The whole miserable picture rose before her and it was a white and frightened face, the eyes huge, that met Patrick as he stormed in with his suitcase.
‘I - er - I’ll be back on Friday. It’s only two days, Mary.’ His anger was evaporating but she did not speak. ‘You will be all right?’
Mary gathered the shreds of her pride into a polite smile. ‘Thank you, Patrick, as always I will be fine. After all, I can always call on Jonathan, day or night.’
His fists clenched and he took a step towards her. ‘You’d better be joking, Mary, or so help me I’ll…’
‘What Pat? Knock me about? Then I can have a lovely black eye to show your parents. Why not, you’ve done it before. Just a minute, I’ll call the children in to watch.’ She knew she was pushing him too far but she felt no fear as he dragged her from the chair.
‘Paddy, don’t!’ Edna stood in the doorway, concern on her beaky face and Mary almost laughed. Now she really would think Patrick beat her. After a moment he let her go and rushed out. When she heard the car scream out of the yard Mary turned her face away and sobbed.
The sports car raced along the narrow lanes, forcing the few vehicles it encountered to take refuge in hedges or on the grass verge. Patrick hardly noticed, he drove automatically, all his thoughts centred on the row with Mary. The car rounded a corner at seventy to find a tractor completely blocking the road and he slewed past in a tearing skid, two wheels in the ditch. He drove more slowly after that, his anger a spent force.
Why was Mary so difficult? From the first she had fascinated him, so cool and contained, yet so desirable. Her face came to life when she laughed and when she made love it was different again, she flamed with passion. But this fierce rejection of him - she hurt him and she did not care. To begin with he had accepted that she was mourning Stephen but as time passed the silent, brooding look had faded. She had seemed happy, and with her pregnancy had even sacrificed some of the independence that had driven him mad. He loved her to need him, he lived for the times when he came home and knew that she was glad to see him, even if it was only to hammer in a nail. But the chances were that she would only ask him if she had tried first herself, and that was Mary for you.
Now she was always on edge, avoiding him or chattering brightly until she could escape. Where were the quiet, companionable evenings they had spent together, when she was soft and open, charming the heart out of him with only a smile? The house had been a warm haven, a place for retreat from the world. Why now would she not talk to him? One word and she clamped her shell shut like a threatened oyster, and threw things at him, God knows why.
It could only be that man Mayhew, but he found it hard to believe that she saw anything in that tubby, ingenuous sort of chap, not when he thought seriously about it. But then, you never knew with Mary, she did such odd things, take that cow for instance, how many women would have bought themselves a cow? Perhaps Mayhew had promised her a herd of the things. He grinned ruefully and turned on to the motorway.
He wondered if she would leave. Before the baby came he had been surprised every time he came home and found her still there but since then he had felt more secure. The thought of the old house, silent, empty, no toys on the stairs, filled him with dread. After Barbara he had known loneliness but it had been nothing to the aching void that lay ahead of him now. Mary was self-willed and opinionated, he never understood her, but she brought his home to life and he loved her. To lose her would be a taste of dying. He was damned if he would let her go. With sudden decision he stamped on the accelerator and speeded into the fast lane. If he wanted to get to London in time to catch the agent he would have to hurry.
Chapter 20
‘How do you do,’ murmured Mary formally, eyeing the neat figure before her.
Mrs Brogan was small, thin and grey haired, her face weatherbeaten, her eyes a faded blue. She did not look formidable but neither did she look impoverished, thought Mary, her gaze taking in the new station wagon and expensive, if ill-fitting, sheepskin coat. Not so poor these days, it seemed.
‘Well, my dear, and it’s a fine place you have,’ said Patrick’s father, showing none of the nervousness evident in his wife. He was already casting interested eyes at the line of boxes, his wiry figure never still for a moment, even his hair, only streaked with grey, springing energetically from his head.
Mary relaxed slightly and smiled. ‘Do look round. I’m afraid Patrick’s not here at the moment.’
‘When will he be back?’ asked his mother.
‘Before tea I should think,’ said Mary vaguely. ‘Won’t you come in?’
