by Iris Gower
‘Oh, Bethan, leave me alone, I don’t want to hurt you, I’m so sorry.’
‘She has ruined our lives, hasn’t she?’ The harshness was still there but now it was tempered by sorrow. ‘What we had is gone for ever and I do not even have the consolation of a baby to care for.’
Bethan began to sob quietly and Boyo knew he should turn to her, take her in his arms and comfort her and yet he could not. He had never heard his wife cry, she was a woman of immense control but he had broken her with his love for another woman. In that moment he wondered what perverse fate had brought Catherine back into his life only to snatch her away from him again.
CHAPTER TEN
Summer Lodge was almost unrecognizable. Rooms once elegant and gracious were becoming a desolate waste, empty of furniture. Carpenters worked tirelessly, the sound of hammers and saws echoing through the hallways. Servants cowered in the kitchen, dreading the day when work would begin on the place that had been their own, a sanctuary from the whims of the ruling classes.
Hari was appalled at the way the money was being eroded on the alterations, materials cost the earth and the labour of the men employed ate into her money at a frightening rate. She worried constantly about the future, her’s and Craig’s, but outwardly she was the collected Hari Grenfell everyone knew.
The stocks of leather from the warehouse had been lodged at the tannery belonging to Boyo Hopkins. The warehouse was bringing in a good regular rent which Hari used to eat away at her debts.
Hari was seated now in the office which had once been Craig’s den. The room had required very little by way of alteration, at least structurally, but the furnishings had been changed. A gleaming typewriter held pride of place on the leather-topped desk. A cupboard to hold files had been crammed into a corner. The soft, comfortable old sofa had been stored in the attic and in its place stood a drawing-board with a lamp fixed above it.
Hari stared down at a letter from the bank, turning it over in her hands, almost afraid to take up the paper-knife and tear open the envelope. Her heart raced and her mouth was dry, she feared there were new problems to contend with before the old ones had begun to sort themselves out.
The letter was quite pleasant in tone, informing Hari that a new sum of money had been placed at her disposal. She scanned the page quickly and then put down the letter with a trembling hand. Bethan Hopkins had known the difficulties Hari would face and had injected a further £2,000 into the project. She sighed in relief, at least for now there would be no problems. Yet in a way she was becoming deeper in debt and the thought was frightening.
Hari rose and made her way across the rubble of the hall towards the back of the house. She moved past the kitchens and out into the grounds. There, an outbuilding was slowly taking shape as a large workshop. New machines were in place, a cutting machine and a machine for stitching the leather. All that was left for the workmen to do was to put the finishing touches to the window-frames.
She would make a start in the morning, let the men work around her. Some shoes would simply be finished by hand, others, costing a great deal more, would be entirely handmade.
Hari would need to find a young apprentice as well as an experienced shoemaker. She would work on the designs herself and take on some of the manual work, at least until the business began to make a profit, if it ever did. Profit, what a wonderful word.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Craig looking down at her with such tenderness in his eyes that she immediately turned and buried her face against the crispness of his shirt-front.
‘We will make a go of it, won’t we, Craig?’ she asked almost fearfully.
‘Of course we will. I can’t offer many skills, except that of choosing good leather but my back is strong, I can fetch the stocks from the tannery for you.’
The thought of her husband acting as a labourer cut deep into Hari’s heart. At his age, Craig should be able to relax, to take life easy and here he was, offering to take an active part in the business.
‘If we pull together, we’ll make it.’ He spoke with a confidence Hari knew was forced.
‘We’ll have to,’ she said, ‘otherwise we’ll end up even deeper in debt than before. We can’t have that, can we?’
He laughed out loud, throwing back his head, the strong column of his neck was tempting and Hari reached up and kissed him, just below where his beard was beginning to turn grey.
‘Why are you laughing at me?’ she asked in mock indignation.
‘Because you suddenly reminded me of the little monster girl I first saw in a tiny kitchen that smelt of cooking and leather.’ He drew her closer in his arms. ‘My little Welsh cariad, my own Hari.’
She nestled against him, they had so much to be thankful for, they had each other.
She then pushed him away. ‘Now then, let’s see if this fine talk of yours has any substance to it, shall we?’
He looked at her, his eyebrows raised, waiting for her next words with a hint of a smile on his face.
‘If I’m to make a start on my first pair of shoes tomorrow morning as planned, I’m going to need some fine calf for the uppers.’
‘Yes, boss,’ Craig bowed his head. ‘Anything you say, boss.’
Hari slapped out at him playfully. ‘You think you are being funny, don’t you, but you’re going to find out exactly just how bossy a woman can be, my lad.’
He took her hand. ‘Before I become totally subservient, please may I have the honour of taking my boss to bed? I suddenly feel very much in need of love and comfort.’
‘Craig!’ Hari looked round, wondering if any of the men working inside the building had heard. Craig laughed and pulled at her, drawing her towards the house.
‘It’s quite legal to want to make love to you, you are my wife, after all.’
Hari looked at him sternly. ‘That’s as maybe, but now you have to conserve your energy, I need that calf here by tonight so that I can make…’ She stopped speaking as he put his hand gently across her mouth.
