Honey's Farm (5 page)

‘Lordy me!' Mrs Jones said softly, ‘I can't afford no doctor, my love. Can't you do something for him? I've heard my boy praise you to the skies many times what with those herb things you use on the sick animals.'

‘Me?' Fon said in surprise. ‘But I don't know anything about sickness in men; animals are different, you must see that.'

Mrs Jones frowned. ‘You know enough to suit me,' she said reasonably, ‘and folks is same as animals, get the same sickness they do, mind.'

Fon moved closer to where Tommy lay and rested the back of her hand against his skin. It was burning hot to the touch. It was clear he had some sort of fever. She opened his shirt and saw an area of reddened flesh spreading to his waist. The problem was in the region of the abdomen, and reluctantly Fon lifted the shirt and exposed Tommy's thin shanks.

She stifled a gasp at the angry flesh just above his pubis and compressed her lips for a moment, trying to think calmly, trying to dredge up the memory of the remedies she used for fevers when dealing with the farm animals.

‘I think,' she said at last, ‘it might be a fistula.' She glanced at Mrs Jones and saw with dismay that the woman was hanging on her every word.

Patrick tugged at her skirt and began to cry. Almost gratefully, Fon looked down at him.

‘I'll take the boy home,' she said quickly, ‘but I'll pick up some remedies and be back in the morning to do whatever I can, I promise. Until then, try bathing his head with fresh water from the spring; it sometimes helps.'

‘Bless you, Mrs O'Conner,' Mrs Jones said gratefully. ‘There's good of you, I can't tell you how relieved I am. I've been that worried about my boy.'

‘I can't promise to cure him,' Fon said quickly. ‘All I can do is try to bring down the fever and ease the pain. It's not much, I'm afraid.'

By the time Fon left the Joneses' house, the sky had become streaked with evening light. The sun was dying in a blaze of colour, promising another fine day, and suddenly Fon realized that Jamie would be home from the fields wanting his supper.

She thought quickly and decided that cold chicken pie and pickle would suffice for this evening's meal. Jamie had a hearty appetite and never complained about the food she put before him.

He was at the pump in the yard, stripped to the waist, cold water running over his broad shoulders and down his wide muscled body to his narrow hips. His dark hair was plastered around his head, and droplets of water still lay like diamonds of light among the dark curls.

Love for him surged through Fon's veins, and she realized with a heat in her cheeks that she was every bit as hot-blooded as her mother. How often had Fon blamed Nina for her lack of caution where men were concerned, and now here she was, Nina's youngest, supposedly prim daughter, feeling the hot blood pound in her veins after only a few hours had passed since she had made love with her husband in the sweet grass of the fields.

She hurriedly set the table, putting out the cutlery with precise movements, trying to think calmly about her remedies, for she knew Mrs Jones would not rest until Fon returned to see to her son.

Jamie came into the kitchen, a big man, swinging through the low door, his frame filling it, blocking out the light from the rising moon.

‘Tommy's sick.' Fon placed the food on the table, thick slices of fresh crusty bread and a pat of salt butter standing alongside the plate of pie and the dish of pickle. She knew she was excusing her failure to make her husband a proper meal.

‘I said I'd go back over there tomorrow and see what I could do for him.' She sank into a chair and stared across the table at Jamie, waiting for him to speak. He forked some pie into his mouth and stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

‘I don't know enough to be any real help, Jamie, but Mrs Jones seems to have such faith in me.'

‘Then you must not let her down' – he smiled warmly – ‘and I'm sure you won't. What is it?' Jamie leaned across the table to help his son by slicing the chicken pie, cutting it into smaller, more manageable pieces.

‘Some kind of inflamed fistula,' Fon said slowly. ‘At least I think that's what it is.'

Jamie frowned. ‘What makes you think that?' He wiped his son's mouth and helped him down from the chair, patting the boy's plump rear with a large, tender hand. ‘Go play for a minute, give your father a chance to fill his belly.'

‘The skin is red and angry,' Fon said. ‘Swollen too. Tommy looks real bad.'

