by Ann Cliff
‘That’s a good drawing!’ Sally said sincerely. She had done enough drawing herself to know that his technique was good.
‘The light’s going, I’ll have to stop. Goodness, I’ve kept you waiting so long! Did you find someone to talk to? I thought I heard voices.’ Simon packed up his papers.
‘Yes, thank you, the time went quickly. I was talking to – a farmer.’ Sally led the way to the trap. ‘We’d better trot off home, it’s milking time.’
FOURTEEN
‘Have you seen Simon? I took him some tea but he’s not there!’ Emma’s eyes were round as she came into the kitchen. ‘He went to post a letter, didn’t he?’ She looked at the kitchen clock. ‘But that was over an hour ago!’
Sally stopped kneading bread and wiped her face with a floury hand. ‘Where can he be?’
‘One of us had better go to look for him. The other day he came for a walk down the lane but he couldn’t go far. The post office is maybe too far for him, right at the top of the village.’ Emma sighed. ‘He’s so short of breath, Sally. I offered to post the letter for him, but he insisted – he wanted to go to the shop.’
Poor lad was probably feeling a bit cut off from everything, shut away in the country, Sally thought sadly. He led such a restricted life. It was about four o’clock, time for a cup of tea and a scone and nearly milking time. Emma had a newly baked scone on the tray for Simon, beside the tea. ‘I’ll go in two minutes, once this bread is set to rise.’
The afternoon sun, stronger now, was slanting through the ancient trees on the green as Sally sped up the street. There was nobody about to disturb the afternoon quiet; even the ducks were bobbing on the pond, quietly contemplating. Sally rushed into the post office, which was also the village store. ‘Mrs Hollis, have you seen Mr Drury? My guest?’ Everybody knew by now that Sally Mason took paying guests.
Mrs Hollis looked up in surprise. ‘Nay, lass, he went off ages ago! Should’ve been home well before now. Wanted to buy some sweets for Miss Mason. Wanted to know whether you like mint humbugs, acid drops or barley sugar.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘Thinks Miss Mason is wonderful, I can tell! He wanted chocolates but we’ve none.’
It was impossible not to blush. Sally shook her head, thanked the woman and ran out. What next? Where else could she look? She walked home more decorously, thinking about Simon. Since the winter they had gradually become real friends, she thought. In one way she was worried; she was being drawn in all the time to a closer relationship. And it would not do. Marcus was lost to her, but she couldn’t love another man in that way.
As she walked, a cold dread began to creep over her. What if Simon too was feeling desperate? She realized now that Emma had nearly drowned because she, Sally, hadn’t seen the danger signs in time. Could Simon be suicidal? It was possible that he too had slid into depression; after all he had little to be happy about. They needed help, if they were to find him. Passing the Scotts’ house, Sally turned in on impulse. She would ask Robin for help if he was at home. Robin was good in an emergency. But help was not needed after all, for there at the Scotts’ kitchen table, drinking tea and laughing at some joke, was Simon. He looked very pale in spite of the laughter, Sally thought. I won’t be too hard on him. He probably needed a rest.
‘We were worried about you, thought we’d lost you!’ Sally kept her tone light.
Simon jumped up immediately. ‘I am so sorry! I didn’t think of that.’ He took out a watch. ‘Heavens! No wonder you were worried. I won’t do it again, Sally. I promise you.’ He gave her a look of contrite devotion and Sally thought she saw Robin hide a smile.
‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’ Robin’s mother was already pouring the strong black tea into a cup for her and Sally collapsed on to a chair, feeling suddenly rather tired.
‘Well, Sal, you are careless! You used to misplace your sheep and now it’s the guests you lose!’ Robin’s hearty laugh sounded rather hollow to Sally. He seemed to lack feeling, somehow. Couldn’t he see that both Emma and Simon deserved sympathy?
