Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she said. ‘Hurry up and get ready. He’ll be here any minute.’

  With a bewildered nod he quickly began to take off his jacket. As he did so Sarah added: ‘I’ve made a fire in the front room, and lit the lamps – so you can show him your pictures in there.’

  It was just after seven when Heritage reappeared and Ollie, looking fresh and spruce, asked him in and showed him into the parlour. In the kitchen Sarah kept Ollie’s dinner warm while the children were ordered to be on their best behaviour. They, awed by the presence in the house of the elegant stranger, willingly complied.

  It was almost an hour later when Sarah heard the visitor depart, and as his carriage moved away down the lane she went into the front room where Ollie stood in silence, gazing down into the fire that crackled in the small fireplace. She stopped before him and stood waiting. When at last he turned to her she saw a strange, excited look on his face, an expression not quite like any she had ever seen there before. His eyes shining, he suddenly gave a little laugh.

  ‘Oh, my God, Sare,’ he said. Reaching out to her he put his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him and held her close. He laughed again, the sound muffled against her hair.

  ‘What happened?’ she said, then quickly added, ‘I told you to offer him some tea. Did you forget?’

  ‘What? Tea? No, I didn’t forget. He didn’t want any. He just wanted to talk. And he didn’t have much time; he had to get off again.’

  ‘Tell me what he had to say.’ She drew back so that she could look into his face. ‘Does he want to buy a painting?’

  He shook his head. ‘No – not that.’

  ‘Then what?’

  He hesitated, teasing her, then said:

  ‘He wants to take all my pictures – or most of them – and put them on show in his picture gallery in Bath. And they’ll be for sale, and people will come to the gallery to buy them. He’ll take a commission on any that he sells – and the rest of the money will come to us.’ He drew her close again. ‘Oh, Sare,’ he breathed, ‘things could change for us.’ He spoke with wonder in his voice. ‘Things could really change.’

  The exhibition of Ollie’s paintings would open in early April, Heritage had said. Ollie had agreed that he would supply him with the paintings in the cottage – there were just under thirty – and that if he was able he would do one or two new ones in addition. To pay for any canvases and paints Ollie might need Heritage advanced him a guinea which, he said, he would deduct from any monies finally due from the sales of the works. In the same way, Heritage undertook to frame all the paintings, the cost of which would also be deducted later, when the exhibition was over. The prices of the various canvases he and Ollie would decide between them. ‘But what if I don’t sell any paintings?’ Ollie asked him. The thought of being left with an enormous bill for the framing and the painting materials was daunting. ‘Don’t worry,’ Heritage told him, ‘that’s a risk I’ll take. All you have to do is supply the pictures. If you don’t sell anything you won’t owe me a farthing. But don’t worry –’ he reassuringly pressed Ollie’s shoulder, ‘I’m certain you’ll sell a good number. If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t be taking the chance.’

  Ollie asked him then how he had come to seek him out.

  ‘Oh, I thought I’d mentioned it,’ Heritage said. ‘I saw a painting of yours – of children sitting beside a pond. It was in the house of a friend of mine in Bath – Mr Harold Savill. It was given to him by his brother – who’s your employer, I believe.’

  ‘– Yes – at Hallowford House.’

  Heritage nodded. ‘As soon as I saw it I made it my business to find out about the artist.’

  The next morning at Hallowford House as Ollie left the kitchen after delivering vegetables he saw Mr Savill moving across the yard. Quickening his steps he went after him.

  ‘Mr Savill – sir …’

  The older man came to a stop and turned to him. ‘Yes, Farrar. What is it?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but – I just wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me? For what?’

  A little hesitantly, Ollie told him of the visit from Mr Heritage, and of the coming exhibition of his work.

  ‘Well,’ Savill said, ‘that’s good news. That’s excellent news.’ He shook his head. ‘But I don’t see why you have to thank me for any part in it. My brother wrote and asked me about you and where you could be found – and I told him. But anyway I’m delighted that something has come out of it. You’re a talented man, Farrar, and it’s always a good thing to see talent recognized.’ He smiled as he added, ‘And I wish you luck.’

