Wait For the Dawn

by Jess Foley

  ‘No, really,’ Ryllis said. ‘I’ll hurry along on my own. If I go now, maybe I’ll be back before dark.’

  Lydia held her and kissed her and walked with her into the hall. Then, in the open doorway she stood and mournfully watched Ryllis’s sad figure walk down the drive to the street. As Ryllis moved out of sight behind the tall privet hedge, Lydia realised that she had said nothing to her about the coming baby.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ryllis had awakened fifteen minutes late this Monday morning and so was behind in her chores. Mrs Claxon, the cook, who was usually so pleasant to her, was irritable because of it, and Ryllis was doing all she could to mollify her. She had overslept as she had lain awake so long last night. She had kept thinking about Tom, and then her visit to her father, and then to Lyddy. Lyddy, of course, had been completely sympathetic, but that had not helped. Her offer, to have Ryllis stay with her and Mr Canbrook until she was settled with a new position, had been tempting for a moment or two, but it would not have been right. With Lyddy only a few weeks married, the last thing she and her husband required in their home was a needy relation. No, she, Ryllis, must stand on her own feet. She would start looking for a new post at once, and when the time came she would hand in her month’s notice to her employers.

  ‘Ryllis? Ryllis?’

  It was Mrs Claxon’s voice that came interrupting her thoughts, and Ryllis turned to her from her seat near the range where she sat polishing a pair of Mr Lucas’s boots. The cook was coming into the room as Ryllis looked up. ‘Yes, Mrs Claxon.’

  ‘The milk’s gone over,’ the cook said. She was a grey-haired woman in her fifties, her usually pleasant expression now distorted by anger and irritation. ‘That dratted cat. The whole lot spilt. You’ll have to run over to the farm and get some more.’

  ‘Have I got to go now?’ Ryllis asked, though she knew the answer.

  ‘Of course now. The master’ll be up demanding his breakfast at any time, and it won’t be ready.’

  ‘Right. I’ll finish the boots when I get back.’

  Mrs Claxon nodded. ‘And you’d best go by the field – it’s late already.’

  Ryllis hated to go via the meadow, and she said at once, ‘Oh, Mrs Claxon, can’t I go by the road?’

  ‘It’ll take you an age – at least twenty minutes longer,’ the woman said, ‘and I need that milk.’

  Ryllis put the boots and brushes down and prepared to go to the neighbouring farm. There was a sharp nip in the air this morning and she tucked in her scarf under the collar of her cape. When she had tied on her bonnet she took the enamel milkcan and left by the back door.

  She set off on the far side of the wall that separated the kitchen garden from the formal lawns and herbaceous plots. Her path led her down through the orchard and then to the fence, beyond which was the pasture where farmer Heffinson’s cattle habitually grazed. She was relieved to see that there was none there this morning; obviously they had not yet been driven back from the milking shed.

  At the far end of the orchard there was a loose stake in the fence, and she pulled it aside and slipped through the gap into the field. Beyond that was a thorny hedge, and she stepped through it by a narrow little space and started off across the grass. She was moving towards the farmhouse which she could see in the distance, beyond a second field that she must also cross. Her boots were wet already, and she had only gone a dozen yards. As she walked she kept looking over to her left, at the same time keeping close to the hedge. If the bull should appear she would get behind the hedge, as she had done on two occasions in the past. They had been frightening times and had greatly swelled her reluctance to take the shortcut. Today, though, she was in a hurry.

  She reached the edge of the first field, and as she did so she looked over to the far left and saw Mr Heffinson’s herd of cows come streaming through the gate back into the meadow. Then she went on, into the next field, and towards the farmhouse at the foot of the hill.

  She approached from the rear, walking up past the byre and the big red barn, to the dairy where she stopped and looked in at the door. Seeing no one inside she moved on to the rambling house and put her head around the scullery door. There was a young fair-haired milkmaid inside, busy at a sink, and she looked up and smiled.

  ‘Mornin’, Ryllis.’

