by Jess Foley
The day was very warm, the sun beating down out of a cloudless sky. Coming upon the remains of a fallen tree in a secluded spot in the shade of a willow, Louis suggested that they sit for a while. Abbie, glad to rest out of the sunlight, agreed with relief.
Taking off his jacket, Louis placed it on the fallen tree trunk and Abbie sat down on it. With his hat beside him, Louis sat on the tree trunk some few feet away while Abbie took off her bonnet and ran a cooling hand through her hair.
The two had met on more than one occasion since she had called upon him in the rain to minister to her mother. A couple of times since that day he had come to the schoolhouse without notice, and she had invited him in and given him tea. On two other occasions he had, as in this instance, written to suggest that they meet. In all of their meetings, however, nothing of any great importance had been said, but following her mother’s passing she had found his company a great comfort, and was glad of his visits.
To a degree she had blamed herself for her mother’s death, but Louis had insisted that she could not be held in any way responsible. The seeds of the tragedy had been sown long before her mother’s return to Flaxdown, he had said. Specifically, he explained to her that her mother’s death had been due to haemorrhage of the stomach lining, brought about by prolonged intake of alcohol. Dr Parrish had concurred in the opinion, and Mrs Morris’s death certificate had been so endorsed.
Now, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, Louis dabbed at the back of his neck and his forehead. Nodding out towards the sound of the children’s voices, he said, ‘I could envy them at a time like this.’
‘Ah, yes. I know what you mean.’ Abbie nodded. ‘Jane and I used to come here and swim. They were lovely times. And so far away now.’
He turned to look more closely at her. ‘It will get better, Abbie. Believe me, it will. It will get easier.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘I thought you sounded rather melancholy – and because of your mother. Is it not that?’
‘No. It’s not that at all.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so down. I don’t know; perhaps it’s this particular time of the year – when the school is closed and all the children are away. One gets so accustomed to the routine; it’s hard to get used to the difference. And with mother being gone . . . well, I suppose I’m being thrown more and more onto my own resources.’ She gave an ironic little chuckle. ‘And obviously those resources are being found to be lacking, wouldn’t you say?’
‘No, not at all. I think it’s quite understandable that you’re at – well, at something of a loss. Your life has changed in the past weeks. It’s bound to make a difference.’ He put out his hand and patted hers as it rested on the tree trunk. Although his touch was brief, she could still somehow feel it on the back of her hand. The water, the fallen tree trunk – for Abbie they conjured up a picture of the two of them together that day beside the stream, when they had strayed from the fairground. She thrust the images away; that time was long past.
‘Abbie,’ Louis was saying, ‘you mustn’t be hard on yourself. You’ve been through a difficult time.’
He went on to ask after her brother and two sisters, and they spoke also of his work and of more mundane matters. And then, after a short pause in their conversation, he asked, letting his question fall like a stone into the still lake before them:
‘And what about your Mr Gilmore?’
‘What?’ She had been looking out over the water, but now turned to him and saw the expression on his face, a look of gravity relieved only slightly by the trace of a smile.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he said. ‘Mr Arthur Gilmore.’
‘What – what about him?’ She felt somewhat flustered, discomfited by his question, and looked away again, back over the water.
‘When we met on the train just after Christmas you said you had been to spend some time with him in London. That you were engaged to be married. You were to be married at Easter, you told me.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes . . .’ A shrug. ‘Unfortunately – things happen. Plans change.’
‘I see. I think. Your plans changing – was this due to your mother’s return?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you – postponed your wedding.’
A pause before she answered. ‘Not quite. There’s not going to be a wedding.’ She turned to him at this. ‘I couldn’t do anything else. With my mother living with me and in the state she was in . . . I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘I see. So you and your Mr Gilmore are no longer engaged.’
‘That would seem to be the position.’ She looked away again. From the other side of the lake the children’s shouts and laughter rang across the water. And suddenly Louis’s hand was there once more, lighting on hers, his palm on the back of her hand.
‘Abbie, that’s so sad,’ he said. ‘I had no idea. The loss of your mother. The ending of your engagement. It’s no wonder you feel somewhat low.’
Her hand was burning under the touch of his and, as casually as she could, she withdrew it. ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she said. ‘I told you, it’s just the time of the year – with not enough to occupy my thoughts, my time.’ She picked up her bonnet, moving to put it back on her head. The conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn. ‘I think perhaps we might start back,’ she said. ‘I could do with some tea; I’m getting thirsty.’
Back at the schoolhouse Abbie made tea and they sat drinking it in the little parlour. Their conversation now, however, remained on safe ground; there was no talk of bereavement or broken engagements and gradually the mood between them lightened. Later on, when Louis left it was with the agreement that they would write and make arrangements to meet again in the near future.
Over the weeks, the months, they met from time to time. Sometimes, weather permitting, they walked or drove out into the countryside. On other, rarer occasions, they went to Trowbridge or another nearby town to look around the shops and perhaps take lunch or dinner at a restaurant. And as they continued to meet Abbie felt herself relaxing more in his company and looking forward to the times when they would be together.
