by Jess Foley
‘You needn’t worry about that, Mother. That’s not going to happen.’
As her mother, with a little nod of satisfaction, went back to her mending, Abbie thought of the letter she must now write to Arthur. She would have to tell him of her mother’s return and put to him the question of whether she could have a home with them after their marriage. She must write tomorrow. Yes, and she must also write her letter of resignation; the spring term would begin soon and she would have to hand in her notice at that time. Glancing over at her mother she saw that her eyes were closed, the mending lying in her lap. Abbie got up, went to her and gently touched her shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she said as her mother opened her eyes. ‘It’s late. Time for us to get to bed. And you know what today is, don’t you?’
Mrs Morris frowned. ‘It must be the – oh, yes, it’s New Year’s Eve.’
Abbie nodded. ‘That’s right. Tomorrow it’s the start of 1873.’ She looked off into the unknown future. ‘I wonder what the new year will bring.’
Chapter Eighteen
Abbie had been up since six thirty. Now, glancing at the clock she saw that it was just after eight. All was quiet in the little schoolhouse. Her mother was still upstairs. Half an hour earlier Abbie had crept up and found her sleeping. Hopefully she would remain so for a while yet; it was what she needed.
Having finished her breakfast and washed the dishes, Abbie now sat at the kitchen table, trying to compose a letter to Arthur. Almost three weeks had passed since her return from London and the reappearance of her mother, and although she had written to Arthur several times she had not done so as frequently as before her trip. Neither had she yet made any mention of her mother’s return. She must, though; she would have to. She couldn’t keep putting it off.
When she had finished the draft of her letter she set down her pen and read it through. It would not do. With a sigh of frustration she tore up the page and added it to the other paper fragments on the table near her writing pad. Taking up her pen again she wrote ‘Dear Arthur’ and then set down her pen once more. After a minute she replaced the cap on the inkwell, gathered up the scraps of paper and dropped them into the fire. She moved to the window and looked out. The snow that had fallen two days before still clung frozen to the hedgerows and covered the verges beside the lane. Up above, the sky was a dull yellowish grey. Nothing moved and all was silent; not even the singing of a bird broke the quiet. Soon she would have to leave to begin her day’s work at the school.
Into the quiet came the sounds of movement overhead. Her mother was getting up. Abbie plumped up the cushion on the fireside chair, put another log into the fire and set the kettle on to boil. After a little while she heard the creaking of the stairs and a few moments later her mother came into the room. Abbie greeted her and watched as she moved to the chair and sat down. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked.
A nod. ‘Quite well, thank you.’
Abbie eyed her mother appraisingly. She did not look well; she was pale and there was a listlessness in her movements, though at the same time a strange restlessness, an edginess about her.
‘I’ll get you some breakfast,’ Abbie said.
Mrs Morris shook her head. ‘Nothing, thank you. I’m not really hungry.’
‘Mother,’ Abbie said, ‘you must eat or you’ll get sick.’
‘Please,’ her mother said with an irritable wave of her hand, ‘don’t fuss. I told you – I’m not hungry.’
Abbie insisted, however, and after some persuasion her mother ate a little porridge. Afterwards Abbie put on her coat; it was time to go to the school. ‘There’s plenty of wood and coal for the stove,’ she said, ‘so make sure you stay warm and keep the heat going under the stew.’ She picked up her bag and moved to the door. ‘I’ll pop back at half past twelve. Will you be all right while I’m gone?’
‘Yes, of course. Don’t worry about me; you go and get on with your work.’
Abbie observed again her mother’s lacklustre air. ‘I must remember to get you some more of that tonic,’ she said.
‘Those patent medicines,’ her mother said contemptuously. ‘They don’t do any good. Have you got such a thing as a little brandy? That might help me to pick up a little.’
Abbie nodded. ‘I’ll get you some.’
