Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  She could understand his resentment, though. And she could well remember how at the very beginning she had encouraged and shared his hopes. Yes, she had said, yes, she would help him in every way she could. She would help him earn the money for his materials, help him find the time to paint, to establish himself so that eventually he could leave his work on the land and make a living from his painting. And together they would build the kind of life they wanted, with a good home, and, eventually, children.

  The children, though, had come along first, and with their arrival fame and fortune had had to take a back seat. And so all those plans made in the earlier days had never become anything more than hopes – mere pipe dreams, and as substantial.

  Sarah minded much less about their poverty than Ollie did; she’d known that for a long time now. Perhaps it was because she no longer had any real dreams of her own – for herself, anyway. In the face of day-to-day reality she tried to be content with that reality and as a result had come nearer to accepting her lot and resigning herself – perhaps too readily, she sometimes thought – and now sought her only happiness through her children. Not so Ollie. It was different with him. For him reality was something to be avoided.

  She had had her own dreams once, though. With a good education from her English mother – once a schoolteacher – and a little grit from her Scots father, Sarah, orphaned at eighteen, had found herself a post as governess to a doctor’s children in Trowbridge. She had thought then that the whole world was open to her. She could marry anybody, she had told herself – shopkeeper, teacher, lawyer … But then in Trowbridge one morning she had met Ollie, a young man rich only in his dreams – and her own dream had changed; he had become a part of it.

  Ollie had been a stockman then, caring for the cattle of a local farmer. It wouldn’t be for always, though, he had said; before too much time had passed he would have left the farm to set up on his own, as a painter of pictures. In those days his hopes had been untainted by experience and he had been certain that it would be only a matter of time before they became reality.

  She could remember so well that moment when she had first realized the extent of her feelings for him. They had been walking in Trowbridge one Sunday soon after they had met. It was a winter’s afternoon and they had stopped to look in a shop window. Ollie, standing beside her, had taken his hand from his pocket and written something on the glass with his finger. She asked him what he had written, but, smiling, gently shaking his head, he had said, ‘Oh, no – can’t tell you that.’ When she had looked at the glass she had been unable to see anything, and a moment later he was taking her arm and they were moving away. But then, when they had gone just a few yards she had broken away from him and stepped back to the window. There, putting her face close to the pane she had breathed upon it and had seen appear the words: Love me, love me, Sarah Keane. In that moment any lingering thoughts of teachers, doctors or lawyers had vanished, disappearing in the cold air like the breath vapour from her mouth. She had known in that moment that she loved Oliver Farrar and would marry him.

  The candle, burnt very low, sputtered once or twice, its suddenly flaring, wavering flame lighting up the shabby room so that the shadows danced and darted. She was aware of a pin escaping from her hair and falling onto her collar. She retrieved it and moved to stand before the small discoloured glass that hung on the wall beside the fireplace. Bending slightly she peered at the image before her. Her dark chestnut hair was woven into a thick, heavy plait coiled about the crown of her head and which now, following the blow from Ollie’s hand, had come loose. Setting down the candleholder on the mantelpiece, she took two or three more pins from her hair and readjusted the plait. In the feeble light she continued to gaze at her reflection. She looked her thirty-one years, all right, she thought. Her face, once so pretty, was already settling into maturity, while the hand that brushed back the wisps of hair was rough against the softness of her cheek, irretrievably broadened, coarsened by the constant wringing out of wet washing; by endless hours’ immersion in water.

  Her hands moved down her body. The growing child within her had not yet begun to change the shape of her belly. Soon, though, she would be all too aware of its presence, and then, come December …

  And it was true what Ollie said: they couldn’t afford it; they couldn’t afford another demanding mouth to be fed, another body to be clothed. But they would have to; and somehow they would get by.

