So Long At the Fair

by Jess Foley

  ‘Here you are – here’s yourn.’ She handed the boat with the ragged robin to Jane. ‘Come on – let’s sail ’em in the water.’

  On the bank of the brook they hoisted up their skirts once again, then reached out with the little paper boats. Jane turned her head, looking along the stream to where, some distance ahead, a weeping willow hung its branches over the water. ‘Whoever’s boat gets to that willow first will marry a rich man,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Abbie said, ‘there’s no rich men for the likes of us.’

  ‘All right then . . .’ Jane pondered briefly. ‘The first one to get to the willow will be the first to get married – for richer or poorer.’

  Abbie laughed. ‘All right.’

  They lowered the boats into the current, pointing the prows downstream.

  ‘Ready . . . steady . . . go!’

  With Abbie’s final word they let go. At once the little vessels were taken by the current and the two girls watched as they sailed smoothly along, Abbie’s on the right bearing the flag of the golden buttercup, Jane’s with the little red flower of the ragged robin.

  Taking up their bonnets, the girls moved along the bank, following the progress of the vessels. On the current of the stream the boats bobbed up and down, keeping more or less abreast, first one nosing slightly ahead and then the other. But then, slowly, the boat with the buttercup began to draw ahead.

  ‘It’s going to be you!’ Jane said, then added, giving a little wail, ‘Oh, look – my boat is losing her flag!’

  The ragged robin in Jane’s boat was now trailing its blossom in the water. As the girls watched, it fell free and began to drift along in the boat’s wake. Hurrying to keep up, the girls found their way blocked by a mass of brambles that grew to the water’s edge, forcing them to find a circuitous route around it. They returned to the bank close to where the willow stood. Nearby, the two boats had been halted, caught up in the reeds. Now neither bore its flower flag, for Abbie’s buttercup also had gone. Further, one of the boats had fallen apart, the folds of its waterlogged paper collapsed. Even as they gazed it began to sink beneath the surface.

  ‘Was that yourn or mine?’ Jane asked. ‘You can’t tell without the flowers.’

  ‘We’ll never know.’ Abbie shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway – neither one of ’em got there.’

  They turned and began to walk back through the copse towards the road. ‘We’d better get a move on,’ Jane said. ‘At this rate Mrs Curren’ll be having her supper before we get there.’

  Chapter Three

  Marylea House stood on the far side of the village, a large building on three floors, at the front a lawn with colourful herbaceous borders. Approaching by the side gate, Abbie and Jane entered a paved yard beside stables where a young man grooming a mare directed them to the rear door. They rang the bell and a minute later the door was opened to them by a young maid who at once went away to fetch her mistress.

  Mrs Curren was a slightly built woman in her thirties with a thin face and prominent teeth. After dismissing the maid, she ushered Abbie and Jane into the kitchen.

  ‘So,’ she said, smiling, ‘which of you is looking for a position?’

  ‘Please, mum,’ Jane said, ‘both of us. We heard as you wanted two maids.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Oh, no, there isn’t the work to warrant two. There’s only my husband and myself, and not all the rooms are used, and I do most of the cooking. No, dear, I only need the one.’

  She then asked how old the girls were. Twelve, they replied in subdued chorus, and she nodded and began to outline the daily duties that would be required, the work starting at six in the morning and going on until nine at night. She would need her new maid to begin in two weeks, she said, adding that she would supply caps and aprons. To everything she said the two girls nodded and said, ‘Yes, mum.’

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘that leaves us with a little problem, doesn’t it? Which one of you should we have . . . ?’ She gave her rather horsy, warm smile. ‘As far as I can see you both seem like capable girls. I don’t want to be the cause of any friction between you. Perhaps you’d like to decide which it will be.’

  ‘Yes, mum,’ they said in uncertain unison. Then there was silence. Mrs Curren looked from one to the other, then Abbie turned to Jane. ‘You, Jane,’ she said, in spite of her knowledge that her mother would be furious. ‘You take it.’

  ‘No, Abbie,’ Jane said. ‘You take it. You heard about the position first.’

