Bitter Inheritance

by Ann Cliff

  Bitter Inheritance

  Ann Cliff

  Contents

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  ‘A woman can’t farm on her own. You must get out, sooner the better. Farm’s run down bad enough as it is.’ The gravelly voice grated on the ear and Sally moved away a little. ‘I can’t say I’m that sorry. You Masons have never done me a good turn. Sell up and clear out!’ The heavy jowls shook as the man turned away.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Sally felt her heart sink, a physical pain in her chest. This was her home; the little grey stone village of Thorpe was the only place she knew.

  ‘It’s our farm – my farm, now that Father’s gone. I love it. And it’s not run down, Mr Bartram, you can’t say that. We’ve looked after the land for two hundred years!’ There were few families who could go back that far. Even in their part of Yorkshire, overlooking the Vale of York, people had moved about over the years. But the Masons had stayed in one place since 1694 – exactly two hundred years, in fact.

  They were standing outside the house because she wouldn’t invite the man inside. Sally was aware of the lovely sweep of the land, rising with fields and patches of woodland to the skyline and then dropping down to the river Ure over the back of the ridge. It was a beautiful place, a farm to be proud of.

  ‘Don’t be daft, lass.’ Sol Bartram shook his heavy head. ‘A woman can’t run a farm, least of all a young woman. It’s not natural. Yer not strong enough. And what would a woman know about such things? Specially a Mason! Yer mother were a teacher – that’s no help!’

  Yes, Mother was a teacher. Pity yours didn’t teach you better grammar, Sol Bartram, Sally thought furiously, her anger rising from her toes to the tips of her red hair. No one should speak like that of her dead mother.

  ‘What’s wrong with Masons? This was our farm. We owned it and you know we did. Until the Radfords bought it when Father lost his money, and had to sell.’

  Sally had been fifteen at the time. She remembered with awful clarity how they had held on with very little to eat and the poorhouse looming. And then a buyer was found and they had money for food again. Her father leased the farm back from the buyer; all they had left were the livestock and some farm implements.

  Sol jeered. ‘Masons! Think they’re better than other folks with their books and big words – and yer Uncle Samuel, he’s a stuck-up parson. Yer dad always had his head in a book and it’s not practical. You can’t farm with book learning … look at them thistles in that hedge! Radfords don’t like weeds.’ He pointed with his stick to the other side of the road.

  ‘That’s not our land, Mr Bartram.’ If it wasn’t so tragic it would be funny, but Sally didn’t feel like laughing.

  Sol turned to go. ‘Any road,’ and his tone was final, ‘Radfords won’t let you rent the farm so that’s the end of it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Yer’ve got no lease, see. Better sell up, get Watson’s auctioneers to sell yer cows and sheep. I’d do it now while stock’s fat, well before winter. It’ll need to be before Lady Day, if I was you. But it’s nowt to do with me.’

  Lady Day! That must be the deadline, the day in April when traditionally farms changed hands. They could have said Michaelmas, which was September … now it was only June. She had ten months to fight the Radfords. Sally took a deep breath and mentally tensed herself for the fight.

  ‘I’m glad you noticed the stock’s fat, Mr Bartram. They are in good shape and the land is, too. I’ll thank you not to go round telling folks that we’ve run Badger Gill down. And you needn’t bother telling them I’m leaving, either. Not just yet!’ Sally turned on her heel and marched away up the pasture, red head held high.

  ‘Get yerself married – you need a husband to keep you quiet!’ His coarse voice followed her up the hill.

  The air felt fresher when Sol had shuffled off back to the Crown Inn, where he sat behind the bar like a big spider manipulating the business deals of Thorpe as he ran the village inn. Sally knew he was a dealer in livestock and dead stock and acted as agent for several landowners, including the Radfords. It had been Sally’s job to go to the Crown with the rent every quarter day, begrudging every penny paid out to stay on the farm that had been theirs, and hating any contact with greasy Sol Bartram, who looked at her with little piggy eyes in a way that made her blush.

