A Summer Frost Read online

  ‘I - I think there has been some misunderstanding, Mr Brogan. The filly is not for sale and I would like you to go.’ She tried to push past him but he refused to move. She could smell horses and tobacco, mixed with a faint tang of sweat. What could he smell - soap and cabbage probably, she couldn’t remember when she had last used perfume. He took hold of her shoulders and stroked her gently with his thumbs.

  ‘I mean it, you know. I want you, the children and even that God-awful dog. Come and live with me, Mary. I want you.’

  His voice was very soft, his hands caressing. She lifted her gaze from a detailed study of his jumper -machine knitted she noticed - and met his eyes. They were half closed and his breath came through parted lips. She realised with a shock that he passionately wanted to make love to her.

  ‘So you think you can have us all for your money, do you?’ She sounded shrill but could do nothing about it. ‘We may be desperate but we haven’t sunk that low. Get out of my way you - you—’ she searched for something bad enough to suit him and found it ‘— you bloody Irish mick, you!’

  Also by Elizabeth Walker

  Conquest

  The Court

  Rowan’s Mill

  Voyage

  Dark Sunrise

  Wild Honey

  A Summer Frost

  Elizabeth Walker

  KNIGHT

  Copyright © 1985 Elizabeth Walker

  The right of Elizabeth Walker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The rights to the Knight chess piece reproduced on this book are the property of Hodder and Stoughton Limited and it is reproduced with their permission

  First published in 1985

  by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Limited

  First published in paperback in 1986

  by Grafton Books

  Reprinted in this edition in 1991 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING PLC

  This edition published 1997 by

  Knight an imprint of Brockhampton Press

  1098765432

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 1 86019 6470

  Typeset by Medcalf Type Ltd, Bicester, Oxon

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent

  Brockhampton Press

  20 Bloomsbury Street

  London WC1B 3QA

  Contents

  A Summer Frost Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 1

  The wind nagged at her as she struggled with the gate, it pulled at her clothes and tangled her hair across her face. The buckets were heavy and even carrying them one at a time she still slopped water down her boot. This cannot go on, she thought, looking wearily down at the big-eyed milky faces of the calves in their pens. It was cold in the barn, too cold and the heat lamps cost too much to run. Everything cost too much; and she was so very, very tired.

  Screams met her as she opened the back door. Ben, strapped in his high chair, was hurling wordless insults at Anna, who had stolen his toast. Too depressed for involved parenthood Mary returned the mangled offering to Ben and placated Anna with a chocolate biscuit. It was the last in the packet and with a spurt of rage she screwed the paper into a ball and hurled it into the sink. It bobbed reproachfully on top of the washing up water but there it stayed, keeping company with the unwashed dishes.

  She was sorting the washing when the dog’s roars galvanised her into action. Once more and he would refuse to deliver the letters George had said and here she was again, breaking all records in an attempt to get to the gate before Jet did. She made it with barely inches to spare, and grabbed the dog’s collar, bawling at him to shut up. He subsided into muted grumbles, fixing the postman with a baleful stare as George climbed painfully from his perch halfway up the dead elm.

  ‘You said you’d tie him up, Mrs Squires,’ he sighed, brushing moss and twigs from his dingy trousers. ‘I’m getting too old for this lark. You don’t know what it does to me system.’

  ‘I’m sorry, George, really I am. I meant to but - anyway, I’m sure he wouldn’t bite you. He’s all noise.’

  George looked sceptical. ‘It’s just Tom he likes the taste of, is it? He won’t deliver here no more, I can tell you.’ He handed her three letters and pulled his bike out of the hedge. The front mudguard was bent, but it might have been like that when he came.

  ‘You will still deliver, George, won’t you? Please?’

  He sniffed and then looked at her anxious face. ‘Just you make sure you keep him tied up. Them Alsatians is dangerous.’ He settled his chubby bottom on the tartan cover of his bicycle seat and creaked off down the lane.

  God bless George! She glanced at the letters. A circular, her mother’s elegant hand and - it was from the bank. Suddenly she felt very, very sick and she turned to go inside, but slowly, to put off the moment when it had to be opened. Then she was fumbling with it, to get it over and at last to know. And this time there was no escaping the message. She must sell the farm.

  Stephen had died at harvest. The big Ferguson tractor had broken down, something to do with the drive. It was an irritating delay and he had set to work furiously, surrounding himself with oily bits and pieces, all the while cursing that it should happen now, at harvest. It was there that she had found him, so unmistakably dead, his face empty of all but surprise. And her only thought, the one that she could not stop thinking, was that now she would never get the tractor back together again. The guilt was with her still.

  How many times had she begged him to take things more easily? Just half an hour after lunch would have been something, but no, there were fields to plough and fences to mend and after all, they had years ahead of them. There would be time, one day. ‘Give it five years and we can relax, love. When the loan’s paid off. Things are tight until then, but afterwards - just think Mary, our own farm! It’ll be worth it, I promise.’ And he had died three years too soon.

