So Long At the Fair

by Jess Foley

  Reaching a stile beside a five-barred gate Arthur carefully helped her over, and for a moment as he set her down he was holding her in his arms. Abbie saw that snowflakes had settled thickly on the brim and crown of his hat. And then he was releasing her once more and they were turning, moving off again before the storm.

  As they neared the farm buildings at the foot of the hill the snow was falling more thickly than ever. There was no one in sight and they made their way to an old barn a little distance from the farmhouse. There, under Arthur’s hand, the door creaked open, and the next moment, in a flurry of swirling snow, they were inside.

  Sighing with relief, Abbie looked at Arthur as he closed the door and turned to face her. As with her own, every fold and crevice in his clothing was filled with snow. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we made it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Avoiding his eyes she turned, looking about her. The barn was spacious and there was hay in abundance. The high windows were small and dusty and the light shone in, filtered through the dusty pane, the blizzard beyond appearing pale and grey. No matter, the place was dry and relatively warm, and they would be sheltered for a while.

  When they had taken off their coats, Arthur shook the snow from them and hung them on a nearby hook. His hat he placed with Abbie’s on an upturned barrel. As she smoothed her hair back in place he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Ten past two.’ He snapped shut his watch, replaced it, glanced towards the window at the storm and said, ‘We might as well make ourselves comfortable. We’re going to be here for a while yet.’ He looked about him then moved to a large bale of hay and sat down. After a second she came and sat on the hay a couple of feet from him. For some moments they sat looking out at the snow that swirled past the dust-begrimed window, then Arthur shifted his gaze, looked at Abbie in the dim light and said, ‘You’re not concerned about the farmer – Cassin, or whatever his name is – are you?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘Will your husband be worrying? Wondering what’s become of you?’

  ‘He’s working. He won’t be home for a little while yet. He’s not expecting me back at any specific time, anyway.’

  ‘That’s fortunate.’

  She gave a rueful smile. ‘Fortunate indeed. Though whether he’d notice if I’m there or not I don’t know.’

  ‘Abbie – that’s a melancholy thing to say.’

  She shook her head, avoiding his gaze. ‘Oh – what does it matter, anyway?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s not important.’ Then she added, ‘Nothing seems to be that important any more.’

  ‘You sound rather low, somewhat defeated,’ he said, frowning. ‘It’s not like you.’

  She turned to him. He was so near. ‘Arthur, how do you know what is like me and what isn’t?’ For some reason she could not discern she felt full of tears.

  ‘Abbie, what is it?’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you? Oh, Arthur – don’t you know? It’s partly to do with – don’t you know that?’ And the tears that had threatened spilled over, running down her cheeks.

  At the sight of her tears he gave a little groan and took her in his arms. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t cry. Oh, Abbie, please don’t cry.’

  She clutched at him and the next moment she was lifting her head to him as he bent to her, meeting his mouth as it came down. He kissed her, his lips soft and urgent. She felt his warm tongue wet against her own, and then gasped slightly as his hand moved over her body and cupped her breast. ‘Oh, Arthur,’ she gasped as they broke from the kiss, ‘tell me you love me.’ She had to hear the words that would help to make it right. ‘Please – tell me you love me.’

  Still with his hand on her breast he looked at her for a long moment without speaking. Beyond his head the snow whirled past the window. They were wrapped in a pale, silent world, the only sounds the sounds of their breathing, the rustle of their clothing on the hay. ‘Arthur, you know I love you,’ she said. ‘Tell me you love me too.’

  But instead of speaking the words she wanted to hear, he was releasing her, drawing away, his expression clouded with anguish.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  He got to his feet. ‘This. Our being here like this.’

  She didn’t want to hear the doubt in his voice, the beginnings of his guilt.

  He turned from her, gazing unseeingly through the window. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Please, don’t say that. It was right. It was the right thing.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Arthur, you love me. We love one another. You know that.’

  He turned to face her now. ‘I love Jane.’

  ‘But – you kissed me. You just kissed me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re not trying to tell me that it didn’t mean anything. I know better.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Arthur, don’t keep saying that. You make it sound like something – something bad, something wrong.’

  ‘It was wrong.’

  She got to her feet. ‘You keep saying that. You just kissed me, touched me – and now you tell me it meant nothing.’

  ‘Abbie – this isn’t getting us anywhere,’ he said. ‘Let’s not pursue it. We have to forget that it happened.’

  The fury of the snow had lessened. There was a little more light in the barn and she could see his face more clearly, see remorse there. ‘And you can do that, can you?’

  ‘You have a husband and son. I have a wife and daughter,’ he said. ‘And nothing could make me hurt Jane. I wouldn’t do such a thing for anything on earth.’

  ‘But you just kissed me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. But it’s done now and I can’t take it back. But you must understand that it doesn’t change a thing. Our lives are different now. When Jane and –’

  ‘Jane,’ she said bitterly. ‘Jane. Jane. Jane.’

