Bitter Inheritance (4 page)

Half an hour later Sally saw a thin trickle coming from one of the baskets. The butter was melting into oil, running through the wickerwork as a liquid. Even if she could catch it, once butterfat melted it was worthless. Her butter could never be sold now. Soon both baskets were empty.

When Martha came back Sally was weeping. There was a pool of oil round her feet, the ruin of her hopes. All that work, starting with milking the cows, had been for nothing. And there was still no money to pay the rent. They would go home no better off.

At that moment, Sally wondered whether fate was against her. It seemed that whatever she did, things went wrong. She was not meant to struggle on at the farm. She should give up now and walk away from a task that needed a strong man, and a man with a good wife at that. It was all too much.

‘Don’t cry, Sally love!’ Martha put an arm round her shoulders. ‘It’s bad luck, I know, but we’ll think of something else. I rarely saw butter do this before! But I heard of it, from my granny. It used to happen often in the old days.’

Prompted by Martha, Sally dried her eyes and ate a piece of bread and cheese, but it was stale, dried out by the heat of the day. All around them stallholders were trying to escape the sun, rigging up shade where they could. Food was obviously growing stale quickly; a woman on a cake stall sold off everything at half price to get rid of it. Martha bought some gingerbread. She couldn’t make it for that price.

‘There’s no profit today,’ the cake woman sighed. ‘And those poor lasses with the butter, I feel right sorry for them. We must live on our losses.’

Several other women were trying to sell butter at Ripon that day and even though they were in the shade, their butter melted too. They shrugged and smiled at Sally with fellow feeling even though they were competitors.

‘I’ve lost the butter, but thank the Lord I’ve sold some eggs and a few herbs,’ a woman from Kirkby said to Sally. ‘And you’ve come all the way from Thorpe for nowt. Life’s hard, at times…. You’ll be Robert Mason’s daughter, that right? You look just like your ma.’

Sol Bartram walked past, his piggy eyes darting everywhere. He looked past Sally at the crowded market place, smiling craftily. ‘Hear yer sheep were out on the road again. You should mend the fences! And feed ’em better. They must be starving!’

With red-rimmed eyes, Sally looked straight at him. ‘And did
you
open the gate for the sheep, Mr Bartram? Somebody did!’ Until this moment Sally hadn’t thought of Sol. But he was the
only enemy she had, after all. Who else would wish her ill? And why was he so against her?

The little eyes jerked back to Sally’s face. ‘That’s slander, you can get yerself arrested for accusing folks of things like that.’ He looked towards the road on the outside of the square and pointed to a smart trap, driven by a well dressed man with grey hair. ‘Know who that is?’

Sally was not very interested. ‘Well, who is it?’ The face was thin, ascetic, rather grim.

‘That’s yer landlord. That’s Mr Oliver Radford, that is. I was talking to him only yesterday. He was saying how pleased he was that you’re going, how he hates Masons, always has, and is looking forward to getting a proper tenant in Badger’s Gill. Masons did Radfords some dirty tricks, years ago. He’s a hard man is Mr Radford and he won’t worry if you’re thrown on to the street. I should make other arrangements, if I was you.’

Sally could believe Sol when she saw the face of Oliver Radford. That stern, handsome face belonged to a man who was ruthless, set on getting his own way, she could tell. There was no mercy in it. Not for the first time she wondered what had happened to set the two families against each other. It seemed ridiculous to be enemies without even knowing the whole story. And it was hard to believe that her family did ‘dirty tricks’. The Masons had their faults, but they were not vindictive or dishonest. Sally’s father had spoken rarely of the Radfords, and then always with a gentle regret as though the feud was inevitable, but not his fault. Her mother maintained a steady silence on that topic. They had both been shocked to find that the Radfords had bought Badger’s Gill. That was deception if you like, thought Sally. A bad harvest and then the cattle plague had forced him to sell, and the auctioneers had found him a ‘secret buyer’, someone who would lease back the farm to the Masons. Only when the sale was completed did the Masons find out that the Radfords were their landlords. After two hundred years of independent small farming the Masons had gone down in the world. They were farm tenants, dependent on the landlord’s whim – a landlord who was hostile to them. It was a bitter pill to swallow and Robert Mason’s health had begun to decline from then.

Watching the retreating, tweed-clad back of Mr Radford as he moved slowly through the crowded street, Sally realized that in fact he’d been quite reasonable until now. The Masons had paid the rent to Sol at the Crown and the Radfords had left them alone. If only that could continue! But of course, her father was gone, and a female tenant was unusual, unconventional. Her main problem was being a woman. The Radfords must have known of her father’s illness; they’d probably been waiting to grab the farm back when he died.

