by Diane Allen
‘Well, your bucket of milk will not be going anywhere. The road’s blocked with snow and there’s no trains running, because of the crash. I know Edmund would have cursed me for wasting it, but it’s going down the drain.’ Len looked at the untreated milk from the previous night, still standing in the bucket on the kitchen floor, and picked it up as he made towards the kitchen doorway. ‘I’ll milk the cows and see to them tonight, and every day until we can get something sorted. Perhaps you should think of sending the milk to Bill Sunter. It would be easier for you, if you decide to stop here.’ Len wiped his brow with his cap. This wasn’t for him to suggest, but what else could he do?
‘No, it’ll never go to Bill Sunter. My grandfather wouldn’t want it to. I’ll sort it myself.’ Polly curled up in the armchair and gazed into the fire.
‘All right, lass. Well, you warm yourself while I fodder up, and then we’ll go down home for Christmas dinner, although we haven’t much to celebrate this day.’ Len shook his head as he went out into the yard. What the hell was going to happen to Paradise? That Matt wanted his arse kicking, leaving his sister alone, after losing her grandfather in such a way. He was just like his father. There was no doubting that.
Matt sat across from his grandmother, enjoying every mouthful of his Christmas dinner.
‘Do you think she’ll have realized yet, that so-called sister of yours, that a slip of a lass can’t run a farm?’ Dora Dinsdale licked her fingers as she picked the last piece of meat from the turkey’s wishbone and looked across at her beloved grandson.
‘You should have seen her face, when I said I was coming home. She was frightened, Gran. She’ll be begging to stay with us, if we leave her there alone for a night or two.’ Matt grinned, leaning back in his chair, and burped.
‘Aye, well, it should be yours, lad. Who’s heard of a lass running a farm? They are always passed down to the man of the family. The sooner she realizes that, the better. It’ll be nice to get out of this poky cottage. I miss my farmhouse. If that bloody useless husband hadn’t died on me, we would still be up Dent.’
‘Never mind. New year, new house, Gran, and I can give over working at that bloody dairy. Happy Christmas, Gran, may all our dreams come true!’
18
Polly lay in the comfortable bed in the spare room of the Brunskills’ cottage. Martha and Len had shown her nothing but kindness all day, as they had fussed around her, trying to ease the pain of her loss. But it didn’t make much difference. Christmas would never be the same again; she would always hear the cries of the injured and dying, as she thought about the night she lost her beloved grandfather.
Martha had broken down in tears as she carved the turkey at dinnertime, and the afternoon had been silent as the grave as they all thought about the loss of the previous night. There had been no parlour games, and no singing at the piano to the glory of Christmas, as no one had been in the mood. Len had been true to his word and had walked up the lane to Paradise to milk the cows, with the onset of evening, and Martha had insisted that at least for tonight Polly stayed with them. She hugged her pillow and warmed her toes on the earthenware bed-bottle that Martha had lovingly put in the bed for her. The bed was comfortable enough, but she wished she were back home. Even though Paradise was full of memories, it was home and her bed was more cosy. She sighed, feeling guilty that she had stopped crying, but the tears wouldn’t come any more. They had been never-ending all day, but now she just felt sick and empty. Tomorrow she would go back up to Paradise. She’d take up Len’s offer of milking the cows for her, but she needed to go home. The Brunskills didn’t need her around the house, wailing like a spectre, and it was better that she kept herself to herself. It was time to prove to everybody that she was strong enough to look after herself and that she could run Paradise on her own.
Polly was brought back from her thoughts by hearing a knock on the front door of the Brunskills’ home. It was too late for visitors, so she knew it must be important. She tiptoed out of bed and sat at the top of the stairs, trying to listen to the muffled voices down in the hallway. She recognized the deep voice of Bob Raw, the undertaker.
‘We’ve found Edmund – that is, what’s left of him. I’ve taken him into the chapel of rest, along with the others. I thought you might like to tell the lass. It might be easier, coming from you.’ She heard him cough quietly and Martha stifle a sob.
