Honey's Farm

by Iris Gower

  Ruefully, she looked down now at her fingers. They were calloused and sore, stained from the clover she’d been helping Jamie gather, a backbreaking job at the best of times; but at last, the fodder to feed the sheep and the ewes was secure and dry in one of the big barns.

  Fon never ceased to be amazed at the amount of work Jamie and young Tommy got through in a day. It seemed there were never enough hours. The summer crop of potatoes had to be lifted soon, and then Fon would be needed to help in the fields once more. She groaned at the thought.

  Last year Jamie had taken on two casuals, but they had proved to be townies, with little or no interest in the country, and in the end Jamie had given them both their marching orders.

  Fon sighed inwardly. Used as she was now to farm work, she hated the early mornings on the dew-wet land, bent double over the rows of stubborn vegetables that refused to part company with the rich soil. But it had to be done. On a farm, every hand was necessary. Even the faltering baby fingers of young Patrick would contribute to the picking this year.

  She sank down on the milking stool and, cheek against the warm flank of one of the dairy cows, began to squeeze the full teats. Having recently calved, the animal was rich with milk, which spurted readily into the ridge-bottomed bucket. In the byre on the other side of the fence, the cows in calf were kept aloof and segregated from the rest of the herd. Big and cumbersome and with no milk to yield, these animals were in a favoured position, cherished until the precious calves were born.

  Patrick leaned against Fon’s knee, chewing at his thumb, his eyes still glazed with sleep.

  ‘Fon will put you down for a nap in a minute – right, boy?’ she said softly, troubled at the necessity for rousing the child so early in the mornings. Perhaps she should leave him in bed while she milked the cows; after all, she would be only a stone’s throw away from the farmhouse, Patrick could come to no harm.

  And yet, the thought of her duty to Katherine hung heavily on her shoulders. Fon was always conscious that she must live up to the faith Jamie’s first wife had placed in her. There were dangers in a farm kitchen, where the fire was kept stoked to facilitate the cooking of huge meals. Water boiled constantly on the hob, and a small boy could find no end of mischief to occupy his time should he wake and find himself alone.

  The milking over, she led Patrick across the dusty yard to the farmhouse and tucked him back into the warmth of his bed. He closed his eyes, lashes brushing plump sun-kissed cheeks, and was immediately asleep. Fon smiled down at him; he was a fine boy, his skin shining with health. Katherine would have been so proud of him.

  Sometimes, Fon found herself resenting her memories of Katherine. She was always there, a persistent ghost of the past, and Fon felt it was as though she was constantly measuring herself by Katherine’s stringent rules and finding herself wanting.

  She heard voices in the kitchen below and hurriedly made her way downstairs. The men would be hungry; having worked for hours already, they would want good food to fill their empty bellies.

  Jamie smelt of earth and grass and the fresh sunfilled air, and Fon resisted the temptation to put her arms around him and hold him close, reasserting her possession of him. Instead, she brought out of the deep pantry some crusty fresh bread and a plate filled high with cold ham and pickles.

  ‘How are you feeling, Tommy?’ Fon asked, pushing a thick mug towards him. He grinned lopsidedly.

  ‘My belly is all healed now, missis,’ he said, breaking off a chunk of bread and chewing on it with gusto.

  ‘Good little doctor is my wife,’ Jamie said, his eyes meeting hers, holding her gaze with a hint of laughter.

  She looked away, not knowing if he was making fun of her. ‘I did only what I could.’ Her voice sounded prim, cold even, and Fon quickly lifted the heavy pot and poured more of the fragrant, steaming tea into the waiting mugs.

  The silence in the kitchen lengthened. The sound of a bird singing in the trees outside the window gave the day a feeling of laziness, which was quickly belied by the briskness in Jamie’s voice when he spoke.

  ‘I want you to make a proper meal later on,’ he said, leaning big arms on the table. Fon was stung, wanting to ask him what he meant by a proper meal: wasn’t ham and fresh bread and butter good enough for him? The people of Oystermouth would be glad of such fare, even now, when the worst of the hardship caused by the lack of oysters was over.

