by Jess Foley
In her desire for the baby to get to know her family – even if only to some limited degree – Sarah had done the same thing almost every Sunday since the spring, wheeling Blanche down to the cottage in the old perambulator and taking her back again later in the afternoon. This Sunday was different, though. Today Blanche was coming home for good.
Reaching the side gates of the house Sarah went across the yard and entered the house by the back door. There, leaving the children in the kitchen in the care of Florence she went upstairs to the second floor where she knocked on the nursery door. The nurse, Ellen Jessop, answered the knock at once. As Sarah entered the room a moment later she saw that the two infants were lying on cushions on the thick carpet, enclosed in a square pen.
Indicating the pen, Ellen said, ‘Mr Savill had it delivered yesterday. There’s no keeping them still for long these days.’
Sarah murmured her approval. Blanche had been crawling for three weeks now and the Savill baby, Marianne, had just begun. Looking at the neatly made pen, Sarah thought how very different it was from the makeshift fence they now erected on Sundays in one corner of the kitchen at home.
Sarah packed Blanche’s few belongings in the old shopping bag she had brought and slipped the handles of the bag over her arm. As she did so she heard children’s voices and moving to the window she looked down onto the stable yard where she saw Agnes and Arthur following James the groom as he carried feed to the horses. ‘I’d better go,’ she added, ‘before they get up to mischief.’
She moved then to the pen in which Blanche lay contentedly on her stomach next to Marianne. Blanche’s curls were very fair, while Marianne’s straight hair was as dark as her mother’s had been. Lifting Blanche up, Sarah settled her securely in the bend of her left arm and moved across the soft carpet. In the open doorway she stood and looked back. She didn’t expect to see the nursery again.
Bidding the nurse goodbye, Sarah, with Blanche in her arms, left the nursery and closed the door behind her.
Downstairs she settled Blanche in the perambulator, said goodbye to Florence and let herself out. Arthur and Agnes came towards her as she emerged into the yard. As they reached her side she heard a voice call to her:
‘Mrs Farrar …’
Turning her head she saw John Savill coming towards her. She waited. Since that night last year when Marianne had been born and Mrs Savill had died she had seen him only on those occasions when she had been in the nursery and he had come in to see Marianne.
Now, coming to a stop a couple of yards away, he wished her a good morning. She returned his greeting, smiling shyly at him. Then she watched as he lowered his glance to the two children who stood beside her, their large, solemn eyes gazing up at him.
‘And who have we here?’ he asked, smiling at them.
The children remaining silent Sarah released a hand from the perambulator and gently cupped the back of Arthur’s head. ‘Go on – say “How do you do” to Mr Savill – and tell him your name.’
Arthur shook his head, though, and pressed closer to Sarah’s side. ‘No?’ She looked from him to Agnes on her left. ‘What about you, Agnes? Aren’t you going to say “Good morning” to Mr Savill?’
Agnes lowered her eyes and moved nearer to her mother. Sarah shook her head and said with a little shrug, ‘We’re not going to get much out of them, sir. I’m afraid they’re shy.’
‘So it seems.’ John Savill eyed them kindly for a moment or two and then dipped a hand into his trousers pocket, brought out some coins, sorted through them and held out two pennies. ‘Here – one for you …’ he held it out to Agnes, ‘– Agnes, isn’t it?’
Agnes nodded and, shyly thanking him, took the coin. Then Savill turned to Arthur. ‘And what’s your name, young man?’
‘Arthur.’ Arthur whispered the word, and a second coin was held out.
Arthur thanked him, clutching the penny. Then as he and his sister gazed at one another, eyes wide with wonder at their unexpected gifts, John Savill raised his eyes to Sarah again.
‘You’re taking Blanche home, are you?’
‘Yes, sir. Home to stay, this time.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’ll be glad to have her back with the family.’ After a pause he added, ‘But you must bring her back here sometimes – to see Marianne.’
‘Yes, sir, I will. Thank you.’ Sarah smiled at the gesture, although she knew that now that Blanche and Marianne were parted they would remain so.
Another little silence, then Mr Savill said:
‘I’ve never really thanked you for all you did that night …’
‘Oh, sir –’ Sarah protested, ‘there’s no need …’ And it was true; he had no need to put his gratitude into words; he had shown it in so many different ways since that night. Not only had he paid Sarah for her services as wet-nurse, he had also instructed the cook to provide the Farrars with numerous items from the Hallowford House pantry from time to time. In addition to this he had informed his rent-collecting agent that rent from the Farrars was no longer required.
‘You did a great deal.’ He raised his head and looked up towards the nursery window. ‘Without your help I might have been left with nothing. Instead –’ he lowered his glance again and smiled, warmly, ‘– I have my child, my daughter. Thanks to you. And each time I look at her I think how easily she too could have been – lost.’
