by Ann Cliff
As Sally drove the trap carefully down the Ripon road the sun came out and she could feel the heat increasing, the warmer air coming to meet them as they went downhill. With her unruly red hair tied back with a ribbon and a clean cotton dress of light blue, Sally felt like a different person from the girl in the grey shawl. True, she’d lost weight and the frock was a little too big for her, but it was quite pretty and more feminine than any of her farm clothes. Perhaps she should stop worrying just for today and enjoy the change of scene. But that was impossible at the moment. There was too much at stake.
Martha sat beside Sally, glancing from time to time at the butter baskets. They were covered with cool cabbage leaves, which was all they could do to protect them. The butter was firm and chilled, kept on marble slabs in the dairy to cool it down as much as possible. Slowly, Jed the pony picked his way down the hill near Sutton.
‘It’s a long time since I stood in the market to sell,’ Sally admitted to Martha. ‘The eggs are easy, Thorpe folks come to the door for them and I have regular orders in the village. It’s the same with milk, if there’s any to spare. The cheese is collected – so there’s only butter to sell in Ripon.’
‘Well, there’ll be lambs to go to market in a few months and maybe some of the calves. George will help you find a buyer and he says prices are quite good this year.’ Martha sounded reassuring but once again, Sally felt the weight of the farm on her shoulders. There was a lot to think about.
A pheasant crossed the road and the young pony shied slightly. ‘Hey, Jed! Steady!’ Martha grasped the sides of the trap firmly, but said nothing.
‘He tries hard, this horse, but he has a lot to learn,’ explained Sally, as Martha readjusted her bonnet and smoothed her grey dress. ‘Father used to manage him better than I can.’
‘How do you know when a horse is trying?’ Martha enquired, but Sally couldn’t explain herself. She just knew sometimes what animals were thinking.
In spite of her worries Sally felt a lightening of the heart when they reached Ripon and unyoked in Wells’ Garth, as her father had always done on market day. Farmers could leave their traps in the Garth and their horses in the nearby stables. A narrow ‘ginnel’ led straight out to the large market square, dominated by the imposing Town Hall. You couldn’t see the square itself for the mass of stalls, people and produce. In the very middle was a tall obelisk with a horn on the top, the badge of Ripon. That was where butter was sold; other towns had their butter cross, but Ripon had the Wakeman’s Horn.
The women had to push their way through the crowd to reach the stone butter benches. It was good to be back for a while in the bustle of the town, a quiet cathedral city for the most part, but a place that came alive every Thursday when the market was held. ‘I sometimes think that folks come here more for the gossip than anything!’ Martha was watching two women avidly listening to a third.
Sally was not in a hurry, just for once. People bought their butter later, after the other groceries, to sit on top of the basket as they went home. The morning was very warm. When they reached the square Sally took off her jacket and draped it over the baskets. She was sorry that the shady side was already taken. The baskets were heavy and Martha was obviously pleased to put hers down. Sally was used to heavy weights but even so, she stretched with relief as they looked around.
Martha offered to stay with the baskets while Sally walked through the market place. She had no money to spend, but it was good to see the amazing variety and to know that you could buy almost anything on Ripon market. Martha went off next, taking her string bag. The day grew warmer and the High Side farmers were mopping their faces with big handkerchiefs. ‘Hottest day for years!’ one neighbour said to her, with a kindly smile. Too hot for the butter, maybe. Sally lifted the cabbage leaves and saw that the bricks were very soft, almost slumping. Oh somebody, please buy my butter soon!
Robin’s mother came by and stopped for a chat, a cheerful woman with a lot to be cheerful about. She had three wonderful sons, a doting husband and plenty of help in the house. She probably didn’t know what it was to be really tired, Sally thought enviously.
‘Dear me, Sally, it’s a bad day to sell butter!’ Mrs Scott could see the problem at once. ‘But never mind, next week will probably be quite cold. We hope to see you on Sunday after Evensong – Robin asked you?’ The Scotts, unlike the Masons, often had time to go to church.
‘Thank you, it’s kind of you.’
