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- Herausgeber: Brandon
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
Alice Taylor's gripping sequel to The Woman of the House. At Mossgrove, the Phelan family farm, long-time hired hand Jack plays peacemaker as widow Martha Phelan battles her young son, Peter, who wants to modernize the farm. Tensions on the home front are bitter enough, but at the Conway farm across the river, more trouble is brewing. Slovenly Matt Conway feels trapped and abuses his wife, Biddy. Spurred on by a misguided belief that the Phelans got the best of him in a loan to buy land, he keeps vigil at a fence post plotting revenge ...
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ALICE TAYLOR
Across the River
To Mike
Contents
Chapter One
MARTHAGAZEDINTO the mirror and studied her face with dispassionate appraisal. It must be easier to grow old and lose your good looks if you had been plain all your life. You did not have that much to lose. She knew many plain women who had actually improved with age. They became serene and comfortable-looking, the last thing that she would ever want. She had always stood out in a crowd. Once she had overheard her sister-in-law Kate compare her to a black swan, and when you were used to being regarded as beautiful it was disquieting to observe the glow begin to diminish.
She turned her head and raised her chin to study her side view. Her jawline was not as clean cut or as well defined as it had been. When she lowered her chin, it became more obvious. She angled her face to get a better side view. Her skin was losing its fine clear texture and she could see a few open pores with a slight rough, grainy effect. A short black hair sprouted from the edge of her jawline and she grasped a tweezers and whipped it out. When she stared directly at her face, the fine skin under her eyes was no longer soft and moist but beginning to wrinkle a little like fine tissue paper. She picked out a grey rib from her long black hair and saw a few extra ones since her last examination. She had considered colouring her hair, but on Sundays when she looked up the church and took note of dyed heads she changed her mind.
Since Ned’s accident she had dressed in black, first in mourning but later because she knew that it suited her. As well, people dressed in black were unapproachable, and that suited her too. In life people tripped you up and it was a good idea to keep them at a distance.
Kate had remarked that she never walked into a room but swept into it. Although probably meant as a criticism, she had taken it as a compliment. Kate had never liked her and she certainly had no time for Kate, who was a do-gooder with her nose stuck into everything, thinking that she could improve the world. She doubted that losing her looks bothered Kate, but then she did not have that much to lose.
The mirror hung at eye level on the shutter of the kitchen window, and the full glare of the midday light left no room for illusion. Raising her head, she examined her neck. No cause for comfort there either. Maybe she should begin to take better care of herself. The prospect of growing into a wrinkled old hag or an overweight porker did not appeal to her, but the possibility of either ever happening was remote. Her fine bone structure would withstand well the progress of years, and weight had never posed a problem. There was good physical exercise around the farm and hard work had never bothered her. Life had been easy when Ned was alive; after the accident it had been tough, but she had had no choice but to keep going. Someone had to run Mossgrove. Then gradually she had realised that she enjoyed being in control and that the challenge stimulated her.
Since Ned’s death eight years ago, there had been problems on the farm, but she had solved them and had enjoyed the sense of achievement. Many of the neighbours did not like her, but because she was Ned’s widow they were all helpful. All of them with the exception of the Conways, who hated her because she was a Phelan. Strange that she had never considered herself a Phelan. They were Ned’s family but never hers. Moving into their family home she had felt threatened by them, by the living ones but also by the ones who were gone. Even though they were dead, they seemed to haunt the place in the trees they had planted, their buildings and the things they had made. She glanced with disdain at the huge old dresser that stretched across the entire end wall of the kitchen. It had been made by Edward Phelan, Ned’s grandfather. Over the years she had wanted to throw it out, but everything that the dead Phelans had made was sanctified in the eyes of those who came after them.
Part of that problem was Jack, who had worked Mossgrove with three generations of Phelans and was still here to work with Peter, who would be the fourth generation. Jack kept the dead Phelans alive by constantly talking about them as if they were part of present-day life. It annoyed her intensely, but there was no way that she could change Jack. He was as much part of Mossgrove as any Phelan, and sometimes she felt that he was more part of it than herself. They differed on occasions but over the years had developed a grudging respect for each other. Dislike of the Conways was a common bond between them.