  ‘Mornin’, Phemie. We had an accident with the milk,’ Ryllis said, ‘– or the cat did.’ She sighed as she held up the milkcan.

  ‘So you need some more, do you?’

  ‘Please.’

  Ryllis stepped into the scullery and held the two-gallon can up to the younger girl. Phemie took it and led the way back across the yard to the dairy, went inside and came out again a minute later with the can full. Ryllis thanked her, took it by the handle and started back across the yard towards the meadows.

  The first field was deserted, and as she crossed the wet grass she found her thoughts returning to her last meeting with Tom. How could he have said those things to her? It was too cruel. But he had seemed so awkward, standing there facing her at the side of the road, as if not knowing what to say, or how to say it. Perhaps she should write to him – though she was not by any means sure how he would react to receiving a letter from her. Not with any great pleasure, she thought.

  She moved to the gate connecting the two fields, opened it, passed through, and closed and fastened the gate behind her.

  It was as she was part way across the field that the bull came charging.

  She had been only vaguely aware of the cows now grazing in this second field, so caught up was she in her thoughts of Tom, but then in a great rush came the sound of a bellowing roar followed by the thudding of the bull’s hooves on the grass. She whirled and saw the creature pounding towards her.

  She could feel her heart leap in her breast in terror as the animal came bearing down. She tried to scream, her voice coming out in a little strangled squeak, and snatched at her skirts and ran. The full milkcan was cumbersome and heavy and her speed was hampered, but she dared not let it go. She could feel the flesh of her cheeks bouncing as she fled over the grass, her breath hoarse in her throat, the can swinging heavily, the milk slopping out between the lid and the rim.

  She realised with terror that she would never get to the gap in the hedge in time. She whirled to face the way she had come. Perhaps she could get back to the gate. The milk fell from her hand and she slipped, the soles of her boots squeaking as she skidded on the wet grass. The only sounds she could hear now were her gasping breaths. Regaining her balance, she dashed back across the grass, and, wonder of wonders she reached the gate. There was no time to open it, however; she could only fling herself forward in an attempt to climb up and over. She was almost there, almost there.

  The bull violently bellowed, its nostrils flaring as it flailed on the slippery grass, but its hooves caught firmly in the rutted entrance at the gate, and gripped, and in a second it was back in control, turning its huge bulk and lunging to gore her.

  Its sharp left horn caught Ryllis’s boot, the point hooking into the leather, piercing it. Then, as the enraged creature threw back its powerful head, Ryllis screamed again, her terror-stricken voice ringing out into the crisp morning air, but there was no one to hear her. Her foot, caught by the horn, was torn from its step on the crossbar of the gate. The bull tossed its head and plunged forward again. This time, as her hands slipped from their hold on the top bar, the bull’s left horn caught her just below the waist, snagged deeply in her skirt and ripped her from the gate as if she had been no heavier than a little bag of hay.

  With a toss of its head, snorting loudly, the bull threw her up, then dipped its head and caught her again as she fell. It tossed her again, and without a cry she was thrown like a rag doll, spinning round in a complete circle on the creature’s horns. Her skirts billowed out, her legs and arms moving as if multi-jointed. Again the animal threw her into the air and caught her on its horns, and again, and again, and then let her fall heavily to the ground. It back
ed away, snorting, and Ryllis moved once on the grass, and gave a little moan through slack jaws from which blood and saliva flowed. It was enough to spur on the bull again, and it pawed the ground once with one of its forehooves and charged. The horns scooped Ryllis up, piercing deep, and tossed her so that she turned in the air like a child doing a cartwheel. Again it caught her, and as her blood sprayed out over its powerful shoulders, tossed her back into the wet grass.

  This time when Ryllis fell she made no sound and was still. The bull approached her, and bent its head, nudging her with its horns. When she did not move the bull stepped back and stood there panting, its sides heaving. It pawed the ground a couple of times, and then turned and moved away across the grass.

