Sarah's Story

by Lynne Francis

Sarah was unhappy with the delay; it would mean that Alice was more likely to be awake and needing to be fed by the time she returned, but there was nothing she could do. She spent a disconsolate hour trailing around the market stalls and looking in shop windows at things she couldn’t risk buying, with little money to spare and the prospect of having to move hanging over them.

  A cold shower of rain dampened her spirits even further and she was desperate to find somewhere to take refuge. She entered the draper’s shop and spent a little while browsing the rolls of fabric, assessing the quality of the cloth between her thumb and forefinger until the shopkeeper asked her pointedly whether he could help her with anything.

  Blushing, she refused and left the shop just as the church clock chimed the hour. She was still a little early, but surely the solicitors wouldn’t still deny her entry? Feeling less brave than she had felt earlier she returned to the great door and rang the bell once more. This time a different face greeted her, a younger one, and the owner of it seemed less inclined to be dismissive of her.

  ‘I’ve come about renting … I mean …’ She paused, trying to remember how the unpleasant gentleman had phrased it earlier. ‘I’ve come with regard to Mr Smallwood’s affairs.’

  ‘Ah, you must be the young lady enquiring about the cottage rental? Come in and take a seat.’ The young man beckoned her in, indicating a row of hard-backed chairs against the wall. ‘Mr Sutcliffe Junior will see you shortly.’

  Sarah took a seat and looked around the room, rather over-awed by its high ceiling and the grand doors, each set deep within a substantial and solid wooden surround. A series of portraits of well-to-do men, captured on canvas within heavy gilt frames, lined three of the walls, while on the fourth there was a sign, with ‘Sutcliffe & Sons’ picked out in fine italic script. She was expecting a man of a similar age to the one who had let her into the building but in the event, when she was shown into one of the offices a good twenty minutes later, Mr Sutcliffe Junior appeared to be in excess of forty, if not fifty, years.

  His grey hair was quite bushy, as were his eyebrows, and he wore a high collar and a silk cravat, secured with a jewelled pin. His pinstriped suit was immaculate and Sarah was instantly conscious of how shabby she must look, her boots scuffed and too worn to hold their polish any more, her skirt and blouse faded from their numerous washes over the years, her shawl a homespun affair and her hair undoubtedly frizzy from the effects of the rain, despite her bonnet.

  Mr Sutcliffe Junior put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and peered over the top of them. ‘I understand that you have business relating to Mr Smallwood.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sarah said. ‘Mr Timothy Smallwood. I believe that he is the owner of Lane End Cottage and I would like to enquire whether it is available to rent.’

  ‘Lane End Cottage? And where might that be?’

  ‘In Northwaite, sir.’ Sarah was puzzled. Did this gentleman own more than one property? Or was Mr Sutcliffe Junior not very well acquainted with his affairs?

  ‘I see.’

  There was a pause, so Sarah ploughed on. ‘It’s very run-down, sir. It will need a lot of work to make it fit to live in. But I’d be willing to set it to rights.’

  ‘I see,’ the solicitor said, again. He leant back in his chair, hands on the table, fingers interlocked. ‘And why would you be prepared to do that?’

  ‘There’s nothing else available, sir,’ Sarah said. ‘And my grandmother and I require a home within the month.’ She wondered at the smile playing around the solicitor’s lips as she spoke.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. He looked at her and Sarah feared that he was about to dismiss her request out of hand.

  ‘If we don’t take it on, sir, why I fear it will have fallen to the ground within the year.’

  Mr Sutcliffe Junior raised his eyebrows. Sarah judged it best to keep quiet. He stood up and Sarah reluctantly rose to her feet too.

  ‘Well, Miss …’ He paused.

  ‘Mrs Bancroft,’ Sarah said, feeling her colour rise once more.

  ‘Well, Mrs Bancroft. Come back to the office this time next week and we’ll see.’ The solicitor had moved to the door, ready to show her out.

  ‘Next week?’ Sarah asked. She didn’t think they could afford to wait a whole week for a decision.