  He must have caught something of her mood because, lazily, he leaned across and touched her cheek. ‘I mean a meal fit for hearty farmers, my love,’ he enlarged. ‘Hot spuds, a roast joint, plenty of vegetables and rich gravy.’ He pulled at a small curl that hung down from the pins that held her hair. ‘And perhaps an apple pie to follow?’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Fon said, hating herself for her timidity. Why didn’t she demand to know what was going on? She was part of this farm now, wasn’t she?

  It was young Tommy who supplied the answer. ‘Mr Ian Evans is coming to see if the bull is suitable,’ he explained.

  ‘Suitable?’ Jamie echoed scathingly. ‘My bull is the best old Evans will find in these parts. Near a ton-weight of beef in that one. Fed the best hay and the best mangolds, treated like a prince, him.’

  Jamie looked at Fon, his eyes shining with laughter. ‘And always eager to serve is that one.’

  Fon felt the colour come into her cheeks as she looked away from her husband’s playfulness. Jamie left the table with a suddenness that startled Fon.

  ‘Come on, Tommy, boy, there’s enough to be done before Evans brings his cows over. Let’s try to get the work finished early, because it will be all talk and beer-drinking later on.’

  When Fon was alone in the kitchen she stood for a moment looking around her, a feeling of anger stirring within her. What did Jamie think she was, a machine? Why hadn’t he warned her there, would be company? Then she could have planned the meal in advance. Now she would have to rush about like a scalded hen to get things done in time. She rolled up her sleeves with a sense of purpose; the more she did before Patrick woke, the better she would fare.

  Later, as she set out the table with a snowy cloth kept especially for visitors, Fon brushed back her hair wearily and congratulated herself on her achievements. The beef was falling apart, so succulent was it, and the hot spicy aroma of apple pie had begun to permeate the kitchen.

  ‘There, Jamie O’Conner,’ she said, folding her arms across her thin body, ‘see if you can find fault in that!’

  Tommy came panting up to the door. ‘The master’s asking will you bring a jug of beer out to the stalls, missis,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Old Evans’ thirst is well known in these parts – drink any man under the table, him.’

  ‘But . . . the meal is ready,’ Fon called, but Tommy was already retreating across the yard, his thin legs covering the ground in huge strides, his shoulders hunched in a way that told of his anxiety to please. This man Evans must be a demanding customer indeed, Fon mused, a well-paying one too.

  Fon glanced at Patrick. He was playing happily with his wooden animals on the floor, but she dare not leave him in the kitchen with the fire stoked up to heat the oven and the hot food standing ready on the large hob. With a sigh, she fetched the beer from the cold pantry and placed in on a tray with the heavy mugs.

  ‘Come on, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and see Daddy.’ The little boy rose eagerly enough and followed her outside into the sunshine, chasing the ducks from his path with swooping kicks of his small feet.

  Fon heard the bellow of the bull and shuddered, glad that the huge creature was penned behind one of the stalls. As though in reply there came the mournful bawling of a cow, sounding as though she was in pain.

  She carried the tray to the side of the stall just in time to see Jamie releasing the black bull from the shining steel ring that held him.

  The bull pawed the ground, nostrils flaring in and out, as though the creature was in the grip of a terrible anger; the evil eyes gleamed, and then, in a sudden movemen
t, the huge bull mounted the cow, which was standing patiently waiting.

  Fon felt the colour rush to her cheeks. She was being silly, and she knew it; to farmers this mating of the animals was a business transaction and nothing more. She had come to the farm as a shy, untried young girl, but since then she had become used to the ways of the farm, and the bull was just another animal, she reminded herself.

  Just then old Mr Evans, who had his back to Fon, called out joyously, ‘Go on, you devil, give my Bessie a good rogering! Let me get my money’s worth!’

  Jamie had seen Fon, noticed her high colour, but did not seek to ease her embarrassment. Instead, to her chagrin, he appeared amused by her discomfort.

  ‘Ah, look, some refreshments,’ he said loudly. The men surrounding the pen turned and took the mugs from the tray, waiting stoically as Fon poured out the strong beer.