  Following the meeting with Heritage Ollie spent every spare minute on his painting while Sarah did her best to ensure that he was not disturbed by the children or anyone or anything else.

  In the period from Heritage’s visit to near the end of February Ollie completed one further picture. A few days after it was finished Heritage came with an assistant and packed up all the paintings and took them away.

  When the two men had driven out of sight Sarah stood looking around her. How strange the room looked without Ollie’s pictures on the walls.

  On the following Sunday morning Ollie put a fresh canvas on his easel. He was going to paint Mary’s portrait, he said. And this one, he added, would not be for sale. He got to work soon after, with Mary sitting before him, her chair and his easel over to one side, well away from the clean laundry and the table on which Sarah was working.

  From where Sarah stood near the window she could see Agnes and Arthur as they played in the garden. There had been heavy snow for much of January but of late the weather had greatly improved and the two children, well wrapped up, had been encouraged to get outside and take advantage of the day’s mildness. Ernest was nowhere to be seen; he was off somewhere with Davie Hewitt. This was his first day off since starting work earlier in the month and he was making the most of his time off.

  As she worked Sarah reflected on the differences that were touching their lives. For one thing she and Ollie had grown closer. And it was hope that had done it – hope that life could change for them, could change for the better.

  The previous night in bed Ollie had lain with his arm around her. After a while he had whispered into the dark, ‘Sare – are you awake?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘I was thinking – what it will be like for us …’

  ‘With your paintings in the gallery, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. I keep thinking about it. You know, if things go well – if I sell my pictures – well, it could be the beginning for us – for all of us.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘A real beginning – of a better life …’

  He began then to speak of the money that could be realized if the exhibition of his work proved successful, and the figures he spoke of were beyond anything she had ever dreamed of. ‘And another thing,’ he said, ‘– we’ll get Blanche back as soon as we can. I know it’s nice for Mr Savill’s daughter, having her up there at the house – but after all, she belongs here with us.’

  Ollie’s voice went on, murmuring soft in the silence of the room. If all went well and the exhibition was successful, he said, he should be able to leave his work on the gardens – and in time they could move to a bigger place, where he could spend his time just painting. Listening to him, Sarah realized that she didn’t dare think about it too much. Somehow even with the promise writ large the possibilities were too remote, too fragile.

  ‘I’m afraid, Ollie,’ she said after a while. ‘It’s all too – too wonderful to be real … I feel it can’t really be happening to us.’

  ‘Well, it is happening to us,’ he said. ‘It is.’

  After a while the confidence in his voice began to settle a warm contentment within her. But it was more a contentment for the present – not for what was promised for the future. Perhaps this is the best time of all, she said to herself, turning, burrowing gently into his warmth – this time of hope, thi
s time when hope is everything, this time when everything is before us and everything is possible.

  Then, holding onto the contentment and settling into the comfort of Ollie’s body, she had slept.

  Now, today, standing ironing at the scrubbed-wood table, that contentment was still on her.

  She worked silently, listening to the sounds of Arthur and Agnes from the garden and the occasional words that passed between Ollie and the child: ‘Mary, please don’t keep moving your head, there’s a good girl.’ Then Mary’s reply: ‘All right, Papa.’ And then after a moment, Mary’s voice again: ‘Will it soon be finished, Papa?’ ‘No, of course not. Be patient.’

  There was no impatience or irritability in Ollie’s voice, though, and likewise there was none in Mary’s. She regarded it as no hardship to sit still for him. Silently observing the two of them, Sarah reflected that Mary would do just about anything for her father.

  The canvas Ollie was working on was relatively small compared to some of those Heritage had taken for the gallery. He was working left-side-on to the window, getting the best of the north light over his shoulder onto the surface of the canvas. Mary sat about four feet away against the wall, in the old grandfather chair which had been propped up on a makeshift dais of old boxes.