  ‘Mr Smallwood is on his estate in Ireland. It will require a little time to get his answer. Good day.’

  And with that Sarah found herself back in the hallway, where the young man was waiting to usher her out into the marketplace once more.

  Now, as she hurried home, she wondered at the wisdom of having made the lack of property available in the area apparent to the solicitor. He would surely tell Mr Smallwood, who would raise the rent accordingly regardless of the state of the cottage.

  By the time she arrived at Hill Farm Cottage, out of breath after the steep climb from the valley and with a headache from turning what had just occurred over and over in her mind, she found her daughter in full voice and quite red in the face.

  ‘Thank heavens,’ Ada said, handing the cross infant to Sarah the moment she walked through the door. ‘She’s been crying for what feels like hours.’ She noticed how cold Sarah’s hands felt after the walk. ‘Sit by the range. I hope you haven’t caught a chill. Today’s sunshine was deceiving; we’re not quite done with winter yet.’

  With Alice settled and suckling, Ada quizzed Sarah as to the outcome of her interview. When she heard that it would be a week before they even had an answer from Mr Smallwood, she fell silent. Both women contemplated the future with a certain amount of grimness.

  ‘Perhaps it won’t matter,’ Sarah said with a determined effort to be cheerful. ‘It may be that something else will come up in the meantime.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ada said, and they both sank back into silence.

  Chapter 28

  The little family awoke the next morning to discover that Ada’s words about the weather had been prophetic and indeed winter hadn’t done with them. Snow had covered the ground during the night – just a light covering but enough to make Sarah feel anxious about the birds in the garden, newly nested, and the tender first flowers adorning the borders and the hedge-bottoms.

  ‘It will be gone by midday,’ Ada said, as Sarah collected up the breakfast crumbs in readiness to scatter them for the birds. ‘Provided we get a bit of sunshine.’

  The grey skies outside promised little but by mid-morning a rising wind had blown the dark clouds away and sunshine was indeed melting the snow. Sarah had suggested to Ada that, since the weather looked likely to keep them indoors, they should make a start on sorting through all the items collected over the years, with a view to preparing to pack up. They’d made slow progress over the morning, Ada constantly stopping to reminisce as she pulled items from the back of cupboards.

  Her exclamations of ‘I’d forgotten that I had that!’ didn’t make her any more inclined to be rid of it; in fact it made her more inclined to keep it so that she could enjoy it once more. Sarah looked in despair as the pile of things to keep grew steadily, whilst the throwing-away pile consisted of a few items rusted and broken beyond repair.

  Sheets pulled from the bottom of the linen closet, with brown marks all along the creases where they had been folded in storage for many years, were seized upon by Ada and declared perfect for use as backing for quilts.

  ‘But we have no need of more quilts, Gran,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Alice will need one for her bed as she grows,’ Ada said. ‘And should you have more children, they will be in need of them too.’

  Sarah was silenced; the likelihood of having more children hadn’t occurred to her as yet, wrapped up as she was in caring for Alice. She wasn’t sure whether it was an idea that appealed or not.

  Ada was spurred on by the idea of quilt-making and was turning out drawers in search of fabric. ‘Look for garments that are part worn-out,’ she said. ‘We can cut out the best pieces and throw away the rest.’

  Sarah was about to demur and
say that they had more important things to do, when she thought better of it. Her grandmother was looking better than she had since they’d had the notice to leave, so why deny her this small pleasure? She sighed and fetched the scissors; any further clearing out would have to be saved for another day.

  Her grandmother’s enthusiasm for the project proved to be infectious. She gathered fabric together until they had quite a pile of suitable pieces and, Sarah was pleased to note, a good amount of fabric scraps that could be thrown away once stripped of anything useful such as buttons.

  The sunshine had served its purpose and melted the snow, but the winds brought another band of cloud and the afternoon looked set to be one of persistent rain.

  ‘Why don’t we make a start on the quilt now?’ Ada suggested. With Alice content to lie on the rug and watch them at work, seemingly entertained by the flash of the scissors and the colour of the fabrics, Ada showed Sarah how to cut hexagonal templates from scraps of paper. She then placed these on the fabric and cut around them, leaving a margin of fabric all around the shape.