As yet she had not sorted out the problem that the Conways posed along the boundary down by the river, but one day it would come to a head and then she would make her move. There was no way that they were going to get the better of her. Ned had been too soft with them. The bitterness between the families went back to the time of old Edward Phelan, Ned’s grandfather, and it had festered ever since, but she was determined that in her time it would be sorted out once and for all. In the mean time there was the more immediate problem of Peter, who was now home full-time to work in Mossgrove. Peter! The only son, but they had never understood each other. All that rubbish about sons and mothers was not true in their case. Peter and herself had clashed ever since he had first voiced an opinion. If only he were more like Nora, but Peter had always been independent and strong-willed, though that had created no barrier between Ned and himself; love of Mossgrove had been their common bond.
After Ned had died she had gone through a bad patch and had attempted to sell Mossgrove. Peter had never forgiven her for that. He had been twelve at the time, but the whole episode seemed to have been imprinted on his memory. Even though she had changed her mind, Peter was still resentful of what he saw as a betrayal of his father and Mossgrove.
She hoped that he would never find out that her mind had been changed for her because there was a legal reason why Mossgrove could not be sold. She had sometimes wondered if Kate and Jack knew the real truth. If they did they kept their own counsel and never used it against her, but Peter would be different. He was direct and forceful and enjoyed opposing her.
A sudden movement reflected in the mirror startled her. She whipped around to discover Peter leaning against the jamb of the back door, studying her with an amused look on his face. How long had he been there? He must have slipped in quietly while she had been absorbed in her facial appraisal. It irritated her to think that he had caught her at a disadvantage. Typical of him to stand there silently availing of the opportunity to belittle her!
“Surveying the ruins?” he questioned mockingly.
“How long have you been standing there spying on me?” she demanded, sitting on the edge of windowsill, folding her arms tightly and facing him.
“Mother Martha …” he began, raising his hands in mock submission. Tall and athletic, when he bent forward in an ironic bow his blond hair fell across his forehead.
“Don’t call me that,” she cut across him. “You know that it drives me mad, but of course that’s exactly why you do it, isn’t it?”
“But it kinda suits you,” he taunted. “Did no one ever tell you, Mother, that you had the makings of a great dictator. Run the show with no consultation with lesser mortals.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she exclaimed in annoyance.
Turning her back on him, she pulled the latch of the window and it slid down with a bang. “When someone knows what they’re doing, where is the point in running around discussing things with fools?”
“It’s called democracy, Mother,” he told her evenly.
“Well I call it a waste of time,” she declared, returning to the edge of the windowsill.
“That’s my mother,” he said, still leaning against the jamb of the door and rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.
“Stop acting the smart man now,” she snapped. “Just because you were the star turn on the school debating team does not necessarily mean that you have all the answers.”
“Well, the way it is now, Mother,” he told her with determination, “I did not spend two years in agricultural college to come back here to run Mossgrove the way you have been doing it since Dad died.”
“It’s as well run now as it ever was,” she insisted
“Not saying that it isn’t,” he told her sharply, and she could hear the supressed irritation in his voice, “but if you intended to continue on as you were, where was the point in sending me to do this agricultural course after my Leaving Cert? I could have done something else if I knew that I was supposed to come back here to act as another Jack or Davy Shine, doing your say-so.”
“Oh, so you’ve been discussing me with Jack and Davy Shine,” she accused him.
“Did I say that?” he demanded.
“There you go again,” she told him, “with your smart logic, behaving as if you were talking to a dimwit.”
“I wonder where did I get that from?” he asked.
“I never talk down to people,” she asserted with exasperation.
“Maybe not,” he told her sharply, “but you treat them that way, which is far worse.”
“Is this conversation about you, me or the farm?” she demanded.
“About all three, I’d say,” he told her mildly, “because we’re a bit like the Blessed Trinity, aren’t we? Inseparable and hard to understand.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Peter, will you stop talking rubbish and go out and do something useful instead of driving me mad,” she fumed as she strode to the table and began to mix with vigour the cake that she had begun an hour previously.
