Bitter Inheritance (7 page)

‘But there’d be more work and less money to pay your wages. But … I suppose with more production, we might earn more money.’ Sally frowned. It was sensible enough to spend the money on expanding the ‘business’ as Mrs Scott had called it. But what if things went wrong? She still shuddered when she thought about the melting butter at Ripon market. ‘Farming’s a gamble, you know.’

Joe ignored her last remark. ‘Aye. It’s not just for me, mind you, but if I was to work for you full-time and milk cows and all, you could make more butter and cheese. There’d be more money for you and for my wages on a regular basis.’

Robin, when consulted, agreed that Sally should buy more cows, as long as she was sure that Joe would continue to work for her. ‘It’s a form of investment,’ he said in his ‘business’ voice and then laughed. ‘But yes, all farming is a gamble, I agree!’

There happened to be a farm sale soon after this and Sally took George with her to look at the milking cows. The owner was retiring to Ripon and George said this was the best place to buy farm stock, when you knew there was a good reason for the sale.

The cows sold cheaply that day and Sally bought four, which increased her herd, and also the work. But Joe was now the milker, night and morning except for Sunday, his day off. The cows had accepted the change of milker placidly, just turning round to stare at Joe for the first few days.

Things had started to go right for a change and Sally could hardly believe her luck. Robin gave her a book on scientific dairy production, all about bacteria. It merely justified the things she’d been taught by her mother about scalding the pails with boiling water, but it was good to know that she was being scientific. The new cows milked well, her butter was in demand, they sold more eggs than ever and the young farmer was able to put some money in the Penny Bank, to save up for next rent day.

The autumn air was bracing and Sally felt happier than she had for many months. With Joe to take care of the heavy work, she felt able to cope. Mrs Scott had been right; Sally realized she’d have to be a manager. The next task was to buy some geese and perhaps a pig or two.

And then the blow fell; Mr Radford’s letter arrived to remind Sally of the problem of tenancy. The night after the letter came, Sally could not sleep. And awake in the middle of the night, she heard the sound of quiet sobbing from Miss Wakefield’s room. If only the girl would relent a little! The baby was due quite soon, but nothing had changed in the way that Emma Wakefield lived apart. To relieve her feelings, Sally decided to write back to Mr Radford. Eyes blazing, she sat down with pen and paper in her bedroom, quite impervious to the cold.

Sally threw down her pen with relief. Her mother would have been proud of this eloquence! She’d been taught how to write all manner of letters by Mama at the kitchen table. On the other hand, she had also been taught never to be rude, no matter what the provocation. But Mama hadn’t been dealing with horrible old Oliver Radford! Worn out, Sally blew out the candle, climbed into the big feather bed and fell sound asleep.

The letter was posted. Nothing happened. But after about a week Sally saw things rather differently. The way to achieve her aim was perhaps not to tell him the truth about himself, but to persuade him that she was a good tenant. The only glimmer of hope in the letter was that he’d been considering her as a tenant
until Sol told him how bad she was. But then, there was also the problem of the family feud. It was going to be a hard battle and she needed to write another letter.

Sally went downstairs in the dark one morning to light the fires, shivering in the chilly air. Mornings were darker now and it was hard to get out of a warm bed. She prepared the paying guest’s breakfast and when she took it to the dining-room, Sally was struck with pity for poor Emma Jane. The pregnancy was surely nearly over; behind the swollen belly the girl looked young and frightened.

For the first time, Miss Wakefield spoke about her condition. She turned a pale face to Sally, a face that had probably been pretty before this ordeal. ‘It won’t be long now?’ It was a question.

‘Not long. We’ll get the doctor when you need him – and I’ll be there too, if you want me.’

‘Yes, please.’ It was a whisper, but Sally heard it and was thankful that her guest was trying to be a little more human.

‘Try to eat a little more. You need to keep your strength up!’

