Sarah's Story

by Lynne Francis

  Sarah didn’t fully believe her. She was struggling to see how anyone could make sense of the strange combinations of letters; they clearly meant something to some people and this just confirmed her lack of self-belief. She must be stupid and incapable of learning. This was the reason, no doubt, why she had failed to learn her letters before. Sarah was forced to acknowledge to herself that her problem with reading and writing was due to her dislike of getting something wrong. Instead of resolving to learn how to get it right she became stubborn and turned away from it. If she was going to succeed, this was something she would have to learn to overcome.

  Herbalism, though, proved to be another matter entirely. Sarah found herself looking forward to the afternoons; partly because it meant that the torture of the morning, the effort of forcing her unwilling brain to comprehend, was at an end. But also because she had discovered a genuine interest in what her grandmother did.

  During the first week, the afternoons were spent in creating remedies for all the visitors who had called by while her grandmother was away. Ada seemed to know without needing to enquire further what they would need and, for the first time, Sarah concentrated hard on what her grandmother was doing. She asked questions about why Ada was using a particular herb, why it had to be prepared in such a way – pounded, steeped or used in combination with other herbs.

  Ada had learnt her own skills over a very long period of time but Sarah’s thirst for knowledge, combined with the feeling on both their parts that this knowledge needed to be acquired quickly, required a new approach. After a period of trial and error, during which Ada based her teaching around a specific herb, then around an ailment, she settled on working with Sarah’s practical skills. They studied ointments and lotions, infusions and decoctions, powders and poultices, tinctures and tisanes. Sarah discovered that in many cases she somehow knew which parts of the plant would be efficacious, whether it was the flower, the root, the bark, the leaves or the seeds. She could only assume that it was knowledge that she had absorbed over the years spent living with her grandmother.

  And, perhaps because the preparation of the herbs was a practical skill, not dissimilar to the domestic chores or food preparation that she was accustomed to doing, Sarah felt quite at ease in her work. She found herself enjoying the concentration required, the measuring and weighing of ingredients, the calm preparation and the scents that the herbs released. Absorbed, she would carry on working late into the afternoon, with lamps lit, and it would be Ada who generally called a halt to the proceedings by suggesting that it might be time for tea, or to make a start on the preparation of food for the evening meal.

  As November progressed, so did Sarah’s knowledge. She was eager to absorb whatever she could about the practice of herbalism and found herself irritated that in this winter month she could only work with the herbs her grandmother had dried and prepared during the summer. She longed for the chance to learn how to work with fresh herbs but, in the meantime, there was still much to take in.

  Her deftness earned her grandmother’s admiration and, to Sarah’s astonishment, she discovered Ada’s advice to allow her reading and writing to develop in their own good time to be sound. She started to recognise the words written on the labels of the jars that she was using on a daily basis, and to see the virtue of such labels. Even though she was learning to distinguish herbs by their scent, and discovering the importance of putting the bottles and jars back in their rightful place on the shelves as soon as she had used them, the possibility of making an error if she couldn’t read what was written there was only too apparent to her.

  Soon, the morning lessons ceased in favour of devoting the whole day to Ada’s teachings on the nature and implementation of her remedies. Within the month, Ada trusted her to prepare the simpler remedies alone, with only basic supervision.

  Each evening Sarah would retire to bed, head buzzing with what she had learnt. It would come to her then that Joe had barely entered her thoughts during the day. Indeed, her thoughts turned more often to the loss of her sisters and, if it hadn’t been for the baby growing and making its presence felt inside her, she might have started to wonder whether Joe was a figment of her imagination.

  Chapter 15

  One late November afternoon, Sarah and Ada were working in companionable silence side by side in the kitchen. They had been making tonics suitable for nervous complaints and Sarah was packing away the unused herbs while Ada wrote up what had been prepared in her ledger. A knocking at the door was so unexpected that Sarah jumped and dropped the herbs, which scattered on the floor.

  Ada laid down her pen. ‘Whoever can that be at this hour, in the dark? Go and see, Sarah.’

