The Journey. Josephine Cox

and then found he could only nibble at it, though he swigged down three cups of tea and ravished the jam-tart made especially for him by Les’s wife. In fact, she’d made him a whole bagful only the day before yesterday, and this was the last one. ‘Sorry, matey,’ he told the dog who had demolished his chop and was begging for a crumb. ‘You’ve had your tea. This is mine, and besides, there isn’t enough here to share.’ Nevertheless, he was still shamed into throwing him a bite.

      With the jam-tart all gone and the teapot emptied, Ben put on his work-clothes and with the dog at his heels, made his way to the yard where he unlocked the feed room. Here he laid out three large galvanised buckets; one for the chickens; one for the sheep and another for the pigs. That done, he lifted the lids from three of the drums and scooping out several sizeable helpings of food from each of them in turn, he filled the buckets to brimming.

      Taking up the buckets, two in one hand and one in the other, he made his way over to the big barn. Knowing exactly when feed-time was, the sheep were already crowded round the food-troughs. On sight of him, they began pushing and shoving their way forwards. ‘Get back! BACK, I SAY!’

      Fighting his way through the bleating animals, he partway filled the various troughs, then leaving the sheep to sort themselves out, he climbed the ladder to the hayloft, where he threw down four slices of hay, making certain that they landed far enough apart for everyone to get a fair share without too much argument.

      Afterwards, he stood at the barn door for a minute or two. Satisfied that the sheep were all feeding and seeming content, he went outside to the tap, filled the bucket with water, returned inside and emptied it into the two water-troughs. ‘That should keep you going for a while,’ he told them. ‘Come the morning, I might let you loose in the fields.’

      It was always a pleasure to set them free, for sheep were not indoor animals. Small-minded and built to eat, it was in their nature to nibble the pastures, get caught up in brambles and go lame at every opportunity.

      With the sheep fed and set up for the night, he tramped off to the undercover pig-pens. Here he went through the same procedure, but with a different and coarser food, for pigs were gluttons and required bulk. Ben was always wary when surrounded by the porkers. Weighing upwards of half a ton each, they were capable of doing a man some considerable damage if he got in their way.

      The boars in particular were an angry sort when penned, as old Les was quick to point out to Ben at the first opportunity. ‘I once knew a man whose prize boar drove his tusks clean through the poor chap’s thighbone; crippled him for life, it did. So don’t go messin’ with them big buggers, ’cause if they don’t get yer with their tusks, they’ll have yer over and trample yer underfoot!’ Les did not have to tell Ben twice. It was ironic that poor Les himself came a cropper soon after he’d issued that warning.

      With the pigs happily burying their snouts in the troughs, Ben attended to the other animals; first the cows, then the chickens.

      The cows were housed in the smaller of the two barns. The area had been divided up to provide eight large pens on one side and six on the other, with a birthing pen at the far corner. The beasts had more than enough room and as long as they were fed and watered and clean underfoot, they saw out the winter in comfort; though once the worst of the weather was over they, too, were always happy to be let loose in the fields.

      The spacious chicken-house was a vast, open area, which gave the chickens ample room to run. At night they would either roost in the lower beams, or retire to the many small wooden houses set along either side of the walls. Sadly, some of the chickens fell prey to the odd fox who dared to burrow under the wire, which was dug in and around the entire perimeter. Thankfully it had not happened just lately, and Les kept a wary eye out for weak links in the netting.

      A long while later, Ben made his weary way back to the farmhouse. At the door he kicked off his boots and overalls before going through to the parlour.

      First, he made himself a cup of well-earned tea, then it was off upstairs for a much-needed bath. He’d lit the geyser to heat up the water long since. ‘I can’t be going to see the ladies smelling of pig manure and chicken-muck,’ he told the dog, who simply rolled over, gave a long, shuddering yawn and fell into a deep sleep.

      In the bathroom he turned on the taps and let the bath fill while he stripped off. A few moments later he slithered under the water and lay there for awhile, luxuriating in the warmth and thinking of young Mary, with whose pretty lavender-blue eyes and the way her mouth turned up at the corners when she smiled …

       Chapter 2

      AT EIGHT O’CLOCK that evening, Ben arrived at the front door of Knudsden House. Standing on the top step of the little flight of stairs, he fidgeted nervously before reaching up and knocking briskly.

      The door opened and Mary stood before him. His breath caught. Divested of her heavy winter coat, she was wearing a lilac-coloured twin-set and a pretty knee-length skirt. The light from the hall and from her, too, dazzled him.

      Fumbling, he brought out the bag from where he’d been hiding it under his coat. ‘I found this,’ he said jerkily.

      ‘It’s my mother’s! Thank you.’

      The women had discovered the loss of the handbag once they’d arrived home. Fortunately, Mary had her own front-door key and could let them in. Adam had offered to go and look for it, after searching the car and not finding it, but Lucy had said no, not to worry. She felt far too unwell for any fuss, and the bag would turn up somehow. People round here were honest men and women.

      ‘Won’t you come in?’ Mary asked now. ‘I expect Mother will want to thank you herself.’

      Accepting her invitation without hesitation, Ben followed her through to the drawing room. ‘Is your mother all right? I mean, has she suffered any ill-effects from the fall?’

      ‘She says she’s all right. With Mother, you’re never really sure.’

      When Mary turned to smile at him, Ben felt foolish; like a shy young boy on his first date instead of a forty-year-old man of the world.

      For what seemed the longest moment, she continued to gaze on him, her quiet smile reaching deep into his senses. Suddenly the smile fell away and, slowing her step, she confided in him.

      ‘The truth is, since she fell in the churchyard, she hasn’t seemed well at all,’ she whispered. ‘I’m worried about her.’ Before she inched open the door, she confessed, ‘I wanted to call Dr Nolan, but she won’t hear of it.’ A sigh escaped her lips. ‘She’s so independent – and stubborn like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m half tempted to call the doctor anyway.’

      ‘There’s no use you whispering, my girl!’ Lucy called out from the inner room. ‘I can hear every word, and there’ll be no doctor coming into this house!’

      On entering the room, Mary was told in no uncertain terms, ‘If I needed a doctor – which I don’t – there is only one I would agree to seeing, and he’s living out his retirement in Liverpool. So we’ll have no more talk of doctors. Are you listening to me, Mary?’

      Reluctantly, the girl nodded. ‘Mr Morris found your bag in the churchyard. He’s brought it back. I thought you might want to thank him yourself.’

      ‘Mmm.’ Her reproachful gaze rested on her daughter for a second or two before switching to Ben. ‘I love my daughter dearly, but she will fuss.’

      ‘Only because she’s worried about you, I’m sure.’

      While he spoke, Ben was aware of how the room reflected Lucy’s personality. There was the solid furniture, reliable and stalwart, and then there was the colour and vibrancy in the curtains and the rugs. On following Mary into the room, he had felt her life all about him, in the lavish bright paintings on the walls, and the many figures, sculpted in china and pewter – some in the throes of embrace, others dancing, with arms in the air