If only a cool breeze would come in from the North Sea … but the air was still and the heat increased as the day wore on. It was obvious, Sally thought after an hour or so of crowds sweeping by ignoring her, that nobody wanted to buy butter on a very hot day. The townsfolk could easily get some at the grocer’s any day of the week. High Side butter was superior, they all agreed, but not if it was too soft. It might spoil the other groceries in their basket; best leave it for today. She had no regular customers who might be loyal to Sally Mason through good weather and bad. When Badger’s Gill butter was on sale regularly – her mother had tried to sell every fortnight – there were Ripon folk who looked out for her and always bought from her. But that was in the past and those customers had gone.
Half an hour later Sally saw a thin trickle coming from one of the baskets. The butter was melting into oil, running through the wickerwork as a liquid. Even if she could catch it, once butterfat melted it was worthless. Her butter could never be sold now. Soon both baskets were empty.
When Martha came back Sally was weeping. There was a pool of oil round her feet, the ruin of her hopes. All that work, starting with milking the cows, had been for nothing. And there was still no money to pay the rent. They would go home no better off.
At that moment, Sally wondered whether fate was against her. It seemed that whatever she did, things went wrong. She was not meant to struggle on at the farm. She should give up now and walk away from a task that needed a strong man, and a man with a good wife at that. It was all too much.
‘Don’t cry, Sally love!’ Martha put an arm round her shoulders. ‘It’s bad luck, I know, but we’ll think of something else. I rarely saw butter do this before! But I heard of it, from my granny. It used to happen often in the old days.’
Prompted by Martha, Sally dried her eyes and ate a piece of bread and cheese, but it was stale, dried out by the heat of the day. All around them stallholders were trying to escape the sun, rigging up shade where they could. Food was obviously growing stale quickly; a woman on a cake stall sold off everything at half price to get rid of it. Martha bought some gingerbread. She couldn’t make it for that price.
‘There’s no profit today,’ the cake woman sighed. ‘And those poor lasses with the butter, I feel right sorry for them. We must live on our losses.’
Several other women were trying to sell butter at Ripon that day and even though they were in the shade, their butter melted too. They shrugged and smiled at Sally with fellow feeling even though they were competitors.
‘I’ve lost the butter, but thank the Lord I’ve sold some eggs and a few herbs,’ a woman from Kirkby said to Sally. ‘And you’ve come all the way from Thorpe for nowt. Life’s hard, at times…. You’ll be Robert Mason’s daughter, that right? You look just like your ma.’
Sol Bartram walked past, his piggy eyes darting everywhere. He looked past Sally at the crowded market place, smiling craftily. ‘Hear yer sheep were out on the road again. You should mend the fences! And feed ’em better. They must be starving!’
With red-rimmed eyes, Sally looked straight at him. ‘And did you open the gate for the sheep, Mr Bartram? Somebody did!’ Until this moment Sally hadn’t thought of Sol. But he was the only enemy she had, after all. Who else would wish her ill? And why was he so against her?
The little eyes jerked back to Sally’s face. ‘That’s slander, you can get yerself arrested for accusing folks of things like that.’ He looked towards the road on the outside of the square and pointed to a smart trap, driven by a well dressed man with grey h
air. ‘Know who that is?’
Sally was not very interested. ‘Well, who is it?’ The face was thin, ascetic, rather grim.
‘That’s yer landlord. That’s Mr Oliver Radford, that is. I was talking to him only yesterday. He was saying how pleased he was that you’re going, how he hates Masons, always has, and is looking forward to getting a proper tenant in Badger’s Gill. Masons did Radfords some dirty tricks, years ago. He’s a hard man is Mr Radford and he won’t worry if you’re thrown on to the street. I should make other arrangements, if I was you.’