  The cottages in Coates Lane were owned by John Savill at Hallowford House, a large Georgian house that stood a little less than a mile away to the southeast, on the top of Gorse Hill. Secluded from passers-by on the road, the house was set back behind immaculate green lawns, its wide front door approached by a carriage drive that led from tall wrought-iron gates and curved through and beyond a screen of trees, yew, rowan and flowering cherry. Built by John Savill’s great-grandfather in 1782, it was large and well-proportioned, its tall, elegant windows at the front facing out over the village in the valley, at the back over the yard, the stables, outhouses, formal and kitchen gardens, orchard and meadows.

  John Savill was a wool clothier, owning one of the few remaining successful mills in nearby Trowbridge. He had married his wife Catherine, the daughter of a Bath solicitor, a little less than two years before; his first wife having died some five years earlier, the only child of the marriage, a daughter, dying in infancy. As the gentry went, John Savill was quite well regarded in the village. For one thing he kept his servants much longer than did most of the other employers in the larger houses in the area, and also he had the reputation of being more considerate than most where his factory workers were concerned.

  It was from the Savills that came all the money that entered the Farrar household. Ollie, on his marriage to Sarah, and with her encouragement, had given up working as stockman for a Hallowford farmer in order to take on the slightly less demanding job of assistant gardener to the Savills, at which time he and Sarah had moved into one of John Savill’s cottages in Coates Lane. As a stockman Ollie had had to work almost every day of the year, whereas the job of gardener allowed him all his Sundays off – days he could put to good use, not only in and around the cottage, but also at his painting. Sarah’s income from the Savills came by means of the laundry she did for them each week. She had been doing it for several years now, the washing being brought to the cottage regularly every Thursday by two of the Savills’ maids, the girls making the return journey with the laundry that Sarah had finished.

  Like most of the other villagers, Sarah viewed the Savills with a mixture of awe and respect. Throughout her years of doing the household’s washing she had never had occasion to exchange more than a few words with Mr Savill – at which times he had been distantly polite – but with his young wife she had spoken several times and had taken a liking to her. Whereas Sarah had found the first Mrs Savill almost unapproachable in her imperiousness, the present Mrs Savill had shown that beyond the usual formalities that marked the difference in their stations there was a genuine warmth and understanding.

  Now, this July of 1880, when the Savills’ maids had come to the cottage with the week’s washing, Sarah learned from them that Mrs Savill was expecting her first child and that it would be born towards the end of January.

  Soon after the maids, Emmie and Dora, had left to return to Hallowford House with the freshly ironed laundry Sarah herself prepared to leave the cottage. Just before the harvest season each summer Ollie would be taken from his work on the gardens to help with the haymaking in Mr Savill’s fields, and on some of the days during this time Sarah would take his dinner to him where he was at work. Now into a basket she placed half a loaf, a small basin of beef dripping, an onion, some cheese and a small flagon of cider. Then she called Mary, Arthur and Agnes to her – Ernest was out somewhere with his friends – and set off along the lane, up the hill and across the fields. It was an errand she undertook with pleasure, enjoying the walk and the chance to relax for a spell with the children and take a brie
f respite from the endless round of washing and ironing.

  The July day was hot and on the hills herds of grazing sheep were dull white masses, hardly moving – reminders of the source of John Savill’s wealth. Most of the land round about his own acres – apart from the few fields with grain crops – were given over to sheep farming. When at last Sarah and the children reached the edge of the wide field where the men were at work, they waited until the foreman gave the call to signal the dinner break and then walked across the stubble, catching up with Ollie as he retreated from the sweltering sun to rest in the shade of an elm.

  A few minutes later, sitting beside him, watching as he ate the bread and dripping, Sarah thought of the happiness at Hallowford House at the prospect of a child. That child, the Savills’, would be born into wealth and comfort, cared for by parents who could dedicate their lives to its well-being. Her own child, on the other hand, had very little waiting for it – nothing more, really, than the love that she was so ready to give.

  She had hoped that the passing of time would melt Ollie’s resistance, but it had not. As the baby had grown within her so it seemed had Ollie’s resentment. He made hardly any reference at all to the child she carried, acknowledging it generally only by a surly muteness. He was angry, too, she was aware, over the fact that she discouraged any advances he made to her at night; something else he held against the unborn child.