  Although it was winter, she wore her best summer dress. Made by Sarah it was of blue linen with a lace collar taken from an old dress of Sarah’s own. The fact that it had been made for the summer had made no difference to Mary, and although Ollie had wanted to paint her in the old brown dress and pinafore that she wore around the house she had been firm in her choice. Ollie had not insisted and Sarah had merely made her put on extra underclothes. Now, dwarfed by the grandfather chair, Mary sat with the light from the window on her face, her blue eyes shining, her blonde hair, tied up with an old, but newly pressed ribbon, tumbling to her shoulders. Her gaze was directed past Ollie’s head and out through the window where, beyond the garden in which Arthur and Agnes played, she could see up onto the hills.

  Sarah, glancing up from her ironing every now and again, watched the progress on the picture, while faintly came from the garden the murmurs of Arthur and Agnes. Sarah thought she had never before known such a time of peace. It didn’t matter about getting rich and moving to a big house, she said to herself; she would be content if they could remain as happy as they were right now.

  ‘Oh, Papa – look … !’

  Into the quiet Mary’s voice came as she straightened in the chair and pointed out past Ollie’s head. ‘Mary, please,’ he protested. Then, sighing, he turned and looked out and up to the hill, above which a tiny shape dipped and soared on the wind.

  ‘It’s a kite, Papa,’ Mary said. She sat there for some moments watching as the kite dipped and rose, then she added, ‘Oh, it’s like a bird. It’s just like a bird.’

  Ollie turned back and looked at her as she sat gazing out, rapt. ‘Would you like a kite too?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ She moved her eager gaze to him. ‘Could I? Could you make me one?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh – soon.’

  ‘Will it be like that one, Papa?’

  ‘Like that one?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no – much better. Much, much better. You shall have the best kite in all of Wiltshire.’

  She was silent for a second or two. Then she said:

  ‘Papa, it’s my birthday soon. Could I have it for my birthday?’

  He nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, you shall.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ He stepped forward and gently adjusted the position of her head. ‘Now,’ he added, ‘d’you think we might get on with the picture?’

  The following Sunday Ollie returned to the painting, working on it for another two hours, after which he set aside his brush and told Mary that she could get down. The cottage was empty but for the two of them. Ernest was out with friends while Sarah, with Blanche in the perambulator, had taken Arthur and Agnes to Sunday school.

  Mary stretched, sighing with relief. ‘Is it finished, Papa?’

  ‘Almost – not quite.’ He checked his hands to make sure they were clean then lifted her down from the elevated chair. ‘There’s just a little more to do on your dress and the back of the chair. That won’t take long. We’ll finish it next Sunday.’

  ‘Next Sunday’s my birthday.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Well, then, the Sunday after if there’s no time.’

  She stood there looking up at him. ‘You haven’t forgotten my kite, have you?’

  He smiled. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten your kite. Don’t worry – you’ll have it.’ Then urging her out of the scullery, he added, ‘Now go and change your dress, as your mother told you.’

  When Sarah returned she left Blanche in Mary’s care while she took off her coat and went to look at the work Ollie had done. She gazed at the painting for a long time, then, turning to Ollie who had come to stand at her side, she said, ‘Oh, Ollie, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘It’s not finished yet, mind.’

  ‘Even so.’ She paused. ‘They’re going to be after you to sell this one, too – you see.’

  ‘Ah, maybe. But I won’t part with it – ever.’

  He began to clear his brushes and materials away then and as he did so there came a knock at the front door. ‘I wonder who that can be,’ Sarah said as she moved into the hall. A few moments later she was back to say that Mr Heritage was there. ‘I showed him into the front room,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Heritage?’ Ollie smiled at the news, then quickly running his fingers through his hair he went from the kitchen and into the hall.