  Mr Evans tipped his hat to her. ‘Sorry if I was a bit coarse, missis,’ he said. ‘Didn’t see you there, mind.’

  Fon muttered something, wanting to make her escape, but Jamie was smiling, leaning against the fence, allowing her to hand out the beer.

  The bull had stood down, breathing heavily, his task seemingly completed. The evil eyes seemed half-closed, but Fon shuddered, knowing she was afraid of the black beast.

  ‘Refill, missis.’ Farmer Evans held out his mug, and Fon bit her lip at his abrupt tone.

  She heard the harsh rasping of the bull behind her and turned to look over her shoulder. She had thought the mating over, but now the huge black creature was pawing the ground once more, eyes glinting, his readiness to repeat his performance alarmingly plain for all to see.

  Fon placed the tray on the ground, determined to remain no longer, and, catching Patrick’s hand, she led him back to the kitchen.

  She was angry with Jamie for embarrassing her and more for enjoying her discomfiture. But by the time the men came indoors for their meal, everything was under control. including Fon’s emotions.

  ‘Where’s Pat?’ Jamie asked, seating himself at the head of the table.

  ‘Gone to bed. He’s worn out,’ Fon said coldly, ‘and, incidentally, so am I.’

  The last words were spoken quietly, so that Jamie alone heard them.

  ‘A bit of cooking too much for you, is it, then?’ Jamie asked, his eyes meeting hers in a level gaze.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that trying to keep the food hot after spending hours cooking it was no joke, but farmer Evans was helping himself to a liberal plateful of meat and a burst of laughter from his companion reminded her that they had company.

  ‘Good job done there, all right.’ The farmer’s companion, who was so like Ian Evans that he could only have been his brother, slapped a big hand against his thigh. ‘Get a good calf out of that cow in due course, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Aye,’ Ian Evans agreed, helping himself to more beef. ‘Got a fine randy animal there, Jamie, lad! A bit like his master, is he?’ He winked suggestively, and Jamie smiled without replying.

  ‘Got another cow coming into season any day now,’ farmer Evans said more soberly. ‘Bring her up here will I?’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Jamie said reasonably, ‘though I don’t think you’ll get finer stock from any other animal in a twenty-mile radius.’

  Fon wished they’d stop talking about the animals, at least for the duration of the meal. She told herself it was something she must get used to; it was Jamie’s living, after all, and the bull had to pay somehow for its keep.

  As though sensing her thoughts, Ian Evans took some shillings out of his pocket and spread them on the white cloth like a conjuror demonstrating his sleight of hand.

  ‘That do you, Jamie, man?’ he asked, and before any reply was made he turned to Fon. ‘Bit of apple pie now, missis, if you please.’

  At last the farmer, along with his more jocular brother, took his leave. Tommy stayed to help Fon wash the dishes, and he glanced at her shyly.

  ‘They mean no harm, missis,’ he said apologetically, ‘though I suppose to a town girl farm ways seem rude and coarse-like.’

  ‘It’s all right, Tommy,’ Fon said, but even as she smiled at the boy and saw him to the door, she was thinking it should have been her husband apologizing, not the farm-hand.

  The late sun was waning, streaking the sky with redness, and suddenly Fon felt lonely for her life in Oystermouth. How simple it had been then; she had worked the oysters in the daytime, gone to chapel, sung in the choir in the evenings, and come home to her bed. Her empty bed, a voice in her ear said, with insidious suggestion.

  Was that what she wanted for herself, a lonely bed, empty of Jamie and all that his presence entailed? She put away the dishes and returned to the kitchen, where Jamie was already writing in the account book.

  Fon stared at his back, at the dark curls lying against the collar of his shirt, and suppressed the urge to run her fingers through his hair. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath.

  ‘I would be obliged if you would warn me in good time when I’m to expect company,’ she said, and the tone of her voice was more icy than she’d intended it to be.

  Jamie looked up and slowly closed the book. ‘Are you giving me orders, then, Irfonwy?’ he said, his voice matching her for coldness.

