Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  Sarah stared at him in horror for a second as if hardly able to believe what she was hearing. The sound of a sob welled up in her throat and quickly she choked it down. Raising her hand she laid it against his cheek, her other arm going around him. He stayed without moving in her awkward embrace. As they stood there there came the sound of footsteps and the next moment Mary was standing in the doorway. Looking at the two of them she sensed at once that something was wrong.

  ‘Papa,’ she said, ‘what’s the matter?’

  Neither Ollie nor Sarah spoke.

  ‘Papa, what’s the matter?’ Mary said again. Her safe world was threatened and there was the sudden sound of tears in her voice.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, Sarah turned to her. ‘It’s nothing, my dear. Nothing. Please – you go on into the kitchen and watch over Blanche, there’s a good girl.’

  Mary gave a slow, reluctant nod and, with a single backward glance, turned away and disappeared from sight.

  After a moment Ollie said quietly:

  ‘He told me – Heritage told me – that if I do some more paintings he’ll put them up in his gallery.’ He gave a hopeless shake of his head and a bitter smile. ‘Do more paintings …’ His voice was heavy with irony. ‘The ones I had took me years to do. Years. A lifetime.’

  Sarah tightened her arm about him. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t …’

  ‘Do more paintings,’ Ollie said again. ‘Easy for him to say.’

  A moment later he was aware of her releasing him. She stepped to the piano and took up the coins. Ollie said:

  ‘He gave them to me to help make up for my loss – as he put it.’

  Sarah looked at the money in her hand. ‘Five sovereigns, Ollie,’ she said. ‘Five sovereigns. It’s a lot of money.’ She raised her palm for him to see but he didn’t look. He only shook his head, the bitter smile back on his lips.

  ‘Five sovereigns,’ he said. ‘He could have afforded more than that – even though he says he’s not a wealthy man. But what does it matter to him? It matters nothing at all to him – not for all his show of sympathy.’ He gave a little groan that pressed Sarah’s heart. ‘Five sovereigns,’ he said. ‘What I was expecting was a future.’

  Chapter Eight

  In the dark of the bedroom Sarah lay awake, waiting for Ollie to come home.

  He had been gone for hours, leaving the cottage not very long after Heritage’s departure. Standing there with the sovereigns in her hand she had watched him go, not asking where he was going and unable to say anything that would keep him by her side. Later she had put Blanche in the perambulator and, with Mary, Arthur and Agnes beside her, had taken her back to Hallowford House. Coming down the hill on her return she had quickened her steps, hoping that on her arrival she would find Ollie at home. Entering the cottage she saw at once that he hadn’t returned.

  Now, Sarah sat up in bed and lit the candle. After some moments she got out of bed and put on the old coat she used as a dressing-gown. Taking up the candle-holder she moved to the door, quietly opened it and started down the stairs. A candle was burning on the table near the window in the kitchen and she blew out the candle in her hand and settled herself in a chair to wait. It was just after eleven-thirty. A wind had sprung up and was keening around the thatch, creeping in through the cracks in the window frame and making the candle flame shudder and dance. The fire in the range had died and the room was cold. She drew her coat more closely about her.

  It was just after midnight when she heard Ollie’s footsteps at the back door. She heard the door softly open and close and then moments later the kitchen door was opening and he was standing there facing her. After a second or two he closed the door behind him.

  ‘I saw the light of the candle as I came round the back,’ he said as he turned to her. Then he added. ‘You shouldn’t be waiting up for me. You should be asleep.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, Ollie, I couldn’t sleep – not knowing where you were.’

  ‘Are you angry?’ he said.

  ‘Angry? No, of course not.’

  ‘I walked,’ he said. ‘I walked for hours. And then I went to the Wheatsheaf.’

  She shrugged. ‘– Just so long as you’re home.’

  ‘I had some drink. I wanted to get drunk but – it didn’t seem to make any difference – however much I had. Afterwards I walked again. I’ve walked miles.’