She ushered Mrs Brogan into the kitchen while her husband wandered round outside. She had no idea when Patrick would be back, if at all, and she mentally cursed him for daring to abandon her like this. What was she to say to this woman?
‘Did you have a good trip?’
Mrs Brogan shook her head. ‘The sea was very rough, it was like a fairground ride, and then we could not manage the English roads. Not so much as a cup of tea did we have all the way from Holyhead.’
Mary took the hint and put the kettle on, noticing for the first time how tired the older woman looked. ‘Have you had any lunch?’ she asked.
‘We’re quite all right, thank you. Please don’t trouble.’
Mary correctly interpreted this as near starvation and got out the frying pan. The visitors were forced to eat under the enthralled gaze of Ben and Anna who edged nearer and nearer until they could pinch chips. By the end of the meal all four were satisfied and the atmosphere was almost relaxed.
Mary brought the baby into the room and sat with him on her knee. She could feel their eyes on her and was seized with the desire to take her child and run far, far away where they could not even look at him. She felt so hostile she was sure they must sense it.
‘Is that…?’ asked Mrs Brogan after a time.
‘This is Daniel Patrick,’ said Mary as coldly as she could. She looked up to see the worried, hopeful face of the woman and she relented, she could not be that unkind. ‘Would you like to hold him?’
She began the washing up with all her attention on the woman cooing to her child. Charlie was performing complicated tricks with his handkerchief, turning it into rabbits and foxes for Anna and Ben. Oh God, where was Patrick?
Tea-time passed and still he had not appeared and she had run out of excuses. The children were in bed and with them had gone her main defence against probing questions. They sat, very upright, before the sitting room fire.
‘I think I’ll just take a stroll round,’ said Charlie, cravenly deserting his wife. Mary and Mrs Brogan sat on.
‘Paddy said he would be late?’ asked his mother.
Mary looked at her. ‘I really don’t know where he is,’ she admitted. ‘We had a blazing row on Tuesday and I haven’t seen him since. He might not be coming back at all!’ Her voice broke and she fumbled for a handkerchief.
‘And isn’t that the whole of it,’ said his mother crossly, ‘he’s changed not a jot. No thought for others, dashing off just as the mood takes him, and his temper’s no better, that’s plain. I shall have a word for his ear when he turns up.’
Mary blinked at her. Somehow this was not the doting parent she had imagined.
‘I well remember,’ continued Mrs Brogan, ‘he was fifteen when his father last took the strap to him, drunk he was, and fighting. Always a worry, that boy.’
There was the sound of a car turning into the yard. ‘He’s here,’ said Mary, and she felt weak with relief.
Charlie came in with him, father and son talking non-stop. Mary went out to the kitchen as he greeted his mother for he had not, after all, come back to see her. After a few moments he followed her.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked stiffly. He nodded and she could have spat to think of him calmly settled in a restaurant while she struggled with his mother.
‘Fish and chips at York,’ he explained and she grinned at her mistake. He misinterpreted her expressi
on and put his arms round her, holding her close. She sighed and returned the embrace. Even if he had been with that woman she was just so glad, so very very glad, to have him home.
The days gradually assumed a pattern. At breakfast Patrick would ask what they wanted to do and they would make a show of considering the matter, although Charlie inevitably accompanied Pat and his wife remained with Mary and the children. Mary found it an appalling strain. She was never alone and to have her smallest actions observed and commented upon oppressed her. In desperation she searched for tasks for Mrs Brogan to do, and although this eased the situation no one could clean windows or peel potatoes forever, and in the intervals she asked questions.
‘She won’t leave me alone,’ she whispered to Patrick in bed one evening.
‘Why the whisper? She can’t hear you.’
‘I bet she can,’ replied Mary fiercely. ‘She’s always there, whenever I turn round, especially if I swear or yell at the children. And the questions! Today she got a complete run-down of Stephen’s financial affairs, through sheer persistence. I didn’t want to tell her.’
‘She’s only curious,’ said Brogan defensively. ‘At home everyone knows everyone else’s business, you can’t expect her to change.’