  With Sol as their agent, the Radfords were invisible. Nobody ever saw them in Thorpe and Sally had never met them, although she’d imagined them to be like Sol: fat and greedy and completely heartless.

  Sally Mason looked around slowly and felt the tension drain away. Dewdrops hung like jewels on the cobwebs in the hedge, glinting in the morning sun. There was the quiet sound of cows munching happily on their fresh patch of grass. The bees were in the clover … she’d been enjoying the summer day until Sol came along to sully it. If only Father hadn’t died so young. But Sally had always tried to keep to the bright side of life, to count her blessings. She wasn’t going to sit down and weep. Her mother had sometimes told her that she tended to ignore the sad side too much and only wanted to hear happy stories. Sally had always felt that if you concentrate on what is good and happy, life will be brighter. She’d never needed this philosophy so much as she did now.

  It was seven years since her father had reluctantly decided to sell the farm after a run of losses. Nobody had mentioned that the Radfords would ever want vacant possession of the property; they had plenty of land themselves. What had changed to make them decide to turn her out?

  ‘No, Mr Landlord. I may be only twenty-two, but I’m not leaving. I will ask for the tenancy of Badger’s Gill to be passed to me, and I’ll show everybody that a woman can run a farm and succeed. Starting from now!’ Her voice rang out over the pasture.

  The cows looked up in mild surprise, not used to raised voices. Sally laughed. ‘Sorry, girls, but that feels better.’ She picked up a bucket as she went through the gate.

  The sheep were waiting to be moved, having eaten off the orchard grass. Lavinia looked up and bleated softly and Mary moved in a purposeful way to Sally’s side. Soon the others followed, drawn by the promise of food. ‘And I’m not selling you lot, wicked though you may be!’ The sheep looked quite unconcerned about their fate, jostling each other to get to the bucket. She often talked to the animals, especially now that she lived alone.

  Sally’s flock was a motley collection of different breeds of sheep. Some had black faces and legs, some had horns, some had long wool. It was time they were clipped, she thought as she looked them over. The wool wouldn’t fetch much, but it would be a little bit of income. These were special sheep because each one had been hand reared, on cow’s milk from a bottle. They’d all been orphan lambs, given to the girl by shepherds who had too many lambs to care for. These sheep thought that Sally was their leader. They had grown up to be a tame flock, wayward and mischievous but easy for her to handle. They escaped when they could, being sheep, just for a change of scene and diet but never because they were hungry. Sally’s animals were always well fed. The sheep had been trained to eat a little grain from a bucket. One rattle of that bucket and Lavinia, Mary, Prudence and the rest – they all had stately names – collected their lambs
and followed Sally.

  She took them down the lane and into the gill. Badger’s Gill, after which the farm was named, was a small hidden valley with a stream in the bottom called the Thorpe Beck. Sally counted the sheep out of habit, knowing it was unlikely that one of them would stray. When they escaped they always went in a group, all twenty ewes, eighteen of them with lambs. All of them in top condition. She smoothed back her unruly curls and sighed. ‘If I sheared, say, three of you every day … I could get through you all in a week! We’d better start today.’

  The sheep shearing was slow, but it went well. In the old days, shearing day had been fun; several shearers would come to help her father to deal with the much bigger flock they’d had then. Sally and her mother would produce a good dinner and the men would tease the little girl and tell jokes and stories. By contrast, today there was only Sally, shearing by herself because it had to be done.

  The day was warm and the ewes sat quietly as the wool rolled from their backs while Sally making smooth movements with the sharp pointed shears that her father had taught her to handle. Her main concern was that the sheep were not cut. Sally loved the smell of clean wool and her hands felt soft from the lanolin within. The only problem was her aching back. She was thankful that she wasn’t a professional shearer, travelling round the farms all summer doing the same back-breaking job.