  He stood before her in the pale light, his form splintered by the tears in her eyes. She blinked them back. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

  She was about to get up but he came towards her and stood above her, looking down at her. She remained in the chair. Then with a little groan he sank to his knees and laid his head on her thigh. His head was turned away from her and she couldn’t see his face. But then suddenly she was aware of the shaking of his body and she reached out and laid her hand gently on his cheek and felt there the wet of his tears.

  ‘Oh, Ollie …’ She whispered the words chokingly as her own tears sprang into her eyes again. ‘Please don’t. Please. I can’t bear to see you cry. I can bear everyone else’s tears but yours.’

  His tears continued to flow, as, unspeaking, the two of them sat there, she in the chair, bending over him, her hand on his cheek, he on the floor, his head against her thigh. After a while his silent tears ceased, but still he sat there, the only sounds in the room the sounds of their breathing, the ticking of the clock and the sighing of the wind as it roamed about the cottage. After a long time he said quietly into the silence:

  ‘I can still hardly believe it’s happened.’

  She said nothing but moved her hand and gently stroked his cheek. He went on:

  ‘It’s his fault, of course – Heritage’s. He’s the one who’s – who’s liable. They should have been insured – my paintings.’

  Sarah nodded. Then she said, ‘– Well, then, perhaps he should be made to pay you what they were worth.’

  ‘How?’

  She gave a faint shrug. ‘I don’t know. The law, perhaps.’

  ‘The law,’ he scoffed. ‘It takes money to go to the law. You mean hire some fine lawyer? Lawyers are rich men. How d’you think they get rich?’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s no good. I’ve been through it all, over and over. There’s nothing to be done. Nothing at all.’

  She was silent for a few moments then she said, ‘But there’s one thing, Ollie – at least you know now that people will buy your paintings.’

  ‘What good will that do me? I’ve got no paintings to sell.’

  ‘No, but – well, perhaps – you could do some more, couldn’t you? I know it’ll take a long time, but –’

  ‘Years. Years and years to get together as many as that again.’ He shook his head, sat there for a moment longer then got slowly to his feet. With his back to her he said:

  ‘I don’t think I could do it, Sare. Having it all so close and then seeing it just – snatched away – right when it was almost in my grasp. I don’t think I could do it again.’ He paused. ‘I haven’t got the heart for it.’

  She remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. After a few moments she got up from the chair. ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ she said.

  ‘No, thanks. I don’t want anything.’

  She nodded. Moments of silence went by. ‘Come to bed, Ollie,’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes.’ He turned to her. ‘Oh, God, I’m so tired.’

  In the wavering light of the candle she could see how weary he looked, how defeated. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘let’s go to bed.’

  He sighed and slowly began to take off his jacket. As he did so he came to a stop and Sarah saw that he was looking at the little picture on the wall beside him. It was the picture that Mary had made for him, her portrait of him sitting at his easel. He had framed it and hung it on the wall beside the kitchen range. Now with his jacket half off he stood gazing at the picture as if he had never seen it before. After a minute Sarah said:

  ‘Mary was asking f
or you tonight. So many times. She was worried about you.’ She smiled, shaking her head in wonder. ‘That child loves you so much, Ollie. She worships you.’ She paused. ‘Remember, Ollie – whatever might happen, you’ve got us. We love you.’

  The following evening when Ollie came in from work he ate his supper in silence and afterwards sat before the kitchen range, an open book in his hands. He was not reading, though. Often Sarah would glance his way and see him just gazing before him, as if his eyes were fixed on some distant vision.

  When the children were on the point of going to bed they said their goodnights to Ollie and went upstairs – except for Mary, who lingered at his side.

  ‘Papa,’ she said, ‘what’s the matter?’ She took his hand. ‘You look so sad.’

  ‘No – I’m all right.’

  ‘Are you?’ She paused. ‘You have to finish my portrait soon, remember.’

