The Wild Seed (22 page)

As she neared the house, she saw that lights gleamed from the farmhouse window. Her neighbours had been told of her return and it seemed that Cliff Jones had been kind enough to make her homecoming a pleasant one.

The door stood open and Catherine stepped inside the kitchen, seeing the soaring flames of the fire and hearing the singing of the kettle with a feeling of joy. Here she would be able to think, here she must learn to deal with the loneliness of her life on the farm.

A figure stepped out of the shadows and Catherine put her hand to her mouth, to prevent herself from crying out in fear.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I had to see you, Catherine, I’ve missed you so much.’

Boyo stood before her, tall and handsome, his young face held a pleading expression and his eyes were shadowed. ‘I want to apologize for the way I behaved last time we met, I was like an animal and I couldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again.’

She pushed away the memory of him above her, forcing himself on her, it was too painful to bear. It was a betrayal of all she had believed him to be.

‘Why are you here? I told you never to come near me again.’ She walked towards the fire, the silence seemed loud, she was mesmerized by it. A coal shifting in the grate made her look up. ‘Did you do all this?’ She waved her hand around the kitchen, encompassing the cheerful fire, a fresh cloth on the table, cups and saucers neatly set out. She did not wait for a reply. ‘How did you know I was coming home today?’

‘I have been up here several times this week,’ he said. ‘Your neighbour was glad of my help. Cliff has been having a few difficulties on his own farm lately so for a few days, I have taken over the running of Honey’s Farm completely.’

Catherine dumped her bag on the stone flags. ‘Well, thank you.’ Her voice was cold, flat.

‘Cat,’ his voice was soft, he came closer and tried to catch her hands but she stared up at him angrily.

‘I’m very tired, Boyo. Please, just go, leave me alone will you?’

‘Let me at least make you a cup of tea.’ He moved to the fire and she sank into a chair, watching dully as Boyo moved to the fire and made the tea. ‘Here, drink this,’ he said, ‘it’s hot and sweet, it will make you feel better. I’ve put a hot-water bottle in your bed, I don’t want you catching cold.’

Suddenly Catherine was furious, how dare he come into her house as though he owned it? How dare he assume that his interference would be welcome?

‘You take too much on yourself, Boyo.’ She looked up at him, the steam from the tea in the cup gripped tightly between her fingers making her blink. ‘You are not welcome here, don’t you understand that? You treat me like a whore and then you think a few little niceties will make me forget the humiliation. Well I won’t forget, not ever. You and I are finished, I’m going to be married to Liam Cullen.’

Suddenly she felt tears restrict her throat but she forced herself to go on speaking. ‘I will be respectable, a word you have never associated with me. Please, just go, leave me alone, you have brought me nothing but pain and I just want an end to it.’

Boyo stood looking down at her for a long time, he seemed carved out of stone. ‘Very well, Catherine, if that’s what you really want then I have no right to stand in your way.’

He moved to the door and paused for a moment. ‘I want you to know that I love you, I will always love you and I will come if you call, wherever you are.’

He went out and closed the door behind him and in the silence Catherine heard her own heart beating so hard she felt it would choke her.

She drank her tea and then crouched on the mat before the fire trying to sort out the chaos of her thoughts. It was in anger she had spoken of marrying Liam but perhaps that was the path she would eventually tread. First she had to put the farm back on its feet, make it viable again, the thriving, rich farmlands it had once been. Surely that would not prove too difficult for the daughter of Fon and Jamie O’Conner?

In the cosy room, she felt warmed by the house, by the familiarity. Here alone, she could almost believe her mother was still in the kitchen preparing for the morning. Her father would be taking a last look at the hens before turning in for the night.

She climbed into bed and found she was grateful for the stone bottle which had warmed the sheets, they closed comfortingly around her, she felt almost as though she was being held in an embrace. Outside, the night was cold, winter would soon hold the land in an icy grip. She had borrowed heavily from the bank already, how could she survive till spring? Wearily, she closed her eyes, nothing could be solved tonight; she would rest and in the morning, she would be able to think more clearly.

