by Jess Foley
Now as she held Arthur in her arms he coughed his dry, painful, hacking cough and she felt the spasms shake his body before he went limp again in her arms. Then, his body tightening, clenching again, he struggled to draw in a harsh, tortured breath of air and coughed once more. The mucus bubbled out of his nostrils and Sarah took a cloth and gently wiped him clean. He was unaware of it; he seemed unaware of everything. Sarah, tears streaming down her cheeks, had no idea what to do. She could only sit there, murmuring to him over and over and praying that the doctor would soon arrive. Dr Kelsey would know what to do, she muttered to Agnes. He would know.
And then Arthur briefly stiffened in her arms again and opened his eyes. They were unfocused for some moments, but then they lighted on Sarah’s face and she saw the light of knowing in them. The breath was whistling from his lungs and the cold, mauvish look of his skin seemed to have grown stronger. ‘Mam …’ He gasped hoarsely on a terrifying intake of air and Sarah involuntarily cried out and wrapped her arms more firmly about him. He seemed to be turning blue before her eyes. ‘Dear God, help me!’ She almost shrieked out the words while at the same time she half rose from the bed, still clutching him in her arms, as if she would run somewhere for help, carrying him with her. Then, sinking back onto the bed she held him close while his breathing grew even more tortured and eventually stopped.
Chapter Eighteen
John Savill stood without moving in the hall, the letters in his hand forgotten. In his ears he could still hear the postman’s words as they had come to him through the crack of the partly opened door. One of the Farrar children was dead, the man had told him, and Mrs Farrar herself had also been stricken with the ‘flu. Savill remained there for some seconds longer, then slowly turned and made his way across the hall.
The reports of the disease in the village had been filtering in as the days had gone by, sometimes by means of the postman, sometimes by means of James who left the occasional note on the back doorstep, and at other times by means of the tradesmen who, when leaving their produce at the back door, had called through to Florence or one of the maids.
This was the fifth day that Savill and the other inhabitants of Hallowford House had been in isolation, and while the reports from the outside world had grown more disturbing with each day, the house’s occupants had so far remained healthy and free of the disease’s symptoms.
And the news from outside was disturbing, with the newspapers giving regular reports of the toll of the disease in London and other cities. They told of fire brigades being understaffed, of communications being hampered by the high number of absentees among postmen and telegraph operators. And the number of sufferers went on mounting.
Closer to home the reports were no less saddening and alarming. Dr Harmon was seriously ill, it was said. As was poor, little, ineffectual Miss Timperley, the girls’ erstwhile temporary governess. The butcher, Grill, was dead, as was his wife. Also the wife of Webster, the blacksmith. And now one of the Farrar children.
At the library door Savill came to a stop. Blanche would have to be told. He moved to the foot of the stairs, came to a halt and hesitated there. Looking at his watch he realized that she would be having lunch. He would tell her later, when she had eaten.
As he stood there he thought of the birthday party that had been planned for next Tuesday, Marianne’s birthday. It was to be a joint party, for both girls; Blanche’s ninth birthday had fallen on the Tuesday past. The party the two girls were looking forward to would not now take place.
A little later Savill joined Gentry in the dining room for lunch.
Gentry, remaining free of any symptoms of the disease, had had the run of the house for several days now, and Savill, sitting facing him across the table, realized that he was glad of the boy’s presence. Confined as he himself was, it was good to have someone to talk to, even someone as young as Gentry; for all the boy’s youth and inexperience, he had found him to be intelligent and entertaining. And Gentry had helped considerably with Marianne and Blanche, too, saving them from a good deal of the boredom that might otherwise have been theirs in their confinement to the house. Since Monday when he had been released from his own incarceration he had done what he could to keep them amused, not only in the nursery, where he had played endless games with them, but also in the schoolroom where he had sometimes helped Miss Fenwick with their lessons.