  He hesitated for a moment then said, ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But not on Sunday, though. There won’t be time.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s my birthday – have you forgotten?’ She frowned. ‘Papa, you forgot.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I wouldn’t forget a thing like that.’

  Mary kissed him and then followed the other children upstairs. A few minutes later when Sarah came down from seeing them tucked up in bed she found Ollie sitting at the kitchen table with paper and pencil before him. She stood watching him as he worked. After a moment he said, without looking up:

  ‘I promised Mary a kite for her birthday. I’d better get started.’

  Every evening that week when Ollie got in from work he waited until the children had gone to bed and then got on with the business of making Mary’s kite. In the kitchen by the light of the lamp he worked carefully, meticulously, with balsa wood, paper and glue. Sarah, pausing occasionally to look up from her mending, would ask how he was getting on. ‘All right,’ he would answer. ‘All right.’ When it was time for him and Sarah to go up to bed he took the unfinished kite with him, in the bedroom placing it carefully on top of the old wardrobe out of sight.

  When the construction was finished he took water-colours and painted on it roses of yellow and pink, Mary’s favourite colours, after which he attached to the lowest point of its diamond shape a long tail of string with paper bows at regular intervals. Nine of them, one for each year of her life.

  It was finished on the Friday evening.

  On the Sunday morning, over breakfast, Mary began to receive her birthday gifts and good wishes. Arthur had drawn her a picture of a sailing boat – something he had never seen in his life, and Agnes, not to be outdone, had also drawn a picture – but of lambs.

  Ernest had gone off for his morning’s work at the farm, but he had left for Mary a little book on famous painters that he had bought in Trowbridge. Sarah had made her a little bag, embroidered with her name, in which to keep pencils and chalks. Inside she had placed a new pencil and a small piece of indiarubber.

  When Mary had looked at her presents and thanked the givers Ollie got up and went out of the room. Two minutes later, standing outside the kitchen door, he called out for her to close her eyes. Then, assured by Arthur that she had done so, he entered, cleared a space on the table, and placed the kite before her.

  Ernest returned to the cottage just before eleven and at once he and Ollie and the children got ready to go up onto the hill. In the meantime Sarah set off for Hallowford House to fetch Blanche down to the cottage to spend the afternoon and join in Mary’s birthday tea.

  Soon after Sarah had left, Ollie, Mary, Ernest, Arthur and Agnes set off from the cottage. Ollie carried the kite. The day was still bright but it had become very cold and they were wrapped up against the keen wind. Arthur, pointing up to the high chalk cliff that rose up behind the cottages, said, ‘We can fly the kite from there, Papa.’ But Ollie said, ‘No, we need space. We’ll be better up on the hill.’

  It was even colder up on the hill and in no time the cheeks and noses of the children glowed pink and they were pulling their hats down over their ears. Spring was close, though. The signs were everywhere. Clumps of primroses dotted the banks, the gorse bushes were all in bloom, and in the centre of one of them Ernest found a pair of yellowhammers building a nest.

  It was a perfect day for flying a kite, Ollie said, and once up on the very top of the hill he managed, after one or two attempts, to get it off the ground and soaring up on the wind. As the children stood at his side watching the yellow and pink diamond rising up, he glanced down at Mary and saw the excitement in her wide eyes and in the clenching of her hands. Her hair, escaping from beneath her old woollen hat, streamed out in the wind.

  After a little while when the kite was safely aloft, Ollie handed the winding card to Mary and showed her how to let the string out and draw it in again. Then, following his directions she loosed the string and sent the kite even higher. A little later, when the kite had come diving down to earth again, coming to rest in a gorse bush, she handed the string to Ernest.

  He took it eagerly and after getting the kite in the air again began to walk backwards along the hill’s crest, playing out the string. Agnes and Arthur walked with him, as usual, like acolytes following their priest. And soon the kite was riding on the wind again, soaring up, higher and higher.

