by Ann Cliff
‘Go and fetch a lantern, then! We’ll soon be in the dark when the fire dies right down.’
The young man brought out two lanterns and hung them in the yard near the water pump, which improved the operation considerably. Then he joined the bucket chain again. The buckets of water got heavier as the night wore on, but eventually the fire fighters could see that they were winning. Simon worked beside Sally, passing buckets with the rest, his face pale, but with a look of joy. ‘I’ve always wanted to get out here and help you when you needed me, girl,’ he whispered to Sally as he passed her a bucket. ‘This is my dream come true.’
‘I do appreciate it, Simon,’ Sally panted, as she passed him the next time. ‘But I wish you wouldn’t. It could be bad for your heart.’
‘Bugger my heart, to quote Joe!’ Simon was unrepentant. ‘Just for once, I’m a real man!’ In fact, Simon was a great asset; the more hands the better, in a fire. Sally and Emma, George and Martha were doing their best, but there was no time to run for more help. Joe lived at the other end of the village, too far away. So Simon took his place in the chain, knowing that he was needed.
It took them two hours to put out the fire and when they gathered in the kitchen for a drink of tea, George’s face was grim. ‘Hay was a bit damp, but not that damp.’ He passed a weary hand over his brow. ‘I doubt it would have gone up on its own.’ There was a silence as George took a deep swig of tea. ‘That fire was deliberately lit. I found a tin of paraffin on the ground outside the barn. And I’ll wager that Joe wouldn’t have left it lying about.’
They all knew that the methodical Joe was obsessively tidy about the farmyard and especially careful with lamps and oil. There had been cases of stable fires over the years. They’d heard of a recent one, when a lamp fell into a pile of straw at Kirkby. After that fire, Joe had warned Sally several times of the danger and made her take all lamps out of farm buildings after work was finished.
George went out and returned with the container. It could have been bought at the village shop, Sally realized, because she had seen them there. But at Badger’s Gill they always bought oil in larger amounts. This tin did not belong to Sally. She remembered Sol Bartram jeering in the yard the night before and shuddered. ‘Sol was here at milking time.’ She looked at the others.
Martha shook her head. ‘I always said he wanted this farm. He’s trying to force you out lass, by one means or another!’
George spoke slowly as he said, ‘If I could prove that Sol Bartram torched this here hay, I’d—’
Martha interrupted him quickly. ‘You’d tell PC Brown, that’s what you’d do!’
George subsided. ‘Aye, and that would be the end of it. Masterly inactivity, that’s what doctor says PC Brown is good for.’
What can you do against hatred like that, thought Sally. You can lock up your house maybe, but nobody can lock up a farm. For the first time, Sally wondered whether Sol had waged a long campaign against the Masons. Some of the misfortunes that occurred in her father’s time could have been deliberate. It was a chilling thought.
There was no rejoicing at Badger’s Gill the next day. They had beaten the fire and saved most of the mediocre second crop. But Simon had collapsed. Sally felt guilty, although she knew she’d done her best to keep him away from the fire. And Simon had worked beside them as one of the team and he had been happy. It was what he had wanted. But what had it done to his precarious health?
He’d been there when they had the tea, sitting in the corner of the kitchen. They were all tired, so nobody noticed how quiet Simon was. And the suggestions of arson had shocked them all, distracting their attention. George and Martha went home and Sally walked with them to the gate. ‘How can I thank you?’
‘Say nowt, you’d do the same for us. You’re our fire insurance now!’ George joked grimly. They all knew that George’s house had an old ‘Sun Alliance’ fire mark on the wall, but that it was no use waiting for a fire engine to plod up the hills from Ripon. Villagers had to help each other, just as they always had.
Emma carried water to the bedrooms for them all to wash in. Coming back to the kitchen, she found that Simon was slumped in his chair, with one hand clutching his chest. ‘Help me upstairs, Emma,’ he mumbled. ‘The pain is quite bad.’ It was the first time he had mentioned the pain, although Sally could sometimes tell when it came. The doctor had explained that heart pains and probably headaches were a part of the condition.