“That’s our mother all right,” he told no one in particular as he walked over to the window. “Won’t discuss anything, just bulldozes on with the belief that everything will flatten in front of her.”
“What is it you want to discuss?” she demanded, resting her hands on the side of the dish.
“Money,” he told her, still standing at the window with his back to her and looking down over the farm.
“Oh, so that’s it,” she said.
“How do you mean, that’s it?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Well, everything is about money, isn’t it?” she said.
“In your world,” he agreed.
“Here we go again.”
“No, here we don’t go again,” He jerked around from the window with an obstinate look on his face. She knew that look since he was a child. “We need to invest in a new milking machine and a new tractor and to bring this place up to date,” he told her with determination.
“Have you any idea what kind of money you’re talking about?” she demanded.
“Down to the last penny,” he informed her decisively, returning to look out the window.
“But more important,” she wanted to know, “where is this money going to come from?”
“You have money stashed away somewhere,” he told her quietly, “because Dad had money in the bank when he died.”
“How do you know that your father had money in the bank?” she demanded in surprise.
“He told me,” he said.
“At your age!” she protested. “You were only twelve.”
“We talked about everything, and I never forgot one thing that Dad told me. That’s Mossgrove money you’ve got and it has to be reinvested back into Mossgrove.”
“Well, I’ve heard it all now. Mossgrove money,” she breathed in anger. “Are you telling me that this valuable land is looking for its own back? You’re a bit young to be advising me what to do.”
“Dad was only sixteen when his father died and he ran Mossgrove.”
“There was no one else then,” she told him.
“Oh, by God, there was,” he asserted. “Jack told me that he and Nana Nellie ran this place for years before that because Grandfather Billy had lost interest in it.”
“And did Jack tell you why your grandfather could not run Mossgrove? Oh, no, of course not. Jack paints perfect pictures of the Phelans. Well, I’ll tell you: your grandfather, Billy Phelan, was a drunk and he nearly ran this place into the ground.”
“But Nana Nellie kept it going with Jack,” he said with pride, “and when Dad was able, they encouraged him and he did a great job.”
“But you’re not your father,” she declared, knowing that it would cut deep. To Peter his father had been perfect and his death had heightened that perfection. Peter stood motionless for a few seconds and when he swung around his face was taut with suppressed emotions.
“No,” he said grimly, “and I’m not going to put up with all the shit that he put up with from you.”
“You pup,” she said, raising her hand to strike him across the face, but he was too fast and caught her firmly by the wrist. He lowered her hand forcibly and pushed it down deep into the lump of dough.
“And you know what a pup’s mother is,” he told her angrily, his eyes blazing down into hers. He released her hand as if she were distasteful and strode out the door, banging it so hard that the cups on the dresser rattled in their saucers.
Martha paced the kitchen, bristling with rage. Every clash with Peter had this effect. He had the ability to get under her skin and was hell-bent on driving her mad. But it angered her as well that she allowed herself to be so upset by him. She continued to stride up and down the kitchen until eventually her pace slackened and gradually her temper eased. In future she would not allow him to goad her into this state.
She returned to finishing off the cake. Baking, kneading the dough until it became soft and pliable, had a soothing effect on her. With each mould of the hand, her frustration seemed to be absorbed into its soft depths. Working with her hands had always given her satisfaction. Baking, knitting, sewing were all outlets for her creativity, but it was sewing that she enjoyed the most. Hours making curtains, until they were perfect down to the last detail, totally engrossed her.
There had been no curtains on the kitchen windows of Mossgrove until she had come to live here. Now a strong green material framed the two windows, the one at the back looking out into the farmyard and the one at the front looking down over the farm. She had an inate sense of getting it right, and the colour brought the world outside into the kitchen. She had covered the old sofa under the back window beside the fire with the same material as the curtains. The sofa was soft and sagging but very comfortable and had been invaluable when the children were small. Fussy flowery colours did not appeal to her; she preferred the stark and dramatic, so she had painted the kitchen white to see if anything could brighten it up.
