Shred of Evidence

It wasn’t that he was a bad man by his own lights. But his parents had died in a car accident when he was very young, and he’d been raised by a grandfather who believed a woman’s place was in the home. Raising her children, cooking and cleaning for her man.

When we got married my parents weren’t happy about it. They said he was older than I was, and more set in his ways. They didn’t believe he’d make me happy. I was young, I saw his certainty about life as strength. So I married him—and found out very quickly that they’d been right.

I grew up as an only child on a large prosperous dairy farm. I was helping my father with the cows by the time I was five. I like animals and I understand them. That was part of the trouble. To my husband, John, a beast was something which obeyed, or it was useless. So was a wife I discovered eventually. Oh, not that he ever struck me. He would have regarded that as failure. His grandfather had taught him no decent man raises a hand to a woman. He doesn’t need to.

Instead I was trained with a quiet, deadly, etching of criticism. I leaned to nod.

“You know best, darling,” I would say. And John would smile smugly, quite certain I was right and he did.

He said I was ignorant. A country girl who didn’t understand the city. I would have liked to. I’d have enjoyed exploring it, finding out of the way places, interesting buildings—and new friends. John disapproved of women who went off on their own though, so I didn’t. It was his place to work, mine to stay home. Mine to prepare beautiful meals from basic ingredients and keep the house spotless. Mine to have his son. He said I failed in that last but he made allowances. It wasn’t my fault if I was barren.

That was the way he put it. Barren. I suggested once that we see a doctor and he was incredulous. It wasn’t him of course. It was me, and he had no intention of subjecting himself to medical busy-bodying. I was the failure in his eyes. He was polite about it, not mentioning it more than once a day. But his eyes would go to a proud father taking his small son out in the park. Then he’d look at me and his look would be meaningful.

I didn’t do so badly with the cooking and cleaning. I wasn’t a bad cook and I did keep the house shining. But I was bored. I’d have liked a pet but John loathed cats which don’t take orders well. As for dogs, he’d had a dog when he was a boy. He’d punished it once too often and it had turned on him. It was from that I knew he’d have liked to hit me as well sometimes. But his early training held. You could beat an animal all you wished, that was lawful, but not a wife. There were other ways to discipline them.

I’d have gone out on my own save that John disapproved as I said. To be sure I obeyed he would phone me each lunch-hour from his office and speak briefly. Orders mostly, disguised as requests. In any case I was busy. When that sour old man who’d raised him had died, he’d left John the family home. It was a big five-bedroomed house on half an acre of grounds on the edge of an old-established suburb.

I hated the place. It was chill, damp, and gloomy with its surrounding trees. John was horrified when I suggested we could sell it and find somewhere more pleasant.

“My dear Elizabeth, one does not sell a home like this. One passes it on.” His look was openly critical of my failure to produce a son to whom he could do just that. “In any case, to live here makes one known for what one is.”

It certainly did that. The suburb was known to others as ‘diehards ditch.’ It was where all the old sticklers for a way of life fast disappearing, clung to the glorious past. Most of the houses here were like ours. Except that most of those who lived in them had a man who came in every week to do the grounds. Some also had a woman who came in every day to do the house.

But they had children as John always reminded me when I mentioned it. Children who must be cared for and took up their mother’s time. I didn’t. So I was free to spend my life mowing the extensive lawns using the big ride-on mower, tending the gardens and coming back inside again to cook and clean. I grew to hate the house and every blade of grass around it. There were too many times when all I wanted to do was march out, toss weed-killer all over the lawn and flower-beds then set a fire and stand there as the land shrivelled and the house burned. But John wouldn’t have approved.

It wasn’t as if we didn’t have money. John was partner in a firm which looked after properties for absentee landlords. He was meticulous in that so the firm was highly regarded. No landlord placing his property in the hands of Taggert and Masterton has ever regretted it. At least, the landlords hadn’t. Tenants were less happy but as John always said:

“They signed a lease. They read it. I always insist on that. I have an additional form they sign which agrees they did read and understand the lease. But people are so casual.” He sighed. “They seem to think conditions don’t apply to them.”

“Mrs Armstrong can’t help needing to care for her mother.”