‘Aye, we’ll tell her in the morning. Thanks for coming round and letting us know.’ Len sighed.
‘It’s a bad do. There’s twelve dead in all. What a bloody time for a crash. How’s the lass taking it? It’s not long since Ada died, so she’ll be on her own now, except for that brother of hers. Does anyone know where Danny, her father, is?’ Bob quizzed, as Len kept him in the hallway.
‘She’s bearing up well. I don’t know about her brother. He didn’t grow up with Edmund, so he’s a separate kettle of fish. And Danny – only God knows where he is. I suppose someone should try and find him. I bet Bill Sunter will know what he’s up to; they were always close.’ Len whispered something to Martha that Polly couldn’t make out, and then Polly heard her crying again.
‘Well, somebody will have to pay for the funeral, although there’s talk of the railway paying for them all. It was that Dawson lad’s fault – the poor bugger will have that on his conscience all his life. Right, I’m off, Len. I’d wish you and Martha happy Christmas, but it’s not right under the circumstances; it’s far from happy.’
‘Aye, goodnight, Bob. Thanks for letting us know. I’ll tell Polly in the morning. No good waking her up, only to upset her more tonight.’ Len closed the door after his late-visiting guest.
Polly could hear Martha sobbing in Len’s arms downstairs as she crouched at the top of the stairs. She shivered with cold and fear. So that was it: they’d found her grandfather. She stood up and made her way back to the warmth of her bed. On her mind was a burning question and worry. Did Bill Sunter know where her father was and, with her grandfather dead, would he now return? This was another reason for her to go home. Her grandfather wouldn’t want her father in Paradise, of that Polly was sure. Tomorrow she must go home, be brave and plan for the future.
19
Boxing Day dawned bright and brash, with clear blue skies and a weak winter’s sun, whose rays played and shined upon the crystals of the white, snow-covered fields. Polly breathed in sharply. The air was frost-filled, and her breath steamed up in front of her as she held up her long skirts and made her way up the field path to home.
Martha and Len had told her the news of her grandfather’s body being found and had begged her to stay another day with them, just to get over the shock. But Polly’s mind was made up. All her life her grandparents had been grooming her for this moment, and now it was time to prove that she was worthy of looking after the family farm. Once the snow had melted, she’d do as Edmund had done and take the milk to the station. She could do it; the kits weren’t that heavy, and Clover was so placid she took no looking after. Until then, she’d milk the cows herself and turn the milk into butter. She’d sell it to Sam Allen or, failing that, hawk it around the market on a Tuesday.
She had written to her Aunt Evie while with the Brunskills, and had told her of the accident and that she would write again when she had a date for the funeral. Len had promised to post it once the snow had been cleared, so that was in hand. All she needed to do today was fodder the sheep, feed Clover, the hens and dog, then milk the cows and skim the milk for cream to make into butter. She could do that, no problem. Len had tried to persuade her to let him help, but had known it was a useless argument when he’d noticed the determined look on her face.
Instead of going straight into the house, Polly went into the stable. She patted old Clover on her hindquarters and the horse turned and looked at her.
‘We’ll manage, won’t we, lass? I know what to do, though I might take longer, so you’ll have to be patient.’ She patted Clover’s neck, and the horse snorted and looked at Polly with
her huge blue eyes, as if she understood what she was being told. ‘Let’s start with you: water and some hay. And you can shut up, Jip. I’ll make your breakfast once I’ve got the fire going. In fact, you can come and join me in the house for company.’ Polly freed the black-and-white collie dog that was prancing and barking on the chain, tied up next to Clover. She watched as he ran out of the stable and then sniffed and rolled in the covering of snow in the yard, before disappearing through the farmyard gate. Breakfast would be served sooner than Polly could make it, in the form of a rabbit from the fell side, if Jip had his way, and she didn’t blame him.