Always, though, at the back of her mind, was the sense that there was something missing in her life. And she soon came to realize that its main cause had nothing to do with her work at the school. It must surely, she eventually told herself, be because of Arthur, and the unsatisfactory way in which their relationship had ended.
She said nothing of it to Louis or anyone else, however, telling herself that it was in the past, and best forgotten.
Neither did she speak to anyone of her renewed friendship with Louis. Though if truth were told, she knew it could only be a matter of time before it was remarked upon. The time came when one Sunday afternoon she was visiting Eddie and Violet, and the subject came up. They had obviously discussed it, for Eddie said, smiling at her, ‘I reckon you’re something of a dark ’orse, our Abbie. Or a darker ’orse than I thought you were.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, this young gentleman friend of yourn. You’ve never spoke of ’im.’
‘And what gentleman friend would this be?’
‘Oh, look at ’er!’ Eddie’s laugh was infuriating. ‘Sittin’ there like butter wouldn’t melt in ’er mouth. You know who I’m talkin’ about. Manny said he saw you in a carriage with the man a week or so back. And Violet saw you walkin’ with ’im near the village.’ He laughed again. ‘Come on, own up.’
His teasing was so irritating that Abbie almost snapped back a reply. She bit her tongue, however, and said, hiding her annoyance, ‘If you must know, his name is Louis Randolph. He’s a doctor, living and practising in Frome.’
‘A doctor, yet!’ Eddie, impressed, gave a little whistle. ‘A doctor. You’re doing well for yourself, ent you?’
‘And,’ Violet broke in, ‘a very good-looking doctor. Oh, very handsome indeed. You’ve got good taste, Abbie.’
Quickly Abbie said, ‘Listen, it’s not li
ke you think it is. He’s a friend and nothing more.’
‘Oh, ah,’ Eddie said nodding. ‘We ’eard that one before, ent we?’
‘It’s the truth.’ Now Abbie let her annoyance show. ‘We met – well, years ago. And he was the doctor I called in to see Mother that time – though he was too late to help her. So please – stop making more of it than there is.’
‘All right, all right.’ Eddie raised his hands. ‘You don’t need to sound so damn rattled about it.’
‘Well – the way you go on. I can’t have a simple friendship without you making some huge affair out of it.’ And it was true, she said to herself: her friendship with Louis was simply that, a friendship and nothing more. Granted, there were times when she had suspected that perhaps Louis wanted more from their relationship, but she did not, and he seemed to be content with things as they were. And that was the way it would remain. Neither one of them, she told herself, now expected anything other.
So the days, the weeks, the months had gone by – with little change showing in Abbie’s life. And now here it was winter again.
From her seat at her classroom desk, she glanced up at the clock. A quarter to three. Not long to go now and school would be over for another day. She watched her pupils for a few moments as they worked, then got up from her chair, moved to the window and gazed up at the grey sky.
She sighed, aware again of a sense of restlessness. It was with her so much of the time now – like some constant companion. Here it was, mid-December; she had expected that such feelings would have long gone by this time, but instead they seemed to have been growing stronger. So much time had gone by. Was it a year since she had returned from London after spending Christmas with Arthur? Her plans at that time had been to leave Flaxdown in the spring for a life in London, but her mother had returned, causing upheaval in so many ways. Changing Abbie’s life – changing it for ever.
Abbie remained standing at the window for a minute or two longer, then turned her attention back to her pupils. They were writing, some on slates, some on paper. The younger and less able ones were working on words, phrases and short sentences, the others on short compositions she had set them.
‘Thomas? Thomas Gilpin . . . ?’ She spoke the boy’s name as she moved back to her desk and as he looked up from his work she beckoned to him, smiling. ‘I’ll see your composition now, Tom, if I may.’
The boy, just over nine years old, got up from his seat and came towards her, a paper in his hand. He was the son of a farm labourer from the other side of the village, a boy with a warm, pleasant manner and unexceptional academic abilities.
As Abbie took the paper from him his hand brushed against her own. ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said, ‘your hand is so cold.’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Do you feel cold?’
He did not answer. Not that she was surprised; he would not happily admit to such a thing. She took in his thin, darned woollen jumper, the frayed collar of his shirt. ‘While I look at your work, Tom,’ she said, ‘perhaps you could do something for me?’
‘Yes, miss?’ His voice was low and grave.
‘Go and put some more wood in the stove, would you?’ She gestured to the old stove with its stack reaching up into the ceiling. ‘It might need a good old poke, too. I’m afraid I don’t have the right knack with it.’ She added as he moved away, ‘And give your hands a good warm while you’re there.’
‘Yes, miss.’
He turned away. Abbie added: ‘Take your time. And don’t burn yourself.’
‘No, miss.’
She watched him as he bent over the stove, his face set in concentration. How little chance such children had, regardless of their abilities, she thought. Being from very poor families, most of them were doomed to follow in their parents’ footsteps, rarely getting even a step further ahead.