Back in the kitchen, Sally made her own toast on the fire and boiled an egg, thinking all the time about Oliver Radford. The best approach was probably a polite letter, explaining the true situation. Why not ask him to visit Badger’s Gill? Then they could talk to each other without Sol interfering. They could show him round the farm; Joe would be an asset, his ideas were always sound. And if Mr Radford saw that she had a good worker, a man who’d been a farmer himself, that might make a difference.

After work that night, Sally sat by the paraffin lamp at the kitchen table and wrote her second letter. Polite, respectful, but firm: asking the enemy to come and see for himself how the farm was run.

That might be more effective.

The cattle would soon be housed at night, now that the weather was cold. There was a stack of good hay in the barn and plenty of turnips for winter feed. The farm buildings were clean and tidy and all was as it should be. Well, not quite all. Sally was still hankering after some sheep. It was hard to keep back the tears when she thought of her Motley Flock, which had never been seen since the day they were sold in Ripon. The lambs would have been sold off by now and whoever bought them might have sent the ewes off too, to make mutton pies. Sally was sure she’d never see them again. You have to move on, her mother always said. So Sally had already decided to rear some more lambs in spring, but spring seemed a long way off. There was a gap in the farm that could only be filled by a few sheep.

Pulling on her old shawl, Sally skipped across the green to tell Martha and George what she’d done about the dreadful letter. Martha was relieved to see that Sally had recovered her spirits. The couple both agreed that it was a good idea to ask Mr Radford to see for himself. Meanwhile, said George, the sheep sales are on. ‘Will you take a gamble, lass, and buy a few ewes?’

Sally smiled at him. ‘I’m going to farm as though I will live for ever, as Papa used to say! And at Badger’s Gill, too! Yes, I’d like to come to the next sale with you.’

It was agreed that they would all go to Masham sheep fair the next week and take George’s cart. It was a great social occasion for the whole area. The High-Siders came down from the moors above the town with their little Swaledales, mingling with the lowland farmers from the valley of the Ure. There was even a cross-bred sheep called the Masham becoming popular, but Sally
thought it might be too expensive.

It was cold and breezy as they clopped over the common in George’s cart and down into the little town by the river. Everyone was heading for the market square, where temporary pens had been set up with hurdles and hundreds of sheep were bleating. Sally wore a warm winter dress, ladylike boots and a fairly new warm coat. She felt quite equal to competing in the sheep auction. She hadn’t heard from the landlord, but once the letter to him was posted she’d felt quite optimistic. And since Joe had been working with her, she was much less tired and was getting back some of her former brightness.

The sheep fair was a holiday, an outing, a little bit of excitement in a hard-working life. Sally walked round the fair with her friends for a while and then Martha went off to visit a relative and George did some trading in turnips. When they had gone, she wandered by herself, quite happy, sniffing the smell of sheep. She bought some toffee at a stall to give to George and Martha. Robin was there with his brothers, friendly and detached as ever. Suddenly, Sally stopped dead by a pen of ewes. They were a mixed group, some big and some small, some with curly coats and one or two with horns … the Motley Flock, large as life! Composed as usual, watching the passing crowd.

‘Mary, Lavinia, Prudence, Gertrude!’ Sally called softly and the ewes rushed to the side of the pen. She leaned over and stroked them, laughing and crying at the same time. ‘I’ll buy you, I promise I will!’

Gertrude the Wensleydale looked up through her fringe of crinkly wool as though she understood Sally’s excitement. Mary’s black face was inscrutable. But whatever their recent experiences, they’d all been well fed and were in fine condition.

‘Well, I never!’ Martha was overjoyed, and amazed.

George said, ‘You’ll know just which sheep you want to buy now, lass.’

The unknown buyer from Ripon had evidently now decided to sell. What luck, that now she had some money, she should find them again! After that Sally could hardly contain her impatience until the sale began and the pens were slowly sold off, one by one. Prices that day were not too high, she noted with relief. She would probably get them back for the same price.