‘I know, so that you can start first thing in the morning. You’ll have your leather but only if I have what I want first.’
Giggling like a young girl, Hari allowed Craig to lead her towards the house and suddenly her heart was light, her new venture was going to be all right or she would break her back in the attempt.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The unseasonal weather swept in on Honey’s Farm with torrential rain fading the landscape to grey and beating the crops into submission. The fields of once proud, golden corn were flattened and rotting, turning the meadows to swamps and bringing the danger of disease to the beasts.
Catherine looked out at the dismal weather and with her finger traced the tracks of a raindrop slipping like a tear along the window-pane. The silence in the kitchen was oppressive, if only she had someone to talk to. She sighed, she would have to brave the storm and do some work, there was no-one else to do it for her, not now.
She faced the fact, standing there in the dismal darkness of the unlit kitchen, that she was not managing the farm very well, not managing at all, if the truth be told. Contrary to her mother’s prophesy that she would bring the lands back to their former glory, she had done nothing but make one mistake after another and now, with even the weather against her, it was almost certain that the farm would face ruin. The precious crop of corn would rot in the ground and there would be no seed to sow in spring.
Catherine sighed heavily, reluctant to step outside and face the beating rain. What did it matter, anyway, what was the point in struggling? There would be no profit this autumn, no money at all, not unless she sold some of the stock.
She had been giving it some thought; the most valuable asset she had at her disposal was the prize bull that her father had been so proud of. He was a huge creature kept solely for breeding, docile enough while there were enough cows to service but moody and even bad-tempered when he was left idle for too long. Catherine was a little afraid of the animal and it would be no har
dship to get rid of him.
She glanced round uneasily, it was so quiet that the silence was almost tangible. Occasionally a coal shifted in the grate but otherwise the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
A coal fell through the bars in a shower of sparks and Catherine turned briefly to look at the fireplace. The flames were dying, it was about time she fetched in some logs from the shed across the yard. And yet the rain was sweeping now, rushing against the window in gusts, rattling the glass in the small frames.
But she must stir herself; whatever happened, the cows needed to be milked before nightfall, the hens shut in the coops for safety, for there were always foxes about the farm. She did not relish doing the chores in such weather but she had no choice, the entire work of the farm now rested on her shoulders. Only that morning she had paid off the two remaining labourers, there was no more money in the wages box. Both the men had promised to hold on till the end of the harvest, managing without pay, but Catherine had taken a lingering look at the beaten corn and had shaken her head, there would be no harvest.
So now she was entirely alone, alone on the farmlands that spread across the hill like a patchwork quilt washed by rain and greyness. She was facing a crisis and she knew it.
She took her coat from the back of the door and wrapped herself in it, buttoning it up to her neck. She tied a scarf around her long hair and then pulled on her boots.
It was a battle to open the door, the wind tugged and twisted her clothes and swept the fallen leaves into the kitchen. The rain fell in spiteful darts against her face and briefly she wondered why she was still struggling to survive. And yet she knew why, farming was in her blood as it had been in her father’s before her. She only needed one good crop to recoup all her losses, one good harvest of corn would see her right. In the meantime she would just have to do the best she could.
In the milking sheds the animals moved softly, udders uncomfortably full. Catherine drew the old worn stool towards one of the animals and, with practised fingers, began to work, bringing the milk down into the pail with a cheerful drumming sound. Things had come to a pretty pass when even the company of the animals was enough to cheer her.
It was some time later that she carried the heavy pails of milk across the yard and into the stone-flagged coldness of the creamery. There, she filled the churns, splashing some of the pearly liquid onto the floor, watching as a strand of grass floated on the surface.
The milk would be picked up in the morning by Jones-the-milk, who would drive the horse and cart into Swansea and sell the milk by the gill to the townspeople. At least there would be some income from the dairy products, small enough by all accounts but enough to keep her in food and clothing for a time.
She worried about the new seed she would have to buy to replace the beaten corn, she doubted she would save anything from the battered ears that lay flattened against the sodden land. She smiled wryly, staring at the spreading stain on the flags, it was no use crying over spilt milk, wasn’t that how the old saying went?
Once more she ventured outside and made for the hen-house, she would bring in the eggs and see the birds safe for the night and then, only then, would she be able to rest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bethan turned the pages of accounts and frowned, shaking her head; she had her sources and they had informed her that Honey’s Farm was running into debt, soon the girl would be in over her head and then Catherine O’Conner would be taught the lesson she deserved. She would realize that to steal another woman’s husband was a sin and should be punished.
Catherine O’Conner was to blame for everything. Not content with crawling into Boyo’s bed and turning him against his own wife, she had upset Bethan so badly that she had lost the precious baby she had been carrying.
Everyone knew that babies born perfect and beautiful did not die without reason. No, the tragedy had been brought about by the distress Catherine had caused Bethan at a time when she should have been happy.
Oh, it was all right for her, Miss O’Conner, she was young and strong. The hard-hearted girl was able to go blithely on her way, enjoying her life, taking her pleasures where she may.