‘Oh God,’ said Mary dismally and turned her back to him. Two more weeks to go, but at least next weekend would be occupied by Edna’s wedding.
‘Best bib and tucker,’ declared Charlie, appearing just as raffish in his best suit as in his usual rubbed cord trousers. ‘Where’s the bride?’
‘In tears,’ said Patrick casually. ‘Her mother’s been getting at her.’
They had holed up in Pat’s study, away from the turmoil.
‘Calling it off, is she?’ asked Charlie, brightening visibly. ‘That’s a relief, we can go and look at those youngsters you were telling me about.’
‘Oh Mary’ll sort it out,’ was the airy reply. ‘But there’s no reason why we can’t have a drink to pass the time.’ He produced a bottle and two glasses with a triumphant flourish, secure in the knowledge that the rest of the household was far too busy to notice.
Upstairs Mary presided over a scene far less tranquil.
‘I’m sure he’s too old for you,’ Edna’s mother was saying gloomily for the eleventh time. ‘If only you’d let us meet him before. I said to your father, “Reg,” I said, “she should have wed Georgie Bowles what works in the abattoir, when she had the chance.” Good steady lad he is.’
‘Oh, Mam!’ Edna was roused from tears to anger, ‘I only went out with him once and anyway he smells.’
‘Sam is really very nice, Mrs Mears,’ intervened Mary, ‘I’m sure you’ll agree when you get to know him a little better.’
‘I still say he’s too old,’ insisted the woman, emphasising the point with jerks of her head. The large chiffon hat, perched on a solidly new perm, wobbled dangerously.
‘I think a cup of tea would be very nice,’ broke in Mrs Brogan in her soft Irish voice. ‘Why don’t you and I go down and make it?’ She took the woman firmly by the arm and steered her to the door.
‘But he’s too old,’ wailed Mrs Mears despairingly before the door shut behind her. The room was suddenly very quiet and Edna and Mary both took deep, restoring breaths.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mary at last. ‘Not the best start to the day.’
‘Do you think she’s right?’ sniffed Edna, begging for reassurance. Her nose, she knew, was red, her eyes swollen and her new hair-do limp from the tensions of the morning.
Mary snorted. ‘Like hell she is. Sam’s a man in a million and you know it. Look, we’re going to be late, go and have a shower while I put the heated rollers on. Grandma Brogan will keep her down there forever, she had a glint in her eye.’
The wedding was at twelve but it was five to before Edna was dressed to Mary’s satisfaction, and Mary herself was still in jeans and jumper.
‘You look fantastic,’ she said firmly.
‘Do you really think so?’ Edna was pinkly pleased. Her face was framed by soft waves of hair and Mary ignored her plea that she ‘never wore eye make-up’ hiding all traces of redness under a subtle blend of browns, echoing the colour of her blouse. From the trailing ribbon of her hat to the spots on her tights, Edna looked dashing and elegant.
Mr Mears was sitting in the dining room, alone and forlorn, his large stomach drooping over his fat thighs. He looked up hopefully as they entered.
‘Has everyone else gone?’ asked Mary and he nodded.
‘Very happy they were,’ he said obscurely.
‘So they should be. Come on, you’ll be late.’
‘What about you?’ said Edna.
‘Oh, I’ll be there. Off you go. Best of luck, lovey.’ She popped a swift kiss on Edna’s scented cheek, almost causing the bride to dissolve.
‘Edna! Don’t! Think of the eye make-up,’ cried Mary, bustling the drooping flower and her flabby father towards the car.
When they had gone she poured herself a fortifying glass of sherry, feeling strangely forlorn. She drank it while dressing, for once refusing to rush. Murphy scratched at the door as she put on her hat, and she let him in with a smile.
‘You haven’t forgotten me, have you sweetheart?’ she said hugging him, careless of the hairs. He snuffled and took a thoughtful chew at her gloves. ‘No you don’t. Come on, old thing, you can ride in the car.’
