The Wild Seed (23 page)

‘Can’t you come up with the name of anyone, anyone at all, however unlikely, who might have wanted to spite you?’

Catherine looked at him bleakly. ‘Only the wife of the married man I was having an … an affair with. Does that shock you, Constable Danby?’

The policeman frowned and shook his head. ‘No, miss, nothing much shocks you after a few years in this job. I’ve seen murder most horrible, I’ve seen arson, beautiful places burned to the ground, I’ve seen a great many crimes committed and all in the names of greed or spite. You have to keep an open mind doing this sort of job.’ He paused for a moment and studied her. ‘Would you like to give me the name of this … this wife, local is she?’

Catherine shook her head. ‘No, it’s too silly, the woman is rich, influential, she is not a farmer, she would not know how valuable the animal was. Forget I mentioned it.’

He closed his notebook. ‘Right then, miss, I’ll get onto it. Can’t promise much, mind, but I’ll do my best.’

‘How will you even begin?’ Catherine said despairingly.

‘Oh, we have our ways. In spite of what everyone thinks of us, we often get it right.’ He looked down at her and she read interest in his eyes, an interest that she did not welcome. She rose to her feet and moved to the door.

‘Thank you, Constable Danby, you’ve been very kind.’ She stood looking at him as he pencilled a few words into a notebook. He tucked the book into a pocket and then smiled down at her.

‘If I find anything out, anything at all, I’ll come and report to you at once, how does that sound?’ He was trying to jolly her, to lift her spirits and she relaxed a little.

‘I know you will do all you can, thank you.’

She watched as the young policeman strode away from the house and disappeared over the brow of the hill. He had been kind, very kind, but there was little hope of discovering the culprit and they both knew it. In any case, what good would it do her now? The bull was worthless.

Catherine took her coat from the back of the door and buttoned it around her throat. It was cold outside, a bleak December night with the stars brilliant in a clear sky. She shivered, glancing back regretfully at the glowing fire she was leaving behind but there was work to be done, cows to be milked, animals to feed, the chickens to be shut in for the night, she had neglected her chores for long enough.

As she sat in the shed with her head against the warm flank of one of the animals, she felt calmer. The everyday job of drawing down the milk, hearing it drum against the bottom of the pail, had a soporific effect on her. Suddenly she realized she was very tired.

She could not go on trying to cope with the work alone, she realized, even if she worked from morning until night, she would never manage. In the spring, when the lambs were born, she would need extra hands and where would she find the money for wages? She might just as well give up and sell the farm now, as it was, at least there was a good dairy herd and fine rich soil in the fields, these were enough surely to attract a buyer?

By the time she left the shed, the skies had become overcast. Clouds raced across the moon obscuring it and then the rain began, a heavy chilling rain that quickly soaked through her wool coat.

Doggedly, Catherine carried the milk, pail by pail, across the yard to the dairy. By the time she had finished she could have taken the hem of her coat and wrung the water from it and there were still the hens to be fed.

Standing miserably in the dairy, pouring the milk into churns, Catherine became aware of noises in the yard. She tensed, straining her eyes to see through the dark window on to the ground beyond. The hens began to shriek and Catherine hurried from the dairy to the kitchen to pick up her gun. A fox must have got into the hen-house; it was her fault, she should have seen to the poor creatures before this.

She paused to light a storm-lantern, for now it was completely dark without even the moonlight to cast a glow over the yard. Catherine went outside and the wind buffeted her, blowing darts of cold hard rain into her face, taking her breath away.

The hens were still screeching and as Catherine approached the shed, a flurry of feathers caught up by the wind scattered over her. She paused, this was no ordinary fox, the noise was too great. The sound of splintering wood confirmed her suspicion that the intruder was human. She put down the lantern and cocked the gun, moving slowly forward.

‘Come out of there!’ Her voice sounded frail and light and was carried away by the wind. She stood still for a moment, uncertain what she should do. If she went inside the run, she might be trapped with the maniac who was plundering the hen-house. She moved nearer to the wire-covered door, lifted the gun and fired some shot into the air.