Abbie’s morning passed slowly, but at last it came to an end. Those children who had brought their midday dinners ate in the classroom and then, putting on their coats, went out into the yard to play. Abbie was now free for a little while. Leaving the school behind her, she set off in the direction of the Harp and Horses. As she hurried along the street she saw Mr Hilldew, the vicar, coming towards her. She returned his smile of greeting.
‘Miss Morris,’ he said. ‘And how are you this cold winter’s day?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, Reverend,’ Abbie replied.
There was a brief pause, then he said, ‘Miss Morris – I’ve heard that your mother has come back to Flaxdown.’
‘Yes,’ Abbie said, her heart sinking. ‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘And she’s staying with you at the schoolhouse, I believe.’
‘Yes, sir. I hope the School Board has no objection.’ She prepared herself for words of disapproval but to her surprise and relief they did not come.
‘No, there’s no objection,’ Mr Hilldew said, ‘certainly not on my part – just so long as nothing interferes with your work at the school.’
‘Oh, no,’ Abbie said quickly. ‘Nothing will interfere with that.’
‘Good, good. And how is your mother?’
Abbie sighed. ‘She could be better, sir. I hope, though, that she’ll soon begin to pick up again.’
‘Come the spring.’ Hilldew said with a nod. ‘Come the spring.’
When the Reverend had wished her a good day she hurried on to the Harp and Horses. A little later, back in the warmth of the schoolhouse kitchen she poured some brandy into a glass and gave it to her mother. Mrs Morris took a sip and nodded her approval. ‘Yes – this will do me good.’
Another letter from Arthur had arrived while Abbie had been at school. Abbie read it through and put it in her bag. As she served the stew that she had left on the stove she told her mother of her meeting with the vicar. ‘So, you see,’ she said, ‘everything’s going to be all right.’
‘Oh, yes, we shall be all right,’ her mother said. ‘Besides, we shan’t be staying here much longer, shall we?’ Her dull eyes had lighted up. ‘Soon we’ll be in London and it won’t matter what the School Board thinks. They can go hang. For us it’ll be goodbye to Flaxdown for ever.’
Her mother’s words came back into Abbie’s thoughts a little later as she crossed the yard for the afternoon’s lessons. Clearly Mrs Morris had been thinking a good deal about the move to London and was looking forward to it. After all, why should it not work out for the best? Surely Arthur would not object. It was foolish to keep putting off asking him.
Later, while her pupils sat quietly at their work, Abbie took pen and paper and began once more to compose a letter to Arthur. After a couple of efforts she eventually drafted one which she thought would do. In it she simply told him of her mother’s unexpected return to Flaxdown, of her delicate health and reduced circumstances. Would he, she asked, have any objection to her mother living with them after their marriage?
Once school was over for the day Abbie bade her pupils goodbye until Monday, saw them off the premises and then sat down to finish her drafted letter. When it was done she read it through one last time, addressed the envelope and sealed it inside. She would post it tomorrow when she went out to do the weekly shopping. Gathering up her belongings, she let herself out, locked the door behind her and crossed the yard. As she entered the schoolhouse a few moments later she came to an immediate halt.
‘Oh – Mother!’
With a cry, Abbie dashed forward. Her mother lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, one booted foot resting on the lower step. Quickly Abbie knelt beside her.
‘Mothe
r . . . Mother . . .’
Mrs Morris opened her eyes. There was a bruise near her temple and she looked dazed. Near her head was a little pool of vomit. It was for the most part dark-coloured, like old blood. Frowning, she mumbled, ‘My foot. I’ve hurt my foot.’
‘Can you get up?’ Abbie asked. With some difficulty she helped her mother to her feet, though Mrs Morris could not without pain put her right foot to the floor. Then, supporting her as best she could, Abbie led her to her chair beside the fire.