  ‘Perhaps’, Mrs Curren suggested, ‘we should toss a coin. Shall we do that?’

  The girls nodded and waited, for they carried not a farthing between them. Mrs Curren went away and came back with a new halfpenny piece. ‘Ready?’ she said. ‘Who’s going to call?’

  Silence.

  ‘Which is the older of you?’ Mrs Curren asked.

  ‘Please, mum, I am,’ Jane said. ‘Six months.’

  ‘Then you call. All right?’

  Mrs Curren neatly flipped the coin into the air, caught it in her right palm and clapped it onto the back of her left hand. ‘Heads or tails?’ she said to Jane.

  ‘Tails, please, mum.’

  Mrs Curren lifted her right hand exposing the coin and Victoria’s profile. ‘Heads,’ she said, raising her eyebrows to Jane in sympathy. ‘Well.’ She smiled at Abbie. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here.’

  ‘Yes, mum. Thank you, mum.’

  Mrs Curren turned back to Jane. ‘I’m sure it won’t be long before you find a place. Here . . .’ Taking Jane’s hand she put the coin into her palm. ‘A little consolation for you.’ Jane thanked her and dropped it into her pocket.

  ‘Now,’ said Mrs Curren, ‘I’m sure you girls are hungry after your long walk, aren’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer she waved a hand towards the large, scrubbed table. ‘Just you sit down there and we’ll see if we can’t find you a little refreshment before you start back.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind too much?’ Abbie asked as they walked back along the road towards Flaxdown. ‘Me getting the position, I mean.’

  Jane’s failure had tempered Abbie’s own satisfaction. She was well aware of how badly Jane and her mother needed the money. Since Jane’s father had died she and her mother had lived little more than a hand-to-mouth existence, their only income being from the handmade lace that Mrs Carroll produced. Beautiful as it was, however, it was becoming more and more difficult to sell. Machine-made lace was available now, and only the wealthy and discerning chose to buy the exquisite, but relatively expensive, lace made by the likes of Mrs Carroll.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Jane said. ‘She only wanted one maid so we couldn’t both get the job. Besides, you heard about it first. And anyway, I’ll find something soon.’

  Rain began to fall soon after five o’clock, just as the village of Flaxdown came in sight, and they finished the last two hundred yards of the journey in a mad dash.

  After saying goodbye to Jane, Abbie entered the cottage to find her mother preparing the evening meal, while Lizzie and Iris sat in a corner playing with their little rag dolls. ‘Thank the Lord you’re here,’ her mother said. ‘Eddie will be in from the farm soon and your father’ll be back from Bath at any time.’

  As Abbie changed her clothes in her bedroom her mother came and stood in the doorway. ‘So, how did you get on?’ she asked.

  ‘There was only one place,’ Abbie said. ‘And we tossed for it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I got it.’

  Her mother looked relieved. ‘Good. When do you start?’

  ‘In two weeks. She seems very nice – Mrs Curren. She gave us apple pie and tea. Tea with milk.’

  ‘And what wages will you be getting?’

  ‘A shilling a week and all found.’

  ‘A shilling. Still, it’s only a petty place. You won’t need to stay more than a year, then you can find something better.’

  ‘Mrs Curren said she hopes as I’ll be very happy there and will wa
nt to stay on.’

  ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she? But she knows well enough that no self-respecting girl stays in a petty place more than a year. It’s not expected.’

  Downstairs again, Abbie set the table for high tea and then, leaving her mother to finish preparing the meal, sat at the window and got on with the mending of some of her father’s and brother’s socks. The rain had stopped now. As she worked she kept an eye on the lane.

  All at once she was putting her mending down on the window ledge, getting up and hurrying to the door.

  ‘Oh, your father’s back, is he?’ her mother said. ‘Must be. There’s only one thing that makes you move that fast.’

  Abbie did not hear these last words; she was already out and running from the cottage. She had seen her father’s tall, lean, slightly stooped figure as he entered the lane. Now as she drew near him he bent to embrace her and she threw her arms round him and took his large, calloused hand in hers. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘I got a place! I start in two weeks in Eversleigh. A doctor’s house. Dr Curren his name is. I’m to get a shillin’ a week and all found.’ Looking up into his face she waited for his smile. ‘Aren’t you glad?’