Sarah said nothing. He stepped closer and bent to peer down at the sleeping baby in the perambulator. ‘Your little girl – Blanche – she’s a beautiful child.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
He straightened and reached into his pocket again. A moment later he was reaching out. ‘Here …’ Taking Sarah’s free hand he put a coin into her palm. ‘Something for Blanche too.’ He smiled. ‘Just a token – of my gratitude. After all, she played her own special part, too.’ Then, before Sarah could thank him he was wishing her a good morning once more, smiling a goodbye to Agnes and Arthur and, turning, was moving away across the yard.
When he was out of sight Sarah opened her palm and saw a gold sovereign there.
‘What did Blanche get, Mam?’ Arthur asked. ‘Did she get a penny too?’
‘– Yes.’ Sarah nodded as she lied. ‘Yes, she got a penny too.’ She dropped the coin into her pocket and, with the two children beside her, set off for the gate.
Outside, beyond the shelter of the high wall that encircled the stable yard, the strengthening wind whipped at her skirt. There was a chill in the air now, too, and she bent to Arthur and pulled the collar of his coat more closely about his throat. ‘Come on, we’re going home now.’
Home. The word echoed in her mind and the sudden thought came to her that the cottage was home for herself and Ollie, and Ernest, Arthur, Mary and Agnes, but it wasn’t for Blanche. Home for Blanche was the nursery at Hallowford House. That was the only real home she had ever known. Oh, yes, there had been the Sunday visits to the cottage, but Sarah couldn’t pretend that such brief episodes could have counted for much in the baby’s experience of life. And, she reflected, just as Blanche really knew only the nursery of Hallowford House, so, too, she was truly only familiar with those faces she saw around her there – Sarah herself, the nurse, the nursemaid, Lizzie, and the other baby, Marianne. And even Mr Savill to a degree. Compared to Blanche’s familiarity with those faces, her father and brothers and sisters must be almost like strangers to her.
Strange, Sarah thought, the changes brought about by the birth of Marianne and the death of Mrs Savill. They had affected her own life and that of Ollie, and Blanche and the other children. The lives of all of them had been altered to some degree or other.
At the very beginning Sarah had spent most of her time at the house, feeding the two infants, being nurse to them and sleeping beside them in the nursery. Then with the arrival of the nurse proper she had moved into the little bedroom next door. Her brief visits to the cottage had been made between the babies’ feeds. She had looked forward to those times. Ollie and the children h
ad missed her presence and resented her absences – particularly in the evenings when they were accustomed to be all together.
But gradually things had grown easier. After a period when the changing pattern of the infants’ feeding gave her more time she had been able to get down to the cottage more frequently, there to clean and cook for Ollie and the children and generally spend more time with them. Also she was able to resume her old task of doing the Savills’ laundry, doing it in the scullery of Hallowford House.
And now things were returning to normal. Both babies were completely weaned now. Even the laundry had been done back at the cottage over these past couple of weeks.
Earlier, though, the situation had brought problems. Not with the children – she didn’t think they had been harmed by her temporary absences – but with Ollie. There was no doubt that at the start it had prolonged and strengthened the estrangement that had developed between herself and him.
There had been no sexual closeness between herself and Ollie for some time while she was carrying Blanche, and afterwards, following the baby’s birth, when things might have begun to grow easier between them, she had left to spend her nights with the two infants, only seeing Ollie for brief periods in the evening and at weekends. And then at those times there had always been work of one kind or another waiting for her, added to which the children had always been around. As a consequence she and Ollie had rarely found themselves alone for more than a few minutes at a time. So there had been no real opportunity for them to regain anything of their former closeness, and they had remained apart, like polite strangers, as if each of them was afraid to make the first move.
The situation had continued throughout the winter, until at last, in May, there had come the time when the two babes could go through the night without the need for food and Sarah was free to move back to the cottage each night and sleep in her own bed once more.
She could recall so well that first evening. Leaving Blanche at the house she had returned to the cottage just before eight, in time to see the children into bed and hear their prayers. Then, somewhat self-consciously she had gone back downstairs into the kitchen where Ollie was sitting sketching. He had looked up as she entered, and put his sketchbook aside, and she had realized suddenly that his hair was neatly combed, that he was freshly shaven and that he had put on a clean shirt.
She made tea for the two of them, and they sat drinking it, facing one another beside the range, talking of this and that. The conversation was awkward, though, both of them aware that they would be spending that night together. They spoke of the children’s school work, of Ollie’s painting and his work on the land, of Mr Savill and the folk up at the house. But no mention was made of what was uppermost in their minds, and Sarah began to fear that they had gone beyond some point of no return, beyond the point where they could relax again in each other’s company, and be close. And perhaps they would continue like this, she said to herself – except that as time went on they would grow even further apart. Then, moments after the thought had come to her mind, the desultory conversation dried up altogether and they were left sitting there, avoiding one another’s eyes and unable to think of anything else to say.