When lunch was over Savill went back into the library, sat there for a while, then got up and went up the stairs to the schoolroom. When he reached the door he raised his hand to knock – and let his hand remain there, poised, his knuckles clenched. From the other side of the door he could hear Blanche’s voice; the girls were going through their French lesson. As he listened he heard Blanche stumble in her reading, upon which there came a murmured comment from Miss Fenwick followed by a general little burst of laughter.
He lowered his hand, turned on the landing and went back downstairs to the library. His news could wait.
It had been clear to both Agnes and Ernest on the night of Arthur’s death that Sarah herself was coming down with the ‘flu as well, though Sarah herself had refused to acknowledge it. After the undertaker’s wife had been to lay out Arthur’s body Agnes had stayed up with her mother for several hours. When, eventually, Sarah had fallen asleep, Agnes had herself slept. On the morning of the following day, Friday, seeing her mother so much worse, Agnes had announced her intention of staying at home with her.
Throughout that day Sarah had remained in bed. The next day, Saturday, Ernest prepared to go off to work as usual, again leaving Agnes at home with Sarah. On his way, he said, he would leave a note at Dr Kelsey’s house, asking him to call at the cottage.
When Ernest had gone Agnes took from the oven the brick she had placed there a little earlier and went back upstairs to the rear bedroom where her mother lay in bed. Sarah lay on her back with her head towards the wall, her eyes open. As Agnes entered Sarah turned her head on the pillow and looked up at her. ‘Hello, my dear,’ she said.
‘How are you feeling now?’ Agnes took the brick from beneath the bedclothes and replaced it with the hot one.
‘I’m all right. I thought I might get up soon.’ Sarah’s voice was dull, lifeless.
‘No, no. You must stay there.’
Agnes moved to the fireplace then and raked out the ashes and relit the fire. That done she went back downstairs and warmed a little milk over the range. Dutifully, although protesting that she wasn’t hungry, Sarah drank a little of it. Later that morning, insisting that she was all right, she got out of bed and came downstairs. It was madness, Agnes told her. Her mother wouldn’t be stopped, though. ‘I can’t just lie there, Agnes,’ she said. ‘I can’t.’
In the kitchen in her chair before the range Sarah sat covered with a rug and watching dully while Agnes cleaned the room. Sarah was silent for most of the time but once when Agnes came near her she said:
‘Agnes – there are things to arrange. Arthur …’
‘Now don’t you worry about that,’ Agnes replied. ‘Ernie’s looking after everything. You just think about getting well.’
‘The – the funeral – d’you know when it’s to be?’
‘– On Wednesday.’
Coming into the kitchen from the garden a little later, Agnes found her mother standing at the kitchen table preparing to make pastry. ‘Oh, Mam,’ Agnes said, ‘you should be resting.’ As she spoke she saw her mother sway against the table and the next moment Sarah was falling to the floor. Agnes, crying out, stepped quickly to her side and bent over her. Sarah’s arm had caught the bag of flour as she had fallen and now its contents lay scattered like fine snow. Kneeling in the spilled flour Agnes called to her, then, sobbing with fear, she fetched water and dabbed it on Sarah’s face. After a few seconds Sarah came round, opening her eyes and looking about her in a dull, bewildered way. When she was well enough to stand she let Agnes help her up the stairs and into bed.
‘Now you rest,’ Agnes said as Sarah laid her
head back on the pillow. ‘I can do whatever needs to be done about the house. I can get on with the washing and get Ernest’s dinner when he comes in.’ She drew the blankets up around her mother’s shoulders. As she did so Sarah lightly grasped her hand. ‘You’re a good girl, Agnes.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s too much on your shoulders, a girl of your age. Only eleven. It’s too much.’
‘I’m all right.’ Then, softly but firmly Agnes urged her to rest. ‘Please – try to get some sleep, Mam. The doctor’ll be here later.’
‘Sleep,’ Sarah repeated, her eyes shifting to gaze unseeingly at the window. ‘I sometimes wonder whether I shall ever sleep again.’
Ernest returned from the farm later than usual that evening and on entering the cottage he went straight upstairs to look in on Sarah. He came down again almost immediately. Coming into the kitchen he looked at Agnes as she stood before the range. She turned and glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘Is she still asleep?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. It’s what she needs.’