Sol looked down and saw the oily pools round the baskets. ‘Lost yer butter, have you? Typical Mason, selling butter on a hot day!’ He laughed and Sally could have hit him.

‘The rent will be paid on time.’ Sally’s mouth set in a determined line and she spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What’s a bit of butter, anyway? There’ll be more next week.’ She tried to sound braver than she felt.

Martha came back from the cake stall, and Sol Bartram shuffled away. Martha was furious, having heard the last remark. ‘I know what it is! He wants the farm for himself!’ Martha laughed the real High Side laugh – mirthless, ironic. ‘That’s what he’s up to. I can see it now.’

I must be very innocent, Sally thought. Martha’s right. Sol Bartram is putting up as many hurdles as he can to get me out of the farm. He must have a reason for it and knowing Sol, it will be something to benefit himself. They might as well have gone home, having nothing to sell. But Sally’s brain was beginning to work again and she realized that with the little time in hand she could visit her uncle, the Reverend Samuel Mason, at the vicarage. He might know something about her father’s financial affairs.

With her hair hanging limply now and her dress likewise, Sally had lost the confidence of the morning. It took a lot of determination to drive up through the laurels to the vicarage. Martha looked after the horse and the girl knocked on the door. It opened sharply and a maid of about fourteen peered out. ‘Vicar’s out, miss!’

‘I’m his niece … Sally Mason. Perhaps Mrs Mason is at home?’

The vicar’s lady was probably at home, but she might not be ‘At Home’ – willing, that is, to receive callers. Aunt Bertha was a large
lady who liked a little nap in the afternoons.

‘I’ll just go and see.’ And the maid vanished.

Sally stood on the step, running her fingers through her hair and tugging at her dress. Pity Uncle Samuel wasn’t there, he was always quite sympathetic. It took about ten minutes for the maid to come back and let Sally in. As usual she was enveloped in Aunt Bertha’s bosom which smelled strongly of camphor.

‘My poor dear girl! We have been so worried for you! Come and have a cup of tea.’ she gushed, leading the way into the drawing-room.

‘No thank you, Aunt, I have a friend waiting outside with the pony.’

Bertha snorted and threw her head back. ‘Not a man friend, I hope? It will not do, you know, to go running about the countryside with a man!’

Tired as she was, Sally smiled. ‘No, it’s my friend Martha from Thorpe. I drive the trap myself, you know. We’ve been – been selling butter at the market.’ It’s nearly the twentieth century, Aunt, she thought to herself. Women can drive themselves without waiting for a man. Especially when there is no man in the family, any more. Drooping with weariness, the girl looked round the room, which was heavily draped with expensive curtains and full of big heavy furniture. Every surface was crammed with china ornaments, crystal and silver. The effect was oppressive, especially in the heat.

‘Well, I hope all that nonsense will stop very soon! How soon can you leave the farm?’ Bertha fanned herself and sank on to the sofa.

‘I’m not leaving, Aunt, I intend to keep going. But I would like to see Uncle Samuel, to ask about Father’s finances.’

‘NOT LEAVING?’ Bertha’s voice was shrill. ‘My dear child, you have no choice! We have planned it all for you. You will sell all the stock and implements and Samuel will invest the money for you. And you will come to live here with us.’

It was an appalling thought. Live at the vicarage?

‘But I must earn my living, Aunt. Farming is my way of life, you see.’

Aunt Bertha was all sweet ruthlessness. She got her own way in
life by drowning everything in syrup, Sally thought.

‘You must realize Sally dear, that women are not formed for this kind of thing. Exercise is most unhealthy for women, you know!’

Her aunt looked in need of exercise herself, Sally thought, and felt ashamed. Aunt Bertha was only trying to be kind, but she couldn’t know the wonderful feeling of being able to run up the field, to move and lift and swing. Activity, she felt instinctively, must be good for everyone.

‘And as for business, for dealing and that kind of thing, you know, women have absolutely no aptitude. Especially in farming, which can be quite crude, haggling over prices at markets. You should not have to worry your little head about anything except running a household. That is quite trying enough. No doubt we’ll find a husband for you one day, my dear. But meanwhile …’ the syrupy voice took on a slightly harder note, ‘you will remember, dear Sally, that we have an older maid as well as young Jenny who let you in. Sarah is ready to retire and you will take her place. So you see, you will be able to earn your keep and Sarah can go to live with her sister. It is all arranged. Your uncle thought it a splendid idea.’