She was probably, even now, plotting new schemes; the bitch was bent on wrecking Bethan’s life by getting Boyo into her web once again. Well, she wouldn’t get away with it, she would learn a hard lesson: that blessings in this life need to be earned.
Boyo entered the room and Bethan drew a blotter over the pages before her.
‘What are you doing?’ He helped himself to a brandy and lifted the decanter enquiringly. She shook her head.
‘Just a bit of accounting.’ She put the papers in the drawer and locked it. ‘I’ve decided to sell the Gomerian Inn.’
She moved to the warmth of the fire, the wind was rising and darts of rain fell against the curtained windows.
Boyo looked at her in surprise. ‘Is that wise?’
‘I think I should know what is best for my own property,’ Bethan said quietly. ‘I feel the time is right to go into some other kind of business and if I sell now, the inn will bring me a handsome profit.’
Boyo shrugged. ‘Well, it’s up to you, of course. What does your father say about it?’
‘I do not need to consult my father or anyone else, I know what I am about.’ Her words were a rebuke and she knew by Boyo’s expression that he had taken it as such.
‘You are quite right, what you do with your own assets is your business.’ He sank into a chair and Bethan took the seat on the opposite side of the cheerful fire. She looked into the flames, the yellow and red glow misted before her eyes. What had happened to the harmony that once existed between herself and her husband? They had been friends at least, now, thanks to that hussy, they had lost even the closeness of friendship.
After the fiasco that had occurred last time she had shared a bed with her husband, he had moved back into his own room. Since then, neither of them had broached the subject of her wish to try for another baby.
She saw Boyo stare into his drink, his expression morose, and she knew with a feeling of pain that he was thinking of Catherine O’Conner.
Suddenly she rose to her feet in a fury. ‘For God’s sake go to her if that’s what you want!’ She was surprised to hear the hysteria in her voice. Her control had snapped, she could no longer pretend that everything was all right. Even if she lost Boyo for ever, she needed to have her say.
‘I am sick and tired of seeing you mooning about the place like a lovesick child.’ She paced across the carpet, rubbing her hands together. ‘If you want this … this hussy so much, then have her, I’m not stopping you.’
Boyo had risen to his feet at her outburst, his face was suddenly pale. ‘I only wish to God I could “have her” as you put it, but I can’t.’
She stared at him. ‘Why can’t you? What’s stopping’ you? Not a sudden sense of morality I’m sure, so what is the truth?’
‘She does not want to see me any more.’
A feeling of relief poured through Bethan, shedding a little sense on her chaotic thoughts; so the girl had finished with him, probably found a more eligible man to latch on to. Boyo’s next words were like an icy blast.
‘Catherine will have nothing to do with me. It would be different if I were not married to you.’
Rage ran afresh through Bethan’s veins. Was he asking for a divorce? Was that what his no-good piece of garbage wanted now?
‘She should have thought of that before, shouldn’t she?’
‘Well, she didn’t.’ Boyo’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘It was only after interference by someone or other that she came to such a conclusion at all. Was it your fault, Bethan? Did you go to Catherine, beg her to keep away from me? Is that what happened?’
‘If your intention is to hurt and insult me then you are succeeding.’ She drew herself up to her full height and looked at him disdainfully. ‘I do not need to beg for anything, you should know me better than that.’
&n
bsp; ‘Do I know you at all?’ He turned away from her. ‘Do I want to go on sharing the same house with you? I really don’t know if I can stand it any longer. You wanted the truth and there you have it.’
He moved to the door and with his hand on the handle, paused. ‘I have decided, I shall take up residence at the house in Caswell, I’ll leave first thing in the morning.’
‘Go on to your shabby love-nest then, go tonight if you like, you’re no use to me. Half a man, a man who cannot make love to his own wife, but I tell you this, I shan’t divorce you, divorce has no place in my scheme of things, you know my feelings on the matter.’
He didn’t answer; Bethan stared at him and in that moment, hated him. ‘What sort of man are you, Boyo?’ The words were torn from her. He turned and looked her full in the face.
‘I’m a man who does not wish to play the part of a hypocrite; that’s the sort I am. I cannot make love to you because I am not sure I even like you any more.’
He opened the door just as Bethan took up the full decanter of brandy and flung it towards him.
‘Go back to the gutter where you belong!’ The glass shattered against the closed door and the brandy ran along the wood panelling, trickling onto the rich carpet like so many tears. But Bethan was past tears, she felt empty and lost. She stormed to the window, pushing the curtains aside with such force she almost tore them from their hangings. Suddenly, replacing the pain, came a white-hot anger. Catherine O’Conner was a she-devil, a wrecker of homes. The woman must be made to pay, and pay dearly, for all the trials and humiliations she had heaped on Bethan’s head.
Bethan sank into a chair. First she would sell the inn, accumulate as much capital as she could, then she would enjoy the task of destroying the O’Conner woman’s character; make sure no self-respecting banker would lend her any funds. And, when the time was right, Bethan would move in and take the farm, sell off the land in small parcels so that there would be nothing left. She would be even richer than she had been before and Honey’s Farm would be nothing but a memory.
