Honey's Farm (40 page)

The farm, Fon felt, was flourishing; and yet a sense of unease hung persistently over her as she stood now in the kitchen window, her hands covered in flour, the smell of baking permeating the room.

From the garden she could hear the sounds of happy laughter and her tense expression relaxed. Tommy's little sister might be a handful, but April was certainly good for Patrick. She loved him dearly, adopting him as her baby brother, and her attitude was proprietary to say the least.

Fon's attention was caught by the sight of a horse and cart just rising over the crest of the hill. The cart, bumping and clattering its way along the rutted track towards the farmhouse, held just one figure, hunched rather awkwardly in the driving seat. For a moment, she grew tense, and then, as the cart drew closer, she saw that the driver was a woman and she relaxed, smiling at her own foolishness.

She opened the door wide. ‘April, your mother's coming,' she said cheerfully, and April looked up, her face suddenly alight. The small girl rushed forward, her arms outstretched.

‘Mam!' April's voice was full of happiness as she helped her mother down from the cart.

Fon was shocked to see how thin Mrs Jones had become; her shoulders beneath the cotton bodice were bony and angular, her face elongated, with lines running from nose to mouth.

Fon remembered Mrs Jones as she used to be when she lived on the land adjoining Honey's Farm, a plump, healthy woman, lively and intelligent, her eyes clear and full of humour. Now she was shadowy, insubstantial, and Fon had the feeling she had come back to the land once more by way of a goodbye.

‘Come inside, Mrs Jones,' she said warmly. ‘Sit down and have some cordial; you look a bit tired.' It was an understatement, but Fon smiled as though she'd noticed nothing amiss.

‘Where's our Tommy?' Mrs Jones sank gratefully into a chair. ‘Working in the fields like a good boy, is he?'

‘Aye.' Fon poured a long drink of dandelion and burdock and handed it to her visitor. ‘I don't know what we'd do without him,' she said, smiling. ‘He's such a good worker.'

‘He loves the land, all right,' Mrs Jones said softly. ‘I hope you will keep him here with you, Fon.'

‘We will,' Fon said emphatically. ‘We couldn't manage without him.'

‘That's good.' Mrs Jones picked up her glass with a hand that shook, and Fon could not help noticing how thin was the woman's skin, so thin that the blue of her veins stood out in sharp relief.

‘And our April, is she giving you any problems?' Mrs Jones sounded anxious, and Fon shook her head.

‘Indeed, she's a great help.' She smiled at the girl who was still standing at her mother's side, leaning against the thin shoulder. ‘You look after Patrick for me, don't you, April?'

‘When can I come home with you, Mam?' April ignored Fon's remark and turned to her mother, her rosy lips pouting.

‘You like it here, don't you, love?' Mrs Jones asked quickly, and April nodded.

‘I like it fine, but I miss you, Mam.' She spoke softly, and Fon was taken aback by the change in April's attitude. Usually she was brisk, almost impudent; but now it was as if all her defences were down.

Mrs Jones put her arm around her daughter, but Fon couldn't help noticing that she winced as the girl leant against her breast.

‘And I miss you too, my lovely.' Mrs Jones's eyes filled with tears, even as she forced herself to smile. ‘But we are all in the hands of the good Lord, mind, we can't always have what we want.'

Fon caught the woman's eye, and, with a sinking of her heart, she felt that history was repeating itself. Mrs Jones was very sick, just as Katherine O'Conner had been when Fon first came to Honey's Farm. And Fon felt instinctively that, like before, she would be asked to become a substitute mother, both to April and to Tommy who, although he was almost a man, needed a family behind him, a guiding hand, Jamie's hand.

April, at last giving in to Patrick's insistent demands to go outside, left her mother's side, and Mrs Jones leaned towards Fon, the expression on her face grave.

‘I'm not going to beat about the bush, Fon,' she said firmly. ‘I'm a dying woman, and I've come to ask a great favour of you.'

‘I know,' Fon said quickly. ‘I think I knew the moment I set eyes on you.' She forced a smile. ‘And of course Tommy and April will always have a home on Honey's Farm.'