Martha had given into the yowls of protest whenever she had threatened to throw out the enormous old dresser, but she had ignored all opposition a few years previously when she had got rid of the open fire and put in an Aga. She had hated the smoke and ashes of the open fire. Jack and the others had prophesied that they would be frozen, but of course with the kitchen warm early and late the opposite was the case. Sometimes people did not know what was good for them. The Aga had set her back a bit, but it had been worth every penny, and when they were doing the plumbing she had put in a bathroom, with a downstairs toilet off the scullery. It had all been money well spent.
Shaking the flour on to the timber table, she flattened out the cake, rounding the edges with the palm of her hand. Opening the top oven of the Aga she eased the cake in and returned to the table where she rubbed her hands together to ease the clinging dough from between her fingers. Now she felt better; the inner turmoil had subsided. She wiped off the table and took the baking utensils out to the sink in the scullery and washed them. When she came back to the kitchen, she went to the parlour to open the window. As she crossed through the small porch, she opened the front door and sunlight poured in.
The parlour was a large low-ceilinged room, and the mirror-backed sideboard against the back wall reflected the lace-curtained window on the wall opposite. The shelved overmantel above the black marble fireplace, to the right of the door, held a collection of family bric-a-brac, school photographs of Peter and Nora and little presents that they had brought home from school tours. On the wall opposite was a large painting of old Edward Phelan. She had never liked this room because the ghosts of former Phelans seemed particularly strong in here, more so since Kate had brought back that painting.
Going over now she stood in front of the portrait and studied it. The original photograph must have been taken when he was well past his prime, but he was still a fine looking man. Kate’s conscience must have been bothering her about having taken the old photograph in the first place. Even though Martha might not have hung it up, it still annoyed her that Kate had taken it. Then Kate had got Mark to paint this portrait from it, and he had certainly done a great job, but then that should not have surprised her. Everyone was at great pains to impress her about her wonderful artist brother. She sometimes felt that Mark was more acceptable to the Phelans than she would ever be. Her mother thought that they should all encourage him, so as his sister she had little choice but to hang old Phelan in the parlour. She hoped that one day the twine keeping him up would break and he would crash to the floor in smithereens!
Viewing the parlour as she had so many times in the past, she decided that it could not be made to look well with its low ceiling and the uneven walls. Old houses were impossible, all shadows and corners. She remembered, shortly after coming to live in Mossgrove, looking at this room and all the old Phelan photographs. They had eyed her from every wall, but she had soon relegated them to the cupboard on the upstairs landing.
This was the room where all the big events in the life of Mossgrove were celebrated. Special meals were partaken of in here for christenings, holy communions and confirmations. It was here Nellie Phelan had spent her later years when it was no longer feasible that they share the one kitchen. Here too she had been laid out when she died, and it was back to this room they had brought Ned’s body after the accident.
She recalled the first family get-together after his death. She had brought them all in here for a special tea and to tell them that their beloved Mossgrove was safe because she had changed her mind about the sale. If the walls of this old parlour could talk, they would tell the story of Mossgrove and of the generations that had lived and died here.
Returning to the kitchen, she looked out the back window and saw Peter and Jack in deep conversation across the yard. Jack had a serious look on his weather-beaten face as he listened intently to Peter, who was sitting on the grass under the hedge with Bran wedged between his knees. Jack had been edging the blades of the mowing machine, but that operation was suspended while he gave Peter his undivided attention.
After Ned’s death he had become Peter’s father figure, and Martha knew that he was a listening ear for all Peter’s problems. She could guess the topic now under discussion. Peter would be frothing at the mouth with temper and Jack trying to calm things down. But whatever they cooked up between them, they were not going to pour her money into this bloody land. She had other plans for that money.
Chapter Two
JACKSATUNDER a tree in the corner of the haggard. He had been able to feel the hot sun penetrating through his tweed cap and overheating his bald head, and the deep shadow beneath the tree had looked cool and inviting. Bran had already decided that it was the place to be on this hot day. Wasn’t it great to have a day so good that dog and man had to be looking for shelter! He scrope the legs of the cow stool along the ground to make sure that the three legs were on level surface and then put his bag of hay on top. Always better to take the levels before trusting yourself on a cow stool; never do to finish up with your legs in the air. Now to get down to business.
