will,” Agnes agreed, but she knew that her mother was just placating her for the moment.
“Cutting the meadows here is going to be a lot of extra work,” Mark said.
“There are enough of them there to do it,” she asserted.
“Well, you know that Jack will insist on doing all the cutting,” Mark told her, “and he really is pushing on a bit for that.”
“Jack does as Jack wants,” she told him, “and that’s it.”
“If there was a tractor on the farm,” Mark suggested, “he would hand over a lot of the work to Peter and Davy, and if you are working the two places, they would really needone.”
“And, of course,” she said acidly, “Peter has not been talking to you about it.”
“Well, he did mention it, and I must say that I agree with him,” Mark admitted.
“Needless to mention you agree with him! But then it’s not going to cost you anything to agree with him, is it?”
“I’d be glad to help,” he told her.
“Keep out of my family,” she warned him.
“But is it only the cost that’s the problem?” Mark persisted.
“Well, of course, it’s only the cost,” she told him in an annoyed voice.
“But, Martha, you’re not short of a bob,” he said.
“Well, if I’m not, I’ve some other use for it,” she retorted.
“Like what?” he persisted.
“You’ll find out in due course.”
“Interesting,” he smiled benignly. “You are always interesting, Martha.”
“And I wonder where Peter brings it from?” she snapped.
As she walked home across the fields, she thought back over the conversation. Peter getting her home farm without any consultation with her was a bit high-handed of Mark and Agnes, and she knew by the way they reacted that the decision had already been made. It was a small farm compared to Mossgrove, but it was very good land that had never been properly farmed since her father died. Mark didn’t have a clue about farming! If Peter put his mind to it, there was a good living there. It was a disquieting thought.
Just as she turned in the last gap for home, a movement down by the wood caught her eye. A man was walking along in the shadow of the trees. He must have come outof the wood, which meant that he had been just below her path, hidden behind the trees in the undergrowth. As he turned to cross over the ditch, he looked in her direction. It was Matt Conway.
Chapter Ten
T IM B RADY HAD never intended to be a priest. One of a family of five boys, he enjoyed dancing, football and girls. He and his brothers helped out after school in the family pub where they argued and fought over hours on and off, arguments usually settled by their mother, who was an expert on calming troubled waters. Being the youngest, he was constantly accused of getting special treatment as his mother’s pet. His father was a quiet man who opted for leaving the decisions to his wife, and it was only when things tended to get out of hand that he was called in to voice his opinion. As he generally backed up his wife, the boys had discovered early in life that it was their mother who had to be convinced if they wanted to do anything that needed parental consent.
One night, the year Tim was seventeen, she had gathered them all together into the kitchen behind the pub and told them that she had bad news. Nothing could have prepared them for the shock: she had been diagnosed as having cancer, with only months to live. Their world crashed in around them. There followed months of black despair with occasional rays of hope that were quickly obliterated by deeper despair. Finally it was all over and they moved around the house like shadows in a morgue. For Tim it was a torturous time. His mother had been the glue that had held them all together. Now he was cut adrift in a world that had no centre, as if he had been hurled up into the air and had splintered into many fragments that would not come back together again. During all the trauma, his father had remained silent and bewildered.
“Cutting the meadows here is going to be a lot of extra work,” Mark said.
“There are enough of them there to do it,” she asserted.
“Well, you know that Jack will insist on doing all the cutting,” Mark told her, “and he really is pushing on a bit for that.”
“Jack does as Jack wants,” she told him, “and that’s it.”
“If there was a tractor on the farm,” Mark suggested, “he would hand over a lot of the work to Peter and Davy, and if you are working the two places, they would really needone.”
“And, of course,” she said acidly, “Peter has not been talking to you about it.”
“Well, he did mention it, and I must say that I agree with him,” Mark admitted.
“Needless to mention you agree with him! But then it’s not going to cost you anything to agree with him, is it?”
“I’d be glad to help,” he told her.
“Keep out of my family,” she warned him.
“But is it only the cost that’s the problem?” Mark persisted.
“Well, of course, it’s only the cost,” she told him in an annoyed voice.
“But, Martha, you’re not short of a bob,” he said.
“Well, if I’m not, I’ve some other use for it,” she retorted.
“Like what?” he persisted.
“You’ll find out in due course.”
“Interesting,” he smiled benignly. “You are always interesting, Martha.”
“And I wonder where Peter brings it from?” she snapped.
As she walked home across the fields, she thought back over the conversation. Peter getting her home farm without any consultation with her was a bit high-handed of Mark and Agnes, and she knew by the way they reacted that the decision had already been made. It was a small farm compared to Mossgrove, but it was very good land that had never been properly farmed since her father died. Mark didn’t have a clue about farming! If Peter put his mind to it, there was a good living there. It was a disquieting thought.
Just as she turned in the last gap for home, a movement down by the wood caught her eye. A man was walking along in the shadow of the trees. He must have come outof the wood, which meant that he had been just below her path, hidden behind the trees in the undergrowth. As he turned to cross over the ditch, he looked in her direction. It was Matt Conway.
Chapter Ten
T IM B RADY HAD never intended to be a priest. One of a family of five boys, he enjoyed dancing, football and girls. He and his brothers helped out after school in the family pub where they argued and fought over hours on and off, arguments usually settled by their mother, who was an expert on calming troubled waters. Being the youngest, he was constantly accused of getting special treatment as his mother’s pet. His father was a quiet man who opted for leaving the decisions to his wife, and it was only when things tended to get out of hand that he was called in to voice his opinion. As he generally backed up his wife, the boys had discovered early in life that it was their mother who had to be convinced if they wanted to do anything that needed parental consent.
One night, the year Tim was seventeen, she had gathered them all together into the kitchen behind the pub and told them that she had bad news. Nothing could have prepared them for the shock: she had been diagnosed as having cancer, with only months to live. Their world crashed in around them. There followed months of black despair with occasional rays of hope that were quickly obliterated by deeper despair. Finally it was all over and they moved around the house like shadows in a morgue. For Tim it was a torturous time. His mother had been the glue that had held them all together. Now he was cut adrift in a world that had no centre, as if he had been hurled up into the air and had splintered into many fragments that would not come back together again. During all the trauma, his father had remained silent and bewildered.
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