A Question of Guilt (20 page)

‘You must give me the recipe so I can make one for myself when I go home,' I said, checking the kettle for water and putting it on.

Mum laughed. ‘And when will you have time to cook, Sally? You're always on the go.'

‘You never know.' The way I was coming to feel about Josh was actually making me yearn to do the simple, homely things I'd never bothered about in the past. Things I'd certainly never wanted to do for Tim. The niggling doubts that had assailed me when Rachel had pointed out that I knew nothing whatever about Josh had subsided now as if they'd never been. I only knew that when I was with him it felt so right, and the thought of cooking for him was just one of the things that gave me a warm, rosy glow of anticipation.

‘You want a cuppa?' I asked Mum.

‘Do you know, I wouldn't say no,' Mum said. ‘Have you had a good afternoon?'

‘I've spoken to Dawn Burridge's mother.' I went on to tell her about the conversation, setting out mugs, milk and sugar on the worktop as I did so.

‘Poor soul! What she must be going through.' Mum shook her head sympathetically. ‘If I was to lose you and your dad, I don't know what I'd do. You will be careful, won't you, Sally, what you say to her? You don't want to go making things even worse than they are for her.'

‘I'll be careful,' I promised. But truth to tell I was worried about the forthcoming interview, very aware that there really was no easy way to tell Dawn's mother of my suspicions, and wondering if I'd done the right thing in contacting her. Talking to her would have been bad enough under any circumstances, but with Dawn's father having died so recently it really was a minefield. Perhaps I should make further enquiries before going to see her. I really needed to be a good deal surer of my ground than I was at the moment. Yet who would know better than Dawn's mother if she'd been worried about something in those last weeks of her life, frightened even?

The kettle was boiling; I propped my crutches against the edge of the table so as to have two hands to make the tea.

‘Careful, Sally!' Mum warned.

‘It's OK, I'm fine . . .'

Just at that moment the kitchen door burst open, making me jump, and I banged the kettle down quickly so that I could regain my balance. But if any boiling water splashed out, I didn't notice.

‘Oh – Mrs . . . Mrs . . . come quick . . .' Sam Groves, Dad's farmhand was in the doorway, breathing heavily as if he'd been running. His face was red, too, but it was his anguished expression that made my heart almost stop beating, the near panic in his voice.

‘Sam – what ever . . .?' Mum, still clutching her wooden spoon, was like a frozen statue.

‘Quick, quick, phone for an ambulance . . .'

‘Why? What's happened?'

‘Oh my lord, it's the boss . . . the cows . . . they stampeded in the lane . . . oh, for the love of God get an ambulance . . . he's been trampled. Jack's been trampled by the herd!'

In that first startled moment my heart seemed to stop beating. All the blood left my body in a rush and I was as chilled and shocked as when I was caught in the avalanche, and my legs as weak and helpless as when the snow whipped the ground from under me.

This couldn't be happening, Dad trampled by his beloved, docile herd of cows? It made no sense. But there was no denying it; Sam, the farmhand who was normally stolid and imperturbable was in a state of utter panic.

‘Oh my lord . . .!' Mum's usually ruddy face was drained of colour. She made a dive for the phone; I took it from her.

‘I'll do it. Go on, Mum, go to Dad.'

I stabbed in 999, realized I had no line, and managed to lose what I'd dialled as I fumbled stupidly with the button that would give me one. By the time I'd redialled, Mum was shoving her feet into her wellington boots with no care for the chunks of wet mud that were falling from them and miring the kitchen.

‘Emergency. Which service?'

‘Ambulance.' My throat was so dry I could scarcely speak.

Mum grabbed her coat and ran out the door, pulling it on over her cook's apron. Sam followed her, so there was no chance for me to ask him any more details, but as far as my emergency call was concerned it hardly mattered. I knew the stretch of lane along which the cows were driven for milking; the routine was always the same, and had been for as long as I could remember. As for Dad's condition, that was something I was going to have to find out for myself.