‘I really came in to see Mr Scott about a will.’ Simon was still apologetic. ‘But he’s not home yet. Perhaps he could come down to see me one day when he’s not busy?’ He looked at Mrs Scott.
‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to visit you on the next rainy day! He saves the legal work for when he can’t work outdoors.’ Mrs Scott looked slightly embarrassed as she looked across the table at Sally. ‘I happened to ask Simon what he did in the family business, before he came here. He says he was in the financial department, he’s an accountant.’
Sally was embarrassed in her turn; she should have known that. But she hadn’t liked to question him on his previous life, afraid of making him sad.
Mrs Scott seemed to be waiting for something and Sally realized what it was. The Scotts had been very keen for her to keep accounts. ‘I wonder whether you’d like to help me to set up some farm accounts, Simon? You would be starting from scratch, I’m afraid. But only if you feel up to it.’ Sally looked at her guest carefully to judge his reaction.
A huge smile lit up Simon’s face. ‘I should love to do that for you, Sally. I didn’t like to offer, accounts are your private business, of course. But if you agree it would give me something useful to do. I feel so useless, sometimes.’
Susan Scott smiled approvingly. ‘That was my idea, too. It will help Sally to run the farm more efficiently – not that you’re inefficient, dear! I didn’t mean that.’
‘You will know just how efficient you are!’ Robin laughed. ‘If you have time, Simon, I can show you how to keep cattle and sheep records. I bet you didn’t have those in the woollen mill.’
It would mean more time with Simon, alone. That was probably not a good thing, Sally decided as they went down the village street. But it couldn’t be helped and it was time that Badger’s Gill had some records, apart from notes on scraps of paper. Simon seemed very happy, but he was soon in trouble. Walking home down the familiar gentle slope to Badger’s Gill, Sally noticed how breathless he’d become. Tactfully she stopped by the pond to watch the ducks and he sank down gratefully on a wooden seat.
‘It will be wonderful to work with you more closely and to be of some help to you.’ The young man gave her one of his devoted looks. ‘I so admire your courage, dear Sally, in running the business alone.’
‘I didn’t have much choice!’ Sally looked across the green at her beloved farm. ‘It was either that or go to live with Aunt Bertha! Now what do you think of the farm from this angle? Should you like to sketch it from here?’
After a few minutes, Simon stood up slowly and offered Sally his arm. ‘I can manage to walk home now, with your help.’ He suddenly grinned and looked much more boyish. ‘And I do hope you like barley sugar, Sally. I’ve bought you a large bag!’
The world of Thorpe was turning greener as April gave way to May and Sally thought she’d never seen such beautiful apple blossom as there was in the orchard that year. The cows were happy in their deep grass and as the calves were born, there was more and more milk for making butter and cheese. It was a busy time and the young farmer had little leisure time. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Sally would wake and think about Marcus and the life that might have been. But there had never been hope with Marcus. He was a Radford after all and she had her Mason pride. Aunt Bertha didn’t matter, but Sally loved Uncle Samuel and he would be devastated by any friendship with a Radford. The thing that had upset him most was the way in which Oliver Radford had bought Badger’s Gill, just to wield power over the Masons. Technically Samuel had lost his share of the farm since it had paid for his education, but he felt the injury almost as much as Robert did. And, when it came to the crunch, so did Sally.
Marcus’s father bore them ill will; Marcus had admitted it himself. And their meeting in Kirkby had shown her that Oliver’s son could be moody. Sally told herself that she was better off without Marcus Radford. And then she thought of his quiet voice, his smile and the kindness he’d shown to her. He
was most lovable. This thought made Sally miserable; Sally Mason just didn’t seem to have any luck. But then she would remember Simon and his precarious future. ‘I’m lucky to be Sally Mason!’ she told herself. ‘Healthy at least, if not wealthy or wise!’
One rainy day in May, Mr Scott appeared with a sheaf of papers and sat down with Simon in the dining-room. ‘I’ve come to do your will,’ he announced solemnly. The two men were there for most of the afternoon. At about four, Sally decided to interrupt them with the tea tray, judging that Simon would probably have had enough and be needing a rest. She noticed his pallor as soon as she went into the room, and the weary droop of his head.