She was woken by the sun streaming through the window, it seemed the cold weather had relented and the blessing of an Indian summer was upon Honey’s Farm. She stood in the coldness of her bedroom looking out at the sloping fields. Here she had spent her childhood, here she had been happy, cared for by her parents, they had seemed so strong, so indestructible to her then.

Even after April had died so unexpectedly, Catherine had been secure in the belief that her mother and father would live for ever. How foolish she had been. She had believed then in dreams, she had watched Boyo Hopkins grow tall and handsome and even as a child she must have loved him.

A sad smile twisted her mouth, she had been a little brat, taunting and teasing April, intruding on the couple whenever she found the opportunity, chasing them across the lands of Honey’s Farm, spying on them as they kissed under the cover of the barn. Perhaps she had not even recognized that her feelings of anger against April had stemmed from jealousy; it was clear that Boyo loved her to distraction.

Then April had died one awful day, swept away by the sickness that had gripped the town, taking old and young like a scythe cutting through the grass, how Boyo had mourned.

Catherine moved impatiently from the window. Well, he was gone now, gone from her life for ever. Boyo was not for her, he was a married man, a wealthy man, he had lived a different life these past years and he had left her behind. How could she go with him into the houses of the rich? Even if he had not been married, Boyo was now accepted by the higher echelons of Swansea society. A girl from the farmlands would be unwelcome in such company.

When she was dressed for outdoors with her boots firmly laced and a scarf around her head, she went into the yard and felt the sunshine on her face. She could hear the sounds of activity from the cowshed across the stretch of brown earth and knew with a feeling of relief that her neighbour had come in to help.

It was dim in the sheds, with the familiar mingling of smells of animal and milk that she would always associate with her childhood.

She stopped short as she saw the strong shoulders beneath the flannel shirt, the strong forearms and hands which were bringing the milk into the pail with deft, expert movements.

‘What are you doing here?’ She stood, arms across her body, and looked down at Boyo’s bent head.

‘I wanted to help, just for today, until you settle in.’ He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘There is surely no need for us to squabble like children, can’t we at least act like civilized adults?’

She longed to go to him, to kiss his mouth, to feel his arms around her, holding her close. She closed her eyes suddenly seeing an image of herself and Liam lying in each other’s arms and a wash of pain and guilt ran through her.

‘Catherine …’ his voice was soft, tender and her eyes opened quickly. She kicked out at the bucket, startling the cow and sending a stream of milk mingling with the dirt on the floor.

‘Get out!’ she said between gritted teeth. ‘Get out of my life and leave me alone, I won’t tell you again but if I see you on my land I’ll take a shotgun to you.’ She turned and fled back to the house, tears burning her eyes. What a mess she had made of her life, what an inept, pathetic creature she had become.

She did not see him leave, she did not want to watch as he strode away out of her life for ever. When he was gone, she felt lonelier than ever, how was she going to survive the winter with not a soul to talk to in the dark winter evenings? She sighed and made her way back to the shed, there was work to be done and no-one was going to do it for her.

It was almost a week later when she advertised the bull for sale. The creature was running wild in the fields, she simply could not manage him. From the numerous enquiries that came in, Catherine chose the one which seemed the most sincere.

Farmer Whitestone was a small, leathery man with warm blue eyes and a thatch of white hair jutting from under a much-worn cap. With him was the local vet.

‘Good day to you, Miss O’Conner, come to see the beast, hope you don’t mind old Willie Fern taking a look at him.’

Catherine smiled, it was the usual practice and she nodded in the direction of the field where the cows were grazing. ‘Go ahead, take your time, the bull is in a good mood today, though I must warn you that he’s been off his food.’

Farmer Whitestone smiled showing uneven teeth. ‘Had himself a good time, I expect? Found himself more than one willing lass among your herd no doubt.’ He touched his cap and ambled away across the yard, the vet with his black bag following him more slowly. Bulls could be of uncertain temper and Willie Fern had experienced more than one brush with danger on his farm visits.