  ‘Abbie, don’t. Please don’t speak her name like that. She loves you, you know that.’

  She brushed wisps of hay from her dress, took her coat from the hook and began to put it on. ‘I’ve had a demonstration of that love.’

  ‘Abbie – please. Jane didn’t scheme against you. What happened between us was something that – that just happened.’

  ‘Yes – life is like that.’

  In silence she put on her bonnet while at the same time he brushed himself down, shook his overcoat and put it on. When they were both dressed again he reached out and touched her gently on the cheek. ‘We must go.’

  Her chin quivered while the tears in her eyes blurred the image of him standing before her. As she dabbed at her eyes he moved to the window. ‘The snow’s almost stopped now.’ He stretched up on tiptoe and looked out. ‘There’s no one about.’ He turned back to her. ‘Come on – I’ll walk with you to the main road. You’ll get a ride from there.’

  Dumbly she nodded. They stood gazing at one another for a moment and then together moved towards the door. ‘Let me go first,’ Abbie said, ‘in case anybody’s near. We mustn’t be seen together.’

  While he lingered in the doorway she made her way across the snow-covered yard. There was no sign of anyone else about, and no sound disturbed the quiet but for the crunch of her boots in the snow. Keeping as far from the farmhouse as she could, she eventually located what she supposed was the footpath leading to the main road. As she made her way along it she looked back and saw Arthur following some fifty yards or so behind.

  Well out of sight of the farmhouse and also of the road ahead, she stopped in the shelter of a little holly thicket and waited for him to catch up with her. In a little while he was at her side. They stood in silence. Everything around was clad in white, only the path they had trodden showing any disturbance of the virgin snow.

  ‘You’ll be all right now, will you?’ Arthur said. ‘You won’t have to walk far, and once on t
he road you’ll soon find someone who’ll give you a ride into Frome.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Silence between them again, then she added, ‘We’d best say goodbye, then. I – I wish you good fortune, Arthur.’

  ‘Thank you. You too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well – goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Abbie.’

  She put out her gloved hand and he took it briefly in his. ‘Before we go,’ she said, ‘I’d just like you to tell me one thing.’

  ‘If I can.’ He looked slightly anxious, as if fearing what was to come.

  ‘Oh, you can. And honestly.’

  ‘Honestly, certainly.’

  ‘Tell me – when you and Jane decided to marry, were you truly in love with her?’

  ‘Abbie – why are you doing this?’

  ‘You’re avoiding my question, Arthur. Please, tell me: were you truly in love with her?’

  ‘Abbie, don’t do this.’

  She gave a little nod. ‘And you’re still avoiding my question. But it doesn’t matter. I think I have my answer. Oh, what we will not do for decency’s sake . . .’ She gave him a trace of a smile, then turned and, picking up her skirts, moved on along the snow-deep path.

  A little while later, as she walked along the edge of the road towards Frome, a carriage approached, moving in the same direction. To her relief she saw that it was a cab driven by a Frome fly proprietor. She hailed it, it drew to a halt beside her, she got in and moments later they were setting off. Just before the carriage turned a bend she looked back over her shoulder and glimpsed Arthur’s distant figure moving through the snowy field towards the road.

  Entering the house, she found to her relief that Oliver was asleep in the nursery and that Louis had not yet returned. She washed, changed her clothes and went to lie on the bed in the main guest room. There she lay, thinking of her meeting with Arthur and their time together in the barn. Covered with a rug, she slept for a while.

  She dreamed as she slept. It was a dream similar to the one she had had in times past. Before her was a dark, shadowed shape that slowly moved and changed its form as she watched. And then there was a weight in her arms. Heavy, so heavy. She must set it down, she told herself; she must; but she could not; she was compelled to bear it still. When she awoke she found that there were tears on her cheek.

  A little later Louis came back. Darkness had long since fallen. As he entered the room she closed her eyes, feigning sleep, and was relieved to hear him creep away again.

  He returned to the room half an hour later and came to the bedside. ‘Are you awake?’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes, I’m awake.’ She looked up at him as he lit the lamp on the bedside table. ‘Did you just get back?’ she asked, already knowing the answer to her question.

  ‘No, I got back a little while ago. And you?’

  ‘I got home a couple of hours since.’

  ‘Were you all right?’

  ‘All right?’

  ‘I wondered whether you might have got caught in the snow.’

  ‘Oh – well – just briefly.’

  ‘You managed to find shelter, did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How were Eddie and Violet?’

  ‘Fine. They’re fine.’

  He frowned. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘Ill? No – though I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

  ‘What are you doing in here? Why didn’t you lie on our own bed?’

  She responded with a shrug. He gazed down at her for a moment longer, then moved to the window. He looked out into the dark for a second then closed the curtains.

  ‘I hope you didn’t catch a chill in the snow,’ he said as he turned back to her.