‘But—’ Sally spluttered.

‘You can have the attic bedroom all to yourself, and half a day off every week. Church three times on Sunday of course, this is the vicarage after all. And you can help with visiting the sick. Dear Sally, you will be so much better off here than struggling on that poverty-stricken farm! Can you cook?’

Sally was saved from replying by her uncle, who now appeared. ‘Young Sally! It’s good to see you.’ This hug at least was a little bit of real affection.

‘I have told Sally of our plans,’ Bertha announced grandly. ‘And I suppose she will be able to give up the farm at the end of September – that’s quarter day, is it not? And then we can hire the carrier to bring down anything that we want to keep from the farm. Samuel, I think you always liked the old oak desk … and the dining-table, of course. And anything else that you want from the old home. The rest can be sold.’

The old trout’s planning to take our furniture already! They’ll take over the lot! I’ll lose everything, all my own possessions. Sally felt herself staring into a black pit of despair. It was bad enough to contemplate losing the farm, but to be condemned to live with her dear relations was just too horrible to think of. Uncle Samuel was dear to her. Aunt Bertha – well, she meant well, no doubt. But Sally didn’t want to live with them. Surely she had come of age, she couldn’t be made to live with her uncle and aunt against her will? It was the convention, of course; Sally knew that. Young, unmarried females were expected to live with relatives and to make themselves useful until such time as they could get themselves married. But the Mason family, apart from Uncle Samuel of course, had never been very conventional and Sally had never tried to get herself married.

This was not the time to argue; Sally would have to go home to milk the cows very soon. She must concentrate on her present mission. Surprised at her own coolness, she took a deep breath. ‘Uncle, I wonder whether you know anything about father’s – er – money arrangements? Where he did his banking, that sort of thing? I really need to find out as soon as I can.’

Samual’s mild face showed alarm and a cold feeling crept over Sally. What if nobody knew? She might never be able to find out.

‘Dear me, child, did he not tell you about it? I understood that he had made you a partner in the business … even though you are a woman!’ Uncle Samuel smiled slightly, taking the sting from the words. Bertha shook her head disapprovingly.

‘Well yes, he told me that and he talked about saving up – to
buy back the farm one day. He always did the banking, that sort of thing – but then he went so suddenly, there was no time to….’ The hot tears were beginning to flow again. Really, thought Sally, I am having a very weepy day and tears will get me nowhere.

‘And you’ve looked in the desk?’ Samual was obviously concerned for her. ‘Robert kept everything in the desk, I believe.’

Sally’s shoulders drooped. ‘There’s nothing about bank accounts in the desk.’ She had relied on Uncle Samuel to know something about her father’s affairs.

Aunt Bertha bustled out of the room to order tea for her husband, and Sally looked at her uncle. ‘Aunt Bertha can’t believe it, but I want to stay at Badger’s Gill. I am a farmer, you see. That’s why the money is important, for the business. To pay the rent first of all.’

The Reverend Samuel Mason stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I know how you feel, in a way. It was a wrench at first for me to leave the farm. Robert would have worked in partnership with me, but I was always set on the Church, you know. I was lucky that the family was able to pay for my education, in fact I feel slightly guilty that it depleted the farm resources. That’s why I feel responsible for you, Sally. And I must admit that it’s been a much easier life here in Ripon. Better social standing, all that kind of thing. Bertha would have hated to be a farmer’s wife!’

They both smiled at the thought. Sally remembered that her grandfather had sold off some land to pay for Samuel to go through theological college. That was why he wanted to help her now. If only he could see that she didn’t want their help if it meant giving up the farm.

‘Well, Uncle, I must ask you to explain to Aunt Bertha how I feel. I’m going to try to keep the farm on. If I can sort out the finances.’ Sally shut her mouth tight, not wanting to say any more about money.

When Aunt Bertha came back Sally excused herself and Uncle Samuel came with her to the door. His brow was furrowed and she noticed for the first time that he was more stooped and his hair was turning grey. ‘I’m trying to remember whether Robert said anything about money. We Masons are not good at that sort of thing, as I suppose you know. Bertha looks after all ours, of course!’

Looks after the money very well, in spite of being a woman, with no aptitude. She stifled the thought. ‘Of course.’ Sally beamed at her uncle. ‘Do your best to remember, and please come to see me when you can spare the time.’