‘Please join us, Sally!’ Simon begged and so she sat with them, although she’d intended to go off to collect the cows for milking. They talked about farming for a while and Simon asked questions that showed he was taking his recording duties seriously.
Sally described how Joe had taken on much of the heavy work, the difference it had made and how well he justified the expense of a worker. ‘Joe’s wages are the one thing I won’t cut back, if cuts are needed!’ Sally was becoming aware that attention to expenditure was an important part of success.
Mr Scott was at her father’s big desk and Simon sat at the dining-table. The older man looked round the room. ‘Just the same as I always remember it!’ He ran his fingers over the desk, as if appreciating the fine craftsmanship. ‘Nice piece of oak, this desk. Did you know that there were only two made to this design, by Abbots of Ripon? Robert had one and I bought the other one.’ He smiled. ‘And of course they both have the secret drawer.’
Sally stared at him. ‘What secret drawer?’
‘I’m sure Robert told you – didn’t he?’ Mr Scott bent over the desk, moved his hands and a compartment slid open. ‘So clever! You can’t see the join from the top.’
Sally looked down into the desk, which was now deeper inside than before. The first thing she saw was a letter addressed to herself in her father’s handwriting. There were bank books and other papers … this was where Father kept his records. And she’d never known!
‘Please show me how to open it, Mr Scott.’ Sally had no intention of reading the papers just then. This revelation had given her a shock and she needed time to get over it. She opened and closed the desk several times until she could do it smoothly. This was another thing that Father would have shown her if only he’d had more time.
Holding out his empty cup for the tray, Robin’s father said comfortably, ‘Susan said I was to tell you that some walkers would like to book in for a week, if you can take them. She’s got the details.’
Some walkers? How many? Sally felt her head spinning. But then Emma was keen to do more and there were two spare bedrooms they could use.
‘I think we can manage that, Mr Scott,’ Sally found herself saying. She picked up the tray. ‘I’d better tell Emma to stand by!’
As soon milking was over later that day, Sally raided the desk, feeling almost guilty. She took the papers up to her bedroom. Now for it … but the letter was the most important, the last message from her father.
It had been written about a year before, when his lungs were getting worse and Robert Mason had faced the fact that they might give out at any time. He didn’t know how long he had left but to be on the safe side he wrote down all the things that Sally would need to know. There were details of insurance, some pedigree records for their cattle and bank records. Sally found that they had three bank accounts, all at different banks in Ripon. None of the bank accounts seemed to hold more than a hundred pounds, although there would now be a year’s interest to add to the totals. And the letter contained an apology, in a loving paragraph that made her cry.
You are a wonderful daughter, Sally, and a loyal and hard-working assistant. I only wish I could leave you more, so that one day the farm might be yours. But the money we have earned in the last few years has not been enough for me to save. I am hoping to live for a few more years, so perhaps by the time you read this the bank records will be much better! I love you, Sally.
Your devoted father,
Robert Mason
The last item she found was the farm lease from Radford Estates. It was a Tenancy For Life, in the name of Robert Mason only. Her father’s life. And it left her with no legal arrangement at all. Sally knew from talking to Mr Scott that in the absence of a legal lease, the landlord could evict the tenant with due notice: in her case, a quarter’s notice, since the rent was payable quarterly. Oliver had the law on his side. There had just been a faint hope that Sally’s name was on the lease, but now that hope was gone.
Marcus Radford was a disappointed man, although he couldn’t say what he had expected to find in Foxholes Wood. After he met Sally in Kirkby his depression deepened until he was weighed down by a settled melancholy. The ride through the gloomy wood did nothing to help. The evening sun was slanting through the trees as Marcus rode the well-trodden grassy track. This was a short cut to Dallagill, a tiny village in a hidden valley and people still rode this way at times. This was the track his grandfather had taken with his friend Mason, those were the same trees they had ridden under, now fifty years older. Some of the younger ash and elm would have grown up since then.