“Naturally, my dear Elizabeth. However she should put the woman in a home. I’m responsible to the building’s owners. I am not employed to overlook infractions, and worse still, damage!” He drew himself up. “The old lady is senile. Mrs Armstrong can make no assurances her mother will not draw on the walls again. The lease clearly states also, only two people in the apartment on a permanent basis.”

“Mrs Armstrong’s mother won’t live forever,” I offered.

John remained polite. “No, my dear, of course not. However the lease states that twelve weeks is the term. After which the additional tenant must leave.” There was a smugness in his tones.

“I envisioned tenants who would take a mile if offered an inch. Therefore when we wrote the lease I listed a time limit. Twelve weeks is sufficient. It allows for an older child home from boarding school or university, relatives visiting, or perhaps needing to care for a family member recovering from an illness. It is a fair time, even generous. I will not have advantage taken beyond it.”

“You know best, darling.” I saw that poor Mrs Armstrong was either moving out or placing her mother in a home and that was that.

Life dragged on. I cooked, cleaned, listened to John’s criticism of tenants and his triumphs in persuading yet another wealthy landlord to sign with Taggert and Masterton. Our sex life was just what one could expect. Once a week for several minutes—and he thanked me politely afterwards.

We went to see my parents two or three times a year for the day. I wouldn’t have subjected my mother to him any longer. Her cooking lived up to John’s standards but her cleaning didn’t. After all, it was a dairy farm, mud in Winter is a quality impossible to lose. As is dust in Summer. Nor did mother see any reason why she should wipe the floors six times a day just to please my husband. The first time he made one of his delicate comments suggesting she should, he was quietly told to mind his own business. Not quite that crudely—but for once he did get the message.

I daresay John did try. But the way he did was guaranteed to annoy anyone. With my father he suggested they stop running the bull with the cows as we’d always done. It was dangerous, John said, bulls were also undesirable for insurance reasons. My father patiently explained that with Artificial Insemination, fertility rates were lower. John was incredulous. He argued briefly then ceased with the air of a man who is tolerantly accepting of an older man’s foolish ignorance. It annoyed everyone. What my father said was true, we had the farm statistics to prove it, and anyhow, any dairy farmer knows that.

I stayed silent though. John wouldn’t have listened if I had said anything and I didn’t want to start his quiet asides to me again. There’d been a row over that two years ago and we hadn’t visited for one miserable year. I’d been deep in discussion with my father about a new cow he’d bought from a recent clearance sale. I’d laughed.

“Well, if she doesn’t like standing at that end of the shed when she’s being milked, you’ll just have to let her be at the other end.”

My father had nodded. “I know, still, it’s a nuisance.”

John over-heard and snorted. “What you need is a firm hand. The animal must be taught she does as you require.”

My father spoke quietly. “It doesn’t work like that with cows. If I try that her milk yield will drop badly.”

My husband was openly incredulous. “She’s a cow. How can she do that?” His smile was condescending. “You farmers.”

My father stood. “Yes, us farmers. I’ve been a farmer all my life as my father was before me. I know animals. If I need advice I can get it from men who know stock, not from a pompous little city slicker who can’t even breed a calf of his own.”

My husband went white. “To use your own metaphor, sir. Even a top bull couldn’t get a calf on a barren cow. Now if you’ll excuse me, we must be going. It’s a long drive home.” He ignored my father’s words, flung after us.

“Aye, had this top bull tested, have you? Know it’s the cow who’s barren for a fact, do you?”

The next time we would have gone to the farm John had an excuse. Then the next. The third time a year later I made it very clear I was going. Alone if necessary. It was the only time since our first year of married life I’d been stubborn over something and John unwillingly caved in. But it was never the same after that. Everyone was polite, saying almost nothing but commonplaces and my parents took pains to see none of the neighbours visited that day.

I knew they did. I’d heard mother putting off a friend from a couple of farms away who’d rung to say she might visit. I knew why. Afterwards mother came into the hall and saw me standing there. I said nothing, nor did she, instead she asked me something it was clear had been preying on her mind.

“Why don’t you have children, Beth? I know John says it’s your fault but have you ever had that checked?”