  He stopped and she came to a halt beside him. He was looking down at her with a quizzical expression on his lean, rugged face, his blue eyes shadowed now not only by fatigue but also by concern. He had a strong, curving nose and full-lipped mouth. As Abbie looked up at him he drew his lips back a little over his teeth and heaved a sigh. His coarse fair hair, Abbie noticed, had fine streaks of grey in it.

  ‘Aren’t you glad?’ she asked again.

  ‘Are you glad?’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ she shrugged, ‘I’ve got to get a place somewhere, haven’t I? And Eversleigh’s not so far away. Mam says it’ll do for me for a year for my petty place.’

  ‘It’s not what I wanted for you,’ he said after a moment.

  She knew what he meant. In spite of the fact that most children of her generation left school at the age of ten, her father – and he had never made any secret of it – had hoped that she would remain on beyond twelve, at least for another two years or so. And she had hoped for it too. But it was not possible. She had already stayed on longer than Beatie and Eddie, and therefore it was only right, as her mother had said, that she should now go out into the world and start to earn her living.

  ‘Anyway,’ Abbie said, ‘it’s done now. And per’aps in time, after I’ve done my first year, I can study some more.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Perhaps so.’

  Her father, she had learned not so many years before, had never had a day in school in his life. In the years he had been a child, growing up as one of a large family, education was only for the privileged – the wealthy ones and the lucky ones. When the government had first donated public money for education in 1833 he had been thirteen and too old to take advantage of the new benefits. So, like most other children of his class and age, he had spent his childhood working.

  Abbie, thinking herself fortunate in that she had attended school till the age of twelve, found it hard to envisage her father’s early life. A childhood without schooling? She could hardly imagine it, though she knew that even now there were areas in the country where education was still not compulsory.

  Her father, though, had miraculously risen above his peers for, in spite of everything, he had learned. And what learning he had acquired had begun when, at seventeen and doing manual work for a schoolmistress in Trowbridge, he had persuaded her to give him lessons in reading and arithmetic in exchange for his labours. He had gone on from there, studying in whatever spare time he could find.

  Abbie’s mother had had a more fortunate start. Taught by her own mother, who had also once been a governess, she had had schooling from an early age. Abbie – when the realization had come to her – had been not a little thrilled to learn that in having both a father and mother who could read and write she was, in Flaxdown, something of a novelty. Not that her mother made much use of her education. Neither did Mrs Morris set much store by its usefulness when it came to her daughters – or even her son for that matter. Abbie’s father, though, was different. Not only did he love knowledge for its own sake, but he was always happy to use his learning for the benefit of others. Many was the time some illiterate neighbour would come to the cottage for the purpose of getting Frank Morris to write a letter or read one just received. At such times Abbie would have to vacate the kitchen so that the visitor might have privacy. Her mother, who usually remained in the room, regarded such visits with concealed disdain, frequently speaking of the visitors, after their departure, with contempt.

  Now as Abbie and her father entered the cottage Abbie’s mother called out to them, ‘Make sure you don’t bring mud indoors. I haven’t long done the floor.’

  Abbie and her father wiped their boots, then Frank Morris gave hugs to Lizzie and Iris, and kissed his wife on the cheek. Abbie noticed that her mother did not react to the gesture but carried on stirring the pot on the range.

  ‘Sit down and rest,’ Mrs Morris said. ‘I’ll heat some water for you to wash.’ As he sank into his chair, she asked, ‘How did you get back from Bath?’

  ‘I got a ride as far as Road and walked from there. I would have been back sooner but I had to shelter from the rain.’

  He sounded weary. Abbie bent, untied his bootlaces and pulled off his boots.

  A few minutes later Eddie came in from White’s farm, and when he and his father had washed they all sat down to eat.