  In truth, though, her reluctance was not only on account of the baby. It was because of Ollie himself. In the past he had been so tender with her, but over more recent times he had seemed to give no thought at all to her own wants or desires. Rather she felt that he had simply used her. What for? As a release? – a means whereby he could somehow gain forgetfulness for a few minutes and blot out the reality of his existence?

  She watched as he drank some of the cider, then looked across the fields to where the back of Hallowford House was visible beyond the orchard wall. ‘I hear that Mr Savill’s to become a father too,’ she said. ‘In January, so Emmie told me.’ She waited but he made no reply. After a little silence she added, ‘Emmie says he’s just about over the moon.’

  Ollie nodded and said shortly: ‘Ah, well, that’s fine for him. He can have as many children as he likes. He won’t have any trouble feeding ‘em.’ There was a short pause, then he went on, ‘And if he’s as keen as you say he is, perhaps he’d like to take on an extra one. God knows we’ve got no use for it.’

  Sarah said nothing. After a few moments she got to her feet, called the children to her and started back over the field. By the gate she stopped and turned and looked back. Ollie still sat in the elm’s shade, eating the bread and drinking the cider. There was no reaching him these days.

  She worked right up to the time the baby was born.

  During the afternoon of Friday, December 10th, she had just finished washing some of the Savills’ underwear when she felt the first pangs of her labour. She put down the petticoat she had just wrung out, stood quite still and tried, calmly, to analyse the little darts of pain that stabbed dully at her body. Aware that it was no false alarm, she wrung out the few remaining items and placed them in a large bowl. Then, calling Arthur and Agnes to her from the kitchen she took them to the adjoining cottage where she asked her neighbour, Esther Hewitt, to look after them for a few hours and to send her son Davie for Mrs Curfee, the midwife.

  When Mrs Curfee arrived a little over half-an-hour later she let herself in and moved her considerable bulk up the narrow stairs; she knew where to go. Entering the bedroom she found Sarah lying on the bed and after satisfying herself that Sarah’s time was close asked if Ollie should be told. Sarah shook her head. ‘No, leave him be. He’s working. He won’t thank you for bothering him.’

  Mrs Curfee clicked her tongue disapprovingly and raised her eyes to the ceiling, silently speaking volumes of men in general and husbands in particular, then got to work. The baby was born just after half-past-five.

  ‘You got a lovely little girl,’ Mrs Curfee said, smiling into Sarah’s sweat-damp face.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Sarah asked. Into her mind had flashed a sudden image of Artie. Mrs Curfee smiled at her. ‘Yes, don’t you worry. She’s a perfect little mite.’

  When the baby had been bathed Mrs Curfee laid her in Sarah’s arms and began to tidy the room. As she worked she said over her shoulder: ‘You timed it just right. If you’d left it much later I wouldn’t ‘ave been ‘ere. I’m off to join my son and ‘is wife in Bath in a few days – to spend Christmas with ‘em.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘When’ll you be back in Hallowford?’ she asked.

  ‘Soon as Christmas is over, I reckons. Or maybe after New Year’s.’

  ‘In time to look after Mrs Savill’s baby, then.’

  Mrs Curfee shook her head. ‘No – I doubt I’ll be needed there. They’ll be ‘aving the doctor and a monthly nurse, that’s for sure.’

  When Mrs Curfee had gone, with a promise to look in again the following day, Sarah lay in bed with the baby at her side. She felt surprisingly well, and at peace. The baby was beautiful and perfect. Ollie would be sure to love her in time.

  Later, when Ollie came in from work he was greeted by Mary who told him excitedly of the new baby. He went up the stairs and stood at the bedside looking down at Sarah as she lay with the baby in her arms.

  ‘Look at her, Ollie,’ Sarah said. ‘She’s going to look just like you.’ She watched him, waiting for his reaction.