Sally could believe Sol when she saw the face of Oliver Radford. That stern, handsome face belonged to a man who was ruthless, set on getting his own way, she could tell. There was no mercy in it. Not for the first time she wondered what had happened to set the two families against each other. It seemed ridiculous to be enemies without even knowing the whole story. And it was hard to believe that her family did ‘dirty tricks’. The Masons had their faults, but they were not vindictive or dishonest. Sally’s father had spoken rarely of the Radfords, and then always with a gentle regret as though the feud was inevitable, but not his fault. Her mother maintained a steady silence on that topic. They had both been shocked to find that the Radfords had bought Badger’s Gill. That was deception if you like, thought Sally. A bad harvest and then the cattle plague had forced him to sell, and the auctioneers had found him a ‘secret buyer’, someone who would lease back the farm to the Masons. Only when the sale was completed did the Masons find out that the Radfords were their landlords. After two hundred years of independent small farming the Masons had gone down in the world. They were farm tenants, dependent on the landlord’s whim – a landlord who was hostile to them. It was a bitter pill to swallow and Robert Mason’s health had begun to decline from then.
Watching the retreating, tweed-clad back of Mr Radford as he moved slowly through the crowded street, Sally realized that in fact he’d been quite reasonable until now. The Masons had paid the rent to Sol at the Crown and the Radfords had left them alone. If only that could continue! But of course, her father was gone, and a female tenant was unusual, unconventional. Her main problem was being a woman. The Radfords must have known of her father’s illness; they’d probably been waiting to grab the farm back when he died.
Sol looked down and saw the oily pools round the baskets. ‘Lost yer butter, have you? Typical Mason, selling butter on a hot day!’ He laughed and Sally could have hit him.
‘The rent will be paid on time.’ Sally’s mouth set in a determined line and she spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What’s a bit of butter, anyway? There’ll be more next week.’ She tried to sound braver than she felt.
Martha came back from the cake stall, and Sol Bartram shuffled away. Martha was furious, having heard the last remark. ‘I know what it is! He wants the farm for himself!’ Martha laughed the real High Side laugh – mirthless, ironic. ‘That’s what he’s up to. I can see it now.’
I must be very innocent, Sally thought. Martha’s right. Sol Bartram is putting up as many hurdles as he can to get me out of the farm. He must have a reason for it and knowing Sol, it will be something to benefit himself. They might as well have gone home, having nothing to sell. But Sally’s brain was beginning to work again and she realized that with the little time in hand she could visit her uncle, the Reverend Samuel Mason, at the vicarage. He might know something about her father’s financial affairs.
With her hair hanging limply now and her dress likewise, Sally had lost the confidence of the morning. It took a lot of determination to drive up through the laurels to the vicarage. Martha looked after the horse and the girl knocked on the door. It opened sharply and a maid of about fourteen peered out. ‘Vicar’s out, miss!’
‘I’m his niece … Sally Mason. Perhaps Mrs Mason is at home?’
The vicar’s lady was probably at home, but she might not be ‘At Home’ – willing, that is, to receive callers. Aunt Bertha was a large lady who liked a little nap in the afternoons.
‘I’ll just go and see.’ And the maid vanished.
Sally stood on the step, running her fingers through her hair and tugging at her dress. Pity Uncle Samuel wasn’t there, he was always quite sympathetic. It took about ten minutes for the maid to come back and let Sally in. As usual she was enveloped in Aunt Bertha’s bosom which smelled strongly of camphor.
‘My poor dear girl! We have been so worried for you! Come and have a cup of tea.’ she gushed, leading the way into the drawing-room.
‘No thank you, Aunt, I have a friend waiting outside with the pony.’
Bertha snorted and threw her head back. ‘Not a man friend, I hope? It will not do, you know, to go running about the countryside with a man!’
Tired as she was, Sally smiled. ‘No, it’s my friend Martha from Thorpe. I drive the trap myself, you know. We’ve been – been selling butter at the market.’ It’s nearly the twentieth century, Aunt, she thought to herself. Women can drive themselves without waiting for a man. Especially when there is no man in the family, any more. Drooping with weariness, the girl looked round the room, which was heavily draped with expensive curtains and full of big heavy furniture. Every surface was crammed with china ornaments, crystal and silver. The effect was oppressive, especially in the heat.
‘Well, I hope all that nonsense will stop very soon! How soon can you leave the farm?’ Bertha fanned herself and sank on to the sofa.