‘Bit of thistle might do the trick,' Jamie said. ‘Why don't you look it up in that book you're always reading?'

Fon nodded. ‘That's what I thought I'd do.' She poured some hot fragrant tea and placed the cup beside Jamie's plate. She was worried, unsure of her ability to deal with Tommy's illness; and the knowledge that she was the only one Mrs Jones could turn to for help weighed heavily upon her.

Fon pushed away her uneaten food and moved to the table, turning up the lamp so that she could read. She looked up ‘fistula' in her book of herbal remedies and saw that Jamie's advice about using thistle had been sound.

‘“Star thistle”,' she read aloud. ‘That's just what you told me to use, Jamie. You are clever.'

He shrugged. ‘No, just experienced,' he said, smiling. ‘Go on, then, let's hear what more this wonderful book of yours tells you.'

‘“Government and virtues of thistle”,' Fon read out. ‘“Almost all thistles are under the government of Mars”.' She looked at Jamie. ‘Mars, that's good.'

‘Is it?' Jamie asked, with raised eyebrows, and Fon glanced up at him.

‘It flowers early, so there should be some in the fields right now,' she explained. ‘I haven't any dried thistle around the kitchen, but I'll remember to put some ready for the winter, just in case.'

‘Plenty of thistles up where I've been working; if you'd said, I'd have brought some down with me.' Jamie bit into a crusty piece of bread, enjoying the food she had prepared. For a moment, Fon was distracted from her book, watching his strong face with renewed sense of wonder, seeing how the brows arched darkly over his eyes, seeing how firm was his jawline.

She forced herself to return to her book and read once more. ‘“The root, powdered and distilled in wine, is good against plague and pestilence” . . .' She glanced at Jamie, who seemed engrossed in cutting another doorstep of bread. ‘“. . . And drunk in the morning while fasting is profitable for ulcers and fistulas in any part of the body.”'

She sighed heavily. ‘I can't see young Tommy wanting to eat anything at all, so the fasting will be no problem.' She rose to her feet. ‘I'll go and pick some thistle now. It can be distilling while I put Patrick to bed.'

It was cooler in the fields now, but the warmth of the day still seemed to be captured in the cornfields that were turning from green to golden. Here and there a tall standing poppy waved translucent red petals towards the sky that seemed to reflect their redness. Fon sighed, drinking in the peace and tranquillity of the land.

Her back ached as she gathered the green, woolly-leaved star thistles, careful to pull the plants up at the root. Once or twice she caught her fingers on the prickly whitish-green heads and paused, rubbing at her apron with stained fingers.

She thought of Jamie and the way he had worked the clover field tirelessly, bending and dipping over the land, and was awed at the strength of his muscles.

Her apron full of thistles, she turned to walk back towards the farmhouse, climbing easily over the stile and making her way around the field where the big Welsh black bull, Jamie's pride and joy, stared balefully at her, as though challenging her to invade his domain.

‘It's all right,
tarw fawr
,' she said softly. ‘I'll keep well away from you, big bull, don't you worry about that.'

When she entered the cool, whitewashed kitchen, there was no sign of Jamie or Patrick, and Fon smiled as she heard soft footsteps on the stairs.

‘Put him to bed, have you?' Fon dropped the green thistles on the table. ‘I hope you washed his face first.'

‘Don't worry, girl.' Jamie caught her from the back and cupped her breasts in his hands. ‘I know how to look after a little boy, well enough.'

He kissed the warmth of her neck. ‘I know how to look after my wife too.'

Fon felt him harden against her buttocks and drew away from him smiling. ‘
Duw
, there's a man!' she said, bringing a large pan from beneath the sink. ‘Like that big black bull up in the field, you are, mind. I sometimes think that's all you married me for.'

He watched as she began to cut the leaves from the long, thin roots and put them in the pan. ‘What you going to do with those?' he asked, and Fon glanced over her shoulder as she opened the oven door and placed the pan inside.

‘I'll dry the roots and then crush them in a little of my elderberry wine,' she said, rubbing her hands on her apron. ‘The leaves I'll soak in water and then boil them up. I shan't waste any of it, don't worry.'