‘Did Doctor come?’
‘Yes, late this afternoon. He left some medicine to give her, and some stuff to help her sleep. It’s very important, he said, that she sleeps. Apart from that she must be kept warm – try to stop the infection going to her chest. He said he’ll call again tomorrow when he can. But he’s that busy, poor man.’ She was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘You’re late in, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Ah, I am. Mr Harker’s come down with the ‘flu, and so’s Benjamin. So that left me to do most of the milkin’. One of Harker’s daughters – Polly – come out to give me a hand, but she’s not much good. Still, it was better ‘elp than no ‘elp at all.’
‘You’re going to have a long day tomorrow then, as well.’
‘Oh, ah. I’m gunna ‘ave to go in earlier, and stay later – there’s nothin’ else for it.’
They spoke almost casually, yet each knew what was in the other’s heart and mind. Although they faced one another their eyes met only fleetingly. They had both wept so much, and now it was as if they feared acknowledgement of their continuing grief; as if they were afraid that, looking into those answering eyes, they would see there an echo of the grief that was their own, and would be overwhelmed.
As Agnes turned back to the range she heard Ernest’s step as he turned and went back into the little hall. Then there came the sound of the opening and closing of the parlour door. How could he bear it? she wondered. Arthur lay in there in his coffin, waiting for Wednesday’s funeral. After a little while Ernest came back into the kitchen. Turning, glancing fleetingly at him, Agnes could see the stain of tears on his cheeks.
As she set the kitchen table Ernest told her that he had called at the Greenhams’ cottage on the way home. He had learned, he said, that Fanny and her sisters were feeling much the same.
‘Ah, well,’ Agnes said, ‘at least they’re no worse. That’s good to hear. No doubt Fanny’ll be up and about again any day now.’
She put Ernest’s dinner on the table a little later and he sat down to eat. She had prepared a meat and vegetable pie with potatoes and cabbage. She watched him as he ate. ‘Is it all right?’ she asked.
‘Oh, ah.’ He nodded. ‘One day you’re gunna make somebody a tidy little wife, our Aggie, or I’ll be very much surprised.’
She smiled faintly at his words, feeling for an instant a small, brief glow of gladness that for a second pierced the cloud of sadness that enveloped her. Ernest ate in silence for a while, then, raising his glance to hers, he said:
‘We shall be all right again one day, Ags. You’ll see.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. She felt relief suddenly, knowing that it was true. If Ernest said it then it would be so. Obliquely she continued to watch him as he ate, and as she sat there she suddenly became aware that in so many ways he had taken the place of her long-departed father. In her memory over the years her father had become just a vague, shadowy image, a picture unformed, without outline. Ernest was real, though; constant and dependable; tall, strong, male, her unacknowledged support and champion, always there. As he had been when she was younger. It was usually to him that she had run when she was unhappy. She and Arthur. And now Arthur was dead.
Through her thoughts she became aware that Ernest had paused in his eating again and was looking at her.
‘Aren’t you eatin’ too?’ he said.
‘No, I’m not that hungry. Anyway, I had something a little while ago.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘You ought to eat something.’ He grinned, teasing. ‘There’s nothing of you as it is – sittin’ there knee-high to a grasshopper. And you must keep your strength up. We don’t want you gettin’ ill too.’
‘I told you, I’m all right.’
Preparing for the next morning’s earlier start, Ernest said goodnight just after half-past-eight and went upstairs. After he had looked in on Sarah again he went into the front room and climbed into the double bed. A few minutes later Agnes herself wearily climbed the stairs.
After replacing the brick in her mother’s bed she banked up the fire and placed the guard in front of it. Then, moving back to her mother’s side she gave her a little of the medicine the doctor had left, followed by a few drops of the sleeping draught. After that she took up the basin containing the last of the goose grease. Bending over her mother, Agnes smoothed in the grease, rubbing it gently over Sarah’s upper chest and between her breasts. Sarah sighed, murmured her thanks, adding, ‘You’re a good girl, Aggie. You’re the best daughter a woman could have.’ Agnes smiled down at her and, firmly but gently, laid the brown paper back in place and pulled Sarah’s nightdress down and made her comfortable again. Then she drew up the bed covers and tucked them up around Sarah’s chin. ‘You go to sleep now, Mam,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right here if you need me.’ After kissing Sarah goodnight she got undressed and climbed into the other bed.