  He nodded noncommittally. ‘How are you feelin’? All right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m all right.’

  ‘Good. I’d best go and get on with dinner for the others.’

  ‘Thank you, Ollie. I’ll be back downstairs soon. Just give me a little time.’ With her words she recalled how once she had read in a copy of Cassell’s Household Guide that no mother should get up before nine days after the birth of her child. Nine days. Where did she have nine days to spend lying in bed? Cassell’s Household Guide hadn’t been written for the likes of her. ‘I’ll be up tomorrow, Ollie,’ she added.

  He nodded again and started towards the door. Sarah called after him:

  ‘– Ollie?’

  Stopping in the doorway he turned his tall frame back to her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What d’you think we should call her?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That’s up to you.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ollie …’ She wanted to evoke some positive response from him; anything was preferable to this dull indifference. ‘What d’you think? You must have some idea. Isn’t there some name you’d like?’

  ‘No.’ He refused to be mellowed. ‘I’ll leave that to you.’

  After a moment she said, ‘What d’you think of the name – “Blanche”? I mean – she’s so fair. Like you, Ollie.’

  ‘Blanche? Don’t you reckon it’s a mite grand?’ He paused. ‘Still, why not. It’ll be about the only thing about her that is. Like the rest of us she’ll never have more’n two ha’p’nies to rub together.’

  ‘Oh, Ollie …’ Sarah’s disappointment showed on her face. Ollie shrugged again. ‘You call her what you like. It’s your decision.’ He turned and went from the room.

  As his descending boots sounded from the stairs Sarah lay back on the pillow and looked at the baby. How could Ollie be so sure that the poor little thing would never have anything? And to damn a child’s existence like that from the moment of its birth … All right, perhaps she and Ollie didn’t have anything, but it didn’t have to be that way with the children. It could be different for them. It could, yes – and whatever she could do to make it so, then that she would do.

  Chapter Two

  Snow had been falling all day long, blanketing the earth and sealing in the house. Inside, though, beside the glowing fire in the library, it was warm. Glancing over at Catherine, Savill saw that she had just awakened. Now she smiled at him from her chair, one hand on the round swell of her belly. ‘You slept for a while,’ he said.

  She sat up and re
ached down to the knitting basket beside her chair. As she did so Prince, the small King Charles spaniel that lay near her feet, lifted its head and looked at her. As Catherine took up the knitting Savill got up from his chair to turn up the flame of the oil lamp on the wall above her head. At fifty he was nineteen years older than his wife. Of medium height, he was straight-backed, with a lean, fine-featured face, grey eyes and thick grey hair. As the lamp flame burgeoned Catherine raised her head, dark eyes wide in the oval of her face. ‘Oh, John,’ she sighed. ‘I’m so impatient. I want the time to go by.’

  He nodded, smiling. ‘I too. But it won’t be long now. Five weeks or so; they’ll pass quickly enough.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  He turned, moved to the window and drew back one of the curtains. Putting his face near to the glass he gazed out.

  ‘Is it still snowing?’ she asked behind him.

  ‘Yes, heavily.’

  ‘I hope Mrs Callow’s all right.’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be all right.’

  Mrs Callow, the housekeeper, had gone into Trowbridge that morning to visit her elderly mother. After her departure the snow had really begun to come down again, quickly adding to that which had already blanketed the area during the past two days. Many of the roads would be unpassable again. ‘She’ll be staying overnight,’ Savill added. ‘She won’t try to come back in this.’

  He let the curtain fall, sat down and took up the remaining newspaper; the one he had read lay on the carpet near his slippered feet. After looking at the paper’s front page for a couple of minutes he set it aside again. Folding his hands over his stomach he looked at his wife as she bent her head over her knitting, a slight frown of concentration on her brow as she negotiated a particular stitch. He had a sudden image of her in an earlier time, in the spring, seeing her lying naked beneath him, her brow damp with sweat …