  *

  A young housewife had asked for three yards of unbleached linen, and Lydia measured out the material and cut it. She had come along to the shop that afternoon, arriving shortly after three, and had spent an hour or so helping out when things got busy. She enjoyed the employment, and Alfred and his assistants were glad to see her. Now, carefully, she folded the fabric, wrapped it up, gave change for the money tendered and wished the woman a good day. As the customer turned in the doorway to step out into the square Lydia saw another figure shadow the entrance. A split second later, as the man entered the shop, she saw that it was her father.

  He moved directly to her, coming to a stop facing her at the counter.

  ‘Father!’ she said in a whisper, frowning, for this was the most unexpected thing. As she spoke she was aware of Alfred looking at the two of them, and of the assistant, Mr Federo, momentarily forgetting the customer he was serving and turning towards them in curiosity. Her father had taken off his hat. He was, she saw at once, wearing his work-clothes.

  Mr Halley looked at no one but Lydia. When he spoke he did not speak her name, but said shortly, ‘I’ve got to talk to you. Can we go somewhere?’

  ‘Why – why, yes.’ She turned and looked at Alfred, an unspoken question on her lips, and he said at once, ‘Take your father into the back room.’

  Lydia moved along the counter and lifted the flap. ‘Father – come this way, please.’

  He moved through behind the counter and Lydia stepped ahead of him and opened the door. ‘Please . . .’ She held it as he passed through, and followed him in, closing the door, behind her.

  She came to a stop before him as he stood beside the table. ‘Oh, Father – I’m so glad to see you,’ she said. She began a smile that, seeing his own unsmiling visage, quickly died, and then added, gesturing to a chair, ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  He ignored her words. ‘I haven’t got long,’ he said. ‘I’ve only got a minute. I’m off to Redbury.’

  ‘Redbury?’

  ‘This is what I’ve come about,’ he said. ‘It’s Amaryllis.’

  ‘Ryllis?’ Seeing his expression, which was not quite like any she had seen on him before, and hearing the unusual tone of his voice, she felt a sudden coldness in her breast. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘No, she’s not. They just sent for me, at the factory. A young man came from the farm next door to the Lucases in Barford. The girl’s been injured. I’ve got to get to the hospital.’ It was all said on a single breath.

  The chill around Lydia’s heart blossomed, expanding to clutch at her, and she felt her whole chest in a turmoil of panic and fear. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

  ‘Let me get my hat and cape . . .’ The garments were close at hand, and she quickly took them down. ‘I’m ready,’ she said as she fastened her cape. ‘We’ll go now.’

  He turned abruptly and made for the door, opened it and passed through. She followed. As her father stepped through the gap in the counter into the shop proper Lydia moved to Alfred’s side. He was serving a customer and looked around at Lydia from the lace he was displaying.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the customer, an elderly woman, and then, to her husband, added, ‘Something’s happened to Ryllis. I’m going with Father to the hospital in Redbury.’

  He looked a little startled, but then nodded. ‘Right,’ he said, and then: ‘But wait a minute. Let me go and get you a cab to take you to the station.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. It’s not far to walk. We’ll be in time for the next train.’

  Her father was standing at the doorway, holding the door open.

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ Lydia said.

  She moved from Alfred’s side and in another second or two she and her father were out in the air.

  They strode across the market square, along Upper Street and on towards the railway station. At one point, soon after starting out, Lydia asked, ‘What is it, Father? What’s the matter with Ryllis?’ Without looking at her he merely shook his head and said, ‘Wait till we get to the station. Wait till we can get a breath.’ And she had to be content with that. At last they reached the station, and there they bought their tickets and moved onto the platform. There would be a wait of some fifteen minutes before the next train for Redbury came in.

  ‘Tell me, Father,’ Lydia said as they stood together on the platform. ‘What has happened?’ A cold wind came sweeping up the length of track and flicked at the hem of her cape. At the same time her father touched at his hat, as if to stop it flying away.

