The Wild Seed (17 page)

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.

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.’

‘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.

Boyo could hear Bethan’s bitter words beat in his brain. She had accused him of being impotent and had told him to return to the gutter from whence he had come. Her words were spoken in anger but they made him doubt she had ever loved him.

Women, did any of them mean what they said? Catherine, so soft in love, had become hard and unyielding, refusing even to see him. And what of her cousin, was he still hanging about the place, mooning about Catherine’s skirts, probably promising to make an honest woman of her?

He had arrived at Caswell wet through; his mount had needed prompt attention, for the creature was shivering with cold and the effort of being ridden mercilessly across the fields. There was no sign of the man who was supposed to be taking care of the house and the place had a chill air about it.

The fire in the drawing-room had been stubborn, refusing to light, but now at last, bathed and dressed in a warm smoking jacket and casual trousers, Boyo sat before the roaring flames, a glass of fine brandy in his hand. He put it down abruptly, spilling a little of the liquid onto the polished surface of the small table.

The house was well-appointed and there was still a plentiful supply of drinks but Boyo was tired of drinking, tired of using liquor as a means of dulling his senses. He was a young man but he would soon become haggard and dissolute if he didn’t curb his excesses.

He smiled wryly, perhaps he should have availed himself of the comforts of his wife’s inn for a night or two, found himself a happy whore who would share his bed and make no demands on him. But then would he be any more successful with a loose woman than he had been with his wife? It was Catherine his body cried out for, Catherine with her pure skin and glossy hair. No other woman would ever be enough for him, not now.

He must have dozed in front of the fire because he woke to the sound of the wind rattling the windows. He rose and moved aside one of the heavy curtains and looked out on a blustery autumn morning. Leaves were driven across the drive, the trees, quickly losing the colourful foliage that marked the season, were bending with the force of the wind. The sea below the house was phosphorescent in the dimness, white-capped waves rushing shorewards.

He must alter his life, leave the area, begin afresh somewhere else, America perhaps. One thing was clear, if he didn’t drag himself out of the mood he was in, he would be sucked into a vortex of helplessness from which he might never escape.

He thought briefly of Bethan but dismissed her at once from his mind, she would be all right, she had more than enough money, she had her hard-nosed father on her side and he would doubtless tell her she had had a lucky escape.

Later, he would go to Honey’s Farm, make one more attempt to see Catherine, talk to her, beg her to reconsider her attitude towards him. Perhaps by now she was seeing things more clearly. If not, he would clear out, leave the area, put as much distance between himself and his past as he possibly could.

There was no food, so he made himself hot, strong tea and carried it to the fire in the drawing-room. The house which he had bought in happiness now seemed empty and cold. A house, any house, needed people in it, people who loved and laughed. How long was it since he had laughed?

Perhaps he would sell the house, get rid of it, but first he would have to freshen it up a little. He spent an hour lighting fires in all the rooms and opening windows to the fresh air. He felt no better, the house held memories of Catherine everywhere he went.

In the morning, dressed in fresh clothes from the wardrobe, he made his way to Swansea and to Honey’s Farm.

As soon as he approached the borders of the land he knew things had not gone well for Catherine. The corn lay flat against the land, rotting now in the slant of sun. It appeared that the entire crop was ruined, it would never now be harvested.

The farmhouse was empty, there was no-one about. A cheerful fire burnt in the grate and the sight of the bright, leaping flames gave him heart, Catherine must be somewhere around. He sat down at the scrubbed table prepared to wait for her, however long it took.

He listened to the ticking of the clock, built up the fire when it sank low in the grate and then pushed the kettle onto the rekindled flames. He moved to the doorway and stood staring down the path to the roadway as if he could draw her to him with the force of his will.

Then he saw her, hair bright and uncovered, as red as the leaves of autumn drifting from the trees. His heart seemed to leap within him, he longed to run to her, to clasp her in his arms and yet caution restrained him. Catherine was a strong-minded woman, she would not welcome him with open arms; she would need persuading and persuade her he would, even if it took all day.

Her greeting was not encouraging. ‘What are you doing here?’ She brushed past him and he breathed in the scent of her, the freshness, the beauty and pain swamped him.

‘How did I lose you, Catherine, what did I do wrong?’ His voice shook and he imagined her stony look softened a little.

She took off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair. She seemed to need time to compose herself and he hoped that she was feeling as moved as he was by their meeting.

‘It wasn’t meant to be.’ Her tone was flat, final and she turned to face him, her hands crossed around her body as though she was cold.

‘How can you say that! We love each other.’ He made a move towards her but she held up her hand.

‘No, don’t come near me. I don’t want you, Boyo, you must see that.’

‘I’ve left my wife,’ he said quickly. ‘We parted in bitterness. I’ve taken up residence in our house, yours and mine, the house in Caswell.’

‘I can’t help any of that,’ she said. She avoided his eyes and sank into a chair. ‘Please go, this can do no good. I don’t want to see you again, I can’t make myself any clearer than that, can I?’

‘I want you to come to live with me, Catherine. I need you so badly, I can’t sleep for thinking about you.’