It was a long time before she fell asleep.
It was still dark the next morning when Agnes came awake to find Ernest crouching before the little fireplace. He had raked out the ashes and now he was laying the fire. He had already lit the nightlight on the chair at her side and in its pale glow she lay listening as he carefully went about the work, hearing the rustle of the paper and, after a while, the striking of the match and the welcome crackle of the flames. A few moments later he came to stand beside her. ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ he said softly. ‘Sorry – I tried to do it without waking you.’ He turned and glanced towards the curtained window. ‘It’s a very cold mornin’. It’s been snowin’ all night. Mam’s gunna need the fire today.’ Agnes nodded as she looked up at him. He was dressed ready for work. ‘What time is it?’ she whispered.
‘Just on ‘alf-past four.’
‘Have you had your breakfast?’
‘Yeh, don’t worry. And I’ve wrapped up something for me dinner too.’ He stepped closer to the other bed and peered down at Sarah in the faint light.
‘How does she look?’ Agnes asked.
‘She’s sleepin’ pretty sound. We mustn’t wake her.’
‘No.’ She nodded. ‘You better get off to work …’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Anyway, ‘ow are you feelin’ this mornin’? All right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Are you sure?’ He bent lower, peering a little closer. ‘If you’re not, our Aggie, you tell me. You don’t look that grand to me.’
‘No, really, I’m all right. I feel fine.’
‘Yes? If you’re not well, you say and I’ll stay ‘ome.’
‘Oh, no, you can’t do that. Who’ll do the milking if you’re not there?’
‘To ‘ell with the blasted milkin’.’
‘No, I’m all right, Ernie, believe me. You get on off to work.’
‘All right.’ He looked back at the fire. ‘That’ll be all right for a while. I’ve lit the range too, and I’ve g
ot some logs and some coal in, so you won’t need to go outside. I’ve left another brick in the oven for Mam, as well, so you won’t ‘ave to wait too long for one to get ‘ot.’ He started to turn away, then turned back to her. ‘Listen, if you need me you come and get me, all right? Or get somebody else to come and fetch me.’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘Well, don’t you forget, then. If you need me for anything – anything at all. Understand?’
‘Yes. But we’ll be all right, Mam and me. I’ll stay in bed for a while longer then get up and get us some breakfast.’
‘Right-o.’ He stood there for a moment then reached out and touched her shoulder. Giving her a little pat he added, ‘Anyway, you remember what I said, my girl.’
He went then, and Agnes listened to the light sound of his boots as he crept down the stairs. She closed her eyes. She had lied to him when he had asked how she was feeling. She had slept so badly, waking frequently at odd hours throughout the night. And when she had slept her restless sleep had been troubled with dreams of sharp, quick-moving images. Now at the back of her nose and throat she could feel a harsh, dry sensation whilst at the same time there was a dull, heavy ache in her head. She would feel better soon, though, she told herself, once she had had some breakfast – although she didn’t feel in the least hungry. And she would stay in the warm and get as much rest as she could. She would be all right again before long.
Hard as she tried, she couldn’t get back to sleep, and eventually, just after six, lying there with her eyes open, she saw Sarah awaken. She got out of bed, and as she stood up she felt the room suddenly swim about her. She held herself rigid for a moment until the weakness had passed then put on her worn old slippers. From a hook on the back of the bedroom door hung an old coat that had belonged to Arthur. She took it down and wrapped it around her. Then, moving to the window she drew back the curtains and looked out. The snow lay thick over everything while up above the sky was a greyish yellow. After a moment she moved to her mother’s bedside. Sarah lay with her eyes half-open, as if her lids were dragged down by weights.