Mrs Jones nodded and then reached into her bag. ‘Here,' she said, putting a brown parcel tied with string on the table before her. ‘This is all the money I have in the world, the money I've saved since my husband's death, the money your good man paid me for the land.' She sighed. ‘It's everything I own, and I have no need of money where I'm going. I want you to take it and use it wisely to pay for my children's keep.'

‘But, Mrs Jones,' Fon protested, ‘Tommy pays his own way. We don't need money, I promise you we don't.'

Mrs Jones smiled wryly. ‘Well, what use will I have for it, Fon?' She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘My funeral expenses are taken care of; there's nothing I need, not now.' She pushed the packet towards Fon. ‘Take it for the sake of my children, please.'

Fon rose without another word and took the packet, placing it in the drawer of the dresser. ‘I'll look after the money until Tommy and April need it,' she said quietly. She smiled down at Mrs Jones, who was leaning back in her chair, her mission accomplished.

‘You are very brave,' Fon said. ‘These hill farms must give birth to a very special breed of woman; I can't say how much I admire your courage.'

‘It's not courage, lovely,' Mrs Jones said softly. ‘It's acceptance, acceptance of what is inevitable.'

She rose to her feet. ‘I'll be getting back to my sister's house now.' She paused at the door, as though to gather her strength. ‘I doubt I'll see you again.'

Fon rested a hand on the older woman's shoulder. ‘Don't you want to see Tommy, to say goodbye?'

Mrs Jones shook her head. ‘I want my boy to remember me the way I was.' She made a gesture of helplessness. ‘I don't want him to see me like this. Perhaps you'll tell him that I came here, after . . . after it's all over?'

Outside, the sun was shining and the birds were singing. There was no sign of April or Patrick, though their voices could be heard clearly on the quiet air. Mrs Jones climbed up into the cart with a pitiful slowness; she seemed weak and tired, and Fon felt instinctively that she would find death a welcome release.

She watched as the woman drove the horse and carriage away from the farmhouse. Mrs Jones did not look back, and the last glimpse of her Fon would ever have revealed a sick but determined woman, whose back was straight and whose head was held high.

There was a constriction in Fon's throat as she returned indoors. She sank down into a chair, her head resting on her hands; life was full of joy one minute and full of sadness the next. She sighed heavily, pushing herself to her feet. There was work to be done; nothing would be achieved by sitting here moping. And yet even as Fon returned to her chores, the tears spilled over, running down her cheeks and tasting salt on her lips.

Eline stared down at the small girl sitting before her, thin legs hanging like threads over the edge of the chair.

‘Well, Jessie, we'll have to see what we can do for you, won't we?' She spoke softly, her mind racing, trying to sort out the complex problem with which she was being presented.

Jessie Kennedy had a condition that had wasted the muscles of one of her legs. No ordinary pair of boots was going to help her walk straight and strong.

‘Can you do anything?' Jane Kennedy's hands were twisted together almost pleadingly, and Eline hadn't the heart to confess that she had very little idea of exactly what could be achieved.

‘I'm certainly going to try,' she said, smiling. ‘Give me a few days to come up with some drawings, and then we'll talk again.'

‘Thank you, and God bless you,' Mrs Kennedy said.

Eline bit her lip. ‘I can't promise results,' she cautioned, ‘but I will try my level best to help.
That
I can promise.'

She watched as Mrs Kennedy took her daughter's hand and helped the girl down from the chair. She handed Jessie a carved stick, and the child leant against it heavily, her weak leg twisting as she put her weight on it.

Her progress from the workshop was slow and painful, and Eline felt determination rise within her. She
must
think of something, some design that would support the little girl's leg as well as her ankles and feet. She picked up a pen.

Eline lost track of time as she covered the paper with drawings, scratching some out, circling others with a ring and the words ‘might work'.

It was only when the door sprang open and Calvin stood framed against the dying light that Eline realized the time. She shuffled her papers together almost guiltily.

‘Come on home,' Calvin said, smiling. ‘No-one should work these hours.'

Eline returned his smile. ‘You're right. I'm a slave driver – but only to myself, mind.'

She was suddenly tired and climbed readily into the carriage waiting outside. The leather seats creaked and the coach groaned as Calvin climbed in beside her.

