‘Oh my dear, how kind of you to invite us, sure and we should love to come. October would be our best time, I’ll telephone with the arrangements though I do hate the instrument.’
‘Yes. Of course. How nice,’ said Mary feebly and after a few more pleasantries, entirely mechanical on her side, she hung up.
Wandering through the kitchen she wondered what on earth she was to say to Patrick. He wrote regularly to his parents but she never asked about them and he never volunteered any information. From casual remarks about his father she thought he sounded a complete rogue, and some of his dealings almost criminal. For his mother she imagined a quiet countrywoman of deep religious conviction, but now she endowed her with diabolic purpose. She wanted Daniel Patrick. Pat’s divorce was not valid in Ireland so any second marriage would be considered void. For a wild moment she envisaged this mad Irishwoman bearing off both Patrick and the baby to some Catholic stronghold where she, a loose woman and a Protestant, would be forbidden entry. And she had invited her to stay! She felt near to tears and went for a walk round the yard to calm herself.
She stopped near to High Time’s box. The horse still resented any sudden movements and was particularly sensitive about his stable, allowing no one but Pat to touch him whilst he was in there. Once outside however, any of the girls could groom him although it usually fell to Edna, as long as they tied him up short and were quiet and careful. He was to go to a show in a fortnight and they would see what he could do. It was not far and Mary was considering taking the children and making a day of it. She wondered if Patrick could stand the strain. Thinking mundane thoughts of house and family she clutched at her security, standing there in the sunshine. Happiness was so fragile and could be broken so easily, however careful you were. She took a deep, restoring breath. October was a long way away.
Chapter 18
August. The vale of York was hot and dusty, the greens no longer fresh and the roses overblown. High in the hills the breeze was light and cool at this early hour of the morning and the trees that sheltered the house whispered. The clatter of buckets and the banging of doors signalled the start of the day at High Wold House and soon a plaintive moo was heard as Violet ambled in from the field for milking. She was heavily in calf and objected to the walk.
Mary milked at the double, which exhausted her and took just as long, but today they were going to a show. She tried to revert to the slow, rhythmic squeeze that paid dividends but she was soon racing again, sending little sharp jets fizzing into the pail. Brogan met her as she ran to the house, closely followed by a posse of cats.
‘Aren’t you ready yet?’ he enquired. ‘We’re leaving in half an hour.’
He resumed his leisurely progress round the yard while she fought her way into the kitchen, ignoring the outraged mews of the cats deprived of their usual warm milk.
They thumped the closed door softly with their paws and Anna, disconsolately stirring her breakfast cereal, obligingly went and opened it. The feline flood swept across the floor and over the table, making short work of Anna’s leavings, and cats shot everywhere like rogue fireworks as Mary tried to shoo them out.
‘Aren’t you ready yet?’ enquired Susan, cool and casual, a cowboy hat balanced on the back of her head. She wandered out to the wagon. Mary ran a hand distractedly through her hair and wildly threw knives and forks, feeder cups and chocolate biscuits into a hamper. The butter would be liquid by the time they got there but she was past caring.
She ran upstairs to assemble Daniel Patrick’s travelling kit of nappies, bibs, bouncing chair, carrycot, sunhat, blankets and toys. A voice floated up from the kitchen. ‘Aren’t you ready yet?’ called Edna. ‘We’re leaving.’
She raced to the bedroom, throwing clothes in all directions, and fell into a blue linen shirtwaist dress, intended to look cool and relaxed. Grabbing her make-up bag she thrust her feet into rope espadrilles and flew downstairs. Panting, she handed bag after bag into the wagon and finally climbed in herself.
‘Where’s the baby?’ asked Edna. He was asleep in his pram. Out again to fetch him, on the way noticing a cat under the dresser gnawing a piece of toast. She left it there and struggled back to the yard. The wagon pulled out.
‘You do look hot,’ commented Edna, ‘and your buttons are all done up wrong.’
‘Beautiful morning,’ said Brogan conversationally, changing gear. ‘And no need to rush, we’ve hours to spare.’