Martha and George had gone off to take an old lady home when the crucial time came and the auctioneer started on the line of pens that ended with the Motley Flock: Lot 210. Eagerly Sally took up her position by the pen. He father had taught her how to bid at sales. She looked round quickly; not many people interested in Lot 210, except perhaps the tall man beside her. Head up, shoulders back … ‘It’s the Roman soldier!’ It was months ago, back in early summer that they’d met, but Sally had not forgotten.

Marcus turned to look down at her. ‘Bo-Peep! I was hoping to see you here today. And you look quite different, you know, from
the girl on Camp Hill.’

It was spoken quietly, but the words sent a thrill through Sally. Robin, bless him, had never spoken to her with that tone in his voice, ever. It sounded as though he’d been looking for her. ‘I’m here to buy back my sheep … they were sold, you see. And I’ve missed them, naughty though they are. Do you like sheep, Marcus?’

The tall man’s grave face lightened. ‘I’ve always lived with sheep, we’re a sheep farming family. And I was working with them from the start, except for when they sent me away to school.’

The auctioneer was creeping nearer. Sally looked over at the progress of the sale and when she looked back, Marcus’ eyes were on her. She felt suddenly nervous. Her mother had wanted to send her away to school, but they couldn’t afford it. ‘We’ve always had a few sheep, to graze after the cattle. It hasn’t been the same without them.’

Marcus laughed. ‘I know the feeling. Yes, we’ve been improving our flocks, the breeding side is most interesting. But look, here he comes to sell your sheep. You’d better get ready to bid for them if you want them back.’ Sally was grateful that he didn’t offer to bid for her, as most men would have done.

There were few bidders and soon the auctioneer raised his hammer. Sally’s was the last bid. He looked across at Marcus before the hammer came down and the tall man nodded. ‘Good enough.’

The hammer fell and Sally turned to Marcus, her cheeks burning. ‘You bid against me! How could you? You bought them!’ She felt betrayed. He was teasing her, snatching them from her with a last minute bid and he was laughing.

Marcus took her right hand. ‘You shake hands for luck, you know. You are the buyer and I’m the seller. I wasn’t bidding against you, Bo-Peep, just confirming that I’d take your price.’ The crowd had drifted to the next pen and his quiet, deep voice was heard by nobody else.

Marcus was the owner. The Motley Flock had been with him all this time. No wonder he was amused! Sally looked up and saw that his laughter was genuine, not mocking. The quiet voice was almost apologetic. ‘I’m so pleased you were here. I didn’t know
how to contact you. But of course, I didn’t know, either, that you would want them back. Although I did suspect it, since they were so tame.’

‘You bought them!’ Sally was still trying to get used to the idea.

‘Yes, I bought your sheep at Ripon and they’ve been up at Dallagill, keeping an old lady company and living well. She needed some sheep to eat the grass, yours were just right. But they finished the grass, so they had to go. They’re in lamb again for next spring. We used a good tup, you’ll get some fine lambs.’

‘I suppose you didn’t know that they were my sheep, the ones that strayed. You wouldn’t want that type of nuisance!’ Sally was still struggling with shock. It was embarrassing, just as when they met before. But she didn’t feel quite so bedraggled this time and her hair was tied back neatly, thank goodness.

‘Yes, I knew them all right. There’s no mistaking that mixed bunch!’ Marcus looked over them indulgently and they looked back, quite happy as usual. Standing in a pen for hours at a sale did not upset them, as it did some sheep. The Motley Flock was used to people and they watched the sale with interest. ‘I thought of keeping them until I found you, but time and the grass ran out. We didn’t want them to go hungry this winter.’

Marcus had been looking for her. The attraction she’d felt could be mutual. How embarrassing had the sheep been? She began timidly: ‘Did they stray when you had them? Were you all over the countryside looking for them? I know how bad they can be!’

Marcus looked down at her. ‘Don’t worry, they behaved well, Mrs J has good strong hedges and walls round the field.’ He hesitated, as though not sure what to say next. ‘But – I’ve been wondering about you. Why would you sell your little flock, Bo-Peep, when you were so fond of them? There must have been some trouble.’