It took Sally and Emma some time to get Simon to bed. Sally wanted to call the doctor immediately, but Simon asked her to wait until morning. He dutifully swallowed his medicine and a glass of water and said he would sleep. The next morning, Simon was too weak to get out of bed. The doctor tried to conceal his impatience; his orders had been disregarded. Absolute rest and no visitors was the prescription. But Sally thought she should send for his mother.
‘You can’t tell with heart patients,’ the doctor told her. ‘Most unpredictable. He might recover from this bout, let’s hope so.’ He couldn’t be sure whether Simon had made his condition worse by helping to put out the fire. Emma volunteered to send a telegram to Simon’s parents and sped up the street to the post office.
With his pale gold hair and almost transparent skin, Simon looked fragile, propped up on pillows. Sally sat beside him, holding his hand and trying not to cry. If only she’d taken more time to insist he kept away from the fire!
Simon had something on his mind. ‘Would you bring up my painting from downstairs, Sally dear?’
‘Of course!’ And Sally went down to the dining-room, where the painting of the hay scene was propped on an easel. To her surprise, it was finished. He must have put in many hours in the couple of weeks since the drawing was done. They were all there, Sally and George, Martha in the background, and Robin with fork poised. Emma was carrying a jug of water. And in the bottom corner there was a small figure on a stool, painting the scene: the artist himself, included in the group as part of the team, just as he wanted to be.
‘You’re in there too – like the artists in their medieval paintings!’ Sally was absorbed in the picture.
Simon looked at his work with satisfaction. ‘That’s about as near as I’ve ever been to getting it right. I’m so glad you like it, my darling. Now, how about a frame? Is there anyone in Thorpe that can make a picture frame?’
Sally knew that Mr Dean, the local joiner could frame pictures. And Simon wanted to see him right away and to choose the wood. ‘There’s no hurry, lad. Wait till you feel better,’ Sally advised.
The young man shook his head. ‘Immediately, if not sooner,’ he said, quoting one of their jokes. ‘It’s for you, Sally. I want to give you your farm. Something to keep for the rest of your life.’
Sally had no words. She leaned across the bed and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Now, I wonder whether the frame should be gilt? A gilt frame sets off a painting very well.’ Simon lay back, evidently exhausted. ‘There is symbolism in every painting, you know,’ he said obscurely.
Mr Dean was happy to oblige and came straight away with Sally to measure up the painting. He might have a frame to suit, and in any case, he had some gold paint. It was lucky that he could do the job straight away. Carrying it out carefully, Mr Dean admired the painting. ‘Why, that’s young Robin Scott! Very lifelike, Mr Drury.’
Simon could not eat and drank only water. He asked Sally to brush his hair, because it hurt him to raise an arm above his head.
While Joe cleared up the debris from the fire and Emma kept the household going, Sally stayed with Simon. There was little said, because Sally knew how tired he felt. She went to close the bedroom curtains, but Simon stopped her. ‘Let the sunshine in!’
Sally brought a fragrant bunch of sweet peas in a vase and set it on the table where he could see it. The delicate scent filled the room and the colours of the flowers glowed in the sunlight. Simon smiled his thanks. The afternoon wore on, with no change in Simon’s condition. At times he slipped into an uneas
y sleep. Sally heard Joe calling the cows in for milking and the clatter of milking pails from the shed. Emma brought her a cup of tea, glancing at the sleeping Simon. ‘Can I bring him anything?’ Sally shook her head.
Simon woke from a sleep and Sally saw he was watching her. ‘I’d like to tell you something.’ His voice was low, but clear. For a moment Sally thought he might be beginning to recover. ‘Emma talked to me one day, about her life. Does that surprise you?’
‘It does, in a way. She doesn’t usually talk to anyone, but she feels safe with you, Simon.’
There was a faint smile. The grey eyes were fixed once more on Sally’s face. ‘She was saying how incredibly lucky we both are, that fate has led us to Badger’s Gill.’
‘It’s I who is lucky, to have such dear friends sent to me by fate!’ Sally replied.