  Sarah’s thoughts immediately flew to Joe and it was with a sense of trepidation that she went to the door. She hadn’t considered his return and how he would fit into their household, an unfamiliar male presence in their little house. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the routine that she and her grandmother had established being disturbed by another. And yet, now she thought of him, she felt a sudden longing for him.

  She slid back the bolts and opened the door then stood for a moment, uncomprehending. The muffled figure at the door was too tall and too slight to be Joe, and not someone that she recognised as one of the villagers.

  ‘Who is it, Sarah? You’re letting in all the cold air.’

  The visitor loosened his muffler, revealing his face, and at that moment Sarah recognised him.

  ‘Daniel!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come in at once. You must be freezing!’

  There was a sharpness in the air that heralded snow and, as Sarah seized Daniel’s arm to pull him into the warmth of the kitchen, she was aware that he was shivering in his thin jacket. ‘Here,’ she commanded, drawing up a chair for him, ‘sit by the range and warm yourself.’

  ‘I must apologise for disturbing you without warning,’ Daniel said. ‘I was called upon to make a visit to the mill in Northwaite again and intended to return straight home by train from Nortonstall. But when I enquired at the station as to the next train, they told me that snow had blocked the track through to Manchester. It was clear that I must stay the night in town and try again in the morning. I thought to pay you a visit in the meantime.’

  ‘And we are very pleased that you did!’ Ada exclaimed. She had set the ledger aside and risen from the table to clasp Daniel’s hand in hers. ‘Sit yourself down, as Sarah bids you. The walk up from Nortonstall on such a cold afternoon is not one to be undertaken lightly.’

  ‘I confess I almost lost heart and turned away when I reached here,’ Daniel said. ‘I saw through the window how calm and content you both looked within, so that I hesitated to disturb you.’

  ‘I’m glad that you did.’ Ada was firm. ‘I would never have forgiven myself if you had turned away, after all the kindness that you have shown to my family.’

  Sarah had busied herself sweeping up the spilled herbs and she cleared a space on the table to set out tea things. They passed an agreeable hour, talking of Daniel’s work in Manchester and of Sarah’s efforts to learn her grandmother’s trade. After a while Sarah slipped away to light the fire in the parlour, feeling that they shouldn’t entertain their guest in the kitchen all evening. She was well aware that if the snow came on it would be necessary to accommodate him for the night, and bedding down on the sofa in the parlour would be the only option for him. As she returned to the kitchen, Daniel leapt to his feet as she entered and she reflected with some surprise on his natural good manners.

  It was clear that he and Ada had struck up a strong rapport during the time she had spent in Manchester. Sarah, observing them as they chatted, became pensive. Daniel knew so much more of Ellen and Jane’s life during the last few years than she did herself. If things had turned out differently, perhaps he would have been sitting here as her brother-in-law. On cue, as if he had read her thoughts, Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope.

  He hesitated. ‘I carried this with me when I k
new I was coming to Northwaite, on the off-chance that I might see one of you, to pass it on.’

  ‘What is it?’ Ada asked, regarding the proffered envelope with some suspicion.

  Daniel coloured up. ‘It’s something that’s not rightfully mine to keep,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘I should have given it to you when you came to nurse your family but I didn’t want to part with it after what came to pass. Now I feel that was wrong.’ He paused. ‘I have been given a better position at work, with an increase in salary, and so have been able to move out of those lodgings into more suitable accommodation. I came across the envelope when I was moving my possessions and was reminded of what I had done.’

  Ada now held the corner of the envelope between her thumb and forefinger. ‘But what is inside it?’ She seemed reluctant to discover this for herself.

  ‘It holds the few mementoes that I had of Ellen,’ Daniel said. His cheeks were now quite scarlet, standing out in contrast to his sandy hair. ‘There’s a lock of her hair, a ribbon and … a photograph.’

  ‘A photograph?’ Ada and Sarah, both startled, spoke together.