Mary gave a low, anguished groan and they all looked at her in surprise.
It was a County show which had sprung from small beginnings to become something of a major event, with livestock classes, parachute jumping and a Women’s Institute tent. The sun blazed upon the showground and Patrick sniffed disapprovingly, he hated jumping his horses on hard ground. But they had come, and he manoeuvred the wagon over the bumps and into the field.
‘I want a wee wee,’ announced Anna at once, and eyeing the miles to the nearest tent Mary directed her to a suitable patch of turf.
‘Well, really,’ declared a lady in a flowered hat who stalked past complete with shooting stick and fat labrador. Mary poked her tongue at the retreating back.
When the ramp was let down, out bounced not only Susan but Murphy, delighted to be released.
‘Who brought him?’ demanded Mary and Susan looked big-eyed and innocent.
‘He would have been lonely at home,’ she wailed.
‘Down Murphy, down!’ exhorted Mary trying to preserve the blue linen dress at least until lunchtime and fortunately he suddenly sighted the waddling rear of the labrador, making slow progress.
‘What is he doing?’ asked Patrick in amazement and Mary scuttled into the wagon.
Murphy had lately developed an unhealthy interest in sex and was inclined to practice on any dog he met, male or female. Susan was despatched to collect him.
They had only brought two horses, High Time and a youngster called Swallow, in honour of Fred. It had been Pat’s idea because the horse was barrel-shaped with short, bouncy legs but Fred had been thrilled, seeing it as a mark of the esteem in which Patrick had come to hold him. It was the only horse he did not talk of selling at least once a week.
Patrick went off to collect his numbers and Susan and Edna, for whom this was largely an outing with little to do, went in search of their cronies in the other wagons, obligingly taking Anna and Ben with them. Mary was left in blessed peace, seated on a rug in the shade, the baby asleep. She was nearly asleep too when someone spoke to her.
‘Mrs Brogan - Mary? I thought I recognised you, my name’s Spence, you remember we met before?’ She looked up at the man through half-closed eyes, dazzled by the sun.
‘Oh - oh yes, of course I remember. Sit down, would you like some lemonade?’ He accepted a paper cup and sat down with a sigh.
‘Don’t know what I’m doing here, really. I don’t usually bother with the shows this far north but the prize money’s good this year. Is Paddy somewhere about?’
She nodded. ‘We’re all having a day out but I’m beginning to wonder if I’m up to it.’
There was a wail from the carrycot. ‘May I?’ asked Spence and she handed Daniel to him. He was one of those men who can sit for hours with a baby, enthralled by the barely focused eyes and waving fists, making faces and burbling nonsense. Mary went into a peaceful daydream.
‘How long have you been married now?’ he asked and she sat up with a blink.
‘We’re not married,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry - I know it’s rather misleading, with Daniel and everything. My name’s Squires, Mary Squires.’
He looked most upset and she almost wished she had lied.
‘But Paddy’s got his divorce, hasn’t he?’ It was plain that Tom Spence still felt a fatherly concern for Pat and Mary could not feel offended.
‘Oh, there’s no real reason,’ she said hurriedly, ‘it’s just that - well, Patrick doesn’t - he isn’t - in love. I don’t think. It’s better this way.’ She gave a shaky smile and then
started. Pat was standing by the wagon, but he could not have heard, she felt sure.
‘Hello Tom,’ he was saying, ‘what are you doing here?’
Her embarrassment was lost as the two men talked horses and she began to set out the lunch. As she had predicted the butter was a yellow pool, but it had confined itself to a bowl with rare consideration. And she had remembered the corkscrew. Tom accepted her invitation with alacrity and they all sprawled on the grass eating pork pie and hard boiled eggs washed down with warm wine.
‘Anna will you please eat something,’ exhorted Mary for the child seemed almost to live on fresh air. Murphy was always sure of a friend in Anna and haunted her at mealtimes. He left Ben strictly alone for anything he refused was inedible.
‘Be a lion,’ suggested Pat and with roars and lion-like grunts coaxed some pie into the little girl. Ben was delighted and he and Anna ran round and round, roaring and pouncing, until High Time began to stamp nervously.