  Entering the front room a moment later he smilingly greeted the man. Heritage took his hand, but did not return his smile. Instead he looked at him gravely. Ollie, seeing the man’s set expression, felt his own smile die away and a little tremor of nervousness begin suddenly to flutter in his chest. There was a moment of silence between the two men, and then Heritage shook his head and said:

  ‘Mr Farrar – I had to come and see you …’ He broke off and turned away, as if unable to meet Ollie’s eyes.

  Ollie stood in silence, waiting, then, frowning, he said: ‘Mr Heritage – what is it?’ He felt his heart sinking. ‘It’s – it’s the exhibition, isn’t it? Is it the exhibition?’ It’s not going to happen now, the thought went through his mind. He’s come to tell me that it’s cancelled.

  Heritage shook his head and turned his eyes back to Ollie’s anxious gaze.

  ‘It’s your paintings,’ he said.

  Ollie forced a smile to his mouth. ‘Don’t you think they’re good enough now? Don’t you think that –’

  Heritage broke in before he could go on. ‘They’re gone.’

  ‘Gone? My paintings? What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Heritage gave a kind of groan.

  ‘Tell me – please. What is it? What’s happened?’

  Heritage hesitated for a second or two and then said dully, ‘There was a fire last night. In the workshop of the picture-framer. I’m afraid everything was destroyed.’

  ‘And you mean – my paintings were there …’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Not only your paintings but others too – not that they’re any concern of yours.’

  Ollie turned away. He felt a sick feeling rising from the pit of his stomach. With his back to Heritage he stood gazing unseeingly from the window. After some seconds he took a breath and said: ‘So – so it’s all finished.’

  ‘I’m sorry – there was nothing left. Nothing.’ A pause then Heritage added: ‘And he was not insured.’

  Ollie turned back to face him. ‘So it really is finished, isn’t it?’

  Heritage put a hand to his forehead. ‘I would have given anything for this not to have happened.’

  The two of them remained standing there. After a moment Heritage said: ‘All I can say – if it’s any consolation at all – is that if you can g
et to work and produce some more paintings I’ll exhibit them as I planned to do with the first ones.’

  ‘Do more paintings?’

  ‘Yes. You have my word on that.’ Heritage put a hand into his pocket. ‘In the meantime – perhaps you’ll accept something towards your – your loss.’ He held out his hand and Ollie saw some gold coins in his palm. He made no move to take them. After a moment Heritage turned and placed the money on the top of the piano at his side. ‘I wish I could fully recompense you for the paintings you lost,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t. That’s beyond me. I’m not exactly a wealthy man.’

  They stood in silence again for some moments, then Heritage gave a sigh and said, ‘Well …’ He took up his hat, ready to make his departure. Ollie remained standing there as if in a dream, then after a second he straightened and followed the man into the hall.

  At the front door Heritage turned to him again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  Ollie said nothing. Heritage went on:

  ‘But remember what I said – if you can do some more paintings …’ He left the rest of the sentence unspoken, hesitated a moment longer then put on his hat and moved out onto the front path.

  After Ollie had closed the door on the sound of the departing phaeton he remained in the hall for some seconds before turning and moving stiffly back into the front parlour. There he came to a stop in the centre of the little room and just stood there. His paintings – they were gone. Every single one of them. All of them destroyed.

  ‘Ollie … ?’

  Vaguely, through his numbing thoughts, he became aware of Sarah’s voice behind him. He turned towards her.

  ‘I heard the front door go,’ she said. ‘What did Mr Heritage –’ Her words broke off. ‘Ollie … what’s the matter … ?’ Putting a hand on his arm she looked up into his face. Under her gaze he turned his head away.

  ‘Ollie,’ she said, ‘what’s happened? Tell me.’

  ‘It’s all gone,’ he said. He barely opened his mouth as he spoke, his words only just audible in the little room. ‘My pictures – they’ve been burnt. There was a fire. They’re gone.’