“John won’t agree.”

“Beth, you had a perfectly good brain before you married. Have yourself checked without him. You know how that goes. If you’re fertile then it has to be John’s problem.” She put her hands on my shoulders, looking into my face.

“I’ve had a good life with your father. We’re a team. I don’t say a woman has to have children but she should have a life. You don’t even have that.”

I looked into her eyes and knew she was right. I could leave my husband I supposed, but what then? I didn’t know what to do. In the end I did nothing. Perhaps life with John had drained most of the initiative from me.

It was five years after that, I’d been married almost fifteen years when my mother becamse ill. It was a shock to us all. My parents weren’t old but mother had worked hard all her life and now the doctor insisted she needed a long break. My family didn’t live like many rich people but I knew there was money. However John was stunned when he heard what my parents proposed.

“He’s what?”

“Taking mother on a world cruise. They’ll be gone for six months. They want me to live on the farm and run it while they’re away.”

“Nonsense, Elizabeth. Your place is here in our home.”

I fought him again on that. I think I felt it was my one chance to be halfway free again for a while. Finally I hinted at the wealth tucked away in the farm. I was an only child, I would inherit everything, but not if my parents were so antagonised by his refusal they changed their wills. A will could leave me an income but tie up the capital.

I mentioned an amount for that possible capital which made John’s eyes flicker. He’d always wanted to own his own properties. With an amount like that he could buy several and happily hold every unfortunate tenant to his leases.

In the end he agreed we’d go to the farm. I’m sure he wouldn’t have done so if he’d had any idea of the disruption to his life it would involve. My parents sailed and we were there to farewell them. Mother hugged me at the last, whispering.

“John’s ignorant on a farm, dear. Don’t let him do anything stupid.” Her look met mine strangely but I ignored it. She still wasn’t well.

After that we settled into the farm routine. John spending his time at our home in the city, then driving down to the farm for weekends. From the beginning it was difficult. He had no understanding of the work farming entails. I couldn’t simply drop it all on the weekend while he was there. Come hell, high water or husband, the cows must be cared for every day and this was the season they calved. I was out in all weathers coming in tired and filthy even in the weekends. John was disgusted.

“Cows calved before there were farmers. Let the animals alone, I’m sure they’ll manage.”

Sometimes they wouldn’t but it was a waste of time trying to explain. It made me scratchy though. Working a fourteen hour day, coming back to cook for myself and then having John appear to complain in the weekends that the house wasn’t spotless and he didn’t like stew. He expected me to do all his washing and ironing as well during those two days. Why use a laundry when he had a wife.

It went on for weeks until I was utterly exhausted. I went to my old doctor for a tonic. He grinned, asked a few questions and all of a sudden I found I was asking him to give me a checkup and tests. He agreed. The results came back a week later. There was no reason why I should not conceive, I was fine. That weekend John arrived and begun on me at once.

The house needed scrubbing. Here was a stack of his clothes to do. He hoped he was going to get a decent dinner. He’d been working so hard all week he needed a good meal. I wondered what he imagined I’d been doing—sitting around? In reality I’d been doing anything but.

Betsy had calved only an hour before John drove in. She was a difficult cow but her calves were magnificent and she was a prize-winner from way back. My father and I could handle her and fortunately her calves never seemed to follow her in temperament. We could sell any of them for a lot of money, we had an order to buy right now for one of her bull-calves—for a sum which would make John’s eyes pop.

I’d left a roast in the oven while I was with Betsy, but I hadn’t had time to do roast potatoes and gravy as well. The potatoes were boiled, quickly browned and the gravy was from a packet. John mentioned these points all through dinner. I stood up once we’d eaten.

“Where are you going?”

“One of the cows just calved. It’s going to be cold and windy tonight. I want them under cover in the barn.”

“For heaven’s sake, she’s an animal. They’re used to being outside. You should be cleaning up in here.” He drew a finger along the bookshelf nearby, studying it. My breath caught in sudden rage so great for a moment I could barely see. I remembered my mother’s parting words, the results of my tests—and a dog put down almost forty years ago.

