by Ann Cliff
Between them on a table stood the enormous silver cup, the championship cup, which was hers for a whole year. But Sally hardly noticed it. She was trying to arrange her features, to move towards the man she hated … but she had to watch the platform, which was uneven. It would never do to fall over. Head back, grim, Oliver Radford held out his hand. Whatever he thought about her he was going to go through the ritual; the president must congratulate the winner. No doubt he was gritting his teeth, doing his duty.
A few steps nearer and to her surprise, Sally found her hand taken in a warm clasp. He took her hand in both of his. Looking up from the floor, Sally saw a gradual transformation of the president’s face. Oliver Radford was smiling at her, his eyes were twinkling, his face was radiant, as though the sun had come out. What a good actor! Sally thought. Or – could it be genuine?
The president spoke quietly, privately. ‘Dear madam!’ He said it almost lovingly.
Sally’s sense of humour took over, and she felt a laugh bubbling up. ‘Dear sir! You write terrible letters, you know!’
‘So do you!’ Oliver responded. ‘Perhaps we should have met before!’ He turned to the attentive crowd and cleared his throat. It was time for the president’s speech.
‘This presentation gives me more pleasure than any such before at Kirkby Show, and I am sure you will all agree with me. Miss Sally Mason is this year’s winner of the Championship Cup. She has succeeded where many would have failed. My estimation of the young woman’s capabilities has had to be revised.’ He looked at her briefly. Echoes of that rude letter, last winter! But only she would know what he meant.
Sally hung her head modestly. She could hardly believe her ears.
‘Miss Mason was left to carry on her family’s business and traditions alone, which she has done extremely well. Not only is the farm a credit to her,’ and he winked at Sally, ‘but she has won this cup today by sheer hard work and good judgement.’
Oliver paused and someone clapped.
‘I must admit that I did not believe a young woman to be capable of success in farming. I was wrong.’ He turned to look at Sally with that warm smile again. ‘Of course, I had not then met Miss Mason. Those of you who know her will not be surprised.’
There were cheers. Sally felt like crying.
‘I would like to say in conclusion that I have formed the highest regard for this young lady. And in presenting to her with the cup, I congratulate her on the high standard of her cattle and wish her well for the future.’
The clapping and cheers were deafening, and Sally had no trouble in blushing. Taking the cup, Sally found her voice. ‘Thank you so much, Mr President, for those kind words. Nobody knows how much they mean to me!’ They signified the end of the quarrel. Sally dared to look round at the audience; there was more she had to say. ‘This achievement was only possible with the help of my friends. I was alone, but not for long! My friends and neighbours have all helped me to keep the farm going and I am so grateful. And my loyal staff at Badger’s Gill … thank you all.’ Sally stepped down very carefully, carrying the cup and at the bottom of the steps it was taken from her gently by Marcus Radford. His face wore a look of great relief.
‘We’re going to be approved, very soon,’ he whispered. ‘Come into the president’s tent.’
There were several people sitting on canvas chairs in the tent. Oliver Radford was leaning on a table, quite at ease. Sally didn’t know what to say. Mrs Russell was there, beaming at Sally. ‘I told him you were a fine young woman! You’re just like your mother, Sally!’
‘I do so like a winner,’ said Oliver warmly. ‘You’ve shown a lot of spirit, young lady. And I was impressed when you bought the farm, just like that. But your winning the championship really convinced me!’
‘Convinced you of what, Mr Radford?’ Sally stole a look at him, but he was still smiling at her.
‘That Marcus was right and Sol was a villain, and I was a silly old … but we won’t worry about all that. I don’t intend to apologize, it’s not my style. But we’ll look to the future. Nothing should spoil the day for you!’
A little while later, Oliver drew Sally outside the tent for a private word. ‘I meant what I said, up there on the platform.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re a grand lass!’ He added, in broad Yorkshire. ‘Dorothy Russell has been telling me so for some time. With her and Marcus on your side, I just had to give in.’
‘And you forgive me the letters?’
Oliver laughed. ‘I deserved them. The letters showed your spirit. I was fighting you off, you see, and it was a good fight, but I lost, in the end.’ He paused. ‘And another thing. When I tried to end your tenancy, I was doing it for your own good. I knew how hard your life would be … I imagined you just like your mother, Sally. And it seemed to me that any future was better than trying to run a farm with no money and no help. There. You needn’t tell anybody else, they all think I’m tough and cynical … here comes the lad himself.’
Marcus came out to join them. ‘May I present my fiancée, Father?’ He took Sally’s hand and looked his father firmly in the eye.
The three of them were away from the crowd, in a little world of their own.
‘You don’t waste any time, do you, lad?’ Oliver smiled grimly. Then he relaxed and laughed. ‘Bless you both. The first grandson had better be called after me! Oliver Mason Radford. How does that sound?’
By the Same Author
Moorland Lass
Copyright
© Ann Cliff 2007
First published in Great Britain 2007
This edition 2012
ISBN 978 0 7198 0525 7 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7090 0526 4 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7090 0527 1 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 8221 7 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Ann Cliff to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