Sally, embarrassed, stroked Lavinia’s head. ‘You’ve certainly looked after them, they’re in top condition. I am so glad to see them again! They’re only sheep, but they seem like friends, when you—’ How could she tell him of her poverty and loneliness? That living alone, she’d got used to talking to sheep?

As the girl hesitated, another man came up to Marcus urgently.
‘You’re wanted, lad. Meeting in the King’s Head, remember? They’re waiting for you.’

‘Very good, Martin.’ Marcus turned to Sally with a shake of the head. ‘I’m afraid it’s unavoidable, I have a Show Society meeting, which is a pity, now that I’ve found you again. I hope to see you in about half an hour, and we could perhaps talk over a cup of tea? Even though we haven’t been introduced!’ With a quick smile, he was gone.

Sally was left with a warm glow. Marcus spoke of finding her again, he wanted to come back to talk to her. It seemed that he, too had remembered their meeting at Camp Hill. In a daze she walked round the fair again and saw some Thorpe people who wanted a chat. She saw her mother’s old friend, Mrs Russell, who lived at the far side of the square. ‘Yes, I’m still at Badger’s Gill, Mrs Russell. I hope to stay there, if I can.’

For some reason Mrs Russell approved of Sally. ‘Well done, my dear. Not many young women would be able to do it. My own Maggie never dreamed of taking over when her father died. And neither did I have the courage, to be honest. So we sold up and came to live in Masham. It was the easiest thing to do, of course. But I still miss the farm.’ And as they parted, the older woman gave Sally a warm smile. ‘The best of luck to you, Sally.’

This meeting put some heart into Sally. Another woman approved of her and it was encouraging to think that not all respectable, middle-aged ladies were like Aunt Bertha.

The shadows lengthened across the square. Carts were coming to collect the sheep. The afternoon was passing, but Marcus did not come out of the meeting. George and Martha came back, worried that they’d missed the sale. ‘We’d better make tracks for home. I’ll fetch the cart and load up these girls … my, they look right well!’

Sally would have liked to see Marcus again. They still didn’t know each other’s names or whereabouts, which was silly, but everything had happened so quickly! They might never happen to meet again. But George and Martha were keen to get home before dark and she didn’t like to hold them up. So they went back with the flock, who seemed quite happy with the arrangements, netted up in the cart, jogging through the twilight to their home at Badger’s Gill.

Marcus went home thoughtfully after a long, slow meeting. He was president of the local show society and was keen on making the event a way of improving the local livestock, by rewarding the best breeders of sheep or cattle with cups and rosettes. But there was still much to be done to persuade the average farmer to breed for improvement. The young man sighed rather wearily as he left the little town behind and headed for the moor. Marcus was in no particular hurry; there was no one waiting for him to come home. Things would have been different had Elizabeth lived. His life had seemed set on a successful course, but just before he was to be married to the attractive young woman he loved, she died of pneumonia. That was three years ago; Marcus still felt lonely at times, but Elizabeth’s memory was fading. Life had to go on.

The big horse knew it was going home and quickened its pace. Colsterdale was home: a big sheep farm belonging to his family, who lived at Pateley. The little dale was not far from Masham but it was separate, a different world. Marcus and the farm workers saw few outsiders in the dale and he was used to his own company. Of course, he reminded himself, he was lucky to have the Browns to look after him, husband and wife who had a cottage on the farm. Jesse Brown was a very good shepherd and his wife Jeanie cleaned the house and cooked for the boss, not without a certain amount of grumbling about his untidy ways.

No doubt it was time he thought again of marrying, but after Elizabeth’s vivacity, other lasses seemed insipid. Until, that is, he’d met the girl at Camp Hill. Miss Mason of Badger’s Gill. He knew who she was, now.