‘But we were both in need of – your sort of care. And we came as paying guests, but it was much more than a business transaction right from the start.’ The pleasant voice was growing weaker. ‘Sally, you not only saved Emma’s life, you gave her a life and a future. You are so generous, so loving. You’ve made a difference to me. I want you to be happy, my dearest. To be loved by someone you love – oh, I’ve imagined your little red-haired children! Thank you, Sally, for everything.’
There was quiet in the room after that.
Mr Dean came back at five with the painting in a gilt frame. He explained that he’d looked through a few old frames in his shed, eventually finding this one that fitted perfectly. Sally was amazed. The finished painting, in its frame, looked even better than she had first thought.
When the joiner had gone, Simon gazed at the painting for a long time. Then he took Sally’s hand and placed it on the frame. ‘Dear Sally, keep this and remember me. It’s a token of my gratitude, for making me happy. You have given me independence from my family, something every man needs, eventually. And a home, a place of peace and friendship. And – just a little love?’ He looked into her eyes. ‘You know how much I love you.’
‘Oh, Simon. I don’t deserve such praise. Yes, I give you love.’
With a visible effort, he held out his arms to Sally. And she, sensing his need, sat on the bed beside him and cradled him in her arms. Sighing, he nestled into her shoulder like a tired child. ‘I want to be with you.’
For a long time Sally held him, loving him like a child in need of security. Gradually, his breathing ceased. Gently Simon seemed to float away from her, until she knew that he was gone, to where there was no more pain.
SEVENTEEN
‘I know what it is; it’s the Mason girl that’s bothering you. Well, take it from me, lad, it’d never work.’ Oliver looked at his son and Marcus detected a rough sympathy. They were dining together once again at Nidd Grange and Marcus had tried unsuccessfully to pretend a cheerfulness he did not feel. No matter how he tried, Marcus could not imagine a future for himself and Sally. There was her paying guest, for one thing, getting in the way, charming her no doubt with his good looks. Why would a young man stay at Thorpe? He should be out earning a living, thought Marcus, who did not approve of the idle rich. The Radfords were reasonably rich but they were never idle. And even if she didn’t love the lodger, Sally was a fiercely independent Mason and Marcus was still a Radford – and not ashamed of it. There was a wide chasm between the families. Could a bridge ever be built?
Oliver was still watching him and Marcus felt obliged to reply. ‘You think so, Father?’ He wasn’t going to admit that he agreed.
‘Look at it like this, Marcus. Imagine telling your son that one of his great-grandfathers had murdered another one! Think of that now. Or even worse, somebody else telling him the story!’
Marcus said nothing. His father had guessed how he felt, but that didn’t help at all.
Oliver sat back in his chair. ‘Tell you what, I’ll give you plenty to think about to take your mind off things. You can sort out Greystones at Dallagill for me; it’s in a mess. My fault, I know. But you can handle it. It’s up to you, lad!’
His father had recently taken over one of their farms when a tenancy fell vacant, but the manager he’d chosen was not up to the job. The manager had left and someone was urgently needed to supervise the foreman, so that they could catch up on the work before winter. Marcus sighed, but he agreed.
The ploy worked, up to a point. In spite of himself, Marcus started to make notes and plan and Oliver kept thinking of new tasks for him. ‘We could sell most of the Greystones cattle, they’re not up to much, and start again. You’ve a good eye for a beast, you can restock the farm for me.’
Even as Marcus swung into the saddle in the stable yard, Oliver had another distracting thought for him. ‘And while you’re doing the rounds, keep an ear open for any news of poachers. We’ve lost a lot of pheasant lately. There was a rumour of a gang last year, selling them in Leeds.’
Oliver was fond of a little shooting and he kept a gamekeeper to control vermin and organize the shoots for himself and his friends. Some of the game was sold to pay the man’s wages, so losses were not welcome. It was often a case of outwitting the men who wanted to steal the game. ‘But don’t take any risks, mind,’ warned his father as Marcus rode off to Greystones, the new plan in his pocket. ‘You don’t want to get yourself hit on the head!’
The wood was gloomy under a dark, threatening sky. Marcus had used this path often in the last few weeks and today his mind was still on the problems of the farm in Dallagill and how he could solve them. The urgent priority was to trim the flock’s neglected feet. A thousand sheep multiplied by four represented four thousand little hooves to be inspected, cleaned, trimmed and dipped in bluestone.