  ‘Yes. We visited a bazaar in Manchester on Ellen’s birthday. I bought her a ticket for a chance to sit for a studio portrait and she won.’ Daniel smiled sadly. ‘I think the photographer had an eye for a pretty girl and he liked the look of Ellen. We had quite an argument about it. But she let me go with her when she sat for her portrait. Here it is.’

  Daniel took the envelope back from Ada, opened the flap and shook the contents into his hand. It gave Sarah an unpleasant shock to see a curl of Ellen’s hair, much duller in colour than she remembered, but even more surprising was the photograph. It was a small head-and-shoulders portrait in sepia tones of a serious young woman who was staring straight at the camera. She was wearing a light-coloured blouse, neatly buttoned up to the neck, and her hair was piled loosely on top of her head, one long curl escaping to hang at her collar.

  Sarah took the photograph and studied it. She found it hard to make the association with the Ellen she remembered. She supposed she had changed a good deal in the years she had spent in Manchester, and the formal pose had robbed her face of its lively character, of the characteristics that went to make up her much-loved sister.

  She handed the portrait to Ada without comment. Ada moved closer to the lamp and spent a good minute or two in close contemplation of the image. When she looked up, Sarah could see the sparkle of tears in her grandmother’s eyes.

  ‘She was much reduced from this when I nursed her,’ Ada said to Daniel. ‘I wish I could have seen her in such good health. But I fear I am cursed to carry the image of when I last saw her with me for the rest of my life. I think you should keep these things, Daniel, unless Sarah has a use for them?’ Ada turned enquiringly to her granddaughter.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I have an image of Ellen, too. It dates from much further back than this and I can scarcely believe how much she has changed. This is the Ellen that you knew, Daniel. I think you should keep it.’

  Sarah picked up the photograph from the table where Ada had laid it and tucked it back into the envelope. Then she handed it back to Daniel, who still held the lock of hair, tied with a narrow satin ribbon.

  ‘They’re yours,’ Sarah said firmly. ‘We all have our own memories and our own pictures of Ellen, even if they are in our minds. These belong to you.’

  ‘But it was very thoughtful of you to wish to give them to us,’ Ada said. ‘We are agreed though: you must keep these things and remember Ellen in your own way.’

  Daniel didn’t try to argue with them but quietly stowed the envelope back in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then the three of them sat in silent contemplation for a good few minutes before Daniel got to his feet and said, ‘Well, I really have disturbed you for long enough. I must make my way back to Nortonstall and take a room for the night.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Ada said, at the same time as Sarah protested, ‘No, no.’

  ‘I won’t hear of it,’ Ada said. ‘There’s snow on the way if it isn’t here already.’ All three of them glanced at the dark window and Sarah stood up, pressed her face close to the glass to peer out then started back as fat white flakes spattered against the pane.

  ‘Yes, indeed it is snowing. There’s no need for you to consider travelling further tonight, Daniel. I’ve made up the fire in the parlour; why don’t you go through and I will prepare some supper for us.’

  ‘We have been too much in our own company and it will do us good,’ Ada added, forestalling further protests by rising to her feet and ushering Daniel through to sit by the fire.

  Sarah attended to the cooking, thinking as she did so of her own situation. Her husband was gone from her and what did she have to remember him by while he was away? Nothing: not a lock of his hair or one of his neckerchiefs. Nothing except the baby in her belly and the memory of his laughing eyes. It worried her to think that even that memory was beginning to fade.

  The contentment she had felt over the last few days was replaced by a sudden sharp longing. Did Joe ever think of her? she wondered as she chopped the vegetables ready to throw into the pot. Did he remember the curl of her hair, the colour of her eyes, the dimple on one side of her lips when she smiled? Did he long for her as she longed for him sometimes at dead of night when some noise outside the house awoke her? Or was she forgotten, the heady days of their summer love frozen into winter?

  Her gloomy train of thought was broken by Daniel’s appearance in the kitchen and his polite enquiry as to whether there was anything he could do to help. Sarah, used to taking charge of everything herself, was quite taken aback but assured him that all was in hand. He looked downcast so she hesitated before saying that he might take through another scuttle of coal for the fire, as it would no doubt be needed to guard against the chill of the night.

