The Gentle Wind's Caress (5 page)

They drank their tea without milk and in silence until a cow’s bellow made them jump.

Hughie’s eyes widened. ‘What about the animals he said I had to see to?’

Isabelle frowned. ‘Oh dear.’ She looked through the dirty window. The light outside was fading fast. Sighing, she shrugged on her coat again. ‘Very well. Let us see what has to be done.’

Outside, Isabelle paused. The three outbuildings on the other side of the yard did not look inviting. She gazed out over the fields. A small flock of sheep grazed farther away, but closer a few cows wandered about in the house field, and one actually came up to the gate and bellowed to them. The ancient trees surrounding the house and yard lingered into a strung out line as they followed a shallow stream towards the small woodland in the distance. White flecks against the stream’s banks showed that the ducks and geese had left the yard.

Taking a deep breath, Isabelle strode towards the first outbuilding and pulled back the dilapidated old door. The dank smell of rotten straw clogged her throat. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness and then peered around. A haphazard pile of old straw bales dominated one corner while in another, numerous farm implements lay scattered and forgotten.

‘There is so much in here.’ Hughie said walking over to three barrels placed against the far wall. He took the lid off one and grimaced. ‘Whatever it was in this barrel is all mouldy now.’

Isabelle opened a sack by the door and found it full of potatoes. She dragged the sack out into the yard so she could see better. Most of them had gone to seed, but some were edible. She took out four large potatoes. The cow by the gate bellowed again. ‘I think we need to milk that cow. What do you think?’

Hughie glanced from her to the cow and back again. ‘We don’t know how.’

‘Looks like we will have to learn a lot of things.’ The noise from the cow grew louder and more frequent. Isabelle gave the potatoes to Hughie. ‘Take them inside and bring me back the bucket.’

She walked slowly towards the demanding beast and paused. Its udders seemed huge. Isabelle bit her lip and stepped closer. She unlocked the gate and the cow bellowed into her face, frightening her so much she screamed. Her heart raced as though she had run a mile. She grasped the cow’s head rope. ‘What am I to do?’ she whispered, close to tears.

‘Here, Belle.’ Hughie thrust the bucket at her. ‘Put it under the cow and pull those things there.’ He pointed in the direction of the udder.

‘Well, you hold this rope.’ She placed the bucket under the udder and squatted down. Taking a teat in each hand, she pulled and jumped in surprise when milk squirted over her boots.

‘You did it!’ Hughie’s yell made the cow step sideways.

‘Hold it still and be quiet.’ Isabelle steadied herself again and alternatively pulled at the teats. Some milk made it into the bucket, but within minutes, her arms and back ached from the unusual position.

‘How much is enough?’ Hughie asked.

‘I don’t know.’ She turned to look at him and at the same time the cow’s hind leg jutted forward and knocked the bucket over spilling its precious contents.

‘Damn! Blast!’ Isabelle slapped the cow’s rump and it trotted away. Collecting the overturned bucket, she scowled at the offending creature. ‘It can bellow all it wants for I’m not doing that again.’

Sighing, she walked through the gate and closed it. ‘Mr Farrell will have to deal with it in the morning when he returns.’

‘We’ll not be having milk in our tea then.’

‘I’m sure we’ll survive.’

Hughie strolled over to the last outbuilding in the row. ‘What’s in here do you think?’

‘No doubt more of the same that’s in the first one.’

The door was split in half, with the top section open and tied against the crumbling stonework, the lower half shut. Hughie looked over and then turned to grin at her. ‘Come look, Belle.’

Peeking over the door, she spotted a fat pig asleep in the corner, but hearing them, the pig rocked onto its feet and snuffled over to the door making hideous noises.

‘It might be hungry.’ Hughie reached down to scratch its tough hairy head.

‘Careful, it might bite.’ Isabelle pulled him away. ‘Go look in the middle shed and see if there is some food in there or any other animals. I’ll search in the bushes over there for eggs.’