‘I'm taking you out to dinner,' he said. ‘We've been invited to the home of Hari Grenfell, and I thought it one invitation you would be pleased to accept.'

Eline smiled. ‘Of course. Hari is always interesting to talk to; she loves the shoe business even more than I do.' And, Eline thought, pushing away her tiredness, perhaps Hari would come up with some ideas for helping little Jessie Kennedy.

As Eline bathed at leisure, luxuriating in the hot scented water, her mind was worrying at the problem of a boot that would support Jessie's thin leg without restricting it too much. The structure must be light; the girl had little strength in her limbs, and so the design would need to be strong too.

As she stood before the mirror, towelling herself dry, eyeing her still slim body, Eline's thoughts turned to the one thing she had been trying to avoid thinking about – the child she was carrying.

She had not dared tell Calvin that she was uncertain about the baby's father; was it her husband's child or that of her lover, Will, with whom she had shared one afternoon of happiness?

Should she tell Calvin? Could she tell him? It was a dilemma that seemed to have no solution. She sighed, staring at her still slim waist, and yet her breasts were fuller now, the veins showing through the thin, creamy skin. She supposed that, to the eye of an expert, she was obviously in the first stages of motherhood.

She still could not believe it. Perhaps she simply did not wish to believe it; she pushed the thought away impatiently.

She dressed quickly in the clothes the maid had set out for her but discarding the tight, laced corset. She was not used to her body being restricted, and in any case she had no time for a fashion which dictated that a woman should be tied up like a sack just to look shapely.

The maid came into the room and made no comment as her glance slid over the corset lying brazenly open on the bed. She took up a brush and began to attend to Eline's hair in an authoritative manner that somehow irritated Eline.

‘It's all right, Maggie,' she said, trying to be pleasant. ‘I'd prefer to do it myself.'

‘But, madam,' the girl protested, ‘it's not seemly for a lady to attend her own toilette.'

Eline waved her hand. ‘I'm used to caring for myself,' she said firmly. ‘Please, Maggie, go and find something else to do.'

Eline could have sworn that the girl sniffed disdainfully as she left the room, but she didn't care. She hated being fussed; it was not the sort of thing she was used to, and she was not going to be treated like an imbecile or a child at this stage of her life.

Eline smiled ruefully. What would the ladies of Oystermouth make of it all? Nina Parks, Carys Morgan and the others – how they would be impressed by all the show of pomp that Calvin's servants were so fond of. And yet, like Eline, they would all have balked at being treated as a useless ornament.

At last, she was ready, and she didn't look too bad, she decided. The blue gown suited her and the rouge she had rubbed into her cheeks took away the pallor of tiredness that had made her look worn and a little unwell.

Calvin came through from his dressing-room, and Eline was struck afresh by his immaculate taste in clothes and the handsomeness of his bearing. He was a fine man, a man any woman would be happy to have for a husband. So why wasn't she the happiest woman in all of Swansea?

He held her in his arms and then stood back to admire her. ‘Lovely,' he said, ‘so lovely. I'm a lucky devil, Eline, have I ever told you that?'

She smiled and hugged him. She was fond of Calvin; but ‘fond' was a watered-down sort of love, and he deserved better than that.

Later, as the carriage drew to a halt outside Summer Lodge, Eline saw that all the lights were ablaze; this was apparently going to be a large supper party.

Eline stepped into the spacious hallway and looked around at the rich wall hangings and the well-polished woodwork with a critical eye. At one time, all this grandeur would have overawed her, but now, used as she was to Stormhill Manor, the house seemed small in comparison. Though, she conceded, everything in it reflected Hari's impeccable taste.

Hari and her husband Craig were waiting to welcome their guests, and once the formalities were over, Eline spoke quietly to her hostess.

‘Could I talk to you, some time soon? I want to ask your advice about a little girl with foot problems.'

‘Of course,' Hari said at once. ‘I'll come to your workshop tomorrow; would the afternoon suit you?'

‘That would be lovely.' Eline smiled, and, as she moved away to make room for more newcomers, she wondered at the warmth of an important woman like Hari Grenfell, who was never too busy to give a helping hand to anyone.