“You know best, darling,” I told him, waiting for the approving look. “But I should still get Betsy and the calf into the barn. The calf is already sold.” I told him the price and watched his amazement. “Why don’t you help?”

“My dear Elizabeth!” His protest was automatic.

I made my voice sound surprised. “Why not? You’ve always said all one needs with animals is a firm hand. My father wouldn’t have any trouble.” I saw him remembering that quarrel and what had been said then. He nodded, speaking graciously.

“If you really need help, my dear, I suppose this once I can provide it.”I shod him in slightly too-large rubber boots, added a heavy coat and gave him a long whippy stick from the porch corner.

“I’ll go and open the barn door. The gate’s open, just chase the calf along and the cow will follow.”

The calf was about three hours old. My father or I would have carried the small creature but John wouldn’t think of it. In the gathering dusk I could see his light-colored overcoat approach the calf where it lay curled on the ground.

It refused to rise and he hit it. The calf bawled. Betsy stood up, incredulous. John hit her calf again, it blatted in pain as he pushed it hard towards the barn. It staggered on unsteady legs and this time the bewildered frightened sound it made as he struck it again produced results.

Behind my husband, Betsy moved angrily forward. John turned as her horn brushed the edge of his coat. Even then he saw no danger. Just a stupid defiant animal. He hit her across the face with his stick then turned to slash the calf hard again. It bawled in pain and fear. Betsy struck coming in, horn hooking wickedly. I saw John stagger, hit out at her desperately, then go down under enraged horns and hooves. She hooked and kicked, trampling until movement beneath them ceased, then she went to her calf.

I walked away to the farmhouse and the phone. No one asked questions. I simply said I’d planned to put the beasts under cover later on. John had known how tired I was, running the farm on my own. He must have wanted to help and gone out without telling me. No, he knew nothing at all about cows.

He wouldn’t have known not to get between a cow and newborn calf. Yes, Betsy had always been dangerous that way. Not to us but then she knew us and we would never have hit her or her calf like that. The marks of John’s stick on the calf had been easy to see in the police flashlights.

They called it misadventure. I refused to notify my parents. Mother needed the break and there was nothing they could do. I buried my husband in his family plot, sold the hated house in the city, cashed in his partnership and insurance then banked a sum of money which would see me comfortably off for the rest of my life. I refused to have anything done to Betsy either. Local farmers agreed. If some dam fool city fellow was dumb enough to do as John had done then he deserved the results, was their verdict.

My parents came home at last. With three of us the work was easier. Mother could rest often. I’d eventually inherit the farm, I knew, which made me think. Next door’s younger son returned home soon after my parents arrived back. His marriage to a city girl didn’t work out. We’re about the same age and I’ve known him all my life. He’s good stock with a daughter already.

If we used my money we’d have a bigger and better farm and a real showplace once I inherited. He’s my kind, I’m his and I’ve seen him thinking that. That I’ll also inherit our farm doesn’t hurt either. I’ll wait and see how it goes, I can always give him a bit of encouragement if it’s needed.

My father has no idea of what really happened to John. Like the other farmers around he saw it as the sort of accident an ignorant city man could have. I think my mother guesses but then maybe she has reasons for that. Her own mother died young so my mother was left to care for her unloving and slave-driving father, helping him all hours on the farm. Her father never wanted to lose her work. She wasn’t of age so he refused her permission to marry. He stopped the wedding for a year and would have stopped it another year yet though none but the three of them knew why she and my father did not marry.

Until a tractor accident killed her father. The inquest decided he’d been driving, backed the tractor up to the trailer with his leg between them ready to kick down the coupling. It was a common system in those days. Instead his leg was trapped between them when he misjudged. That too was not uncommon. He’d bled to death before he was found.

Mother married quietly a month later. She sold up the small mixed-stock farm and put the money into father’s dairy farm. Then they lived happily ever after. Nowadays I wonder, did she see what had happened and walk silently away to wait before finding him? I don’t ask, any more than mother would ask about John.

There are a lot of dangers on any farm. Accidents too. I may need to mention that to my own daughter one day. Until then I’ll ask no questions—and tell no lies. I imagine mother feels the same way. Some questions it’s better not to know an answer. That’s one of them.