He lined up the mowing machine blades against the wall beside him, placing the edging stone and a rusty gallon of water at his toes. Then he settled himself comfortably on the bag of hay. It’s good, he reflected, to get yourself properly organised before you begin anything. He had been trying to drum that into Davy Shine’s head for years, but so far it had failed him. Peter, now, was a different man altogether: sharp as a needle, that young fellow, and Davy and himself such good friends. Davy had come here eight years ago when he was twenty and Peter was twelve, and there was no doubt but that he had helped Peter get over the loss of Ned. Davy had lost his own father when he was young, so he understood what Peter was going through. As well as that, Davy had worked in Mossgrove when he was a young fellow going to school, so there was little he did not know about the place. He understood the situation between Martha and Peter very well and of course was totally on Peter’s side. Peter could do no wrong in his eyes. So it isup to me to keep the balance, Jack thought. Strange to be in Martha’s corner, but if someone does not try to calm things down around the place, they’ll have holy murder!
He remembered once hearing Kate say that if they did not handle Peter properly there could be trouble because he had a lot of Martha and his grandfather, Billy, in him, a volcanic combination. Funny how Martha could only see his grandfather in him and nothing of herself. There is no doubt about it, Jack thought, but we only see what we want to see. But Peter, like a thoroughbred, would have to get his head or he’d kick the sides out of the stable. Strange that Martha could not see that. If she would only give him a bit of rein, he had the makings of a great farmer. He had tried to tell Martha that, but she was convinced that he had a blind spot where any Phelan was concerned.
Jack was not denying but that he had a great respect for them, which he had first gained from Edward Phelan who had been the head of the household when he had come here as a lad of fifteen, all of fifty-eight years ago. The old man had been mighty but as hard as nails in some ways. His son, Billy, was never designed for farming and Mossgrove nearly slipped from their fingers when he was in charge. But Billy’s wife, Nellie, was great, and even though there were times when he thought that it would kill her, she kept the place going. She primed Ned for the job and he put Mossgrove back on its feet. God, he was a mighty loss! When Ned died Jack had thought that they were finished, but Martha rose to the occasion and kept the show on the road. She was no easy woman to work for because given half a chance she would walk all over you. The secret was to avoid confrontation. Peter, however, had no notion of doing that and constantly locked horns with her. He remembered old Edward Phelan once saying, “Sometimes it takes your own to level you”. Maybe his words were coming true now.
Jack dipped the edging stone into the gallon of water and worked it along the blade. It gave him immense satisfaction to see the brown froth gather and the steel turn from a dull wedge to a silver edge. He worked his way along the blade, leaving behind him a pointed row of shining steel. This is a grand job, he thought, for a fine day. He loved the haggard of Mossgrove. It did his heart good to look around at the fine stone buildings that he had helped to build and the solid timber doors that the old man and himself had hung years ago. Everything that the old man had done had to be perfect.
The bang of the back door crashed him back to reality. Good God, he thought, is Peter trying to bring the bloody door with him or knock down the back wall? His sight was not what it used to be, but he could still read the danger signals across the yard. The scratching hens squawked in protest and ran for cover as Peter kicked a path through them. Bran, who had been stretched out in the shade, anticipated trouble and gathered himself to slip behind Jack. Sound dog, Bran, Jack thought. Peter was fond of him, but Bran was taking no chances.
Peter kicked a big stone across the yard and it bounced off the wall beside Jack, bringing a shower of loose stones cascading down.
“Easy, lad,” Jack soothed, “or you’ll kill someone.”
“I know who I’d like to kill,” Peter breathed through clenched teeth as he threw himself on the grass beside Jack: “that jade of a woman inside.”
“That wouldn’t solve much,” Jack said easily.
Peter threw his eyes to heaven and slapped his hands together.