‘I’m not leaving, Aunt, I intend to keep going. But I would like to see Uncle Samuel, to ask about Father’s finances.’
‘NOT LEAVING?’ Bertha’s voice was shrill. ‘My dear child, you have no choice! We have planned it all for you. You will sell all the stock and implements and Samuel will invest the money for you. And you will come to live here with us.’
It was an appalling thought. Live at the vicarage?
‘But I must earn my living, Aunt. Farming is my way of life, you see.’
Aunt Bertha was all sweet ruthlessness. She got her own way in life by drowning everything in syrup, Sally thought.
‘You must realize Sally dear, that women are not formed for this kind of thing. Exercise is most unhealthy for women, you know!’
Her aunt looked in need of exercise herself, Sally thought, and felt ashamed. Aunt Bertha was only trying to be kind, but she couldn’t know the wonderful feeling of being able to run up the field, to move and lift and swing. Activity, she felt instinctively, must be good for everyone.
‘And as for business, for dealing and that kind of thing, you know, women have absolutely no aptitude. Especially in farming, which can be quite crude, haggling over prices at markets. You should not have to worry your little head about anything except running a household. That is quite trying enough. No doubt we’ll find a husband for you one day, my dear. But meanwhile …’ the syrupy voice took on a slightly harder note, ‘you will remember, dear Sally, that we have an older maid as well as young Jenny who let you in. Sarah is ready to retire and you will take her place. So you see, you will be able to earn your keep and Sarah can go to live with her sister. It is all arranged. Your uncle thought it a splendid idea.’
‘But—’ Sally spluttered.
‘You can have the attic bedroom all to yourself, and half a day off every week. Church three times on Sunday of course, this is the vicarage after all. And you can help with visiting the sick. Dear Sally, you will be so much better off here than struggling on that poverty-stricken farm! Can you cook?’
Sally was saved from replying by her uncle, who now appeared. ‘Young Sally! It’s good to see you.’ This hug at least was a little bit of real affection.
‘I have told Sally of our plans,’ Bertha announced grandly. ‘And I suppose she will be able to give up the farm at the end of September – that’s quarter day, is it not? And then we can hire the carrier to bring down anything that we want to keep from the farm. Samuel, I think you always liked the old oak desk … and the dining-table, of course. And anything else that you want from the old home.
The rest can be sold.’
FOUR
The old trout’s planning to take our furniture already! They’ll take over the lot! I’ll lose everything, all my own possessions. Sally felt herself staring into a black pit of despair. It was bad enough to contemplate losing the farm, but to be condemned to live with her dear relations was just too horrible to think of. Uncle Samuel was dear to her. Aunt Bertha – well, she meant well, no doubt. But Sally didn’t want to live with them. Surely she had come of age, she couldn’t be made to live with her uncle and aunt against her will? It was the convention, of course; Sally knew that. Young, unmarried females were expected to live with relatives and to make themselves useful until such time as they could get themselves married. But the Mason family, apart from Uncle Samuel of course, had never been very conventional and Sally had never tried to get herself married.
This was not the time to argue; Sally would have to go home to milk the cows very soon. She must concentrate on her present mission. Surprised at her own coolness, she took a deep breath. ‘Uncle, I wonder whether you know anything about father’s – er – money arrangements? Where he did his banking, that sort of thing? I really need to find out as soon as I can.’
Samual’s mild face showed alarm and a cold feeling crept over Sally. What if nobody knew? She might never be able to find out.
‘Dear me, child, did he not tell you about it? I understood that he had made you a partner in the business … even though you are a woman!’ Uncle Samuel smiled slightly, taking the sting from the words. Bertha shook her head disapprovingly.
‘Well yes, he told me that and he talked about saving up – to buy back the farm one day. He always did the banking, that sort of thing – but then he went so suddenly, there was no time to….’ The hot tears were beginning to flow again. Really, thought Sally, I am having a very weepy day and tears will get me nowhere.
‘And you’ve looked in the desk?’ Samual was obviously concerned for her. ‘Robert kept everything in the desk, I believe.’