‘What happened?’ Abbie said. She pulled up another chair, laid a cushion on the seat and lifted her mother’s injured leg onto it. ‘Did you faint? Did you trip? What happened?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mrs Morris’s words sounded slightly slurred. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I – I think I must have tripped.’ Putting a hand to her head, she touched at the bruise. ‘I don’t remember.’ She gave a little groan and closed her eyes. Abbie laid a rug over her and, bending to adjust it, took in the scent of her breath. She smelled brandy and the thought went through her mind that perhaps her mother had drunk too much of it. But then she saw the bottle on the little table beside the chair. It was still four-fifths full. She looked into her mother’s face. Mrs Morris, eyes closed, lay with her head resting on the back of the chair. She was very pale, her mouth and chin stained with vomit. Abbie took a damp cloth and dabbed at her mother’s face. As she did so her mother opened her eyes and gave a vague little smile. ‘Ah, Abbie,’ she said, ‘you’ve always been a good girl – and I don’t deserve it.’
‘Nonsense.’ Abbie drew up a stool and sat down. ‘Let me have a look at your foot.’ With a frown she added, ‘What were you doing with your boots on?’
‘I put them on to go to the privy.’
Mrs Morris winced in pain as Abbie touched her ankle. With difficulty Abbie removed the boot. The ankle was quite swollen.
‘I think you’ve sprained it,’ Abbie said. ‘I hope it’s nothing worse. Perhaps we should get the doctor to look at it.’
‘No,’ her mother said sharply, ‘I don’t want any doctor coming here, poking and prying around. I’m all right.’
‘But you’re not all right,’ Abbie said. ‘It’s obvious that you’re not. You’ve hurt your ankle and you’ve been sick, too, and –’
‘I’m all right,’ her mother protested. Then a moment after speaking she gave a sudden heave, threw her head forward and vomited, the mess spilling down over her skirt.
‘That’s it,’ Abbie said. ‘I’m going for Dr Parrish right now.’
Mrs Morris did not accept Dr Parrish’s arrival with any degree of welcome, but rather irritably protested that he was wasting his time as there was nothing wrong with her apart from her twisted ankle; and that, she added, would soon mend.
‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ the doctor said. He set down his bag and handed his coat and hat to Abbie. As he moved towards Mrs Morris she looked at Abbie who stood nearby. ‘Abigail,’ she said, ‘I think it would be better if you left us alone for a minute.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Abbie said, a little surprised. She turned and moved to the door. ‘I shall be in the front parlour when you’ve finished, Doctor.’
Without a fire, the parlour was cold, and Abbie was glad she was still wearing her outdoor clothes. She waited there for some time, then at last there came a knock on the door and the doctor entered, his bag in his hand.
‘Yes, her ankle is sprained,’ he said. ‘I’ve bound it and put a little salve on the bruise on her head. I’ve also left her some medicine to help settle her stomach.’
Abbie thanked him. He looked at her for a moment in silence, then sat down on the settle, placing his bag on the floor beside him. Abbie sat on a chair facing him.
‘Your mother’s ankle will mend,’ he said. ‘It’ll be painful for a while, but if she rests it’ll soon be all right again.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Abbie said. ‘But what about her vomiting?’
He nodded. ‘You must keep her on soft foods for a while. Nothing fried. And above all make sure that she keeps away from alcohol.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Abbie sighed. ‘Oh, it was such a shock coming in and finding her lying there. I don’t know how she came to trip like that.’
Dr Parrish shrugged. ‘Well, when a person gets inebriated I’m afraid that kind of thing is only too likely to happen.’
‘Inebriated?’ Abbie looked at him in surprise.
‘Yes,’ Parrish said. ‘Weren’t you aware?’
‘Well – well, no.’
‘But – couldn’t you smell the brandy on her breath?’
‘Yes, I could. But – she hadn’t drunk much of it. I only got the bottle today, just early this afternoon. She said she’d like a little. She thought it would do her good. You could see the bottle there for yourself; it’s next to her chair. There’s not much of it gone.’
‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ Parrish said, ‘but it doesn’t alter my opinion. I’m afraid your mother is very much the worse for alcohol.’
Abbie frowned. ‘But how could she be? On such a small amount, I mean.’
‘Well, there’s no doubt that she is. And she’s certainly had no small quantity to drink – that I’m certain of.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Abbie said. ‘I just don’t understand . . .’