  ‘There, Mary, you’ll be cooler with that wool off your back!’ But Mary was more concerned with getting back to her lamb, which had been wailing for twenty minutes.

  Three ewes shorn, seventeen to go. But that was enough for one day and it would soon be milking time. Once more Sally realized as she wiped her hot face, how hard it was going to be without her father. During the month since his death she’d been occupied with getting through one day at a time. But now, she looked down the years and thought of all the work that the three of them had shared: Sally and her mother making cheese and butter, baking and washing. Sally and her father had done some of the farm work between them. In the good times they’d employed a couple of workers and hired a labourer for hay-making. There was a great deal of work at Badger’s Gill for one pair of hands. But she would have to get through it if she wanted to keep the farm. And maybe, if she were successful, she might be able to pay a labourer to do the heavier jobs … in time.

  Sally was rolling the fleeces into bundles in the barn when she heard a raucous shout. There in the cobbled yard was Sol Bartram again, this time leaning from his trap. He was wearing a collar and tie and looked important. The old farm dog, Moll, was growling in her kennel. Moll was too old now to round up the sheep, but she’d appointed herself as Sally’s guardian. And she made it obvious that she didn’t like the visitor.

  Most folks would have jumped down from their trap to talk to her, but Sol seemed to like the superior feeling of looking down at her from a height. Or perhaps, Sally thought with distaste, he was too fat and breathless to exert himself. He beckoned Sally over and she went unwillingly. What now?

  ‘I’m off down to Ripon. Got a meeting, a dinner to go to. Do you want me to call at the auctioneers and ask them to put on a farm sale, right away? You’ll need to sell the cows and sheep and yer’ve got an old hoss and a plough….’ He sounded as though he’d already calculated what she was worth.

  ‘No, thank you. I am not selling anything.’ Sally’s mouth set in a straight line.

  Sol went on, oblivious, not listening. ‘I forgot to mention – rent’s overdue. Mr Radford’ll only give you a fortnight to pay, or never mind Lady Day, you’ll be out now!’

  In the stress of her father’s death Sally had forgotten about the rent. But it was not overdue; the quarter was up at the end of June – in a couple of weeks. Another thing to deal with, on top of this morning’s news. Sally stood up as straight as possible and stared at the man. ‘I know the date very well, Mr Bartram. The rent is not overdue – it’s to be paid at the end of the month! Surely the Radfords wouldn’t throw me out into the street?’

  ‘Wouldn’t rely on it.’ Sol laughed harshly. ‘They’re hard men, business men. They drive a hard bargain. And then there’s the bad blood between ye. Radfords and Masons have been fell out a long time. They’ll not likely help a Mason.’

  The man was trying to bully her, making things even worse. There was not a scrap of good feeling in Sol Bartram. Sally kept up an unwavering stare with her blue eyes. ‘I have to milk the cows, Mr Bartram. Good day.’

  Sol shook the reins and the pony moved off. ‘Aye. Well, think on. You’re a hard piece yourself. Bad as yer grandfather most likely! Most women would be bawling their heads off.’ Passing through the gate, he turned and said, ‘Fetch rent by end of month.’

  The grey stone village of Thorpe was calm and quiet, bathed in afternoon sun as Sally crossed the green to collect her cows for milking, trying to calm her jangling nerves. Two interviews with that man in one day was too much for her peace of mind.

  The cows were standing in the village pond for their afternoon drink and it was a slow job to persuade them to walk over the road and into the milking shed. Cows shouldn’t be hurried, they seemed to say as they sauntered along, udders swinging. Ducks ran flapping out of their way, just as they always did. It was the same scene that Sally had known every day of her life. Thorpe was her world, in rain and shine, in snow and hail. A peaceful way of life, now threatened. She was trying to be brave, but she might have to sell up. It would all be over. It was unbearable that the cattle might have to go to a farm where they’d be treated like – like animals! In spite of her anxiety Sally laughed at the thought, but it was true that the Mason livestock were treated almost like people. They had always been handled with respect for their dignity and thought for their comfort. ‘They are our workmates, Sally,’ her father had said once.