There were no forks in the trail, no other tracks to follow. So he plodded slowly on, watching and listening as the sun sank and the world under the trees grew slowly darker. Was it stupid of him to worry about a feud so much that he was giving up the girl he loved? It was more than the feud and his grandmother’s wishes, of course. There was something else gnawing away at his father. And although he didn’t always agree with ‘the old boy’, as he thought of Oliver, Marcus was deeply attached to him. That was the problem.
It was a relief to see daylight at the edge of the wood and to get out into the sweet air of early evening. Marcus sat motionless on his horse for a while. He’d been through the wood and was none the wiser. Rooks were cawing their way home against a pink sky; distant sheep bleated to their lambs. The High Side was at peace, but was still keeping its secret.
Why not go to see his father? Much nearer in time to the tragedy than Marcus himself, he might just be willing to reveal something this time that would provide a clue. Partly on impulse, Marcus turned his horse’s head to the moor road. He hadn’t been to Nidd Grange for weeks. By the time he reached the Drovers’ Inn Marcus saw that the moon was rising. It was a perfect night for riding; he could stay at Nidd for the night and go back to Colsterdale tomorrow.
Turning over the old story in his mind, Marcus tried to imagine himself into the scene. The two friends rode into the wood together, just as he had done. In the middle of a summer’s day, with no sinister twilight. Just suppose for a moment that Samuel Mason had red hair and a volatile nature. A vivid image of Sally, dancing with impatience, came to him. Did she inherit that red hair from a volatile grandfather? This was not a comfortable thought. Reluctantly, Marcus took the story further in his mind. Suppose that the two friends had argued and in a hot temper, Mason had struck Radford. He might have been injured or killed by a freak blow to the temple. Here, the story broke down.
Sally might be hasty and rather excitable but she was full of a shining integrity. And any person of integrity would, in the situation as he’d imagined it, try to get help immediately. A grandfather of Sally’s would surely have admitted what had happened and faced up to the consequences. Any man of sense in fact would have owned up. Wouldn’t that be better than facing a lifetime of evasion, of deceit and isolation? Samuel Mason must have endured a lonely life as an outcast in his own community. High-Siders never forgot or forgave; his grandmother was an example of that. Marcus sighed and rode on through the moonlit landscape. Now he was at the top of the moor and could see the valley glimmering below and the faint lamplight in the windows of Nidd Grange.
‘It’s good to see you, lad. But I’m afraid you’re too late for dinner – there’s none left!’ Oliver came forward to greet his son in the hall, looking please
d. ‘Fancy a game of chess?’
I feel like a pawn on the losing side, Marcus thought. ‘I’d like a bite of bread and cheese and a drink!’ He pulled off his riding gloves.
Oliver’s housekeeper soon bustled in with a tray of food that contained much more than bread and cheese and drew up a small table for him by the fire. Although it was early May, the evenings still held a chill.
‘Would you care for a whisky?’ Oliver looked over the hearthrug at him. ‘We haven’t had a drink together for a long time and there’s the bottle you gave me at Christmas.’
His father poured generous measures of the old malt and Marcus added plenty of water to his own glass. He wanted to be able to think clearly. Father was in a good mood, more mellow and relaxed than usual. Evidently the farms were in good order, the farm servants were behaving well and nobody’s pig had died. When things went wrong, Oliver could be very gloomy.
Reporting progress for Colsterdale, Marcus was pleased that he had good news to offer. ‘More lambs than last year. Daniel’s on the mend and as you’ll know, the wool prices are set to rise.’
Oliver almost smiled. ‘Ah. You do well, my boy. I always thought we could produce more lambs over there.’
When the tray was taken away, Marcus picked up the whisky bottle. ‘Will ye tak another wee dram?’