‘Turning into a real little physic, aren't you, my love?' The banter had gone from Jamie's voice and, turning, Fon saw a shadow fall across his face. She knew instinctively that he was thinking of Katherine, of how nothing, no remedies, no amount of loving attention, had saved her. The knowledge that his thoughts were with his dead wife was like the pain of a knife cutting through Fon's flesh.

‘I'll go to bed when I've finished making the cordial,' she said briskly, and suddenly wanting to punish him for his thoughts, which she knew was foolish of her, she put down her book and let herself outside, without another word.

She stalked along the pathway and seated herself on the bench below the apple trees at the edge of the garden, her heart pounding. So he still thought of her, his first wife; even all their love-making had not eradicated Katherine from his mind.

He did not follow her, and Fon's lips tightened. What had happened to the moment of intimacy when he held her against him, his desire for her evident in the hard lines of his body? A rush of pain filled her; was it just a solace to him, did he just enjoy the animal pleasure of taking her and owning her? Would she never reach that inner core of him, be truly one with him except in the flesh? If so, that was what she must accept, because she loved Jamie beyond all reasoning, and she would take whatever he offered her and be glad of it.

Suddenly, she wanted his closeness, she wanted to know that he was hers, at least in some measure. She rose and returned to the house and saw that Jamie was pouring over the books, his pen in his hand.

She had never been the one to approach him before. He always took the initiative, making her feel desired and desirable. It was difficult for her to go to him, to put her hands on his shoulders, but she forced herself to do it. He was her husband, they were bound together for mutual comfort and joy.

He did not look up when she touched him, and Fon knew that he had been aware of her moodiness and was not to be easily won over.

She slipped her hands downward over the broad, muscled chest, feeling the beating of his heart beneath her fingers. She loved him so much that it was like an agony within her. She touched the buckle of his leather belt and felt him tense, his back was solidly against her, and for a moment she expected him to shake her away.

‘Jamie,' she said softly in his ear, ‘I want you to make love to me, please.'

He hesitated for a moment, and then he rose, knocking over the chair in his haste. He took her in his arms, pushing her suddenly against the hard wood of the cottage door.

She wanted to beg him to say he loved her, but his mouth crushed down on hers, and in any case she would have been afraid to speak the words out loud.

He pushed up her skirts. ‘You smell of the fields, of the corn, of the grass, and I want you so badly, my little colleen.' He breathed the words in her ear and then he thrust against her so that she gasped and flung her head back, while her body arched towards him.

It was a silent struggle of wills as well as flesh, punctuated by sighs and moans, though who was trying to punish who, Fon didn't know. But she revelled in his hunger for her, she pressed his strong thighs against her, as though she couldn't have enough of him, and his lips were hard, forcing her mouth open so that he seemed to be within her, capturing her like a butterfly on a pin. And she did not want to break away, did not want the joy to end.

Now, in this moment, he was hers. This was her triumph, that she and Jamie were bound together at least in this. A searing heat filled her, rising like the flames of a fire to engulf and consume her. She seemed to lose consciousness of anything but sensation, and in that moment Fon knew she had surrendered every last part of herself to her husband.

Fon was up before daylight, ready to make her way across the fields to the farmhouse on the narrow strip of land bordering Honey's Farm, where she knew Mrs Jones was depending on her with touching faith.

Tommy did not at first respond to the effects of the cordial of thistle roots; his fever seemed unabated, and the unnatural colour still pervaded his body. Not knowing what else to do, Fon bathed him continuously in the water from the bowl beside the bed, and finding it seemed to ease him, bade his mother bring more cold water to soak the flannel she pressed to his head and chest.

Though surprised, Mrs Jones did as she was told and even helped to spread the icy flannel on her son's skin. Gradually, as the sunlight began to poke inquisitive fingers through the window of the little bedroom, Tommy's breathing became easier.

‘Time for hot poultices, now, I think.' Fon seemed possessed of an uncanny knowledge of what was needed next. She spread the poultice on a piece of dry flannel and, while it was still hot, placed it on the inflammation on Tommy's groin.