  The neighbours helped of course, in a haphazard way, leaning corn and baling straw, but their labour was casual and uninterested, lacking Stephen’s enthusiastic energy. Mary was grateful, of course she was, but she was glad to see them go. To have the farm to herself again, without people. There was balm in being alone.

  She took the children for a walk that afternoon, wanting in some vague way to imprint the scene on their young minds. They would not remember the cold air, the bare trees leaning against the wind, the huddle of cattle in a muddy field. Anna skipped beside the pram, splashing in all the puddles, while Ben gazed from the confines of his cherry red balaclava with a benign solemnity.

  Thoughts chased each other through her head; memories of spring days when they would go and watch Daddy ploughing; happy summer afternoons picking daisies in the past
ure. Gone like petals in the wind.

  ‘He might have known. He should have foreseen. He should never have left me in this mess,’ she thought miserably, kicking at stones on the path. It was unjust and she knew it but she felt no remorse. Only anger at being left to cope alone, when she hadn’t the strength - and God knows it needn’t have been like this. That last loan wasn’t necessary but Stephen had insisted, brushing aside her counsels of caution. ‘We can’t grub along with a handful of cows and some broken down machinery. Yes, it’ll be hard but we can’t do the thing by halves. It’s no good owning land if you can’t make it pay. Trust me, Mary. Please.’

  And she had. Bitterness rose in her throat to choke her and she swung the pram round and headed for home. Perhaps a cup of tea would help.

  The stock sale was almost upon her. It was strange that although the days themselves dragged the past weeks had rushed by, bringing her here before she knew. Things which take so long in their beginnings take no time at all about their ends. She was finding it hard to believe what was happening to her and wandered about in a fog of indecision, sure that if only she could clear her thoughts she would see a way out. This disaster could not be going to happen.

  Mr Booth, the agent, patted her shoulder, a solid pat, intended to console.

  ‘I’m sorry - did you say something?’ The man must think her an idiot, gazing vacantly into space when they were meant to be discussing the stock.

  ‘The bull, Mrs Squires. We were going to look at the bull.’ He was a kindly man, red-faced and corpulent, but he did not think women capable of farming. Perhaps he’s right thought Mary, despondently plodding to the barn. The big Charolais was snoozing in his pen, his vast creamy rump looming over the concrete divider.

  ‘You’ll be glad to be rid of this fellow,’ said Mr Booth cheerily, giving the bull a hearty slap. There was a snort and a massive head, restrained by ring and chain, swung irritably into view. Mary leaned over and scratched between the bull’s ears.

  ‘It’s all right, Bill old lad,’ she soothed and at the sound of her voice the bull subsided into his habitual doze. ‘It doesn’t do to take liberties with him, Mr Booth,’ she said crisply, wondering if she should explain that Billy had nearly flattened Stephen once when he had been taking hay up to the suckler herd. If the fence had been three feet further on, Stephen had gasped, he’d have been mincemeat. They had never forgotten it and however calm the animal appeared made sure he could never use his great strength against them. She hoped he would fetch a good price. He was pure Charolais and had taken a second at the Great Yorkshire Show. That had been a lovely day.

  Again she was lost in thought. Billy was such a good bull, even if he was a bit heavy nowadays. Her mind began to juggle with figures. If he made a lot - well, as much as she could hope for and heaven knows she was due for some luck - it might clear that last loan and then with the money from the cows and the machines she might be able to buy a house. Oh, it would be such a relief.

  ‘How much do you think he’ll make?’ she asked abruptly.

  The little man shook his head, hitching his trousers and shuffling. He poked at the bull with his stick, almost a reflex action when he came near stock, and Billy grumbled at him.

  ‘How much?’ repeated Mary, her voice tight.

  ‘Well - it’s hard to say rightly, but - a fair bit. Oh, a fair bit.’ Mary beamed at him, forgiving him everything.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Booth?’ she asked sweetly, heading towards the house. She might even give him a piece of cherry cake.

  She was almost at the back door when she realised she had lost him. He was standing before the loose boxes. He’d better not wave his stick about there, she thought aggressively, and hurried over.

  ‘Selling these are you, Mrs Squires? Some quality horseflesh there.’

  Mary sighed and leaned on one of the doors. Soft lips nuzzled her hair and she breathed the sweet smell of hay. Her horses. Her beautiful, expensive babies. They should have gone months ago, but she could not bring herself to do it, just the old brood mare now, in foal again, and the filly. After all, it was only sense to keep them. The mare threw super foals that always fetched a good price, and as for the filly - Mary was sure she had a winner. How sickening to sell for a song and find out two years later that she was heading for the top.

  ‘I thought - I thought I might keep them,’ she said quickly, aware that her voice trembled. Mr Booth was looking at her, rubbing at his plump red neck beneath a too short haircut. He knew the mess she was in, all right.

  ‘Nice to have horses around,’ he said noncommittally. ‘But - Mrs Squires, excuse me asking, but you’ve nowhere to go yet have you? No house or anything?’