  Standing together, hands linked for warmth and for closeness, Ollie and Mary gazed up as the kite rose and dipped above their heads on the bitter wind, watching the diamond bank and halt and then come plunging down towards the earth in sudden, breathtaking dives, only to swoop up again to swing and drift on the currents. The string in Ernest’s hand was taut. Glancing back at Mary, Ollie saw the pride and happiness in her upturned face. Every hour spent making the kite had been worth it.

  Later when it was time to go home they set off along the top of the hill towards the path that would take them down. Ernest led the way with Agnes and Arthur on either side of him, their hands linked, while Ollie followed with the kite. Behind him Mary had stopped to gather some primroses.

  At the spot where the path led down, Ollie came to a stop and waited while Ernest, Arthur and Agnes walked on ahead. After a few moments Mary came running to Ollie’s side, a bunch of primroses in her hand.

  ‘Here, Papa.’

  She was holding the flowers up to him, and he thought, I would like to paint you now. Just as you are now – your cheeks reddened by the wind, your hand reaching up with the flowers …

  ‘Are they for me?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, of course. You like primroses, don’t you.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Oh, yes, I like them. Thank you.’

  ‘But you mustn’t be sad anymore, Papa.’

  ‘– No, I won’t be.’

  She smiled up at him until he smiled back, then she turned and pointed off.

  ‘Look, Papa – the cottages are so small from here …’

  He followed her eyes to the row of thatched cottages in the valley. ‘Yes, they are.’ They were small from any distance.

  Turning her head, Mary sought out Mr Savill’s house at the top of Gorse Hill.

  ‘– Not like Hallowford House,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘No, not at all.’

  He stood there without moving for long moments, and then she said, pulling at his hand, ‘Come on, Papa, let’s go home; I’m getting cold.’

  He didn’t seem to hear her. ‘We’ll have a place like that one day,’ he said.

  ‘Like Hallowford House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘One day. You just wait. Just wait a little longer.’

  And perhaps it could happen after all, he said to himself. Perhaps he could start all over again with his paintings. Yes. And he would work even harder at it this time. And he would find a gallery where he could show them, and sell them.

  He glanced down at the child as she gazed acr
oss the hilltop. He would do it for her, for Mary – for Mary and for the others.

  With the thought it was suddenly as if their future was as clear and as real to him as the panorama that was stretched out below. He had lost sight of it, but now he could see it all again. Everything. In time his painting would bring to them what they wanted. It would take longer now, but it would happen. In time. He just needed to be patient, and in time they would have everything. There would be a fine house. For Sarah there’d be no more doing other people’s laundry. For himself no more working on Mr Savill’s gardens. There’d be no further need to scrimp and save to put away the odd penny for Mary’s future. His painting would make certain that her future was assured. As would be the futures of all the children.

  He lowered himself, crouching before the child. Then, placing the kite and the flowers at his side he reached out and put his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her blue, blue eyes.

  ‘Trust in me,’ he said gruffly. ‘Believe me. We’ll have a good life soon.’ He nodded and laughed suddenly out into the wind. Then, leaning forward he kissed her on the forehead and drew her small slim body to him. As he held her he silently murmured: I vow it. For your sake, I vow it.

  Chapter Nine

  After dinner Sarah got Mary, Arthur and Agnes dressed in their best clothes and, settling Blanche in the perambulator, took them off to Sunday school. Ernest who, now working for his living, was no longer obliged to accompany them, went off to join some of his friends. His only part in the others’ Sunday-schooling would be to meet them and bring them home when it was over.

  On Sarah’s return from the church hall she set Blanche down in the makeshift pen in the kitchen. Blanche had been walking for three months now and was also starting to talk. Leaving her there, for the moment happily playing with various old toys, Sarah turned to Ollie where he sat in his chair. He had appeared so much brighter earlier on when he and the children had got back from flying the kite. She looked at him closely.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  He hesitated before he answered. ‘Fine. Almost – now.’