The hens scattered when she approached and headed into the first barn. Tall grass, weeds and stinging nettles surrounded the broken wagon like a fortress. Swishing them aside with a stick, Isabelle hunted for eggs. She found three on top of the wagon and gently placed them in her pockets. Ducking under the wagon, she spied a hen sitting near the wheel. It moved for a moment revealing a dozen or so eggs and Isabelle grinned and reached in for them. A stinging pain on her hand made her fall backwards. The hen had pecked her. ‘You rotten thing! Keep your eggs then!’

Straightening up, Isabelle rubbed her sore hand as Hughie joined her.

‘I’ve fed the pig some grain I found.’ He shrugged. ‘It might not be what it eats but there is nothing else.’

‘Don’t worry about it now.’

They walked into the house as the light went completely. The fire was low, but gave out enough light for Isabelle to see by as she rummaged around the kitchen for candles. Beneath all the rubbish covering the table, she found a small candle stub in a holder with matches. Its light was pitiful but better than nothing.

‘Look in the scullery for a lamp, Hughie, and we need more water. Can you get it while I start-’ Isabelle screamed as a mouse ran over her boot and under the table.

‘It’s all right, Belle.’ He grinned. ‘It’s only a mouse.’

She closed her eyes momentarily. Tiredness sapped her spirit. Treacherous tears formed behind her lids, but she knuckled them away. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t give in.

Chapter Four

Isabelle woke with a start, winced at the pain and stiffness in her neck and lamented the folly of sleeping upright in a kitchen chair. Across the table, Hughie slept on with his head cradled on his arms.

She yawned and stood up, stretching her legs to get the blood flowing again. A weak light filtered in through the grubby window and she sagged against the table at the enormity of her situation. She had married a stranger and now lived in a filthy neglected farm. Her bottom lip trembled as tears welled, but she swallowed them back. This weakness of wanting to cry annoyed her. Crying never did any good. It hadn’t brought her mother or Sally back or even her father when he had walked away from them when she was only ten years old.

No, crying was for old women regretting their lost youth. She, Isabelle Gibson, now Farrell had her whole life ahead of her and she intended to make a go of it.

With this in mind, she went into the scullery and changed out of her good dress and into her old black skirt and cream blouse, the only other clothes she possessed. That done, she went outside and filled the bucket with water.

Hughie was adding wood to the fire when she entered the kitchen. She grinned at him. ‘Today is a new day, Hughie. A fresh start for both of us.’

His face lit up. ‘We are leaving?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I am married. I have to stay and so because it is done, we are going to make the best of it. Len Farrell might be accustomed to living in squalor but we are not. We are going to clean and tidy this place.’

Hughie groaned and buried his head in his hands. ‘I want to leave, Belle. I don’t like it here.’

‘You’ve hardly given it a chance. Yes, we’ve had a bad beginning, but it will get better. I am sure of it.’ She put the kettle on to boil as the cow’s bellow rang in the clear morning air. ‘Now, go and milk that cow while I make a start on getting this kitchen to rights.’

Hughie threw up his hands. ‘I can’t milk the dreaded thing.’

‘Yes, you can.’ She poured the water into the kettle and then pushed the bucket at him and waved him away. ‘Now go. And watch that its back leg doesn’t clout you one.’

After a quick cup of weak black tea, Isabelle filled the iron pot with hot water and added caustic soda to it that she found under the stone sink in the scullery. Placing an empty box on a chair, she threw anything resembling rubbish in it and then scrubbed the table with a rag dipped in the soda water. She left the table to dry and washed the window inside and out. Then, she wiped over the dresser and all the shelves. Next, she found a broom in the cellar and brushed away the numerous cobwebs coating the ceiling beams.

The sudden light shining through the clean window showed how dirty the kitchen floor was and so, bunching up her skirts, Isabelle got down on her knees and scrubbed that too.

As she threw the mucky water over the nettles, Hughie ran to her grinning.

‘Look!’ He thrust the bucket at her. ‘It must be at least an inch deep.’

‘Wonderful.’ She tussled his hair. ‘We can have tea with milk this morning and since we ate the eggs and potatoes last night, I have oats simmering for porridge.’