  She shook her head wordlessly, tears pricking her eyes. She would not cry in front of this horrid little man, she would not. ‘It depends on the sale, you see. What’s left. I - I’m sure I shall manage, Mr Booth.’

  ‘Well then. Yes. But managing’s a bit harder than we’d like sometimes. Look Mrs Squires, I can find good places for these, in fact the filly might suit my daughter. Bring a fair bit, they would. Help you out.’

  ‘I don’t need helping out!’ Her voice was cold and she gazed at his podgy red face with real dislike, amazed that a moment ago she had been going to give him cake. The man was an obvious shark, out for what he could get. ‘Come along, Mr Booth. I think we should go and have that tea.’ She stalked to the house, as cross as two sticks.

  Watching television that evening she thought it over. A little house and a little paddock, that was all she wanted, and surely the sale would bring enough for that? She would have to get a job of course, though heaven alone knew what with the children so young. Then of course it would be time that was at a premium, time to spend with the children, to look after house, garden and livestock. She might just be able to keep the mare, but the filly - oh, Mr Booth was right. The filly would have to go. It didn’t bear thinking of. She sighed and turned the television up, problems in Cambodia or somewhere. There didn’t seem to be much fun anywhere in life these days.

  The stock sale was on a Friday, and Mary was sick with apprehension. Anna was at playgroup but Ben remained with her, toddling about merrily, totally unaware of his mother’s tortured state of mind. Who was the halfwit who said children are sensitive to mood, she thought, as she went to the toilet for the fifth time, nearly deafened by Ben’s toy drum. At least he could provide an excuse for her to hide in the house if she really couldn’t face it. Cars were already arriving and the sale didn’t start till ten.

  A rap on the door made her jump. Jet was shut up and it was odd to hear the knocker. She peered timidly round the door, despising herself for her cowardice, but it was only Mr Booth and relief made her effusive.

  ‘Do come in,’ she gushed, flinging wide the door and realising too late that she was ushering in two burly farmers as well as the agent. Favoured customers, surely. Perhaps they would buy the bull. She gave them all coffee and fruit cake - this was no time to be churlish - and chatted about the weather.

  Mary wondered idly why such individualists as farmers should all wear exactly the same uniform at sales. Tweed suit, dark tie, flat cap and cane. She had often walked past men she knew quite well at the market because they merged so completely into the tweedy backcloth. She could only tell these two apart because one had hardly any teeth, and those that were left looked like a dentist’s nightmare, and the other exuded a faint aroma of pig. At last Mary could bear the suspense no longer. ‘Are you interested in the bull?’ she asked, toying casually with a spoon. Her fingers were stiff and it fell to the table with a clatter.

  ‘Er - the bull?’ They all looked shocked. She should have let them stall.

  ‘Yes. The bull.’ It might be a game to them but it was life and death to her.

  ‘Good bull, said one farmer.

  ‘Bit heavy,’ said the other.

  ‘In the prime of life,’ insisted Mr Booth, taking up the cudgels on Mary’s behalf. ‘Bull like that’
s hard to find, strong, upstanding—’

  ‘Thing is,’ said one farmer, ‘I heared his temperament’s bad.’

  Mary gulped. ‘Temperament?’

  The man nodded. ‘Not to be trusted.’

  Mr Booth let forth a gale of laughter, sending Ben scurrying for cover under the table. ‘Only another bidder would say that, Harry. No, he’s gentle as a lamb that bull. Why Mrs Squires handles him don’t you, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes - yes,’ agreed Mary distractedly, visualising the trail of blood the bull would leave if anyone tried to treat him like a lamb. To hell with it, let the buyer beware.

  ‘You are so right Mr Booth, he’s quite a family pet really, we shall all be sorry to see dear Billy go.’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘I do so hope he goes to a good home - we don’t want anyone being nasty to him, you know. More coffee gentlemen?’

  Ben wriggled and jiggled in her arms as the bidding began. Cow after cow was peered at, prodded and finally sold. The prices were not good and she felt cold with fear. What if there wasn’t enough money in the end? What would she do then? Stephen’s mother had telephoned last night.

  ‘You know you’re always welcome to come to us, Mary dear. We’d love to have you and the children.’

  The children, possibly, but not me she thought viciously. Let the old besom take over my family? Never.

  She knew she was being unjust, that the offer was kindly meant, but the thought of them all cooped up in that tiny bungalow in that twee street, condemned to live with the net curtain brigade for ever and ever, filled her with horror. That left her parents, and they hadn’t offered. The house was big enough, heaven knows. They just didn’t want any disruption of their ordered life, collecting antique silver and entertaining like-minded friends to cocktails. Two lively children and an independent daughter just wouldn’t fit in. She supposed they’d have her if she was desperate. Please God it never came to that.

  They were selling Billy. She wondered if anyone else could feel the sudden tension. Which of these brown, weathered faces was actually going to bid? Mr Booth’s farmers were both there, leaning on their sticks with studied unconcern.