Sarah felt she could weep. They had been so close once, and here they were like strangers meeting at the market. She stared at the range for a minute or two until, unable to sit there any longer, she got up, put down her cup and went out into the hall. There she stood in the silence, purposeless. After a few moments she opened the door to the little parlour and went in, closing the door behind her. Moving to the upright piano she lit the oil lamp on its top, sat down on the stool and lifted the lid.
The piano was very old. It had been given to Sarah’s father in lieu of payment for some long outstanding debt when she was a child. She struck a chord. The instrument had been out of tune for so long.
She began to play, softly, Mendelssohn’s ‘On Wings of Song’, a piece she had learned as a child. After a while she began to sing, her light contralto almost whispering in the little room:
… Bear thee to regions enchanted,
Where joy fills the rapturous day …
She became aware that the door had opened and closed again and that Ollie had come into the room. Self-consciously she broke off the song and turned to him with an awkward little smile.
‘Don’t stop,’ he said, moving to stand beside the piano.
‘Oh …’ She shook her head. ‘We’re both so out of tune these days – the piano and me.’
‘No, don’t say that.’
They remained there, she sitting on the piano stool, he standing, looking down at her. She dropped her eyes beneath his gaze.
‘Sing “Comin’ Thro the Rye”,’ he said.
It was a favourite song of his. Soon after they were married he had taken her to a concert at the old Trowbridge Town Hall where a soprano had sung the song. Ollie had never heard it before and, much taken with it, had tried to recall snatches of the words and the melody as they walked home. When they had got back to the cottage Sarah had sat down at the piano and, to his surprise and delight, had sung the song for him. ‘You know it,’ he had said, laughing. ‘How? How do you know it?’ ‘From my father, of course.’ ‘You didn’t tell me you knew it. You’ve never sung it before.’ She had shrugged, smiling up at him. ‘Well, I’ve sung it now.’
Now she said, avoiding his eyes, ‘Oh – that old thing. No – I can’t …’
‘Yes, you can. Please …’
‘Oh – well – it’s so late, and the children …’
‘They’ll sleep through anything, you know that.’
Making no reply she sat in silence for some moments, and then her fingers began to move softly over the keys. After a few chords she began to sing.
Gin a body meet a body, comin’ thro the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry.
She sang the song quite slowly, investing the words with the brogue she had learned from her Scots father.
Ilka lassie has her laddie,
Nane they say ha’e I.
Yet a’ the lads they smile at me
When comin’ thro the rye.
She sang the song through to the end while Ollie stood in silence, unmoving. When the last notes had died away she stood up and put out her hand to close the lid of the piano. At the same moment he stepped towards her, his hand reaching out and closing around her wrist. She didn’t move for a second, then, turning, she looked into his face and saw that his eyes were tight shut. Still with his eyes closed he murmured her name, the diminutive that he had been accustomed to use in the past.
‘Sare …’
She remained where she was, held in the position of slightly bending. And then he opened his eyes and placed his other hand on her wrist, as if to prevent her escape. He didn’t meet her glance. Giving a little shake of his head, he said:
‘Sare … Don’t – don’t keep away from me – please.’
‘Oh, Ollie …’ She breathed the words, feeling her heart lurch.
‘I can’t bear it – for us to be like this.’
It was what she had wanted to hear. ‘No, Ollie, no. I don’t want it either.’
He looked into her eyes. ‘I know what I was like sometimes in the past, but –’
She broke in quickly: ‘Don’t talk about it. They’re gone, those times.’ She thought of the hard words she had said to him that night after she’d told him she was expecting the baby. ‘Let’s forget it, can’t we?’ she said.
‘Yes. Yes.’ He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed it, then gently drew her to him and held her close. She was so aware of the feel of his arms about her. It had been so long since they had touched like this. He kissed her mouth, gently at first, but then more insistently, and she returned the kiss with gladness and relief. After a few moments he held her back from him a little and gazed at her. He gave a little nod, as if of confirmation.
‘Ah, Sare,’ he said, ‘you’re a grand, beautiful woman.’
‘Ollie …’
After a while he pulled away, and urged her onto her back. Moments later she felt the hard shape of him entering her eager body. She gave herself up to him, wrapping her arms around him, holding him prisoner as he moved inside her, filling her burning warmth with his own.
When it was over they lay together on the rug, at peace. Ollie’s arm lay across her while in her ear the sound of his breathing grew quiet again. After a time she turned her head, gazed on his closed eyes, and gently kissed him on the mouth.
As she entered the lane at the foot of the hill she saw Esther Hewitt moving away from the pump with a pail of water. Esther, turning, seeing her, came to a stop at the Farrars’ gate and waited.
‘So,’ she said as Sarah reached her side, ‘our Blanche is comin’ home, is she?’ In her voice was a faint note of resignation which Sarah didn’t miss. While Sarah had been away from the cottage Esther had been so glad of the little extra money she had been able to earn by helping out in the Farrar household. Blanche’s return to the cottage spelled the end of that extra income.