So Long At the Fair

by Jess Foley

  In moments the fire was out, leaving behind the smoke and the smell of burning.

  With Abbie kneeling beside him, Louis gently pulled aside the counterpane that covered Oliver’s body. Seeing the extent of his burns he knew that he could not survive.

  Within the hour their son was dead.

  PART SIX

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘We’re in plenty of time for the train, aren’t we?’ Abbie asked as Louis handed her into the cab.

  ‘Oh, yes. Why?’

  ‘Could you ask the driver if we can go by way of the church? I want to stop for a moment or two. I shan’t be long.’

  ‘Of course.’

  When they reached the church gate Abbie got down and went into the churchyard where she made her way between the graves to the one particular little grave that lay beneath a rowan tree.

  As she bent over the earth the scent of the pink roses she had placed there two days earlier rose up sweet and fragrant in the early morning air. About her black mourning skirts white clover grew in the grass, while in the branches above a robin sang out, marking his territory. So often the robin sang while she was there – though she was rarely aware of his song.

  Slowly, slowly the leaden days were passing. Today was the 1st of September. Six weeks had passed since Oliver’s death and for most of that time Abbie had felt as if she were living in a nightmare. It could not be real; it could not be true; it could not have happened. It had to be a dream – yes, it must be a dream – and soon she would awaken and find that everything was as it should be. Waking, and realizing, she would sigh and laugh with sheer relief. And she would say, ‘I had this dream, this awful dream,’ and say no more for fear that she would tempt fate. But no, she knew that it was not a dream. This nightmare was reality and there was nothing to be done about it. That was one of the truly dreadful things about it all – that no matter what she did, no matter how she wept, no matter how loudly she railed at heaven, or how she pleaded, nothing could make any difference. Oliver was dead. Dead. Even the word, as dreadful as it was, could not summon up a fraction of the awfulness of the reality it signified.

  Each day she had gone about her business, but it had never been with her full concentration; she remained continually preoccupied with the knowledge of what had happened. It was never far beneath the surface. She would be doing something, some mundane chore, when all of a sudden the reality would hit her, striking her with a force that almost took her breath away. Oliver was dead. And the terrible realization would stop her in her tracks. He is dead. It was like learning the dreadful news all over again, and all over again it had to be dealt with, and she knew that she would never, ever recover. She could never ever be the same again.

  Other wives would have turned to their husbands for comfort, but Abbie found that she could not. The brief reunion she and Louis had known was over – as dead as if it had never been. She felt now that she was truly alone. It had been Oliver who had been the bond between Louis and herself, and with Oliver’s passing there was nothing to keep them together except for their marriage vows – which had turned out to be so many hollow words and phrases. So what was to become of her? Of them as a pair? Only time would tell. For the moment she could only try to get through each day; and that took effort enough without attempting to look into the future.

  Straightening, she wiped the tears from her eyes and brushed down her skirt. And remained standing there.

  If getting through these present days weren’t already hard enough, there was now the promise of added difficulties to cope with. With every day that had passed in recent weeks she had become more and more convinced that she was pregnant. Unable to deal with such a situation, she had prayed that it was not so, but she knew now that she could not be mistaken.

  She bent her head to the grave and whispered one more tender goodbye, then turned and started back towards the churchyard gate where the cab was waiting.

  The ride to the railway station was a short one, and they were soon on the platform, waiting for the train that would take them on the first stage of their journey to London.

  Tomorrow, Monday, was to be Iris’s wedding day. With the death of Oliver, Abbie had at first changed her mind about attending, but eventually, after some persuasion from Iris, she had agreed. Further, as Eddie was not able to be there, Louis had agreed to give Iris away.

  On board the train Abbie sat with an open book before her. She had no inclination to read; it was merely a barrier against the difficulty of conversation. These days she and Louis talked so very little. They seemed to have nothing to say to one another any more. They had gone back to sleeping in separate rooms again, while for the rest they merely went through the motions of sharing their lives. And Abbie was sure now that it would never be different. Any chance they had had of happiness had gone with Oliver’s death.

  Louis had made reservations for them at a hotel in Paddington, which was not too far from where Alfred’s family lived and where Iris would be staying overnight. On reaching the hotel, Abbie sent Iris a note to say that they had arrived in London and would see her the following day.

  The next morning they drove in a cab to Queensway where Alfred’s parents kept a tobacco and confectionery shop, living in a flat above it. After being warmly greeted by the couple, Abbie was taken to the bedroom where Iris was getting dressed for the ceremony, aided by Alfred’s sisters, Julia and Eleanor. Alfred himself was not in evidence; he would be going to the church directly from the nearby home of the friend who was to be his best man, with whom he had stayed overnight.

  Although Abbie and Iris had corresponded regularly, they had not met for several years. Now when Abbie entered the room they fell into one another’s arms. As they did so Eleanor and Julia discreetly withdrew to leave them alone together.

  Drawing back a little out of the embrace, Abbie looked at her younger sister. ‘Oh, Iris,’ she said, ‘you look lovely – and it’s so good to see you.’

  ‘You too, Abbie.’ Iris looked keenly at Abbie and then asked, pressing her hand, ‘How are you now?’