The effect was startling: a huge frame hurtled towards her, crashing into her and knocking her to the ground. The gun spun away from her hands and she scrabbled in the mud for it but the barrel was just out of reach.

The figure loomed over her and then the world exploded as a fist connected with her temple. A booted foot crushed against her side and she gasped with shock. She felt another blow catch her mouth and then there was nothing but blackness.

Catherine regained consciousness slowly and became aware of the chill and dampness that settled over her like a blanket. She realized with a shock of fear that she was still lying in the mud near the hen-house. A few yards away, the storm-lantern flickered and died. She lay still for a moment, straining her ears for the slightest sound. There was nothing except the wind in the trees and the soft clucking of the hens who were free of the run and scratching, bedraggled and wet, in the mud of the yard.

She tried to rise and fell back to the ground. She realized she could scarcely move and then the feeling in her face began with a slow throbbing that rose to a crescendo of pain.

She dragged herself onto her knees, her hair hung around her eyes in soaked, muddy strands and, for a moment, the world seemed to swing away from her as the darkness threatened to draw her downwards once more.

She began to make her way towards the farmhouse, she could see the lamplight glimmering through the open doorway.

She lost count of the times she fell, face down in the mud, but, time after time, she struggled to her knees and crawled towards the light that seemed to offer comfort and solace.

At last, she fell inside the door and lay for a moment, trying to ward off the circles of darkness that pressed against her eyes. With her feet, she pushed the door shut and gasping with pain at every movement, dragged herself across the floor towards the fire. It was almost dead in the grate, only the flickering embers remained. Catherine forced herself to her knees and pushed a log onto the fire. She fell back onto the mat, watching the log spark and splutter and then, thankfully, spring into bright flame. She knew instinctively she needed warmth to survive the night.

She seemed to lapse into bouts of unconsciousness, rousing only to throw another log into the grate. Each time she moved, she felt the waves of faintness wash over her.

Towards morning, she became aware that her clothes were chilling her, clinging damply to her skin. She braced herself for the effort of undressing and with each garment she removed, she felt sick and ill; the pain in her face and body almost defeated her.

When she was naked, she dragged a shawl from the back of the rocking-chair and wrapped it around her, trembling violently. The shawl had the scent of her mother about it and suddenly, Catherine was crying hot bitter tears.

When she woke, it was daylight. The fire was still flickering in the grate and Catherine realized that she must have kept it alight even after she had undressed though she had no recollection of it.

She could not open one of her eyes. Gingerly, she touched the swollen lid and winced as she felt the swelling with her fingertips. She tried to rise to her feet but a sharp stab in her side brought her to her knees.

More cautiously, she tried again and then, holding onto the table leg, she pushed herself upright. She cried out loud as the pain began in her ankle, rising up through her knee to her thigh. She looked down and saw that her foot was blue and swollen and she bit her lip wondering if she had broken a bone.

She sank into the rocking-chair and closed her eyes, fighting the waves of pain and blackness. She felt the salt of tears on her cheeks, perhaps she would die here alone and the animals, they would die too, all of them would starve slowly, painfully, lingeringly. She tried to tell herself to stop being melodramatic, someone would come but lying to herself did not work. She lay quietly, sometimes she drifted into unconsciousness, but towards midday, she came fully awake and she knew that she must do something positive or she would die.

She threw some blocks from the bottom of the basket onto the fire, aware that the stock was getting alarmingly low. She looked around for something to strap to her ankle to try to ease the pain. From the dresser, she pulled out some linen and when the pile of cloths fell to the floor, she smelled the scent of the dried lavender her mother had put in the drawer last summer.

The pain in her side caught her breath and she guessed that at least one of her ribs was cracked. She became aware of the smell of oil from the lamp and realized that it had burnt away hours ago.

Among the linen she found a runner, edged with lace, which her mother had made herself to protect the top of the dresser. Carefully, she bound it round her ankle and beneath her foot and the pain eased a little.