As the meeting ended, Martin, the man who’d come to call him, had teased Marcus about the motley pen of sheep he’d sold. Not quite the family standard, Marcus had agreed. ‘D’you know who bought them?’ he’d enquired casually.

The other man had laughed. ‘There you were, shaking hands and you hadn’t been introduced! That’s Robert Mason’s daughter. Farmed Badger’s Gill. He died early this year … a bonny lass, too. Now, can you tell me where to buy a good tup? We had no luck at the sale today.’

It was strange, thought Marcus as he turned in at the familiar farm gate, that he couldn’t forget Miss Mason. Today she’d seemed beautiful, her heart-shaped face framed with chestnut curls. He shook himself. Must be spending too much time on his own.

There was something about the Masons that he had almost forgotten. An old quarrel, and they’d never mixed with the family. He must ask his father about it. Shut away in Colsterdale he was not up to date with what the old boy was doing, but he knew that Radford Estates had owned that farm, Badger’s Gill, for a few years. Presumably Miss Mason’s father was the tenant. Had been … Martin had said he’d died. Perhaps he should read the death notices in the paper more often and take more notice of what was happening outside his own boundaries … surely the poor little lass wasn’t farming on her own?

Ripon Cathedral clock was booming the stately hour of one o’clock as a party set out from Trinity Vicarage on a solemn mission. In the outside driving seat of the old-fashioned barouche was the corpulent Jeremiah Jones, the vicar’s gardener and handyman, who had been at the vicarage for twenty years and who sang with Welsh fervour in church on Sundays.

Under the vehicle’s hood, the vicar tucked up his wife in her many rugs and settled back to watch the familiar winter landscape slide past. They had waited for a fine day to make the trip to Thorpe. Jeremiah drove very slowly, as Mrs Mason preferred, and her husband noticed that they were outpaced by an energetic walker. ‘Do not hurry, Jeremiah!’ Bertha reminded him again as they passed the city boundary and came into open country, as though the man would make a sudden dash. ‘You know how it affects my poor nerves!’

Samuel commented on the scenery and talked about the plans for a Christmas concert: anything, to keep his wife off the topic of Sally. They were going to visit Sally at Bertha’s insistence and he hoped that at this pace, they’d manage to get back to Ripon before dark.

It was good to visit his niece, Samuel agreed, but he did not like the agenda; he hated disagreements of any kind and they were
certainly heading for one today. Bertha thoroughly disapproved of Sally’s farming ambitions and was still determined that the young woman should be brought back to Ripon, for her own good. She would also make a useful addition to their household. Sally would have to be brought to heel, and quickly, she told her husband in the sweet voice that so misled some people.

Samuel worried about Sally, but he had no idea of how to help her. The absence of bank books was odd; where could Robert have kept his records? Did he have any money left? Bertha was probably right: there was no future for Sally at the farm.

Samuel settled down in his seat with a sigh, glad that he didn’t have to argue with Bertha, which made his head ache. He hoped Sally would come quietly. The old horse plodded on, making heavy work of the hills. It was dark and claustrophobic under the trees at Thieves’ Gill and Samuel was glad when they reached the top of the bank and could see the line of moors against the sky. It seemed a long way to Thorpe.

Sally had no idea of the doom that was slowly drawing nearer to her, jogging up to Thorpe on the Ripon road, because nobody had told her it was coming. She knew at the back of her mind that the business was not settled and that Aunt Bertha had her sights set on Sally and her furniture. But it was easy enough to ignore for the present, in favour of more urgent problems.

The young farmer was busy making blackberry jam, stirring a large cauldron over the kitchen stove. The scent of blackberries hung in the air, a fragrant, warm, purple aroma. The last of the autumn sunshine was being bottled up for winter use. Jam and scones were useful for a paying guest. Sally’s hands were purple from handling the fruit and eating some of it, and her face was flushed. Stray red curls escaped from under her white cap. She was perfectly happy, secure in the moment, knowing that out in the cold afternoon Joe was getting through the necessary farm work. And best of all, the rent had been paid.