  At the oblique reference to Oliver’s death, Abbie said quickly, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ With a smile she added, ‘No sad talk now, Iris. Particularly not on your wedding day.’

  The marriage ceremony took place at a small church a short distance from the Timsons’ home. Iris looked very sweet and almost pretty in her simple white wedding gown. As had been arranged, Louis gave her away. Afterwards the newlyweds and the dozen guests returned to the Timsons’ flat for the wedding breakfast where, for the first time, Abbie had the opportunity to renew acquaintance with Iris’s bridegroom.

  As they talked, Alfred told her about his work with the London Steamship Company. As much as he liked it, he said, he was nevertheless eager to take up his position in the orchestra at Her Majesty’s Theatre, which would happen in a little under a month. When Abbie told him that she and Louis were going to Gravesend the following day and might possibly return by one of the pleasure steamers he said, ‘Well, try and get on the Princess Alice, why don’t you?’

  ‘That’s the boat you’re on, is it?’ Abbie said.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He added, not without a note of pride in his voice, ‘She’s the biggest of the fleet. Holds about nine hundred passengers. And I tell you, sometimes she gets pretty crowded. Still, I enjoy it so much when the weather’s fine. And if you travel on her tomorrow you’ll see Iris as well.’

  ‘Iris will be on the boat?’

  ‘She’s got the day off work – because of the wedding – so she’s coming down to Sheerness with me. It’s just for the trip, that’s all – so that we can be together. And listen, if I see you on the boat I’ll try to arrange for the band to play a special tune for you.’

  A little later Abbie moved to her sister’s side. ‘It’s been a wonderful day, Iris,’ she said, fondly putting an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, it has. It has.’

  ‘And when you leave here later on you’ll be going t
o your own home.’

  Iris nodded. ‘That’s right. It’s only a couple of rooms at present, but it’s a start – and we’ve been working to get them looking nice. We shall be getting a house of our own once we’ve got a little money together.’

  She went on to say that later on during the week she and Alfred would be going away for a few days that Alfred would have free between his employment with the Steamship Company and that with the theatre. For now, though, they had to keep on with their jobs. Looking across the crowded room to where Alfred sat at the piano, his mother bending to him in conversation, Iris added ‘I’m just very, very lucky, Abbie. I love him so much. I’m not yet twenty-four years old and I’ve got everything I want.’

  A little later, while Abbie was in conversation with Alfred’s father, Iris went over to Louis where he stood near the window.

  ‘Can I get you some more tea, Louis?’ she asked him. ‘Perhaps another sandwich?’

  He thanked her but declined, saying he had eaten enough. ‘And we shall have to be going soon,’ he added. ‘But it’s been a grand afternoon, and I’m so pleased to have met you at last – and on such a happy day for you.’

  She smiled and thanked him. ‘What’s made me even happier is that you and Abbie were able to come. It’s meant so much to me.’ A little wistfully she went on, ‘So often when the parents are gone brothers and sisters tend to drift apart.’

  ‘I’ve heard that’s so,’ Louis said. ‘Unfortunately I have no siblings – to my great regret. I always wished I had. I could envy your brother Eddie, having three loving sisters to fuss over him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about fussing over him.’ Iris laughed. ‘I don’t think he’d have put up with much of that.’ A little gravely she added, ‘Mind you, if it had been our Beatie I dare say he’d have put up with it.’

  ‘Ah,’ Louis said, ‘Beatie – yes. I met her once quite a few years ago. She seemed a very fine young lady.’

  ‘Oh, she was. And Eddie was that fond of her. I don’t think she could do much wrong where he was concerned.’

  ‘It was two or three years after it – it happened that I learned she had died,’ Louis said. He knew nothing of the circumstances of Beatie’s death beyond the most basic details. The sum of his meagre knowledge was made up of the fragments of gossip that had strayed his way some years before – the information that the eldest of the Morris girls had killed herself. There had been some talk about her young man throwing her over, he recalled. More than that he had never learned; nothing else had been volunteered and he had been loath to make enquiries. ‘Abbie,’ he added, ‘will never speak of her.’

  Iris gave a little sigh. ‘Well – it doesn’t surprise me that much. She was very much affected when Beatie died. We all were, of course, but with her it was . . . well, it was different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘I don’t really know. You say she’ll never talk about it to you. Well, she would never speak of it with me or Lizzie – or Eddie either for that matter, so I believe. Of course, it was years ago when it happened. I wasn’t at home at the time; I was away in service.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘I’m sure you can understand, though, it isn’t something people like to dwell upon.’

  Iris was called away a minute later and Louis stood there alone. A chord was struck on the piano and glancing across he saw that Alfred was about to accompany his sister Eleanor in a song. The chatter in the room died away and all heads turned towards them. Eleanor, a tall, slim girl of nineteen, began to sing ‘Love’s Golden Dream.’

  I hear tonight the old bells chime, their sweetest softest strain;

  They bring to me the olden time, in visions once again.

  Once more across the meadow land, beside the flowing stream,

  We wander, darling, hand in hand, and dream love’s golden dream.