She lifted the wooden water bucket and went out into the yard to the water trough, breaking a hole in the ice that covered it, to fill the bucket. Her hands tingled with the cold as she made several trips back and forth to the trough to fill Clover’s and the cows’ drinking troughs up. Then she climbed up to the hayloft and pushed down enough hay to feed the horse, cows and sheep. She smelt the sweet smell of the hay from last summer, and with it the memories of the summer’s hay-field, just after the death of Ada, came flooding back. She felt herself swallowing back the tears as she filled up Clover’s hay-rack and then moved on to sort out the cows. Life was hard then, but she doubted it was going to get any worse. She picked up the three-legged milking stool and sat down next to the cows, with her bucket under the udder of the first cow while it ate through the hay. Her fingers gripped firmly around the teats of its udder, pulling gently, and slowly releasing the warm, creamy milk from its swollen bag. Her head rested gently on the cow’s side and, as she milked it, tears ran down her cheeks and fell into the bucket of milk. This was her life now. She was beholden to the farm stock – all other dreams had to be forgotten. Grandfather had been right: this was her place in life, and she’d better get on with it.
Polly sat snoozing in front of the fire. Her hands were raw with the cold and frost, and every bone in her body ached with the rigours of the day. Jip lay down beside her on the pegged rug and twitched in his sleep, dreaming about the rabbits that he’d chased that day. The full moon beamed in through the kitchen, adding light to the dimly lit kitchen and a ghostly sheen to her surroundings.
All of a sudden Jip sat up, pricking his ears and curling his lip into a growl.
‘What’s up, lad? What have you heard?’ Polly pulled her shawl around her and patted Jip’s head as he carried on growling and then broke into a stifled bark.
A heavy knock on the door made Polly freeze for a moment. Who would be visiting at this time of night? It couldn’t be Matt; he wouldn’t knock and neither would Len. They knew just to walk into the house.
Polly held onto Jip’s collar and told him to be quiet as she shouted from behind the kitchen door, ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ Jip strained on his collar and barked louder, scratching at the door to get at the visitor.
‘Polly, Polly, it’s me – Tobias! I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.’
The deep voice she knew so well came through the door, and she sighed in relief and told Jip again to be quiet. She opened the door slightly with one hand as she held back the excited collie. The moonlight played on the outline of Tobias as she opened the door to him, letting the dog break free.
‘I thought I’d come and make sure that you are all right. But I see you already have a guardian, and a good one at that.’ Tobias looked gingerly at the sheepdog that was baring its teeth at him.
‘Jip, go to bed,’ Polly shouted at the dog and pointed next to the fire, making the dog crouch and look slyly at the stranger against whom he was going to guard his mistress. ‘I said: Bed!’ The collie’s ears went down and it crept slowly past the couple, before curling up on the rug. ‘What are you doing here? How have you managed to get here?’ Polly stood in the doorway and could only think what a mess she must look. She was thankful it wasn’t daylight.
‘I walked, my dear. It’s a lovely night for a moonlight walk, and I was worried about you. We parted on bad terms. I didn’t want us to part like that. I promised your grandfather I’d look after you, and I don’t go back on my word. Besides, Polly, tonight was supposed to be our night at the Boxing Day Ball.’ Tobias looked at her. Even by the dim light her face told him how tired and worn-out she was. ‘Are you going to ask me in, or should I just freeze on your doorstep and be turned to ice by morning?’ Tobias patted his arms with his hands, trying to get some warmth back into his frozen limbs.
Polly hesitated for a moment. She was alone, and even though she had feelings for Tobias and had always known him to be honourable, she knew she was just a vulnerable young woman. ‘Len Brunskill might be calling, I wouldn’t want him to think . . . ’
‘Think what, Polly – that I’m taking advantage of you? Polly, I was with your grandfather when he died. We were to meet tonight. I don’t think that’s taking advantage. Besides, Martha and Len are good people; if he does call in, we’ll be the better for it.’ Tobias smiled. ‘Honestly, Polly, I’ll behave.’
She held the door wide and bade him enter. She didn’t really need a lot of persuading. Jip raised his head idly, as Tobias took off his coat and warmed his hands at the fire.
‘Some defender of your honour, he is,’ Tobias laughed, as the dog stretched out, enjoying the warmth of the fire.
