by Jess Foley
Chapter Sixteen
‘I want to adopt her – legally.’
John Savill sat at a table in one of the upper rooms of the New Inn on Trowbridge’s Silver Street. From around him came the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices from the other Freemasons who had gathered there. The monthly meeting of the Lodge of Concorde at the new Masonic lodge in Yerbury Street had just ended and, as was the custom, some of the members had come to the tavern’s private room to relax, to talk and drink for an hour or so before going to their homes.
On Savill’s left sat Dr Robert Kelsey, on his right Harold, John Savill’s brother, manager of his mill in Trowbridge. Eight years younger than John Savill, Harold looked little like him. Whereas John Savill was tall and slim, Harold was somewhat below average height and of stocky build. Their colouring was different too; John’s once dark hair had long ago turned grey, while the little grey in Harold’s sandy hair was hardly noticeable.
At Savill’s words the doctor sipped at the whisky in his hand and gave a slow nod. ‘You’ve obviously given it serious thought,’ he said.
‘Oh, indeed, yes,’ John Savill replied. ‘And it’s not such a new idea of mine. I mean. I’ve toyed briefly with it from time to time over the past couple of years.’ He paused. ‘I really do think it’s the best thing to do.’
‘Have you spoken of it yet to the girl’s mother?’ Harold asked.
‘Not yet. But I intend to see her about it during the next couple of weeks.’
‘How do you think she’ll respond?’
‘I really don’t know. I just hope I can make her see the – the wisdom of it. I’m quite sure it would be the best thing for everybody concerned. It would ensure Blanche’s future – which at the moment is as uncertain as it is for the rest of Mrs Farrar’s children – and also it would relieve Mrs Farrar of a certain amount of responsibility. And it isn’t as if things would be that different as far as Mrs Farrar’s concerned. As it is she only sees Blanche two or three times a week. And she’d still see her, of course. That wouldn’t change.’
With a smile Harold said, ‘Altruism isn’t dead, then.’
Savill frowned. Quite often he found himself regarding his brother with disapproval. But they had never been close, notwithstanding the fact that they often spent time in one another’s company. Now Savill said with a trace of exasperation in his voice,
‘It’s not altruism, Harold. Don’t be cynical. I’d be getting a great deal out of it.’
‘Such as?’ Harold said.
‘Well, in particular Marianne would have a sister – legally. And I must confess I’d like that for her.’
‘You don’t wish to continue with the arrangement as it is?’ Kelsey said.
‘I don’t see how it can continue as it is – for much longer. It’s got to change in one way or the other – and fairly soon, I’d imagine.’ Savill took a drink from his glass and shook his head. ‘No, it’s got to be settled – and before much more time goes by. The girls will be nine next month.’
‘Well,’ Harold said, ‘just don’t be too impetuous. Perhaps you should give it a little more thought before you rush in.’
John Savill moved his hand in a gesture of impatience. ‘I’m not rushing in. I’ve given it a great deal of thought.’
At John’s tone Harold raised his palm as a shield. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I just think it’s important that you consider everything.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s none of my business, is it?’ Then, changing the subject, he turned to the doctor and said:
‘I imagine you’ve been reading the reports on the influenza, Doctor?’
Kelsey nodded. ‘It would be difficult to miss them, wouldn’t it? It appears to be more severe than it was in the last outbreak, three years back. The number of dead in Europe and Asia is really astounding.’
While Savill shook his head in sympathy Harold said disparagingly, ‘They said at first in the papers that it had reached Britain in a milder form – that it wasn’t nearly so dangerous as it was abroad. They didn’t seem to treat it with that much seriousness.’
‘I know,’ Kelsey agreed, ‘but they have to now. With so many having been stricken over the country, and upwards of twenty deaths in London alone last week they’ve had to change their views.’
‘Do you think it will get to the village?’ Savill said. ‘Though I suppose there’s not much doubt about that, is there?’