‘I’d better get him warmed up,’ said Pat and Edna obediently rose.
‘Take the kids for an ice cream, Susan,’ he suggested. ‘Give Mary some peace.’
Again everyone was gone and she was alone with the baby. Feeling carefree, she popped an enormous floppy sunhat on his head and strapped him to her front in a babysling. Now she could look round the show.
Flowers, vegetables, cakes, handicrafts, fences, machinery, it was all there. Daniel’s head lolled against her in sleep as she plodded round, one of many country ladies urgently gleaning ideas and information from the displays. She hitched Daniel to a more comfortable position and went off to watch the spinning demonstration. So interested was she that she almost missed the showjumping and she arrived at the ringside in a fluster.
There was a big entry but the course was difficult and there had only been three clear rounds. The problem fence was a combination, the first element a big spread, which tended to land the horses too close to a parallel, and if they scrambled over that they fell foul of the upright at the end. The course builders hovered there as horse after horse brought it down, one sliding to a halt on his bottom and demolishing one of the ornamental trees. Mary found a seat and prepared to enjoy herself, showjumping was too often tedious with nothing more than the occasional fallen pole. This was spectacular.
The arena had been watered and was a brilliant green in the afternoon sun.
‘And the next to jump - Patrick Brogan on High Time.’ A buzz of conversation rose from the audience as Patrick appeared.
‘I think he’s horrid,’ piped a girl of about twelve and Mary gave her a furious stare. High Time was clearly upset by the noise, dimly heard through his cotton wool earplugs. Sweat was forming on his neck and his tail thrashed angrily. She could hardly bear to watch and clutched the sleeping Daniel with a fervour that drew surprised glances from the woman sitting next to her.
They began the round. At each fence Pat had to fight for control, the horse slewing sideways and refusing to go straight. As they approached the combination Mary could see nothing but disaster and began praying that if he fell off Patrick would not let go of the horse, he would be sure to eat someone. High Time pricked his ears as he saw the fence and his headlong pace slackened as he wondered what to do. Sensing his indecision Pat forced him on and for once the horse listened to him. They sailed through without a touch and the crowd applauded, so upsetting High Time that he seemed not to notice the last fence and completely flattened it.
Rising from her seat Mary hurried to the wagon, prepared for despondency. Patrick radiated cheer.
‘Did you see that?’ he called. ‘Wasn’t he incredible? Just the one fence and an easy one too, I really think he’s going to come good.’ He gave High Time a friendly pat on the neck and pulled away quickly as the horse bent, snake-like, to bite.
‘He doesn’t change,’ said Mary ruefully and called Anna and Ben away. She put Daniel in his carrycot and settled in the shade to read to them, for they were hot and tired and in need of a little calm. The familiar adventures of the Three Billygoats Gruff and some flat lemonade soothed frayed tempers. Patrick sat next to them, chewing a piece of grass.
‘What about Swallow?’ asked Mary when the troll had been despatched to a watery grave.
He shrugged. ‘Ground’s too hard, his leg started coming up as soon as he popped over the practice fence. I’m thinking about having him fired.’ It would mean a lay-off but it might well be the making of the horse.
‘Fred won’t like that, he’ll take it personally,’ said Mary and he grinned.
‘Had enough? We can go home now if you like, beat the rush.’
She nodded and they began to pack up.
No one said much on the long drive home, and the children dozed peacefully. Edna’s thoughts were with Sam, wondering how he had spent his day. They had told no one of their plans but they intended to marry after harvest. She felt a twinge of fear as she thought of how her life would change, for unsatisfactory as things had been for some years now, at least she knew what each day would bring and this was a venture into uncharted waters. In the main she feared that she would not prove to be the woman Sam imagined she was, that one day he would wake to find her plain, clumsy and dull. She cast an envious glance at Mary, sprawled in the seat next to her but somehow still graceful. Her hair, though windswept, shone and her skin was touched with a glow from her day in the sun. Edna sighed and tugged at a hangnail.