They arrived at the church when the service was almost over and Mary slid into the pew next to Patrick during the last hymn. Mrs Brogan was holding a sleeping Daniel with Anna and Ben next to her, clean and very grown-up. Anna had insisted on wearing her long party dress, blue velvet with lace collar and cuffs beneath which white socks and buckled shoes flashed endearingly. She was very conscious of her skirt and kept peering at it to make sure it was hanging perfectly straight. In contrast Ben was miserable, tugging at his shirt and first real tie, his grey shorts gradually losing their grip on his firm round tummy.
‘Pull his trousers up,’ hissed Mary to Patrick but there was no response. She was about to repeat the instructions when the figure next to her swayed slightly and emitted a belch that would have done credit to a bullfrog. Patrick met her eye with an apologetic smile that slid into a hiccup, looking hurt when she turned stiffly to the front and pointedly raised her hymn book.
Above the roar of the organ swelling for the final verse she became conscious of restless movement in the row behind. One swift glance revealed Charlie trying to extract a silver flask from his pocket with one hand and unbutton the waistband of his trousers with the other. Mary whisked the flask from him and stuffed it into her handbag with such speed that Charlie was left staring at his fingers in horror. After a moment he raised his eyes to the roof and crossed himself, muttering fearfully.
Edna and Sam were coming down the aisle. Sam’s beam of pride and happiness illuminated his face, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead in evidence of his anxiety when twelve o’clock had come and gone without a bride. He clutched Edna’s arm tightly and she returned the pressure, relief and a new, tentative confidence widening her smile.
The reception was at the White Hart, a short distance from the church. The bride and groom swept grandly away in a Rolls-Royce but the guests walked.
‘How you ever got here I will never know,’ muttered Mary, discouraging Pat from watering the gravestones in full view of the High Street. ‘No Pat, not here for God’s sake, wait until we get to the reception. It’s all right, Anna, Daddy’s feeling ill. I hope.’
She shepherded her brood like an anxious hen, clutching at first one and then the other as Ben tried to dive into a sweet shop, Charlie into the Red Lion. Pushing them before her she arrived breathlessly at the receiving line, her hat askew. The vicar stood next to the bride and groom, a practised smile of welcome on his lips.
‘Mrs Squires,’ he gushed, holding out his hand.
‘Vicar,’ she murmured, and noticed he was staring at her handbag, from which a silver flask protruded.
‘Such a cold day,’ she added hopefully, reflecting that she must find someone else to be a character witness when they tried to take the children from her. With reputation gone for ever she grabbed the first glass of sherry she saw and downed it in one.
‘I don’t think I know you, do I?’ A tall, blond boy of about twenty-five was smiling down at her. ‘I’m Edna’s cousin Peter.’
‘And I’m Mary Squires. Have you come far?’ They chatted happily and took adjoining seats for the meal, as far as possible from the drunkards. Afterwards there was dancing and Peter was very good, putting all the fancy bits into the quickstep and insisting they try a foxtrot, one of only two couples to dare. Mary was quite sad when the band retired hurt and the disco began. Still an hour to go before the happy couple left for their honeymoon in Devon and she was exhausted, and rather drunk.
‘And now for something romantic,’ breathed the bearded DJ, rooting out Elvis Presley’s ‘Love Me Tender’ and Peter seized Mary’s hand enthusiastically. His embrace was ardent and she sagged wearily against him, content just to be steered slowly round the floor. She was almost asleep when a familiar hand seized her shoulder and flung her against a table and she hardly dared look to see what was happening to her partner.
‘You seducing bastard,’ Patrick was roaring, banging Peter’s head on the floor and thumping him at one and the same time. Sam and another man were pulling him off.
‘I think I’ll go home,’ said Mary thoughtfully, gathering up the children. She drifted to the door unseen and strolled towards the van. The dog was asleep, taking up all the back seat, so she pushed him into the front to make room for the children. He perched hugely next to her, wobbling slightly, his bottom obscuring the gear stick. As they passed the hotel she saw Patrick leaning on the wall surrounded by a group of men. She stopped and opened the door.
‘Shove him in,’ she said, gathering Murphy even closer to her. The little van puttered slowly through the hills towards home, with everyone, apart from an uncomfortable Irish wolfhound, half asleep.
A Summer Frost Page 23