  ‘No, I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘You didn’t stay that long with Eddie and Violet if you got caught in the storm. You can’t have done.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It didn’t last such a long time, but it was very fierce while it lasted. Where did you find shelter?’

  She frowned. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Louis, all these questions.’

  A little silence. Avoiding his eyes and at the same time trying to appear casual, she said, ‘I think I’ll sleep in here tonight, Louis, if you don’t mind.’

  He studied her for a moment then gave a brief, slow nod. ‘As you like.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s just that I . . .’ Her words came to a halt.

  ‘You don’t need to explain.’ He paused. ‘Shall you be getting up for dinner?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be down soon. I’ve got to see to Oliver, anyway.’

  As he turned away something on the carpet caught his eye, and he stooped and picked it up. He straightened, holding a little piece of hay. Abbie saw it shining in the light of the lamp. He placed it on the bedside table, then turned and made his way from the room.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘Yes, darling?’ Abbie, sitting on the stool beside the bed, came out of her reverie and looked down at Oliver. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Shall we ever go to the seaside again?’

  ‘Maybe – when the summer’s here. We have to get through spring first.’

  Oliver nodded his head on the pillow. Another thought came to him. ‘And shall we go and see Grandpa again one day, and sail on the steamer on the river?’

  ‘Perhaps. I should think so.’ Gazing down at Oliver in the dim light, she thought how fine-looking he was; and also how much like Louis – both in his colouring and his features.

  ‘Will you tell me a story, Mama?’

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘No.’ A little shake of the head, followed by a yawn.

  ‘Well – perhaps just a little story. What would you like?’

  ‘Roger Proudfoot.’

  ‘But that’s one of Daddy’s stories. You tell me you don’t like the way I tell it.’

  ‘Where did Daddy go?’

  ‘I don’t know. To look after one of his patients, I expect.’

  ‘When he comes in tell him to come and see me before I go to sleep.’

  ‘I will.’ Abbie gently brushed his cheek. ‘Are you going to close your eyes now? Just for a while.’

  ‘All right. Just for a while.’

  Abbie watched as his right thumb moved to his mouth and his eyes closed. Two minutes later he was asleep. She continued to sit there for a minute then got up and moved to the window. Moving back the curtain a little, she looked out into the April night where the lights of Frome twinkled in the newly fallen dark. After a time she let the curtain fall back in place and turned, looking down at the sleeping form of her small son.

  Where did Daddy go? Oliver had asked, and she had replied that he had very likely gone to see one of his patients. Which was a lie – certainly in the way she had implied, anyway; whatever interest he had in the person he was going to see, it was not a professional one. After dinner he had wasted no time in going out again. Abbie had been sure of his purpose. She had come to recognize certain signs: the extra care taken with his appearance, his evasiveness. Why it should matter to her, she did not know, but there were occasions when she found herself consumed with jealousy. At such times she remonstrated with herself that she should be so disturbed by it. After all, his liaison kept him away from her bed – and wasn’t that, she asked herself, what she wanted?

  Since her meeting with Arthur in January she and Louis had not slept together on one single occasion. And it had been her doing, she could not deny that. For a time she had feared that he might insist on his rights, but he had not and they had continued to sleep apart. After a while the situation between them had – on the surface, anyway – come to be accepted. They did not quarrel. The unacknowledged understanding between them now led to fewer reasons for disagreement. They were polite and outwardly friendly with one another, but there was no warmth, no closeness. And then, a month or so ago he had – so Abbie believed – begun to find solace elsewhere. The realization
had at first caused shock – apart from other emotions – not least it emphasized the growing divide between them. When the shock had diminished she was left nursing feelings of jealousy and resentment.

  It was almost ten thirty when Louis finally returned. When he came in, Abbie was sitting in the drawing room, working at her mending. Having left his coat and hat in the hall, he came into the room and moved at once to the fire.

  ‘Is it still cold out?’ Abbie asked.

  ‘Yes – quite.’

  He sat down in his chair facing her and picked up the book he had been reading. He had no wish to read, she was sure, only a wish to avoid conversation. His face looked slightly flushed and she had a sudden memory of her mother, all those years ago, getting back to the cottage after her secret meeting with Pattison of the post office.

  When Louis had returned from his rounds in past times, Abbie reflected, he would first have asked her how her evening had gone and would then have remarked on his visits to his patients. Of late, though, as he did tonight, he would sit silent in his chair, avoiding her eyes. She felt bitter at the situation; she was denied having what she desired, while he indulged himself whenever he chose.

  ‘Oliver wanted a story,’ she said, ‘– one of your stories.’

  ‘Well,’ he said as he put aside his book, ‘I’ll make it up to him tomorrow.’

  ‘I also told him I’d ask you to go up and see him when you got in.’

  ‘I will, a little later.’

  ‘We see less and less of you these days, it seems. Your patients are becoming even more demanding of your time just lately.’

  He said nothing.

  After a little silence she went on, ‘Oliver was talking about our going to the seaside again. And also of going to see his grandpapa.’