Samuel Mason looked at his niece sadly. ‘I am sorry, Sally. But I believe you have no choice. Your future is here in the vicarage with us. You will get used to it, and used to Bertha in time. I did.’

Plodding home from Ripon with empty baskets and an empty purse, Sally was almost inclined to believe her uncle. What hope had she for the future? At that moment the outlook was bleak. With no money and no help on the farm she wouldn’t last very long, however passionately she wanted to keep going. Determination was not enough. But how did determined people succeed? Martha could think of nothing to say and so it was a silent journey, the seven long miles back to Thorpe. It was not until they came to the Kirkby Lane end that the older woman stirred in her seat.

‘You won’t like this, Sally. But I think you’ll have to consider giving in.’

‘No!’ Sally knew what she had to do to find the rent. ‘I’ll have to sell the sheep.’ The Motley Flock would have to go. The creatures she had reared from birth, and planned to keep into their old age, represented vital money. Sally’s vivid imagination saw the pens at the market: a nice shepherd might buy them, or a big, fat butcher might make them into mutton pies. Sally turned to Martha. ‘As soon as I can.’

‘It will be sad to see the last Mason leave the village. Your family has been here for a very long time, my dear.’ The vicar took her hand gently, as if it were made of porcelain.

Sally was startled. They were all trying to talk her into leaving. Convention seemed to hang heavily over Thorpe, especially on Sundays. It was going to be hard to convince her friends and neighbours and even herself at times that she could survive at Badger’s Gill. But surely determination was worth something? It might help her to find a way. She tried to smile at the vicar in a confident, successful way.

The vicar had been in Thorpe a very long time himself, but not
so long as the Masons. Sally could not remember a time when Dr Bentley had not preached the Sunday sermons; he had married her parents and christened Sally herself. He always stood in the porch after the service and made polite conversation with his flock.

‘What makes you think that I am leaving, Vicar?’ It seemed the safest thing to say, while Sally pushed the stray curls under her Sunday hat and tried to control herself. The old boy was jumping to conclusions, but she must respect his age and position and not be too impatient.

The vicar looked round at the departing faithful and sighed. ‘Mr Bartram told me, and I must say that I was quite relieved. I have been most concerned about you since your dear father passed away.’ His faded blue eyes looked concerned, Sally could see that. ‘No doubt you needed time to adjust to – the situation, but change comes to us all, of course. It is often for the best. One or two people thought that you were intending to try to farm by yourself. Now that would be unwise, my dear. Most unwise.’

Trust Sol Bartram to run to the vicar with his story and to get God’s representative in Thorpe to take his side against Sally. This was convention working against her again. Was it so sinful to be rather unconventional?

Sally had rushed through the milking in order to get to church in time for evensong; she hadn’t stopped rushing all day. It was the proper thing to do and kept up a show of normality. But she was tired and distraught, although the ancient ritual of the service had calmed her down a little. The last thing she wanted was to take advice from the vicar, unless he agreed with her. She didn’t want opposition. ‘But I remember you taught us that we should … accept the station in life to which it has pleased God to call us. That’s what I want to do!’

The vicar beamed. ‘Precisely, my dear girl. Precisely my point. A young woman is called to the domestic life, to be a helper, a comfort. Not to compete with men in a man’s world!’ He shook his silvery head. ‘Farming, my dear, will always be a man’s world. But, as I said, we will be sorry to see you go.’

Sally inclined her head and moved on and the vicar shook the hand of the next villager. It was no use arguing.

‘Come on, Sal, supper’s waiting!’ Robin came up and slipped his arm into hers just as usual. ‘Evening, Vicar!’ And he walked Sally down the churchyard path past the graves of Masons long gone. What would they think of her? Sally wondered: Joshua, Benjamin and Samuel Mason … not to mention their wives.

‘You’re looking a bit thin, my lass. Ma’s supper is just what you need.’ Robin looked very handsome in his Sunday suit, freshly shaved, grinning down at her. ‘Fancy the vicar telling you to settle down to the domestic life. Not likely!’ His fresh young laugh rang out. ‘Doesn’t sound like Sally Mason!’

That hurt, much more than the vicar’s conventional comments. Oh dear, Sally thought, I don’t like either of their views of me … what’s wrong with me?