When I'd finished speaking to the ambulance control room I grabbed my walking boots and struggled into them, my hands shaking so much it was all I could do to tie the laces. My Berghaus was hanging on a hook in the hall; I flung it on. As I swung into the farmyard as fast I was able, I saw Scrumpy standing shivering beside her kennel, tail down, head hung low. She took a couple of steps towards me, then retreated, the picture of a dog in disgrace. Scrumpy always went with Dad when he was out and about on the farm; when the herd stampeded she must have fled, and now was feeling as guilty as if the catastrophe was somehow her fault.

I was halfway across the farmyard when I remembered – Mum had been in the middle of cooking when Sam came bursting in. Had she left something on the ring of the Aga? The onions I'd smelled frying, perhaps? If so, the pan could catch fire and the whole kitchen go up in flames. I struggled back inside, sick with fear. With the present pervading aura of nightmare, no disaster seemed beyond the realms of possibility.

The cast-iron casserole was still on the ring, but safe enough – Mum had reached the stage of adding stock, which was now bubbling furiously. I lifted it off and set it down on the nearest worktop, not caring whether or not it would damage the wood work surface. The dish was so heavy I couldn't manage to limp any further with it, and a scorched work top was the least of my worries just now.

One of my crutches had fallen on to the floor; I rescued it, and hopped outside.

It was still raining, a horrible thick drizzle. By the time I reached the track my hood had come down and my hair was clinging damply round my face. I ignored it. I didn't have a free hand, and I didn't want to stop to pull my hood up again. I could see the cows milling about outside the milking shed; they'd obviously made their way to their usual destination, and seemed quiet enough now, apart from some jostling and the occasional plaintive ‘moo!' Up ahead, about a hundred yards away, I could see Mum on her knees on the lane, Sam beside her. And though they were blocking my view, an outstretched leg told me it was Dad they were kneeling beside.

The sick feeling pulsed now in my throat as I swung on along the track, stumbling sometimes as my crutch hit a muddy rut, but somehow managing to recover myself. Then I slowed, my breath coming in shaky gasps.

Dad was lying across the verge, his head cradled in Mum's lap. There was blood everywhere, streaking his paper-white face, clotting in his hair and pooling in the mud. His arm was at an impossibly crazy angle, his eyes were closed. For a heart-stopping moment I thought he was dead.

‘Dad?' I sobbed.

‘He's breathing,' Mum said. She sounded unbelievably calm now, as if from somewhere she had found reserves of strength.

I bent low, wishing that, like Mum, I could get down on my knees, but since I wasn't able to bend my leg, I couldn't do that. I could see now that the blood was coming from a huge gash on the side of Dad's head, but it looked to me as if he'd taken a blow from a flying hoof rather than been trodden on. I wished desperately that I'd thought to bring towels or even a sheet or pillow case, anything with which to stem the bleeding, and a blanket to cover Dad with, but I hadn't. Just getting to him had been all that had mattered.

‘I've called the ambulance,' I said. ‘They'll be here soon.'

I wasn't too confident of that actually; way out in the country we were too far from the ambulance station to be favoured with the fastest of response times. But to my surprise and relief it could only have been a matter of minutes before I heard the sound of a siren, distant, admittedly, but getting louder. Once or twice it faded, as the ambulance negotiated the winding road, I supposed, but then grew louder again, and then it appeared at the end of the lane, blue lights flashing, the most welcome sight I'd ever seen in my life.

It came to a halt just a few feet from us, and two paramedics in green overalls jumped out and ran towards us.

‘OK, my love, just stand back and leave this to us,' one of them, a slight, balding man, said, and his partner, a comfortably large woman, knelt beside Dad.

‘Hello there, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name, dear?'

Dad made no response. His eyes remained closed, and he gave no sign whatsoever that he had heard her.

Mum answered for him.

‘Jack. Jack Proctor.' Then the terrified tremble returned to her voice as she asked: ‘He is going to be all right, isn't he? Please tell me he's going to be all right!'

They couldn't, of course. ‘He's in good hands now,' was the best they could do. I stood to one side looking on anxiously as they went about their business, and at one point I heard the air ambulance mentioned. In the end, though, that didn't come to anything. They got Dad on to a back board and into the ambulance, fixing up drips and heaven only knows what else – I really couldn't see, except that there was a lot of activity.