  ‘I can only tell you what I know,’ he said. ‘I was at work when word came for me that there was an emergency and that someone wanted to see me. There at the factory, I mean. I went out and saw this young man waiting for me in the outer office. I had no idea who he was; I’d never seen him afore. His name was McGibbon, he said. Turned out he’s a stockman for a farmer neighbour of the Lucases in Barford. He asked me if I was Mr Halley, and then said he’d been sent by Mrs Lucas. I knew right away, of course, that something was up.’ He seemed to snatch at his words in the cold air. ‘They don’t start sendin’ for you for nothing. I knew it had to be something serious. Then he told me, the young man, he said she’d been attacked by a bull.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Lydia clutched at herself, one hand pressing at her chest, the other flying to her mouth. ‘How is she? Is she going to be all right?’

  ‘The young man couldn’t say. He told me as much as he knew in the minute or so he was there with me. Apparently he was the one who found her. A message had gone round to the farm to see where she was, as she’d gone off to fetch some milk and hadn’t returned. He went out into the field and saw her lying there. He got help, he said, and somebody dealt with the bull while he went and got hold of her. He said –’ Here he seemed to choke slightly on his words, and took a breath and began again: ‘He said . . . she was covered in blood and – and quite senseless. He said she was in a terrible state. He says he thought at first she – she was dead, but then he saw that she was still alive.’

  He broke off here and swallowed, and looked down at the ground. Then after a few moments he raised his head and went on, his voice faltering:

  ‘He said – he said he carried her into the Lucases’ house and they took one look at her and said they must send for the doctor.’ He sighed, paused again. ‘The young man, McGibbon, said he was back at the farm a couple of hours later when he was sent for. The odd-job boy from Mr Lucas had come to say that Amaryllis was being taken by ambulance to St Margaret’s hospital in Redbury, and that he – the young man from the farm, McGibbon, that is – should come and let me know at Cremson’s.’ He nodded, lips compressed. ‘He came to get me right away, as soon as he could – all that way from Barford. I’m very thankful for that.’ He gave a little groan and shook his head. ‘Oh, dear Lord, it’s a terrible business. As soon as the young man had gone I went to the boss and told him I had to leave, that my daughter was bad. He said of course I must go at once. I came to you straight away. I didn’t waste any time.’

  The train arrived and they climbed on board, and in the carriage found seats facing one another. The rest were taken up by other travellers. Lydia and her father hardly spoke as they sat there; Lydia was anxiously looking out from the wi
ndow while her father sat looking straight ahead of him, his gaze directed at some point just over her shoulder, his mouth pulled into a straight, thin line, his eyes dull behind their steel-rimmed lenses. His expression was unreadable, Lydia thought – which was nothing new – but she seemed to see a difference in the general appearance of him. He looked so much older. One lingering glance at him and she could not help but take in the deeply seamed cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes. His whole body seemed strangely diminished in stature.

  When at last they arrived at Redbury they went out of the station and Mr Halley hailed a cab to take them to St Margaret’s hospital. At any usual time he would have eschewed such a luxury, but this was not a usual time.

  After a while they were set down at the entrance to a huge sprawling building not far from the city’s centre. Mr Halley paid off the driver, and they went inside. There, after making enquiries, they were directed along lengthy corridors until they came to Mason Ward where, they were told, Ryllis could be found.

  From the corridor they stepped into a small foyer and Mr Halley knocked on an open door on the right beyond which a woman sat at a desk. She looked at Mr Halley and Lydia and got to her feet. She wore a voluminous white cap on her head and a blue uniform with white collar and cuffs, a white apron and a black patent leather belt. She gave them a grave smile as she came to them and said, ‘Yes? How can I help you?’

  Mr Halley, taking off his hat, said he was the father of Amaryllis Halley and that he and his other daughter had been summoned there to see her.

  As soon as Ryllis’s name was spoken a shadow of concern touched the nursing sister’s eyes and she gave a little sigh. ‘Oh, yes, poor Miss Halley,’ she said. She lifted a gesturing hand. ‘We didn’t put her in the general women’s ward, but in a small separate room at the end. Her injuries are so bad. Truly dreadful. You know that it was a bull, I suppose . . .?’