  Sunday tomorrow, Abbie thought as she got ready for bed that night. In their bed against the opposite wall Lizzie and Iris were sound asleep. In the faint light from the window Abbie pulled on her nightgown and climbed into bed. After a while she heard the sounds of her mother and father coming up the stairs. They never stayed very late downstairs, even on a Saturday, for they would have kept Eddie from his bed and he needed his sleep. There came the soft sound of the door to her parents’ room closing and then all was silent again. Abbie thought her father had seemed especially tired this evening. And she had also seen the look of unhappiness in his face. The look was not new. And it was disturbing. He had always seemed so much in control, unaffected by the rigours of his routine, the shortness of money and the continuous grind to make ends meet. She had only ever been touched by her mother’s discontent – which had lately seemed such a constant thing. With her father, though, there was something different.

  As if in support of her realization, there came to her from across the landing the sound of her mother’s voice – raised in angry exasperation – then her father’s – quieter, controlled. Turning on her side, Abbie pulled up the bedcovers to shut out the noise. When she surfaced after a few minutes the voices were silent. Relieved, she settled again. Tomorrow afternoon, she reminded herself, Beatie would come visiting – and not alone. She would be accompanied by her young man, her Mr Thomas Greening, from Lullington. The Morrises knew about him from the letters Beatie wrote, but this would be the first time they would meet him face to face.

  With Lizzie and Iris out playing on the green, Eddie visiting friends nearby and her father working on the allotment, Abbie spent the morning helping her mother make the kitchen as clean and neat as possible.

  After midday dinner, with Eddie immediately off again to rejoin his friends and the two younger girls sent off to Sunday school, Abbie and her mother and father got ready for Beatie’s arrival.

  She appeared just before three o’clock, having journeyed from Lullington where she worked as nursemaid to the two small children of a mill owner and his wife, Mr and Mrs Callardine. Getting a free half-day every other week, she usually returned to Flaxdown about once a month, on which occasion she would spend a few precious hours on a Sunday afternoon with her family. Usually she walked the five-odd miles, or if she was lucky she would get a ride from some thoughtful cart- or carriage-driver. On this Sunday in late July she had walked from Lullington accompanied by her Mr Greening, a good-looking,
tallish, dark-haired, dark-eyed young man.

  After their arrival, Beatie and Tom sat in the kitchen drinking tea and eating the scones Mrs Morris had baked that morning. As usual, Beatie had brought little presents with her, and now she handed her mother three well-read paper-covered novels and – surreptitiously, so that no one should see – a shilling that she had saved from her wages. To her father she gave some copies of the Penny Illustrated Paper, which was taken regularly at Hillside House and which she had saved from being thrown away. Among other items, the papers carried several illustrations of events in the American Civil War, in which conflict Frank Morris was much interested.

  Beatie, turned seventeen that past March, was small and slim like her mother. She had a flawless complexion the colour of cream and pink roses, and with her rich chestnut hair and wide, dark-lashed blue eyes she was, to Abbie’s mind, one of the most strikingly beautiful young women she had ever seen. Her dress, recently given to her by her employer’s wife, had the colour and sheen of a freshly picked damson. It was no wonder, Abbie thought, that young Mr Greening was so attentive to her and followed her so intently with his eyes.

  Thomas Greening, eighteen years old, was the son of a Lullington inn owner, and he and Beatie had met that past spring when Beatie had been sent to the little shop at the rear of the inn to buy sweets for the Callardine children. It was Tom who came to serve her. Beatie had previously glimpsed him in church at Sunday morning service – when he had also noticed her. He had admired her then, she later learned and, having met her at the inn, had determined to renew the acquaintance at the earliest opportunity. This he did by managing to be in the right place when Beatie left Hillside House to take her charges for a spin in the perambulator. In just a few weeks he was taking Sunday afternoon walks with her, while in the meantime they had also begun to exchange letters.

  Beatie’s tale, however, was not one of unalloyed joy. Tom’s parents, having had dreams of their son making a marriage with a bride who had more assets than just a pretty face, frowned on his enthusiasm for the impoverished nursemaid and did what they could to discourage the assocation. He, however, was not so easily discouraged it seemed, and the relationship had continued and blossomed.