Patrick came in, whistling cheerfully and stopped in surprise as he saw the elderly farmer. ‘Mr Pearce isn’t it? What brings you up here?’ Jim turned his hat in his veined and freckled hands. ‘Mary’ll tell you. I must get back, cows to see to.’

  Mary tried to smile. ‘Thank you, Jim, it was kind of you to come up so early. Give my love to Betty.’

  ‘Yes. Well. Thought you should know. Be seeing you.’

  His little car coughed its way down the lane as Brogan read the article.

  ‘He’s getting his own back and no mistake,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘What can we do, Pat? Can’t we deny it?’

  ‘The only thing we could do is tell the truth, and I won’t do that. Imagine, everyone staring at Carol, wondering who she did sleep with, everyone leering at you, thinking perhaps he did rape you after all? And we’d end up in court, his father would sink us. We can’t do a damn thing.’

  ‘It seems so unfair. Why should we suffer from Tim’s spite?’

  He put an arm round her shoulders. ‘It’ll blow over, you’ll see. No one will believe it.’

  The telephone rang and he went to answer it. From then on the calls were almost non-stop, from newspapers, television programmes and concerned friends. The one notable omission was Fred.

  ‘He must have heard by now,’ said Mary, chewing on tough roast beef. She had been unable to concentrate on cooking this morning and the meal was a disaster. She miserably turned singed carrots on her fork.