  Then she showed her how to tack the fabric to the paper backing, folding in the extra around all the edges to keep the template in place. After a few false starts, in which Sarah used the fabric with the wrong side outwards or stretched it so that the shape was distorted, she began to amass quite a collection of patchwork pieces. The work had an addictive quality and she was almost resentful when she had to break off to feed Alice.

  As the afternoon drew to a close, Ada called a halt. ‘My poor eyes won’t take much more today, I fear.’

  Sarah was disappointed and all for continuing, but Ada said that in any case it was time to plan the next stage. She showed her how to form the patchwork pieces into a flower shape around a central hexagon.

  ‘Once you have stitched these pieces together, more neatly this time but with the papers still in place, then you make up all the other pieces into flowers. After that, you can start to join all the flowers around the first one.’ Her grandmother demonstrated, moving the fabric pieces around on the table top like counters on a game board. Sarah was fascinated and so was Alice, whom she held on her lap.

  ‘How clever!’ Sarah exclaimed. She became absorbed in trying out different combinations of patterns, using plain centres for some flowers with a mix of patterns around the edge, or using a different pattern for each piece. ‘Look, that’s my old pinafore, from when I was about five. Ellen and Jane wore it after me, I remember.’ She paused, the sudden remembrance of her sisters conjuring up a wave of sadness. ‘How well it looks set against this fabric. What’s this from again?’

  ‘It’s left over from the old kitchen curtains,’ Ada said. ‘I used to look at that fabric every time I passed the draper’s shop. He left it in the window for so long that it faded and I got it for half price.’ She smiled and shook her head at the memory.

  Sarah was still keen to get on. ‘Can we sew some together now?’ she asked.

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Ada was firm. ‘If we don’t think about supper now it will be midnight before we eat it.’

  As Sarah began to prepare vegetables while Ada took care of Alice, she reflected on what a good distraction the afternoon’s work had been. Neither of them had mentioned their predicament during the afternoon and, for herself, she hadn’t thought about it even once. Now there was one less day to get through until she had to go back to Nortonstall to hear the result of her plea to the solicitor. She pushed the unwelcome prospect of the move to the back of her mind and resolutely concentrated on the task in hand. Fretting would achieve nothing.

  Chapter 29

  The quilt top was well advanced by the time the day dawned for Sarah’s return to Sutcliffe & Sons. She knew she should have spent the time more wisely, in asking around the neighbourhood for any news of cottages to rent, or in clearing out and packing, but the weather had been dismal for much of the time. Every day brought rain, with barely a half-hour’s respite morning or afternoon. As she listened to it lashing against the windowpanes, Sarah wondered how the folk down in the valley were getting on. Had the stream swollen and burst its banks? It seemed likely, with the amount of water that must be coming down off the moors, but she didn’t think too much about it until her grandmother pointed out that no one had visited them in search of remedies.

  Ada was looking worried. ‘It’s unusual. And it means we have no income.’

  ‘It’s the rain,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s keeping everyone at home. They’ll be back, once it clears up. And we’ve been living like church mice ourselves. We haven’t bought a thing all week.’

  The weather had made her disinclined to venture into Northwaite to shop so they had dined off whatever was stored away in the pantry or outhouse. Sarah hadn’t noticed the lack of anything other than fresh milk, which she’d be glad to be able to get when she went out that day.

  The sky, washed by days of rain, was a clear pale blue by the time Sarah set out for Nortonstall. She took the road through Northwaite rather than the path beside the stream down in the valley, feeling sure that it would be waterlogged and filthy underfoot. She had no wish to arrive in Nortonstall looking like a ragamuffin.

  Northwaite was busy as she passed through it; it looked as though the inhabitants were taking advantage of a break in the weather to stock up on food and household necessities. Sarah exchanged greetings with all those she passed but didn’t pause. She felt a sense of urgency in her quest; more so since she had passed Lane End Cottage on her way into Northwaite and it had occurred to her that the dreadful weather of the last few days could have wrought havoc inside a neglected house. Inscrutable as ever, the cottage had revealed nothing of what lay within as she went by.