‘It already has,’ Kelsey said. He shook his head. ‘I’ve already got two cases amongst my patients.’
‘And how serious are they? I mean – isn’t it possible that by now it’s losing some of its virulence?’
Kelsey gave a shrug. ‘Well, one always hopes for that. But it’s a bit too much to hope for, I’m afraid. No, the cases are serious, believe me.’
The conversation moved on to other topics, and a little while later the doctor rose from his chair, wished them goodnight and went away. Over his beer Savill observed his younger brother. Harold would be fifty-one years old in August, and Savill silently remarked that there was about him a rather restless air. It had been evident for several months now. Perhaps, Savill mused, it had something to do with the loss of Harold’s wife, Jane, who had died the year before after a long illness. The couple had not been that happy, but nevertheless she had been a stable influence in the marriage.
Harold now was talking about the motor car industry. He was vaguely toying with the idea, he said, of selling his few remaining shares in the Trowbridge mill, adding the proceeds to his savings and investing the lot in one of the new automobiles that were so firing the imagination. Savill advised caution; for God’s sake, wait, he urged, before doing anything rash; make sure first of all that such a venture is viable. In reply Harold insisted, a little impatiently, that he was not about to take any impulsive decisions.
‘Now you’re telling me not to be impulsive,’ Harold said. Putting down his empty glass, he added: ‘Are you serious about adopting the little Farrar girl, John?’
‘You obviously have some doubts, Harry,’ Savill said.
‘Oh, well, I just think – oh, I know that she’s pretty and bright, and well-mannered and –’ Harold shrugged. ‘I mean, it’s all very well to talk of her being a sister to Marianne, but she can never really be that, can she?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well – what about her background?’
Savill frowned. ‘I’m not certain I understand you.’
‘Oh, John, you know what I mean as well as I do. I’m just thinking of the old saying about silk purses.’
Savill sat in silence for a moment, looking at his brother. Under his gaze Harold gave a little laugh. ‘I think I’ve said too much,’ he said.
Savill shrugged. ‘Well, it won’t be the first time you and I haven’t seen eye to eye, will it?’
Reports of the progress of the influenza were becoming increasingly disturbing. The outbreak of three years before had caused a great many deaths, and now it was beginning to appear that the present one might be even more serious. In London and other large cities the death toll was mounting at an alarming rate, while the newspaper accounts frequently gave reports of whole families being affected. A number of schools throughout the country had closed down through high incidence of the disease among the pupils and staff alike. In other quarters to prevent the disease from spreading, public meetings in many towns were being cancelled. And now the disease had reached Trowbridge and the surrounding areas. In the town that Tuesday morning Savill had seen a notice outside the Town Hall advising of the cancellation of a forthcoming meeting of councillors: ‘Until further notice, due to the prevalence of the Influenza …’ while at the mill the numbers of absentees had increased over the previous week. On Wednesday Savill received a letter from Edward Harrow’s son, Gentry, from the school in Brighton where he was a boarder, telling him that the influenza had broken out in the school and that a number of the pupils were affected. He himself, however, Gentry said, had so far remained free of any s
ymptoms.
On Friday, by the second post, came another letter from Gentry. Beneath the school’s address he had written:
5th December, 1889
Dear Uncle John,
I have to write and tell you that due to the influenza epidemic the school is to be temporarily closed. I hope you are at home as I am to leave for Trowbridge tomorrow morning, Friday. I shall be travelling via Southampton, Salisbury and Westbury and if the trains are on time I should arrive at Trowbridge at 2.10 pm. I shall be grateful if you can send someone to meet me, otherwise I’ll walk or try to get a cab.
Yours,
Gentry Harrow
That afternoon James took the phaeton to Trowbridge and just before three o’clock arrived back at Hallowford House with Gentry and his box. After Gentry had been shown the room prepared for him on the first floor, Savill took him into the library while Florence went to get him some lunch.