Parrish looked at her keenly, then said with a note of sympathy in his voice, ‘This has come as a shock to you, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it has. I’m – bewildered.’
He nodded. ‘There’s something else I should tell you. I’m afraid this isn’t anything new.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m saying that this is a problem she’s had for some considerable time.’
‘What?’ Abbie’s frown deepened. ‘Dr Parrish, are you saying that my mother is a – a habitual drinker?’
He sighed. ‘I’m sorry you have to learn of it like this. But there’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever. As far as drink is concerned she has a very real problem.’
‘But – but she’s been back almost three weeks now and I’ve seen no sign of such a thing. She’s had nothing to drink until today when I got her the brandy.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. A person who’s – well, a dipsomaniac, to use the proper term – such a person often goes several days without indulging. It’s nothing unusual. It’s a recurring urge.’ He paused. ‘You say she’s been back nearly three weeks.’
‘Three weeks come Sunday.’
‘Did you know she was coming back?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘She’d been away for several years, isn’t that so?’
‘Ten years.’
‘Yes. Well, after all that time it wouldn’t be altogether surprising if she was – well – let’s say, on her best behaviour. Do you understand what I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘And so for the past three weeks, at least, she’s abstained.’
‘She hasn’t had any choice – I never keep liquor in the house. As I said – I only got it today because she asked me to. I still don’t understand how she could get in that condition on such a small amount.’
‘I’ve told you – she’s had a considerable quantity.’
‘But how could she have?’ Abbie was puzzled. She just did not understand how such a thing could have happened. She gazed off into the distance for a moment, then said, ‘I – I’ve just thought of something. When I came in I found her wearing her boots. She wasn’t wearing them when I left this morning. She said she put them on to go to the privy – but I’m not altogether convinced.’ She got up from her chair and went into the kitchen where she found her mother fast asleep in the chair beside the range. Moving quietly so as not to disturb her, she went to her side and took up the bottle of brandy. She pulled the cork, sniffed at the bottle’s contents, replaced the cork and set the bottle back on the table. Then, moving in silence, she began to look around the room. That done she went upstairs to the bedroom.
She found the empty brandy bottle beneath her mother’s pillow.
Coming back downstairs she went into the parlour. Holding out the empty bottle she said to the doctor, ‘Here is the answer. She must have gone out this afternoon while I was at school and bought a second bottle.’ She gestured in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Which is the one in there now. The one I bought earlier – this one – she drank. All of it. And in the space of an afternoon.’
The doctor gave a little nod. ‘So your questions are answered.’
‘Yes. Now they are.’
‘That was the cause of her vomiting, of course.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes. As I said, she does have a problem. How long she’s been drinking to excess, of course, I can’t say. But it’s obvious that she has – and for some time. I’m afraid the lining of her stomach has already been damaged. As for the state of her liver, who can tell.’
‘Will she be . . . all right?’
‘She will, yes, as long as she keeps away from that stuff.’ He gestured to the bottle in Abbie’s hand. ‘She’ll get better if she avoids alcohol. If she doesn’t – well – I wouldn’t answer for the consequences. It’s in her hands.’
‘And mine.’
‘That’s between the two of you.’ He paused. ‘Do you have much influence over her? Will she take notice of you?’
‘I really don’t know. I’ll do my best, anyway.’
He nodded and got to his feet. ‘I must get off. If you need me don’t hesitate to call.’
‘I won’t. And thank you.’
He put on his coat and took up his hat and his bag. As he moved to the door Abbie said, ‘Oh – Doctor . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Parrish – you’re a member of the School Board . . .’
He nodded, waiting for her to go on.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘with this happening to my mother, I –’
‘Miss Morris,’ he said kindly, ‘you have no need to worry. If you’re thinking that this – this difficulty might harm your position then put the thought out of your head. So long as your mother’s presence doesn’t reflect on the school in any way, and as long as you continue to do your work – which I might say I consider you’ve done admirably so far – there’s nothing more to be said. My visit to your mother today is between the three of us. It need go no further.’