  Most of the cows had been born on the farm and Sally’s father had been proud of his home-bred herd. Sally knew each cow by name and they knew her. In the past, they had won prizes at shows, but there was no time now for frivolous outings like that.

  Selling them would be very hard, she thought to herself every time she remembered Sol and his threats. l Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Keep busy, Sally. But when Bluebell the lead cow nuzzled her gently as she was milked, Sally buried her face in the soft flank and wept. She cried for her father, who had battled so long with failing lungs. She cried for her pretty mother who had died two years before of a septic throat. And she felt quite alone and overwhelmed by the heavy responsibility of the farm.

  By the time milking was over, Sally was calm again. She carried the milk into the dairy and set about the evening chores as she’d always done. Increasingly, Sally had done more of the work as her father’s illness had progressed. She knew all the routines and had more experience of the farm work than most women. But she only had female strength. And she had all the house and dairy work to do as well.

  To pay the rent, Sally would have to dip into the family savings. Thursday evening was the time for the Penny Bank to open in Thorpe. Hastily washing her face and putting on a clean dress, Sally flew up the street to the Reading Room where the banking session was held.

  The bank was opened each week by John Pickering, a serious, kindly man who was the unofficial village leader. Villagers could organize their savings without needing to go to Ripon and they knew their money was safe. The Yorkshire Penny Bank had imposing buildings in the big towns and John Pickering was himself rather monumental, thought Sally, just as a banker should be.

  ‘Mr Pickering, I don’t know where Father’s bank book is. But could you – could you let me have some money out of the account to pay the rent? I do know it’s a joint account, him and me.’ Sally pushed back a stray red curl.

  ‘Surely your father told you all about the financial affairs of the farm? And where the records are kept?’ Mr Pickering sounded alarmed. Concerned grey eyes looked into hers.

  ‘Well, no. We never talked much about money. I think he didn’t want me to worry.’ A tear splashed onto Sall
y’s hands. ‘The only thing I know is that he’d put everything in both our names when I turned twenty-one.’

  There was a pause and the banker looked out of the window. Then he sighed and opened a ledger. He ruffled through the pages. ‘I hate to have to tell you this, my dear, but there’s no money left in your account – just a few pence, to keep it open.’ He looked up.

  Sally sat absolutely still with shock.

  ‘But surely this won’t be the only money in the family. I know Robert talked about saving up to buy back the farm one day.’ Mr Pickering spoke deliberately, slowly, perhaps giving her time to recover.

  The girl fought the rising panic. No money! ‘And where do you think it might be? Another bank, perhaps? Father used to bank in town as well.’

  ‘He never told me. I think you’d better go home and look through all your father’s papers and you might find out. You see, Sally, the Penny Bank account was only used for saving up spare money from selling eggs or cheese. It couldn’t have been his main account. Your solicitor will probably know something about it. Have you no money in the house?’ Most farmers kept a ‘bob or two’ under the mattress for emergencies. Sally knew all about that and she also knew where it had gone.

  ‘I used it all to pay for the funeral. And the headstone.’ ROBERT MASON, 1841-1894, OF BADGER’S GILL, AND HIS BELOVED WIFE, LOUISA, 1845-1892. A simple headstone was all she’d been able to afford. Another tear rolled down her cheek. It was all too raw, too savage for the girl, thinking of the earth over their grave. This time there was no bright side to look upon.

  John Pickering’s sympathy showed in his face as he closed the ledger. ‘You could ask your Uncle Samuel – he could know something about your father’s affairs. I think he’d be a good person to advise you.’

  Sally realized that she didn’t want anybody to know about the embarrassing shortage of money. But she should visit Uncle Samuel and Aunt Bertha. Her uncle would be grieving for his brother and would surely be sympathetic.