  Louis was surprised at the sweetness of Eleanor’s voice. Although the song was sentimental it was affecting nevertheless. There was something vaguely familiar about its melody; he must have heard it before. He listened more keenly. Eleanor began to sing the chorus in a lilting waltz time:

  Love’s golden dream is past, hidden by mists of pain, Yet shall we meet at last, never to part again . . .

  She sang the second verse and the final chorus, and the song was ended. As Louis joined in the applause he was still trying to place the song in his memory. Then it came to him – he had heard the melody played on the hurdy-gurdy at the fair that day when he and Abbie had met.

  As memory returned he could see Abbie as she had been then, a girl of eighteen. How warm and passionate she had been. It was upon her warmth and her giving that he had based his hopes; the reason he had gone to Flaxdown at the first opportunity to see her again. But she had not been the same. When he had met her in Flaxdown that day she had seemed distant, showing a reserve that had taken him by surprise.

  Now, looking at her, he realized that her air of bright animation had quite gone. And as he watched her he saw her put her hand to her mouth and close her eyes as if in pain.

  When the celebrations were over later that afternoon Abbie and Louis got a cab and set off back to their hotel. Away from the happy company of the wedding party Abbie lapsed once more into near-silence. She and Louis were polite to one another, but nothing more; beyond the words necessary for their surface interaction they had no real communication.

  After dining at the hotel they went for a walk, strolling side by side in the cool evening air. When they returned to the hotel they got undressed, wished one another goodnight and climbed into their separate beds.

  It had been a long day and Abbie was tired, yet it was some time before she was able to get to sleep. When she did eventually sleep the dream came back and there she was again, faced with the slowly moving shadow and having to support the weight in her arms.

  The next morning they set off by train for Gravesend.

  Louis had written to his father of their coming and when they got to the house just before noon they found him waiting eagerly for their arrival. They had a leisurely lunch and when it was over sat in the quiet drawing room where, against the solemn ticking of the clock, Abbie and Louis read newspapers and Louis’s father dozed in his chair.

  Tea was served just after four, after which Abbie, in order to leave Louis and his father some little time of privacy, excused herself, saying she wished to walk out in the air for a while.

  The day had remained warm and pleasant. She walked the length of the garden and onto the lawn, where she sat on the bench as she had done on that first visit with Louis over four years before. Sitting there while the birds sang in the apple trees her thoughts went back over the previous day and Iris’s wedding. How good it had been to see her so happy. Iris seemed to demand so little of life. She had Alfred and it was enough. If only it could be that simple for herself, she thought. But where she and Louis were concerned the situation had gone beyond saving. And now, to add to her predicament, there was the likelihood of another child . . .

  On the periphery of her vision she saw movement, and turning saw her father-in-law coming along the path towards her.

  Coming to a stop before her, he said, ‘Have you got to go back to London today, Abbie? Can’t I persuade you to stay over for the night? Why not go back tomorrow? I’ve asked Louis; he says it’s up to you.’

  ‘No, we have to get back,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Besides, I told my sister and her husband that we’d try to see them on board one of the steamers this afternoon. Alfred is one of the bandsmen.’

  He gave a little shrug of disappointment. ‘Oh, well, that’s a pity, but if you can’t, you can’t.’

  He came and sat beside her on the bench. Without looking at her he said, ‘Abbie, I know how you’ve suffered over Oliver. And how you must be suffering still. I know too that it can’t help you if I say that I’ve known the same suffering. As have millions of others. It can make no difference; nothing can really ease your own pain, I know that much. I just want you to know that
I understand.’

  Abbie was silent, and his hand lifted and gently touched her shoulder. If he said much more she would weep. She could already feel the pricking of tears behind her eyelids, a tightening of her throat.

  After a moment the old man withdrew his arm and said, ‘But I can also tell you that the pain will ease in time. You think it won’t, but it will. We think we shall never survive it but we do. We have to, for what is the alternative?’

  She turned and looked at him, her eyes swimming with tears.

  He gave a little shake of his head. ‘We have no option but to get through it, to get through that time – and it seems never-ending, I know, when there is pain in everything. We have to live, Abbie. We have to. It’s in the way of nature. If we did not – if we could not survive such blows – then man could not survive. We have to carry on and we do. We get on with our lives. Our lives are different, of course, but that’s to be expected. After such loss life can never be the same again. We can only make the best of things and hope that – that somehow it makes us better, stronger people.’ He sighed. ‘It would be comforting to think that something good came out of it.’

  Never, Abbie said to herself, she would never recover. And all the wise words in the world would not help her to.

  ‘But there is one thing,’ the man said after a little while, ‘– you don’t have to face it alone. At least you have that knowledge.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said quickly, ‘I do have to face it alone. I am alone.’

  ‘Oh – Abbie – don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s true. I’m sorry to say it. You’re the last person I should be saying it to, but it’s the truth. And Louis – he is alone too.’

  ‘No – I can’t accept that.’

  ‘It’s the truth. Hasn’t he told you? We have nothing, the two of us. Nothing at all.’ She sighed. ‘All we had was Oliver and now we have nothing.’