‘Are you coming to hospital with him, sweetheart?' the female paramedic asked Mum.

‘Oh yes – yes, of course . . . Will you be all right, Sally?'

‘Yes. Just go, Mum.'

‘And the cows . . .?' She turned to Sam. ‘You'll see to the cows?'

‘We'll see to everything here, don't worry.'

‘I'll ring you, Sally.'

‘
Go!
'

The female paramedic got into the back of the ambulance with Mum and Dad, her partner went around to climb into the cab. And then they were reversing back along the lane, the blue lights strobing in the gathering dusk, and Sam and I were alone.

‘Oh, t'is terrible! Terrible!' Sam was in shock, I could see, his hands twitching, his ruddy face pale.

‘You'd better come back to the house and have a cup of tea,' I said.

‘No, no, I've got to see to them cows . . .'

‘All right. I'll help you.'

Between us we got the cows into the milking parlour and set about what had to be done, both of us on autopilot.

‘Now we'll have that cup of tea,' I said when we'd finished and the cows were safely locked up. ‘No arguments, Sam. You look terrible. And besides, I want to know what happened.'

The milking parlour had been no place to talk, with the clatter of machinery, and getting the details out of Sam was never going to be easy – he was such a taciturn man. In any case, it had been all I could manage to carry out the necessary tasks with my emotions in turmoil and my head spinning, not to mention my need for the crutches. Now, though, I was desperate for answers.

I set the kettle to boil, experiencing a weird nightmarish sense of déjà vu. Was it really less than an hour ago that I'd been making tea for Mum and myself? In that short space of time the whole of our worlds had been turned upside down.

Sam was standing awkwardly in the doorway, clutching his cap between both hands as if it were a lifeline he didn't want to part with.

‘Sit down, for goodness sake, Sam!' I instructed him.

He sat reluctantly on one of the heavy old dining chairs; in all the years he'd worked for Dad I couldn't ever remember him taking a seat in our kitchen before. I set a mug of scalding tea in front of him and added three generous spoonfuls of sugar. I had no idea how sweet he liked it normally, but right now he needed the lift – and so did I. In fact, I thought we could both do with something stronger. I found a half bottle of brandy in the cabinet and poured two generous measures.

‘Here – this might help too.'

Sam didn't argue. He emptied his glass in one swallow. I sipped mine more judiciously, then asked the question that was burning on my lips.

‘What on earth made the cows stampede, Sam?'

Sam shook his head, the mug of hot sweet tea cradled now between his weather-beaten hands.

‘Well, t'were that bloody motorbike, weren't it?'

‘A
motorbike
?' I was startled. ‘In our lane?'

‘A motorbike,' Sam repeated. ‘Damn great powerful thing. Bloody fool came roaring down the track, blaring his horn like a bloody madman. Frightened me to death, never mind the cows. Course they got in a panic. They were off before I could do a bloody thing. I was behind them, see, moving on the stragglers like I al'us do, with your dad on up ahead, going on to see 'em in through the gate. He couldn't get out of the way, I don't s'pose.'

His voice trailed away and he relapsed into silence. It was probably the longest speech Sam had ever made in his life. But I couldn't let him stop there.

‘So what did the motorcyclist do when the herd stampeded?' I asked. I was totally puzzled as well as angry that anyone could have been so stupid. A motorbike in our lane was unheard of, especially one whose rider was so impatient he'd terrified a herd of docile cows.

Sam scratched his head.

‘Well, he must've turned round and gone back the way he came. I were in such a state I never noticed.'

That was understandable, I supposed. Sam would have set off after the cows, and the motorcyclist, realizing what he'd done, had hightailed it. But why had he been in our lane in the first place? And in such a hurry? The lane led nowhere except to our farm. He must have taken a wrong turning. Or perhaps it had been a crazy hot-rod kid looking for somewhere he could go off-road and indulge in a spot of scrambling. Off-road bikes didn't usually have engines you'd describe as powerful, as Sam had, but then Sam wasn't the most articulate of men, and he was in such a state it was possible he wasn't remembering what had happened as accurately as he might.