She looked down at the paper before her. Christmas was only days away and her pupils were looking forward to it. Tom Gilpin, she saw, was no exception. In his small, surprisingly neat hand, he had written that Christmas was his favourite time of the year. On Christmas morning, he wrote, he and his brothers and sisters would find an orange in their stockings, and for Christmas dinner they would eat chicken or pork. Christmas was spelt with a small ‘c’. He had continued:
. . . On christmas Day my Father doesn’t have to work, but is with us all day long, even though it’s not a Sunday. Last christmas when the pond was froze my Father went skateing on the ice. Sometimes he skates very fast, and sometimes slow. When he skates slow I can run beside him, holding his hand. My father says that when the yunion is strong there will be more days like christmas.
‘Is it all right, miss?’ The boy had finished tending the stove and was now standing at Abbie’s elbow.
‘Indeed it is, Tom. It’s very good.’ She smiled at him. ‘You make it sound like a very special day.’
He nodded and smiled gravely. She turned back to the paper. There were numerous errors but she would not remark on all of them; there was no sense in discouraging him. ‘Christmas must start with a capital letter,’ she said, ‘and there’s no “e” in skating. Also there’s no “y” in union. Apart from that it’s excellent.’
He nodded, pleased. ‘Yes, miss.’ A pause, then: ‘I’m not sure exactly what a union is, miss. What is it?’
‘What is a union?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Well, a union, a trades union – which is what you’re meaning here – is a band of men – a group of workers who stand together. They get together and say, “Look, we can do nothing on our own, but if we all stand together, side by side – if we form a union – stand united – we shall be stronger than if we’re alone.” Do you understand?’
‘I think so, miss.’ But he sounded uncertain.
Abbie said, ‘In the case of your father – well, he works on a farm, doesn’t he?’
The boy nodded.
‘Right, so he was almost certainly speaking of the National Agricultural Labourers’ Union. It was formed just last year – 1872 – by farm labourers – so that they could protect themselves.’
‘Why do they need to protect themselves? Why do they want to be stronger?’
Abbie hesitated. The concept of trades unions wasn’t something she wished to get into; still, the boy had asked. She glanced up at the class. While most of the children were working at their slates and papers, others were listening to the dialogue. She turned back to Tom.
‘Let me try to explain,’ she said. ‘If you worked for a man and he took advantage of you – let’s say he made you work too hard and too long for your wages – what would you do?’
The boy thought about this, then said, ‘I’d tell him, miss. I’d tell ’im ’e was making me work too ’ard.’
A boy in the front row chimed in: ‘Yes, miss, if it was me I’d tell him ’e’d have to give me more wages.’
‘Yes,’ Abbie said, ‘but supposing he refused. What if he said, “No, I won’t give you any more wages”?’
All the children were listening now. A small girl, from her seat in the second row, said: ‘Miss, if he wouldn’t pay me no more wages I’d tell ’im I wouldn’t do ‘is work.’
‘And if he still said no?’ Abbie said. ‘What would you do then? And don’t forget that if you’re a farm worker you’re probably living in a tied cottage – one owned by the farmer. If you left your job on the farm you’d have to leave the cottage, too, wouldn’t you? And if you’re a man with a wife and children to look after, what would happen then?’
Tom Gilpin said, ‘Get another job, miss? And another tied cottage?’
Abbie shrugged. ‘Perhaps you could – if you were very, very lucky. But your next employer might do the same thing to you. It could go on like that. And what would happen if you gave up your job and your home and couldn’t find another, no matter how hard you looked? What would happen then?’
No one spoke for a moment, then Tom said, ‘It’d be the workhouse, miss. That or starve, I reckon.�
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Abbie nodded. ‘There you are.’ Her glance moved over the faces of the children. ‘This same thing can happen to men in all kinds of work. Although they might protest at their conditions there’s not a lot they can do about it – because so often their employer just turns round and says, “Well, if you don’t like it, go and find another job.” And of course, that can be a very difficult thing to do. So what happens is that the worker is forced to stay in his job and put up with the same conditions – no matter how bad they are.’
‘But – how does a union help them, miss?’ Tom said.
‘Well, working together the members of the union try to decide what is fair – what is best for them, for all of them. And they can say to the bosses, “Look, if you don’t play fair then none of us will work for you.” And if they all say that, all those thousands of men, then the bosses have to listen. If just one worker refuses to work it doesn’t make any difference to the employer, but if all the workers stop then the employer finds himself in a real pickle.’
‘Going on strike,’ one of the boys said. ‘That’s going on strike, isn’t it, miss?’
‘That’s right,’ Abbie said. ‘When a body of men decide not to work it’s known as going on strike. And they can stay on strike until the boss says, “All right, I’ll listen to you.”’
‘But,’ said another boy, ‘if they go on strike they don’t get any wages, do they?’
Abbie was about to reply when she heard the sound of the door opening. Turning, she saw appear the short, thin figure of Mr Carstairs, the school inspector. What was he here for now? She could feel herself touched with a little of that same fear and apprehension which always accompanied any sight of him. As he came across the room towards her she got to her feet, the pupils, as one, following suit.