  ‘Would you mind if I took a look outside first?’ Daniel asked. ‘I promise not to leave the door open too long. But the snow we have in Manchester is a grimy affair, marred with soot and smuts, and I feel sure it will be different here.’

  He pulled the door open and exclaimed. ‘Oh my goodness, look at this!’

  Sarah, bemused by his enthusiasm, peered out too. The moon had risen and the path and garden sparkled and shone under a thick white carpet. Snow had been falling heavily throughout the time that Daniel had been there but it had ceased now and a hard frost was adding its own patina to the surface.

  ‘It does look lovely,’ Sarah agreed. ‘But you will be hard-pressed to get back to Manchester tomorrow if it carries on overnight.’ Sarah’s years of living in the countryside had led her to view the snow from a practical angle, as a hardship to be endured, rather than a thing of beauty in itself.

  Daniel looked momentarily worried, then brightened. ‘No matter. I can return to the mill at Northwaite tomorrow and send word back to Manchester from there. And it will not hurt to spend more time with their engineer. We always have more things to discuss than we ever have the time for.’

  Sarah chivvied him away from the door so that she could close it against the cold, then she joined Daniel and Ada by the fireside while the supper bubbled on the range.

  Chapter 16

  They dined at the kitchen table, Sarah laughing off Daniel’s compliments on the quality of the stew, then they quickly returned to the warmth of the parlour fire. Sarah found herself marvelling at the way the evening passed in conversation and much good humour. Visitors to Hill Farm Cottage of an evening were non-existent in the winter and she couldn’t remember family evenings in the past with her mother and sisters as being so enjoyable. Someone would have been angry or in trouble and an atmosphere would have been brewing. The contrast here was remarkable – was this how normal family life was conducted? Sarah wondered. Even though, of course, this evening’s gathering wasn’t strictly a family.

  ‘Penny for them?’

  Sarah realised that Daniel had spoken and both Ada and Daniel were looking at her enquiringly. She bl
ushed and made a point of fussing over the fire to cover her confusion, then said on impulse, ‘No, I will say it. I was just thinking how nice an evening we are having and how rare that is for us, usually so quiet and abed by nine o’clock.’

  ‘You have been most hospitable to your unexpected guest,’ Daniel said. ‘And I have enjoyed myself too, far more than I have the right to expect. A plate of cold mutton stew and a draughty room at one of the inns in Nortonstall would have awaited me otherwise.’

  ‘At least you would have had a bed.’ Sarah smiled at him. ‘I’m afraid that we can only offer you the couch. The room will at least be warm.’

  Daniel sprang to his feet as he could see that Ada was making a move to rise. He extended a hand to help her then he turned to Sarah.

  ‘I fear my staying here will be an inconvenience to you. And I would not like to be the cause of any unseemly gossip in the village.’ He looked troubled.

  Sarah laughed. ‘I hardly think that staying the night as the guest of a respectable widow and her newly married granddaughter will give rise to much scandal. In any case, we are so far out of the village that your presence here is unlikely to have been noted.’

  ‘You mustn’t give it a second thought.’ Ada was resolute. ‘Now, Sarah will help me up the stairs. My old bones find the winter’s cold hard to take these days.’ She turned to Daniel. ‘Sarah will bring a coverlet down for you and, now that the fire is stoked up, you should stay warm enough until the morning.’

  After Sarah had provided Daniel with a quilt and a pillow she bade him goodnight, checked the bolts were secure on the kitchen door and turned off the lamps before making her way back upstairs. She smiled to herself as she thought back over the evening and then, as she drew her bedroom curtains, she paused to gaze out over the snowy expanse of garden. Where was Joe on such a cold night? she wondered. She shivered involuntarily as she thought of him on his narrow-boat somewhere along the canal. She hoped that he had a warm fire to sit by and, as she climbed into bed, she longed briefly for the warmth of his arms around her, before falling into a deep, untroubled sleep.