  Sarah was struck by the height of the muddy swirling water within the ditches as she headed down the hill towards Nortonstall. Once again, she wondered how the town would have fared with the volume of water flowing into it off the neighbouring hillsides. As she reached the edge of town she could hear the sound of rushing water. The stream that flowed through the valley below Northwaite broadened into something more properly considered a river as it reached Nortonstall, and from the noise it was clear that it was in spate.

  She came around the corner towards the Packhorse Bridge and stopped, astonished at the sight of so many people gathered in the roadway. She joined the back of the crowd but found it impossible to get closer to the bridge due to the press of people. Unable to see over their heads she enquired of her neighbour in the crowd, a tall, burly man who would undoubtedly have a better view of the situation, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The water’s so high there’s a fear that the bridge might give way.’

  ‘Surely it’s not safe to stand here if that’s the case?’ Sarah’s alarm was compounded by the fact that, unable to see anything, she found it impossible to judge for herself.

  ‘Aye, you could be right.’ The man chuckled. ‘But the town’s never seen owt like it and after all t’rain we’ve had, well, it’s a chance to get out and having something to neb at.’

  Sarah left him to his ‘nebbing’ and pushed her way around the back of the throng to head towards the centre of town, fearful of time wasted. Yet her efforts to reach the marketplace were thwarted. The river had breached its banks already here, spreading across the square; she could see it lapping at the steps leading up to the grand entrance of Sutcliffe & Sons.

  ‘But how am I to see Mr Sutcliffe?’ In her distress, Sarah spoke out loud and a woman standing next to her, observing the flood, turned to her thinking she was being addressed.

  ‘It’s a right carry-on, to be sure. And on market day, too.’

  ‘But how can I get over there?’ Sarah pointed to the solicitors’ offices.

  ‘Well, unless you’ve brought a boat, ’tain’t likely you’ll be doing business there today.’ The woman laughed then, seeing tears start to Sarah’s eyes, added hastily, ‘I heard tell that they’ve set up office temporarily in the backroom of The King’s Arms. It’s up Hill Street
, away from all this mess. You might find what you’re looking for there.’

  Sarah thanked her before hurrying away up the street that had been pointed out to her. After a short, steep climb away from the town centre she came upon The King’s Arms, set in a grey stone building up a flight of steps. Thinking to herself that many a head must have suffered a crack on these steps after a night’s drinking in the establishment, she took a deep breath on reaching the top, squared her shoulders and pushed open the door. As she expected, her entrance attracted a good deal of attention and the customers, all male, stopped whatever they were doing, whether it was supping from tankards, playing cards or dozing by the fire, to turn and stare at her.

  Feeling her cheeks start to redden from a combination of the heat of the room and the intensity of the stares, Sarah marched up to the bar. ‘I’m looking for the solicitors, Sutcliffe & Sons. I’m told they’ve taken up residence here, away from the flood.’

  The bartender put down the cloth that he had been using to wipe the glasses, Sarah observing as he did so that it was far from clean, and peered at her.

  ‘Sutcliffe’s, you say. Aye, well, you’ll not find them in t’public bar. Go back out into t’passage and follow yer nose along to t’back and there they be, all set up nice in t’snug.’

  Sarah, fighting down the feeling that she had made an error in coming here, stepped back into the passageway and followed his directions. They led her to a quieter area at the back of the inn where a fire was burning in a considerable hearth and several besuited men were seated at the few tables in the room, writing industriously in ledgers. Sarah recognised the young man who had let her into the marketplace offices, but of Mr Sutcliffe Junior there was no sign.

  Chapter 30

  ‘He’s not here, miss.’

  Sarah had approached the young man whom she recognised to enquire about the solicitor’s whereabouts. The other clerks were still writing, but less assiduously she felt, clearly listening to what might be about to unfold.