The path through Foxholes Wood was the quickest way to get to the farm. At first he’d thought about the murder every time he went through, but in the absence of any word of Sally or any new information, the mystery had crept to the back of his mind. You can get used to anything, Marcus thought wryly when he realized that he’d got used to Foxholes Wood.
Haytime had given way to harvest; it was nearly the end of summer. Marcus still thought about Sally and she was the first thing he saw in his mind’s eye, when he woke in the morning. But every day, his thoughts came back to the barriers between them. You couldn’t live your whole life with divided loyalties. He wished he could forget the lass and take up with someone else. Miss Russell of Masham? Perish the thought! He’d do a lot to please Oliver, but not marry Miss Russell.
Thunder rolled around the wood and a gusty wind blew through the trees. He’d have to hurry to get to the farm before the rain came. ‘Well, at least we’ve got the oats in safely, that’s one blessing … what’s that?’ Marcus pulled up his horse when he saw a gleam of white by the side of the track. It was a newly broken branch. And through the gap behind it, Marcus could see something that had been hidden from him before, a faint path winding off through the trees. He pulled out his watch. He could spare an hour, no more. But he remembered Oliver’s mention of poaching. This wood was the perfect place for poachers to hide.
Following the path was not easy on a horse and Marcus soon dismounted, leading Odin, his favourite bay, who followed meekly behind. This was a footpath, not a bridle path, and so faint that he almost lost it in the gloom. Strange that he’d never noticed it before, when he’d been searching for clues to the mystery. A few large rain drops spattered on the leaves and a flash of lightning made the horse tremble. It would have been easier to leave Odin behind, but the horse might bolt if he became really frightened. So Marcus pressed on, leading Odin, trying to reassure him with comforting words.
Was he in danger? It depended, he thought, on what sort of poachers they were, supposing he came across them. The local lads who pinched a pheasant or two for a lark were likely to know who he was and try to bluff their way out of it. They were the boys who crept up on roosting pheasants in the dark and grabbed them from behind. Or sometimes they put out raisins soaked in rum, if they could afford it and then captured the poor intox
icated birds as they staggered about. There were many ways of catching pheasants and Marcus knew some of them.
The birds were low fliers and often quite tame, having been raised by gamekeepers and then released in the woods. But the dangerous face of poaching was a different story. There were organized gangs from the towns, likely to be armed, who made money from selling game belonging to other people. They faced a jail sentence if they were caught and they were not going to give up easily.
The rain came suddenly, in sheets. Peering through the gloom, Marcus could just make out the outline of a stone building. He tied Odin to a tree and went to see whether they could shelter from the storm. There was a cottage in front of him, old, neglected, crumbling. No sign of life.
It might offer shelter, but it looked as though the roof would leak. It must have been abandoned years ago, by the way that trees had grown up in the neglected little garden. But when Marcus lifted the latch and pushed open the door it swung easily, without a creak. There was light inside.
Marcus found himself in a big kitchen. A man was by the fire, an old man, big but bent with age, his thin features expressing shock and extreme displeasure. He looked up from stirring a black pot. ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?’
They were natural enough questions in the circumstances. Marcus himself was taken aback and the voice was totally unexpected in this wild spot. It was deep, educated, a voice of authority. It reminded Marcus forcibly of his headmaster, long ago at school. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was looking for shelter from the storm and I didn’t know you were here. It looked like a ruin.’ He wiped the water from his face and brushed off his coat.
‘Timmy! Sam! Come here!’ The big man wasted no time on pleasantries. ‘What shall we do with him?’
Two young men came into the kitchen from another room. Three to one it is now, Marcus thought.
The old man straightened slowly and bent his deep-set eyes on Marcus. The lads gazed at him unflinchingly. They were gypsy-brown, with wild hair and beards and Marcus could not place them. A blinding flash of lightning lit up the room, followed immediately by a crack of thunder. Marcus stood there in silence, standing straight, waiting for them to make the next move. He looked into the old man’s eyes but could read nothing.