‘He’s good company – at least I’m not on my own,’ Polly sighed. ‘And he doesn’t answer back.’
Tobias stood in front of her as she reached for the kettle from next to the fire, to make her visitor a drink. ‘Are you all right, Polly? You know I did all I could to stop your grandfather from going back into that burning carriage. As I said, he asked me to look after you, and that’s what I aim to do.’ Tobias reached his hand out to Polly as she brushed past him.
‘You didn’t try hard enough, though, did you? He’s gone, and I’ve no one left except a brother who doesn’t give a damn about me.’ Polly could feel the tears welling as she brushed his hand from her.
‘You’ve got me, Polly; you’ll always have me. I promised your grandfather, and I knew from that first time we met that there was an invisible bond between us. I felt it so strongly when you flashed those blue eyes at me, on that wild, mist-filled spring day.’ Tobias pulled her small frame towards him and felt Polly’s body shudder as he held her tightly. It was the first true form of affection she’d had since the crash. He listened to her start to cry, and held her tightly as she wept openly in his arms. He stroked her long, black hair and whispered soothing words of sympathy and love, as he kissed her head gently, with heartfelt kindness. ‘Shh, shh, it will be all right. I’m here, I’ll look after you. I’ll always be here for you, Polly of Paradise. Nobody’s going to hurt you ever again.’
Polly looked up with dew-wet eyes at the dark figure of the man she knew she loved. This was the moment she had waited for, for so long, but it was tinged with such sadness. She reached up and kissed him gently on the lips. This was different from the forbidden kiss with Matt, and the unloving kisses of Joe. This was one of passion and lust, but also of tenderness. She loved Tobias with every inch of her body, and in that moment she was determined that she was going to show him her love for him, and keep him close to her forever.
‘You brazen little slut!’ Dora Dinsdale looked at the partly dressed Polly and then at Tobias, as he pulled his braces up over his shirt. ‘Your grandfather’s not even dead in his grave, and you’re sleeping with the first man that comes calling.’
‘It’s not like that, Mrs Dinsdale. We didn’t mean to take it that far, and you have no right to call Polly a slut. Believe me, she did not take going to bed with me lightly. She needed consoling, alone in the house by herself.’ Tobias pulled his jacket on and glared at Mathew and Dora Dinsdale, who had entered the house while he and Polly had lain contentedly in one another’s arms in bed. The weather had changed overnight and the rain that was now coming down steadily had unblocked the road, giving the Dinsdales access to Paradise.
‘And you thought you’d take advantage – just like your father
would have done. Aye, it’s a case of like father, like son. He was nowt and you are nowt, with your flash ways. And her – well, she’s not fit with owt. Me and my lad will move in here, after Edmund’s funeral, so you can forget about putting your mitts on her and Paradise. Things are going to change.’ Dora Dinsdale looked at Tobias Middleton, standing in the kitchen of Paradise Farm. He was a quick mover, she’d give him that, but God, he’d played right into her hands. Now she and Matt could claim to be protecting Polly from his lecherous ways, as well as worming their way into owning Paradise. After the funeral she had every intention of contesting the will. If Edmund had just left it to Polly, that wasn’t right; her Matt should be joint heir.
‘You are wrong, Grandmother. He loves me, and we are to be wed,’ Polly screamed across the kitchen as she tied her skirts.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, lass. What would he want with you, other than a bit of what he fancies? Look at you: you’re a bloody mess. Even our Matt only looked at you because he was after what was rightly his. That’s right; he knew you were his sister, when you were supposedly courting! Oh, don’t look so shocked. We had to know how the land lay with Paradise, and if my lad had a chance of getting it.’ Dora spat the words out like venom. Since the day the twins had been born she had vowed revenge for her daughter’s death, and Paradise Farm would be just payment for the grief she had gone through.
Matt hung his head with shame, as his grandmother went just that bit too far. He hadn’t meant to hurt Polly that much, and it was only after talking about her to Dora that the penny had dropped about who Polly really was, and what could possibly be gained.