Catherine was carrying milk across the yard when she saw the two men walking across the fields, heads close together. She knew at once there was something wrong by the worried look on Farmer Whitestone’s face.

‘Put the creature out to breed, lately?’ It was the vet who asked the question. Catherine shook her head.

‘No, not since last spring. My neighbour Cliff Jones brought two of his heifers up here, very pleased with the results, he was, you can ask him if you have any doubts.’

‘I see.’ Willie Fern rubbed at his cheek.

‘What is it, what’s wrong, is the bull sick?’

‘Oh, no, the creature’s in good health, never been better I’d say.’ He looked uneasily at the farmer and then shrugged.

‘No other way but to tell you the plain truth, the bull’s been gelded. You didn’t know nothing about it then?’

Catherine felt a shock of fear run through her. ‘That’s not possible,’ she said faintly, ‘the bull is a prize animal kept only for breeding, there is no way I would have him gelded.’

‘Thought it odd myself. Looks as if someone got it in for you, girl, the creature has been got at, he is only good for a bit of beef now, anyways up.’

Catherine felt embarrassed, a foolish inept girl trying to do a man’s job. She scarcely heard the sympathetic words of the farmer. How could she not have noticed the change in the bull? But then, she had been so engrossed in her own worries, even when she was tending the animals she had been rehearsing in her mind a plea to the bank manager to lend her more money.

She watched with a feeling of unreality as the two men left the yard. Catherine bit her lip, searching for some explanation for the disaster, there was none, the bull was ruined for breeding for ever. Who could have done something so wicked?

She returned to the farmhouse and sank heavily onto one of the kitchen chairs. She felt faint and sick and saw her future as a farmer disappearing. She put her head down on the scrubbed table and closed her eyes, too weary even for tears.

It was dim in the kitchen but Catherine was not aware of it, she stared into the fire, not caring that it was burning low. Outside, winter was gripping the land, the frost had come suddenly and the winds blowing in from the sea were cold and punishing. She felt lonely, hopeless, as though every ounce of courage she possessed had been snatched from her.

She had pondered long and hard about what had happened while she was away. She had asked herself what she had done to deserve such spite? She simply could not believe that anyone would cruelly ruin such a fine creature as the prize bull.

The answer came at last, reluctantly. Bethan Hopkins was capable of anything and who could blame her for wanting revenge? Catherine had stolen the woman’s husband and this was her punishment.

The knocking on the door roused her, she rose to open it and knew it would be the constable from town, no-one else ever called at Honey’s Farm, not these days. Old Farmer Whitestone had spoken to the police but an investigation was pointless, the bull was worthless.

‘Evening, miss, I’m Constable Danby.’ The policeman was young, handsome and his eyes lit up as they rested on her. ‘I came about your prize bull.’

Catherine stood back to allow the constable inside and then, carelessly, she threw some logs in the grate and watched them flare brightly. She moved to the dresser and lit the lamp and the light flickered and gleamed on the plates resting on the shelves. She made an effort to listen to what the policeman was saying.

‘Been gelded, is that the right term for it, miss?’

‘That’s right, the animal has been ruined, he’s worthless, I can no longer use the bull for stud. Whoever has done this terrible thing knew exactly how valuable the animal was.’ She sank down into a chair. ‘I just can’t understand anyone being so wicked.’

‘Is it all right if I take a seat, miss?’ The policeman removed his helmet and placed it on the table and when Catherine nodded, he drew out a kitchen chair and seated himself opposite her.

‘This is an act of mischief, miss, done by someone who bears a grudge against you. Can you think of anyone like that?’

Catherine shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t be a farmer, I can assure you of that.’

‘Why, miss? I’m a townie, see, don’t know anything much about country life.’

‘A farmer might be tempted to steal such a valuable animal’, Catherine said, ‘to serve his herd but no respecting farmer could bring himself to destroy such a beautiful creature.’

The policeman looked doubtful. ‘But the … the job, it was done right, proper-like, the animal wasn’t harmed.’

‘The operation was done by a vet, yes, it was an expert job, as you say, calculated to make the bull worthless without killing him.’