‘Good, I’m starved!’

Chuckling, they went in for their breakfast. Things were brightening up. They could do this, she knew it.

Hughie whistled in surprise at the cleaner kitchen. ‘You’ve done grand, Belle.’

‘Yes, well, there is so much more to do.’ She tipped the milk into a clean jar and put it on the table. ‘I have plenty more cleaning to do, so you’ll have to keep me supplied with buckets of water.’

‘Do you think the pig needs feeding in the mornings too?’

Isabelle stirred the oats and turned to him, but her words died in her throat as Len Farrell stood in the doorway. She hadn’t even heard him arrive.

Her husband, fifthly and bloodied, staggered into the kitchen and fell into a chair. Isabelle’s heart missed at beat as his blood-shot eyes peered at her. He reeked of stale beer.

‘Well, wife…’ He slipped sideways and only kept upright by holding onto the table edge. ‘Made yersen at home I see.’

Isabelle swallowed. ‘I…we…’

‘Silence!’ he roared.

Hughie jumped and ran to stand beside her and she held him tight.

Farrell winkled his nose as though he smelt something unpleasant. ‘Eating me food! Sleeping in me house!’ He thumped the table. ‘Get out!’

Isabelle trembled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I said get out!’ Farrell sprung to his feet, but the motion was too quick for him in his befuddled state. He toppled over and landed with a sickening thud on the stone floor.

‘Dear God in Heaven,’ she whispered. Pushing Hughie away, she stepped around the table and stared at her prostrate husband.

‘Is he moving, Belle?’ Hughie murmured, his fear evident in his white face.

Isabelle touched Farrell with the toe of her boot. He groaned and she let out a pent up breath. ‘He’s alive.’

‘What are we to do?’

‘Nothing for the moment. He is drunk. We’ll let him sleep it off. Maybe then he will be more sensible.’ She ushered Hughie outside. ‘Go look for some eggs and fill the bucket with water. I’ll bring your breakfast out to you.’

Once Hughie was gone from sight, Isabelle looked down on her unfortunate choice of husband. He frightened and repulsed her, but she had made her decision to stay. Besides, she had no money, no family and nowhere to go.

Sighing, she went to the range. Maybe her husband was a good man when he wasn’t drunk?

While he slept Isabelle continued with her scrubbing. Farrell didn’t stir for two hours, then, as she was sorting out the best of the old potatoes from the sack, he moaned.

Her dirt-covered hands stilled and she peeped over at him.

He groaned on sitting up. His eyes narrowed, trying to focus. ‘What’s going on?’

Disgusted she sneered. ‘Nothing. You fell down drunk!’

Farrell grunted. Gripping the table edge, he hauled himself to his feet, sniffing and coughing. ‘Get me a drink.’

‘There’s tea in the pot.’ She rose and poured out a cup of tea for him and then inched it over in his direction.

He took a sip before flopping down onto the chair at the end of the table. Blood-shot eyes narrowed as he surveyed the kitchen before scowling back at her. ‘Yer make too free with me things.’

Isabelle swung the kettle onto the heat to boil and to give her shaking hands something to do. ‘Pardon?’

‘Who said yer could touch me things?’

‘I am your wife. It is my duty to clean our home.’

‘It is
my
home.’

She stared at him as though he was a simpleton. ‘And, since our marriage, it is mine also.’ She put two cups on the table. Hughie would be in for his tea soon. ‘Do you want to continue living in filth? I cannot imagine what-’

‘Shut yer mouth!’ His fist caught the side of her head. She spun like a top and banged into the range. The fire’s heat threatened and she darted away, dizzy, swaying and with stars sparkling in front of her eyes.

‘You…You hit me.’ She held her head and stared at him through her tears.

He turned away and sat back down. ‘It’s yer own fault.’

Her fault? Why?
Because you opened your mouth!
Isabelle swallowed. When would she learn not to judge and give her opinions so freely? She badly needed to sit down but her limbs wouldn’t move.