In the library Savill stood by the fireplace facing Gentry who sat in the wing chair, his long legs stretched out before him. The boy was tall for his fourteen years and a good deal taller than when Savill had last seen him. Studying him, Savill peered into the boy’s dark eyes. ‘Are you sure you feel all right?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, absolutely, Uncle John.’
‘Are you sure? No trace of a headache, no beginnings of a cold … ?’
‘No, really, I’m fine.’
‘Good.’ Savill nodded, though he sounded unconvinced. ‘What about your schoolfellows?’ he asked.
‘Over forty of the ninety-two boys have gone down with it,’ Gentry said. ‘And two of the masters. Those boys who are too sick to travel are all in sick-bay, in isolation. The rest have all been sent home.’ He grinned, showing white, even teeth. Savill watched the grin, smiled and said:
‘Oh, I can see that it’s not that unwelcome to you – to get a holiday from school, but it’s a very serious business all the same, young man.’
‘Yes, I know that, Uncle John. But, as you say – it’s nice to get an unexpected vacation.’
‘Yes, of course it is. Though I don’t know how you hope to spend it.’
Gentry shrugged. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll find something to do.’
Savill gazed at him for a moment in thought, then he shook his head. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed if you’re looking forward to getting out much.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle John – I don’t understand.’
‘It’s simple, my boy. You must understand, this is a deadly disease. It’s not something to be taken lightly.’
‘No – of course not.’
Savill nodded. ‘So, I’m afraid there’ll be no going out for you, no mixing with anyone in the village. Apart from my responsibilities to you, I’ve got two children in this house and I must protect them. To that end I intend to do everything I possibly can. I don’t want you to think I’m being hard on you, but for a few days you’ll have to go into isolation.’
Gentry stared at him. ‘Isolation?’
‘Yes. This is not some mild little head cold going around. This is a killer. People are dying of it. Don’t you read the news?’ Savill took up the newspaper and riffled through its pages. ‘Look at this.’ He slapped the page before him. ‘In Waltham Cross, look – a mother, her daughter and two sons, all dead within seven days.’ He looked at another column. ‘In Sweden one small town has had twenty funerals in one day. At Kimberley in South Africa – more than a thousand deaths. Over six hundred so far in Budapest.’ He glanced up from the newspaper. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘It’s not happening here, is it?’ Gentry said.
‘No, it’s not.’ Savill shook his head. ‘But there’s plenty of time.’
When Arthur arrived home that Friday evening, it was with the information that Mr Grill, his employer, had come down with the ‘flu and had spent most of the day in bed.
Ernest returned from the farm a little later and after he had washed and changed and eaten, Fanny came round. They had arranged to go out for a walk together. Soon after her arrival Ernest put on his coat and they left the cottage.
They walked along Elm Road, Peters Lane, along Bridge Street and around the green. As they approached the back of Fox Lane Fanny said,
‘Did you think any more on what we talked about?’
‘– About – getting married, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ When he didn’t answer she prompted him, ‘Well, did you?’
He shook his head. ‘We’re too young, Fan. We are, you know that.’
‘Oh, we’re not, Ernie. We’re not.’ She came to a stop, Ernest halting beside her. ‘Think how it could be, Ernie,’ she said. ‘We’d find our own little place. A home of our own. And we wouldn’t have to stay in Hallowford if we didn’t want to.’
He smiled. ‘You’re really set on goin’ away, ain’t you?’
‘Well – why not? Anywhere’s better than here. Trowbridge, Bristol. Maybe London.’
‘London?’
‘Why not?’ She paused. ‘Tim Higham says he’s going to London soon.’
‘Tim Higham, that bloke who works with you at the factory? Well, you can believe that when it ‘appens.’
‘How can you say that? You don’t even know ‘im.’
‘No, but I’ve ‘eard about ‘im. I’ve seen ‘im, too – all that macassar on ‘is hair. I shouldn’t think ‘e needs any more oil – not by the looks of ‘im.’
Fanny smiled. ‘It couldn’t be that you’re jealous, could it?’