They turned down the long lane which led to the house, the verges high and uncut, old man’s oatmeal mixed with wild roses. Rabbits scuttered across almost under their wheels and from far away came the whooping call of a snipe. Mary remembered how upset she had been when Patrick had shot one, refusing to pluck it until eventually he went and buried it, calling her a misplaced townee. Grouse and pheasant she did not mind, but the snipe, with his whooping call and outrageous beak, was a magical bird.
A police car stood in the yard. Everyone sat up, each with a different premonition of disaster.
‘Something’s happened,’ quavered Mary, anticipating death as usual.
‘I should think it’s an unpaid parking ticket,’ said Pat, his tone deliberately bored. It steadied her, as he knew it would. ‘Can I help you, Officer? I’m Patrick Brogan.’
A policeman stepped forward, young, with a moustache, his cap pulled low. When he peered from beneath the peak Patrick was instantly reminded of a lama.
‘If we could talk inside, sir.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
The kitchen smelled of cats. Mary bustled about, laden with bags and grubby children. When no one tried to arrest anyone she relaxed a little, and began to go upstairs to run the children’s bath. ‘If we could talk to the lady as well, sir.’ There, she knew it. The bull had at last killed someone and she was responsible. Or that woman had complained about the dog. She led the way into the sitting room, lovely in the evening shadows and waited for what fate had to offer. The policeman removed his hat. ‘It’s about Mr Parsons, sir. I believe he used to work for you?’
‘Yes. Yes he did. We parted on very bad terms.’
‘So I gather. Perhaps you know he’s been working for Mr Felton?’
‘I did hear something. Why, has he put his hand in the till?’ Patrick’s voice was grim and Mary willed him to keep his temper.
‘It looks like that sir.’ Without his cap the man looked very earnest.
‘Good God,’ said Mary.
‘Does it have anything to do with us?’ asked Pat quickly, too quickly.
‘Mr Felton thought it might. That possibly something of the sort happened while he was with you but no one said anything. We have reason to believe that he’s done this sort of thing before.’
‘Not with us he didn’t. He never got near the money, thank God.’
‘I see. Then why did he leave, Mr Brogan?’
Patrick turned to gaze out of the window. A slight flush touched his neck and Mary thought, it still upsets him. It was all her fault.
‘He
- he made advances to my wife. I threw him out.’ Suddenly he swung back to face them, his eyes blazing. ‘And if you catch the bastard make sure you give him something to remember me by. He deserves it.’
The policeman picked up his hat. ‘We have Mr Parsons in custody now, sir. But we don’t do that sort of thing in England. Thank you for your time.’ He left them gaping at each other, their faces blank with surprise.
Later, with the children in bed, they sat in the half dark and talked.
‘I wonder if he did steal anything?’ mused Mary.
‘It can’t have been much or we’d have noticed. Mind you, I haven’t seen the stapler in weeks.’
‘It’s in the kitchen drawer.’
‘Oh.’
Mary trailed a finger in her gin and tonic, making the ice cubes nudge each other like flustered cows. ‘Imagine. Any of the children could end up like that. It’s always somebody’s child.’
‘Not our kids. We love them too much.’
‘I don’t think that guarantees their honesty. Oh dear.’ She sipped her drink and felt miserable. The day was spoiled. ‘By the way,’ she said suddenly, ‘I spoke to your mother on the phone a while ago.’
‘I wondered when you were going to tell me.’ ‘I suppose she…? Well you probably know she wants to visit us in October. If you want me to go and stay with my mother or anything-?’
‘It’s you she’s coming to see. And Daniel.’
‘I’d much rather go and visit my mother.’
‘You invited her.’
‘No I did not, at least I don’t know how it came about, it just sort of happened.’
‘She’s better than your mother at any rate.’
‘Not from where I’m standing she isn’t. Oh God, I’m so tired.’ She slumped in her chair, dropping her glass on to the table from a weary hand.
‘Mary, about what you were saying to Tom today,’ began Patrick, gazing out of the window. ‘What? I’m sorry, I was half asleep.’
A Summer Frost Page 21