WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 2

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER TWO        

The day he left, I forced myself to give him a peck on the cheek and then turned and bolted upstairs.  From out of the bedroom window I watched as Frank marched down the hill and out of my life, without once looking back.   How could he have done that when once we’d been so close?   It was then that I broke down and sobbed until my pillow was soaked as I realised that, slowly and with stealth, he’d turned into a different person.

         The next day it seemed as though summer was over.  During the night the wind had veered northerly and when I woke, it was blowing a gale that ripped the still green leaves off the trees.  Fallen apples lay in drifts, like blood amongst the grass.   Most of them would be bruised and only be fit for pigswill but perhaps if I were quick I could save some.  As I opened the door, I heard the cows bellowing.  I’d forgotten the clock but they hadn’t, it was past milking time and their udders were swollen.  I put down the bucket:  the apples would have to wait.

  Leaving the farmhouse, a fine mist settled on my face.  The wind had dropped and a thick layer of cloud drifted towards the ground veiling the surrounding hills.  As I crossed the yard the drizzle changed to a downpour that drenched the manure spattered yard and turned it into a stinking sea of mud.  Listening to the rain drumming against the roof, I walked through the milking shed and pulled open the heavy doors on the far side, letting in the cows that were already jostling for position, their big brown eyes filmy with longing.  

When we’d first started to farm, large herds of Red Devons already grazed the surrounding hills so Frank had opted for Guernseys, delicate animals with pretty metallic grey-blue markings, saying, ‘we can’t compete with the big boys. They’ve cornered the market.  We’ll go for quality.’   

We had six now, all named after flowers, Daisy, Bluebell, Rose, Pansy, Cowslip and Clover.  Their yield wasn’t high but it was ideal for butter, cream and cheese.   One by one, I herded them into the barn and tied them to rings set in the walls before pouring a generous quantity of maize and sugar beet nuts into a manger. As the cows bent their heads and began to munch, I pulled a three-legged stool towards me and turned to the first in line, reaching underneath for her teats.   Squeezing and pulling, I sat listening to the sound of the creamy milk squirting into the bucket, staring at the raindrops sliding down the windows.   It was still pouring with rain when I’d finished and within minutes I was soaked as I walked the heavy churns out into the yard before wrestling them onto the flat bedded float.   Although I’d often watched Frank do this, I hadn’t realised how much effort it took and was exhausted by the time I’d finished.   Breathing heavily, I stopped for a moment, then, wiping my rain-soaked face with a wet hand, trudged through the mire to the stable where Barley, our sturdy little cob, was waiting.   As soon as she saw me, Barley’s ears pricked and her soft muzzle reached forward and nudged my hand, searching for her usual morning apple, cut into half.    I ran my fingers through the coarse hair of her mane, the heat of her body warming my hands.   Then, with a brisk slap on her rump, once more I braved the deluge and led the pony into the yard to shut her into the float.   Scrambling aboard and taking up the reins, I suddenly realised from now on this would be my regular morning and evening ritual, day in day out, rain or shine, with no time off for good behaviour.   Tears diluted by the rain, slid down my face as I sat hunched up against the weather, listening to the muffled sound of Barley’s hooves struggling through the soggy ground as she plodded down the hill towards the morning milk train.

Once back home, I stood shivering in the hallway stripping off my dripping clothes.   I caught a sudden glimpse of my face in the hall mirror; dark hair plastered to my head, I was as pale as a celluloid doll.   I turned away my eyes staring into nothing as I slotted together the rest of the day.    There’d be no time for breakfast.  My first job would be to sluice down the milking shed, then I had to feed and muck out the animals, before starting on the one thousand and one other jobs the farm demanded.  That night even my screaming muscles couldn’t stop me from plummeting into a deep pit, where all thoughts of cows, pigs and waterlogged fields were snuffed out by the spiralling darkness.

From then on my body fought a losing battle against fatigue.   Often I went to bed hungry, too tired to eat.   Even when Frank had been around, running the smallholding had been hard.  He’d done most of the heavy work while I’d looked after the cows, milking them twice a day and churning any left-over milk into cream, butter and cheese to take to market.    I also took care of the books.   Each evening I would sit down at the kitchen table, switch on the radio and begin the job of smoothing and deciphering the crumpled bits of paper that had spent the day in Frank’s pockets.   Soothed by the music and flickering firelight, I’d blank out the chaos of the outside world, comforted by the sight of my cosy kitchen, neatly kept ledger and pile of spiked bills.   When I looked back, those evenings seem idyllic.  Without Frank, my work suddenly doubled.   I became whip-thin and had to punch new holes in the leather belt that held up my slacks.  By the time night came, I was exhausted and went to bed as soon as it got dark, not bothering to draw the curtains.  And all the time an accumulation of bills hid the table and the spike stood empty.

But it wasn’t just the bone draining weariness that sapped my spirits.  Against my will, I pined for Frank.   Both of us were strong-willed and over the years we’d had our differences but in spite of that I missed the feeling that we were two fused into one, soul mates tuned into each others’ dreams.   I missed the shared glances when in company and the warm bulk of him in bed beside me.    In the evenings when darkness drowned the fields and the night wind rustled the leaves, I would sit in his chair and burrow my head into its worn fabric, searching for a trace of him.  

Copyright Janet Baldey