“Sometimes, Jack, you drive me bloody mad, you’re so goddamn reasonable,” he complained.
“It takes years.” Jack smiled, waiting for Peter to wind down. Peter lost the head easily but usually cooled down quickly enough.
Bran rested his snout on his paws under the cow stool and looked out enquiringly at Peter where he lay on the grass. After a few minutes, when Peter sat up and started to chew a sop, Bran judged it safe enough to emerge from behind Jack. He slunk over to Peter with his tail between his legs and started to nuzzle into his hand.
“What are you so apologetic about?” Peter demanded, cupping Bran’s head in his hands and looking down into his eyes. “You did nothing out of the way.”
“He’s apologising for the world,” Jack told him. “Dogs are the greatest comforters of all.”
“It would take more than Bran to bring me right after that episode,” Peter told him.
“What was it this time?” Jack asked.
“You know, Jack,” Peter began in frustration, “that I have it in my head to get a tractor and milking machine in here to cut down the work and waste of time, and for God’s sake, Jack, it’s 1960, not the middle ages! Well, when I told herself inside about it she nearly lost her head over it.”
“Ah, Peter, don’t tell me now that you came out about the two things at the same time?” Jack protested.
“Yerra, for God’s sake, Jack, where was the point in beating about the bush? We need the two of them and that’s it, isn’t it?” Peter demanded.
“And you finished up with neither.”
“I’m not beaten yet.”
“Listen to me now, my lad,” Jack instructed. “Going in there demanding what you did off your mother in one go would be a bit like Fr Brady telling you when he is lining you up to take a penalty that he wanted you to score two goals instead of one. You couldn’t do it and neither could she.”
“Jack, that’s the strangest comparison I ever heard,” Peter told him, but a smile started to spread across his face.
“Do you think that my mother has the makings of a full forward?”
“God help the backs,” Jack smiled.
“She’d never stick to the rules.” Peter grinned, amused at the whole concept. “She’d kick a fellow on the ground and abuse the referee and lead her team off the field.”
“But she’d never score an own goal,” Jack declared.
“That’s for sure,” Peter agreed. “She’d have it all figured out in advance. She is what Fr Brady calls a strategist.”
“Now you have it, lad,” Jack told him, “and you must play her game and dodge ahead of her with the ball, not try to blow it through her, because she’ll block you down every time.”
“Jack, you’re a wily old devil.”
“I’ve survived here for over fifty years,” Jack smiled. “I’d never have done that if I was a ‘Johnny Head in Air’.”
“Dad used to recite that poem.”
“Maybe he was telling you something.”
“Maybe,” Peter agreed, “and now that I come to think about it, you are a lot like Dad or he like you. I’m not sure what way around that should be.”
“Either way will do,” Jack told him. “I suppose in many ways I had a lot to do with the rearing of your father.”
“And me too.”
“And yet you’re very different.”
“Do you think so, Jack?” Peter asked in a troubled voice, and Jack realised that he was treading on sensitive ground.
Herself inside must have done the devil about the Phelans, he thought.
“Well, yes and no,” Jack told him. “You have his clear thinking and you’ll make a great farmer just like he was, but you don’t have his patience. But then he did not get that from old Edward Phelan. A mighty man but would walk over you if you came in his way.”
“He’s the one who had the tangle with the Conways, wasn’t he?” Peter asked.
“He was indeed,” Jack agreed
“Tell me about that again,” Peter asked thoughtfully.
“Dad told me a long time ago, but I’m not so sure I understood it at the time.”
“I’ll give it to you short and precise now, lad,” Jack said.
“Your great-grandfather, Edward Phelan, and Rory Conway across the river grew up together and were great friends. Conway got into financial difficulties and your great-grandfather secured him in the bank for a loan.
When Conway got out of the financial hole, instead of paying back the loan he bought land at the other side of the hill with the money. Edward Phelan was left holding the baby, but not for long. He went and measured the piece of land that Conway had bought and then fenced off the exact same amount of Conway land along his own boundary by the river and took possession. There was a court case and your great-grandfather won and got those two fields, but they have caused trouble ever since.”