  ‘No.’ She felt less certain of her ground. ‘I would just like some consideration from you. It takes a long time to cook a dinner, mind.’

  ‘It takes you a long time, that much is obvious,’ Jamie said, his eyes unreadable.

  Anger poured like wine through Fon’s blood. There he was, silently comparing her with Katherine again.

  ‘No doubt your first wife cooked a fine dinner at the drop of a hat!’ she said hotly.

  Jamie rose in a swift movement and caught her arms, shaking her a little. ‘Don’t talk like that, I don’t like it.’

  Suddenly, all the pent-up frustrations and uncertainties she had felt since her marriage flooded to the surface. Fon put her hands against Jamie’s chest and pushed him away from her.

  ‘Leave me alone, don’t touch me!’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m no farm animal, I’m a human being, and I do have some finer feelings even if you do not.’

  ‘Finer feelings, is it?’ Jamie said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Putting yourself above the likes of me, is that what you mean?’

  Fon looked at him stunned. Is that what he thought, that she was looking down on him and all he stood for?

  ‘Go to bed,’ he said, suddenly sounding weary, and when she paused uncertainly, not knowing how to heal the rift that had suddenly appeared between them, he raised his voice.

  ‘Go to bed, do you hear me?’ He seemed like a stranger to her then, a man with a hard look in his eyes and with a strong set to his mouth, the mouth that had so often kissed her with such passion. Passion, yes, but not with love, Fon thought in despair.

  She turned without another word and hurried to her bedroom, undressing quickly, as though her nakedness made her vulnerable. Shivering a little in spite of the warmth of the night, she crawled beneath the sheets and closed her eyes tightly, forcing back the tears. She was still awake when later, much later, Jamie came to bed and, instead of taking her in his arms, instead of holding her against him until sleep overcame them, cupping her breasts, he turned his back deliberately against her.

  She felt the broadness of his shoulders and the slimness of his hips before he moved away as though the very feel of her was too much to bear.

  Fon lay rigid for a long time and then, slowly, she moved closer to him and put her arms around his waist. ‘Jamie.’ She whispered his name as though they might be overheard. ‘Jamie, I love you.’

  He did not reply, and he did not turn towards her, and after a long bitter moment, Fon realized that he was asleep, his breathing even and regular, as untroubled as a babe’s. She lay sleepless in the darkness, feeling bereft as, for the first time in her married life, she lay without the joy of her husband’s arms holding her safe in their bed befo
re sleep claimed them.

  In the morning, after milking, Fon took Patrick to the wood to check on the cows that were in calf. It was a fine day, with a haze of heat mist hanging over the fields. Except for the sound of the birds in the trees, the world seemed a silent place.

  Jamie had been awake and out to the fields before she’d risen from bed, and Fon ached to talk to him, to reassure herself that everything was all right between them.

  ‘Moo-moo,’ Patrick said softly, and Fon looked in the direction he was pointing.

  One of the cows was leaning into the hedge, head down, and somehow Fon knew that something was wrong. She moved closer and saw that the animal’s flanks were thinner than they should be for six months in calf. She put her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Duw!’ she said softly, realizing with a feeling of chill that the cow had aborted of her calf. She looked around the soft fields, under the hedgerows near where the sick animal stood, and eventually found the corpse of the tiny premature calf.

  She trembled. Something was wrong, very wrong; healthy cows did not slip their young so easily.

  ‘Moo-moo sleeping.’ Patrick pointed to the calf, and Fon took his hand, leading him away. She made her way towards the open fields where Jamie was working, knowing that the news she must give him would cause dismay. To lose animals was always a tragedy, but to lose calves meant something was seriously wrong with the stock.

  Jamie was bent over the furrows where the summer potatoes protruded through the soil. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above big muscles, his thick neck standing strongly free of his collar.

  Fon stared for a moment, watching him, wanting to go into his arms and make him tell her he loved her. Instead she spoke to him calmly, her voice even, her eyes refusing to meet his.

  ‘There’s trouble,’ she said quietly. ‘One of the cows has aborted. It looks like the cow sickness.’