It was only a few yards down the street to the Scotts’ farmhouse. As they turned into the drive Sally said quietly, ‘You don’t think I’m ladylike enough, perhaps?’ That was the other side of the coin; if she succeeded as a farmer, folks would think she was unwomanly. In fact she would need a certain toughness, not just physical strength but the ability to bargain with men on their own terms, buying and selling. Robin seemed to think that she wasn’t cut out for ‘the domestic life’ and Robin’s opinion was important to Sally. Maybe she should take shorter steps when she walked and try to be more graceful in her movements. It was so hard to remember, busy as she was. She picked up her skirt daintily as she walked down the path.

The young man paused at the farmhouse door with his hand on the knob. ‘Lord, Sally, don’t be so serious! That’s your big problem, you know. You take everything far too seriously.’ He laughed again.

Sally wished that Robin were a bit more serious, but she wasn’t going to tell him so. Life at Badger’s Gill had been all too solemn recently. Without realizing it she’d become more serious and thoughtful, as she became more responsible.

Supper at the Scotts’ was a cheerful affair. Mrs Scott welcomed Sally with a smile and drew out a chair for her at the big dining table. Robin’s father handed Sally a plate of thinly sliced cold beef and gave her a kindly look. She took both gratefully; she hadn’t had meat for a long time. The diet at Badger’s Gill was not quite
adequate, come to think of it. These days she thought about food as little as possible. Sitting at the noisy family dining-table, Sally was unobtrusive. Robin’s twin brothers were conducting an argument about fishing and it was easy to keep quiet for a while. Still thinking about being feminine, Sally looked down at her black Sunday dress and sighed. It needed some lace at the cuffs and neck to make it less severe. She hadn’t thought about clothes, or how she looked, for months. That was a mistake, it seemed. There was an old lady in Thorpe: gaunt, work-worn with patient, suffering eyes. She wore black dresses like the one Sally wore. In a few years, she’d look just like Mrs Peterson. She’d have the same huge, long-fingered hands and joints swollen with rheumatism from milking. Already her face in the mirror was gaunt, with prominent cheekbones, Sally had noticed. People would soon know that she was poor.

Deep down, Sally Mason wanted to get married and to have babies. She supposed that every woman had the same dreams. But apart from Robin, she had never got to know a man who appealed to her and it didn’t seem at all likely that he would ever see her as a potential wife. Possibly, no one would ever fall in love with a determined woman who lived on her own and milked cows for a living, unless it was a young man without land who wanted a farm. A few young men on the High Side had ‘married farms’, sometimes taking plain wives as the price of advancement, but Sally was only a tenant and therefore not a good catch. If she owned the land she might find herself surrounded by suitors. But Sally wanted to marry for love, not convenience. Did she love Robin? She rather thought so.

It wouldn’t do to think of such things, Sally decided. Women who got married and were happy, women like Mrs Scott across the table, were incredibly lucky. Meeting the right person was such a gamble; some people never did. And she herself had quite enough to worry about without including the distant future.

Mr Scott beamed down the table at Sally. ‘Things going well for you, lass?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve been wondering whether you know how to keep accounts?’

Looking down at her plate, Sally said awkwardly, ‘I don’t think Father kept accounts. We just knew roughly how much profit we
made….’ she tailed off.

‘Not many farmers write things down!’ Mr Scott shook his head reprovingly. Sally thought how much this man knew; he had worked as a legal clerk in his youth and still earned some money from writing legal documents. Part of the Scotts’ success, she guessed, must come from keeping records. She knew that Robin was in charge of pedigree records for their cattle.

‘There isn’t much time for records, I’m afraid.’

‘I suppose not. Will you take another helping of beef?’ Mr Scott waved the carving knife above the meat. She shook her head and he laid down the knife and leaned over the table. ‘I can give you a ledger, Sally, to start you off. One page for expenses and one for income. Then you will know what pays and what doesn’t. Whether you should keep more cows, or more sheep for example.’

‘Thank you, Mr Scott.’ It sounded complicated; how did you separate the sheep costs from the cow costs? Sally sighed. She didn’t have time for keeping accounts.

After the pie and cream the men of the family disappeared and Sally was left with Mrs Scott, sitting comfortably by a small summer fire. The older woman looked at Sally keenly. ‘Sally, you’re getting quite thin, you know. Can’t you hire a labourer for the heavy work? Joe Marsh is looking for work and he’s a good cowman. If you’re determined to stay, that is. It’s going to be tough. I think you need some sort of help.’

Sally looked down at her hands, roughened with farm work and red with scrubbing to get clean for church and Mrs Scott looked at them too. ‘My dear, let me give you some elderflower cream for those hands.’ She bustled out and Sally relaxed a little, pleased to be sitting down. She tired more easily these days. Was it the poor diet, she wondered.