The Gentle Wind's Caress Page 4

‘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.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Farrell growled, his head hung low.

  Stiff and hesitant, she moved to the range. Her mind went blank. What to feed him? She couldn’t think. ‘We…we don’t have much. No meat.’

  His face reddened in anger. ‘I bought bread yesterday. Don’t yer tell me yer’ve both eaten it all!’

  ‘No, no. We haven’t.’ Isabelle held onto the back of the chair to keep upright.

  ‘Christ, woman, are yer dumb or what? Peacock said yer could cook!’

  ‘I…I can bake pies. Our old cook showed me…’

  ‘I don’t care what it is, just feed me.’

  She closed her eyes momentarily and left the safety of her end of the kitchen. As she passed his chair, he jerked out a hand and caught her wrist. ‘If yer want to stay here, yer’d best smarten up.’ His fingers felt like they were crushing her bones. ‘If I’ve got to have a wife, I’ll not have a stupid one.’

  She nodded.

  Hughie clambered in carrying a bucket full of water. He stopped on seeing Farrell clasping her wrist. His gaze flew to her. ‘I…I…got water.’

  ‘Thanks, pet. Put…put it over there. I’ve got some tea in the pot for you.’

  ‘Thanks, pet!’ Farrell mimicked in a woman’s high voice, then he stood so fast he knocked his chair over. ‘Get me something to eat!’ he roared. ‘I’ll not be placed second behind this runt.’ With a swipe of his ham fist, Farrell knocked Hughie in the chest, sending him skittling backwards. The bucket fell from his hands and splashed over Farrell’s boots.

  Farrell leapt to the side, shouting he’d kill the little asswipe. Hughie ducked Farrell’s swinging fist and raced outside.

  Isabelle went to follow him when she was abruptly yanked by Farrell’s grip on her hair. He glared down at her a mere inch from her face. ‘Yer get me something to eat or yer’ll be out on the road with nowt but the clothes on yer back!’

  She nodded, wincing as the movement made the pull on her hair tighter.

  ‘And clean this mess up.’ He flung her away.

  With her scalp burning, she stumbled into the scullery and through to the larder. She allowed herself a moment to sag against the cold shelves before straightening up and raising her chin. She’d feed him and keep her mouth shut until his mood left him. Nodding, she gathered the bread and a jar of lard. All it will take is a little adjusting – on everyone’s part.

  ***

  Isabelle arched her back and winced with pain as the cramped muscles stretched. Sweat dripped off her nose and hot steam buffeted her with every plunge of the washing stick. Sheets filled the large copper tub and her arms ached as she lifted and wrung the water from them. She carried the full wicker basket outside and walked towards the rope she and Hughie had strung between two trees.

  ‘Hey you!’

  He’s awake. She turned as Farrell called her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute. I must hang this washing out to dry or there’ll be no sheets for the bed.’

  ‘Bugger that. Get me some tea.’

  ‘I will after I have finished.’ She strode to the rope and dropped the basket. She heard him curse violently. Her legs trembled a little at her own defiance and she hurriedly hung the sheets out, hoping he wouldn’t beat her once she was inside.

  A weary sigh escaped her as she turned back towards the house. The man was unreasonable. His bad mood from after his fall yesterday morning had stayed with him all day, plus the copious amounts of ale he’d drunk during the rest of the afternoon didn’t help lift it. He had sat for hours drinking at the kitchen table. At first whenever she or Hughie were in range of his arm, he’d swing out and strike them.

  Stunned by his temper, Isabelle found it impossible to think or do anything worthwhile. She went around in a daze of disbelief. It seemed impossible that she’d been clouted and yelled at. Never in her life had she been hit or treated this way before by a man.

  Soon they learnt to stay clear of his end of the table, but since he sat closest to the back door they needed to pass him to go outside. He’d ordered them about until he fell into another stupor. She and Hughie had crept around him during the evening until, thankfully, they had gone upstairs to the bedroom that held the bed.

  Curled up together, they had inspected their bruises on arms and faces. She cleaned up a cut on Hughie’s lip and eventually they fell into an exhausted sleep, but t
hey had paid for that sleep this morning. For on waking, they found themselves covered with red fleabites that itched in the most ferocious way.

  Hence, her washing day. She was determined to scrub the whole farm, brick by brick if need be.

  Entering the kitchen, she edged around him and went to the range. ‘Do you want some boiled eggs?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She set about boiling the water and putting plates on the table.

  ‘What happened to yer face?’

  Isabelle paused and stared. ‘You don’t know?’

  He had the grace to look away. ‘Tell me I didn’t do it,’ he whispered.

  ‘Well, I doubt that Hughie did, do you?’ She tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. ‘Or perhaps you think I did it to myself?’

  Farrell cleared his throat. ‘I wasn’t aware I…’

  ‘Could be so cruel?’

  He glared and opened his mouth to speak further, but instead simply grunted and turned away. ‘Where’s the boy?’

  ‘My brother, Hughie, who was also on the receiving end of your drunken temper, found an orchard behind the barns. He’s collecting windfall apples, if there are any, to feed the pig, but I’ll use the best ones to fill a pie.’ She added more tea leaves to the tin teapot and glanced at him under her lashes. ‘This farm is in a deplorable state.’

  He thumped the table and made her jump, spilling the tea. ‘Don’t dare to tell me about me farm. Yer uppity wench!’

  She hid her trembling hands behind her back. I’ve done it again. ‘I simply mean that it looks to me like you need some help. A labourer or two.’

  His harsh laugh frightened her even more than his violence. ‘Where do yer think I can get the money to hire labour?’

  ‘Surely…I mean can’t you sell some stock?’

  ‘Does it look like there is stock to sell? I’ve hardly enough here to keep this place going as it is.’ He sat heavily in the chair and hung his head, his hair, over long, fell forward. ‘I don’t need yer to tell me about the state of this farm. I see it each day.’

  His slumped form filled her with pity, which surprised her. He had no idea how to behave with people but she knew she could assist him, teach him. She simply didn’t believe that he was all bad. ‘I will help you run the farm. Together we can accomplish much I am certain.’