She found an old bolster cover and wound it around her aching body. Now would come the difficult part, she would have to get upstairs to find herself some clean warm clothes.

Several times she tried to get up from the floor and the pain made her gag. She did not know where she hurt the most, her ankle, her ribs or her face. Very slowly she forced herself upright, clinging onto the edge of the dresser and then, on one foot, she moved towards the stairs.

She was sweating as she sank onto the first stair, she wanted to remain there, still and quiet with the warmth of the fire drifting towards her but she had to get upstairs; somehow she would do it. She needed a wash badly, there would be water in the jug in her room, it would be cold but it would have to do. She could sit on the bed and try to get the worst of the mud off her skin.

Fresh waves of pain and despair washed over her as she tried another few steps but she forced her mind to work on the problems ahead of her and forget the pain.

‘One step at a time, Catherine.’ It was as if she could hear her mother’s voice encouraging her. But that was foolishness, her mother wasn’t dead, she wasn’t a voice from beyond the grave offering solace; her mother was in a convent in Ireland, happy to think her daughter was restoring the farm to its former glory.

Inch by painful inch, Catherine made her way up the stairs. They reared before her like a mountain that needed to be conquered.

In the bedroom, a pale sun slanted through the window and fell on the bright patchwork quilt that had always reminded Catherine of the pattern of the fields of Honey’s Farm.

Slowly, Catherine washed as best she could, though it was agony to reach her legs and feet. At last, dressed in warm thick clothes, she began to feel more hopeful. She had come this far with sheer determination and as for the next step, the task of finding help, well, she would just have to sort something out.

The journey back to the kitchen was accomplished by the simple procedure of sitting on the stairs and negotiating each one with her foot stuck out before her. Near the door to the kitchen stood the stick that her father had used in the last days of his illness and, gingerly, she took the smooth wood in her hands and experimented with it, leaning on it heavily and hopping forward.

She reached the back door of the kitchen and looked outside with a feeling of dismay, the rain was still teeming down and the yard was a quagmire presenting difficulties which she knew would be almost insurmountable.

Cliff Jones’s farmhouse was the closest building to Honey’s Farm but how would she get there? She would never be able to hitch the cart up to the horse, she would have to ride the animal bareback. That was going to be easier said than done, she thought ruefully.

She drew on a heavy topcoat and wound a thick woollen scarf around her head and leaning heavily on the stick, began to make her way towards the stables.

Liam stepped off the boat at Swansea docks and turned up his collar at the flurry of cold rain which greeted him. His overfilled bag bumped against his side as he turned to look back at the Celtic Star, the cargo ship on which he had bought passage and he shuddered. It had been a most uncomfortable journey across from Cork, he was glad to reach dry land, though dry was hardly the word for it, he thought ruefully.

He had worried for days, seeing in his mind’s eye the pale face and haunted eyes of the woman he loved. She had lain in his arms, given herself sweetly to him and then, with the stubborn streak of the Irish, she had told him she was going home to run the farm.

Liam sighed, the problems of the farm were too much for her, the land needed strong men who worked hard to tame it. She needed men to plough the land and fresh seed to plant in the furrows.

Liam loved her for wanting to be independent but, though he respected her efforts to clear up the debts and make the farm a viable proposition again, he doubted that she had the strength to achieve it.

She had not written to him, not after the first week when she had sent a pitifully small offering for the convent where her mother was lodged. He had added substantially to the sum before having it sent up to the Reverend Mother.

He looked around for some means of transport but there seemed to be no cabs about. A few wagons stood near the dockside and a horse-drawn cart loaded with coal was making its way unsteadily over the cobbles. With a sigh of resignation, he set out to walk the few miles to Honey’s Farm. Normally the walk would have been pleasant. The streets around the docklands teemed with life. Cockle women, baskets over arms, the contents covered with pristine white cloths, called their wares in raucous voices. Vans trundled by and a big wagon drawn by four fine dray-horses pulled into the curbside near him to unload huge barrels of ale.