‘Jealous? Me? Of that masher?’
‘Ernie, I think you are. Come on now, own up.’
‘Nah, I ain’t jealous. Why should I be jealous about ‘im? Besides, he’s too old for you. He’s ten years older than you at least.’
She shook her head. ‘Ernie, you don’t know anything about him, really.’
‘No, well, maybe I don’t.’
‘He’s been to London. He was tellin’ me all about it. He said I could get a really good job there if I wanted. I could go into an office and work a typewriter machine. He makes London sound a really wonderful place and –’
‘Yeh, wonderful,’ Ernest broke in. ‘If Jack the Ripper don’t get you the ‘flu will. They’re droppin’ like flies there.’
‘Oh, well, if you don’t want to be serious …’ She turned away and began to walk on. Ernest hurried after her and took her by the arm.
‘Fan, don’t get all like that,’ he said as he turned her to face him.
‘Ernie, you say you love me, but sometimes I get the feelin’ that it’s only talk.’
He felt a little rise of panic within his chest. ‘No, Fan, don’t say that.’ He drew her to him. She came unwillingly; he could feel her resistance. ‘I do love you, Fan,’ he said. ‘I do. You know I do.’
‘Ah, so you say, but talk’s cheap.’ She pulled away from him and moved towards the rear gate of her home. ‘Anyway, I must go in.’
‘Ain’t you gunna say goodnight to me?’
She closed the gate and looked at him over the top of it. ‘Goodnight, Ernie.’
‘I mean properly.’ He reached out for her over the gate, but she stepped back out of his reach.
‘I must go. Really I must.’
‘– Well, shall I see you tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know.’ She gave a shrug. ‘We’ll see.’ Then she was turning and moving away up the path.
As the evening had worn on Arthur had begun to complain of not feeling well and at Sarah’s insistence he went up to bed before his usual time.
The next morning, Saturday, while Ernest was having his breakfast, Sarah went up to see Arthur. He was already awake. When she asked him how he was feeling he complained of a headache and a sore throat. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘I must get ready for work.’ He sat up and made to get out of the bed but she put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, you stay where you are,’ she told him. ‘Lie down again.’ She went back downstairs then and put a brick into the oven. Afterwards, returning t
o the bedroom, she lit the fire in the little fireplace. When the brick was hot she wrapped it in an old piece of flannel and put it beneath the bedclothes against Arthur’s feet. ‘Now, you stay there, and try to go back to sleep.’ ‘But I’ll be needed at work,’ he protested feebly. ‘Well, that can’t be helped,’ Sarah replied. ‘You’re not going anywhere today.’
On Sunday Blanche stood gazing out of the nursery window while the rain fell with increasing force on the pane. The nursery clock said twelve-fifteen. Nearby on a chair lay her coat. Her mother would be there at any moment to take her to the cottage for the day.
There was ‘flu in the village, and because of it she and Marianne and Mr Savill had not gone to church that morning – and neither would they, Mr Savill had said, until the ‘flu had passed. In the room across the landing Gentry Harrow was installed. She and Marianne had called out to him as they had passed his door, but Mr Savill had forbidden them to go near him yet.
Behind her in the room now Marianne sat cutting out fashion figures from a magazine while their new governess, Miss Fenwick, sat nearby mending some linen. Young and attractive, she had come from nearby Frome. With her arrival Miss Timperley, their temporary governess, had gone back to live in the village.
Blanche turned and looked around her. This room would not be her home for much longer. Soon she would be returning to the cottage to live. She wondered what it would be like. She had said nothing to Marianne or Mr Savill about her mother’s decision. She didn’t want to think about it until the time came. We’ll all be together, her mother had said, and that’s how families should be. You’ll be happy, I promise you … She thought of her mother’s words; the promise. They brought little comfort, though.
Turning back to the window she saw a familiar figure come striding across the yard through the rain.
‘Here’s Ernest,’ she said. ‘Here’s my brother come for me.’