Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  After a little while longer she got up from the log, staggering slightly as she put her weight onto her weak legs. She stood still for a moment clenching her hands, willing herself to keep her balance, then, recovered a little, she turned and began to make her way back down the hill.

  The walls of Woodseaves House came in sight after a short distance and, keeping close to the hedge, she walked towards it. She came at last to the gates and there, after hesitating for a moment, she leaned forward, put her head around the gate post and looked up the drive.

  Dr Kelsey’s phaeton was not there.

  No longer caring whether or not anyone saw her, she stepped out into the centre of the drive and stared up towards the house. No, there was no sign anywhere of the carriage. Then, her eyes moving to the ground beneath her feet, she saw in the hardening snow the marks of the carriage and horse as they had come back down the drive and turned onto the road – turning left, moving away towards the north. Agnes stared at the prints in the snow and groaned with weariness and despair. He had not gone in the direction of Forge Lane, but in another direction.

  Shoulders bowed, she turned and began to walk slowly back the way she had come. After she had gone a few yards she quickened her steps and began to run again. Dr Kelsey might have gone to some other house right now, but he would be going to Forge Lane at some time. And, if she hurried, she might get there in time to catch him. Her breath sobbing in her throat she hurried on up the hill towards the village.

  The last reserves of strength that had taken her to Woodseaves House were failing quickly as she reached Green Street. She had run most of the way, though covering the last few hundred yards in little bursts of running between pauses for breath. Now, with Forge Lane just ahead of her she was gasping for breath, snatching at the cold air with her mouth gaping. Her course was erratic and her footprints in the freezing snow showed the irregular pattern of a staggering gait.

  Forge Lane was a narrow little way connecting Green Street and Church Row. Although she had sometimes played with one of the Dillon girls when she was at school she didn’t know which of the terraced cottages was occupied by the family. Now, entering the lane, she saw no sign of Dr Kelsey’s carriage. She didn’t know what to do. She could wait, but for all she knew he might already have been and left again. She couldn’t take the chance of waiting; she must find out where the Dillons lived and then whether or not the doctor had been.

  She was just moving to the front door of the nearest cottage when she heard the sound of a horse and carriage and, turning, she saw Dr Kelsey’s phaeton enter the lane from the other end. A great surge of relief swept over her, and with tears springing to her eyes she ran towards it as it came to a stop outside one of the far cottages.

  ‘Doctor …Dr Kelsey …’

  She called out to him as he stepped down into the freezing snow, and he turned at the sound of her voice. She got to his side a few moments later.

  ‘Oh, Doctor … Doctor –’ Then, relief and exhaustion sweeping away her control, she burst into tears. She stood there looking up at him, her whole body shaking with her sobs while the tears poured down her cheeks. In moments Kelsey was putting down his bag and was crouching before her.

  ‘Now, now, what is it? What’s the matter?’

  She couldn’t speak. He put his hands on her shoulders and said gently, looking into her distorted face, ‘It’s Mrs Farrar’s little girl, isn’t it?’

  She nodded, her sobbing going on and on, as if it would never cease, as if there was no limit to the well of her tears.

  ‘Agnes? Is it Agnes?’

  She nodded again. Then, her hands hanging limply at her sides she leaned forward so that her forehead rested on his shoulder. His hands came up and held her.

  ‘Now, Agnes – tell me what it is. Is it your mother?’

  She nodded against the comfort of his shoulder, feeling the rough softness of the fabric of his warm coat against her skin. Then she managed to say,

  ‘Yes, it’s my mam, Doctor.’

  Drawing back her head a little so that she could look into his face she told him of her mother and of how worried she was for her. ‘I didn’t know what to do anymore, Doctor …’ She told him how she had run to his own house and after that to Woodseaves House where she had seen his carriage. When she told him how the woman had sent her away her crying burst out anew. She told him then how she had waited for him at the side of the road and of how she had gone back to the house only to find that his carriage was gone. He nodded. Yes, he said, he had gone a little out of his way to call on another patient.

  ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘you’ve found me now, Agnes, and as soon as I’ve looked in on Mr Dillon we’ll go together and see your mother. How’s that?’

  Silently she nodded at him through her tears and he took off his glove and, taking from his pocket a neatly folded white handkerchief, wiped away her tears. Afterwards he put the handkerchief into her mittened hand – ‘Here, you keep it,’ – and then put his hand in a little warm, comforting touch to her cheek. His fingers lingered there, and then the back of his hand was touching her forehead.

  ‘Agnes,’ he said, frowning, ‘you’re running a fever. How do you feel?’

  ‘I – I got so out of breath with running and …’ A cough took away her last words and she stood with her head bent, alternately coughing and sucking in the air.

  She spat into the snow, then turned and looked guiltily into the concerned face of the man. As she looked at him his face wavered before her and a slight greyness crept about the edges of the image. And then, suddenly, she was vomiting. Bending low, her small body contorted in spasms, she retched some dark brown stuff into the snow at her feet. Kelsey reached out and held her. After a moment she straightened and put the handkerchief to her mouth. The next moment the doctor was taking her up, feather-light, in his arms, lifting her and placing her in the carriage. He took a rug and wrapped it about her, tucking it in. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll take you home. You’re wet through and you’re freezing cold. We’ve got to get you to bed as soon as we can.’ He took a step back. ‘Will you be all right while I’m gone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘That’s a good girl.’ He paused, looking at her with his head a little on one side, then turned away, moving towards the door of the nearest cottage.

  Agnes watched as the door was opened by one of the Dillon boys, then as the doctor went into the hall, the door closing behind him. The greyness that had come over her a few moments ago kept on coming back, in waves, and each time she set her teeth and clutched at the blanket, waiting for the wave to pass.

  Kelsey came out of the house in just a little over ten minutes. As he emerged he looked at the phaeton and saw Agnes move slightly, turning towards him. In just a few strides he was beside the carriage and getting in next to her and taking the reins. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we’ll get you home, and see your mama and get you to bed where you belong.’

  It was quite dark now and the lamps on the sides of the carriage reflected yellowly in the icy crystals of the banked snow at the roadside. The mare made a slow but steady progress, and when the carriage was suddenly jolted in the freezing ruts in the roadway Kelsey put his arm around Agnes and drew her a little closer to him. He talked to her as they rode. ‘How are you feeling now?’ he asked, and she answered, ‘Quite well, thank you, sir.’ ‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing you sing again in church before too long has gone by.’ She didn’t answer at this, and he turned and looked down at her in the light of the lamp and she looked up at him and gave a faint little smile. He asked her how old she was and she replied:

  ‘Eleven, sir. Twelve next June.’

  He left her in silence then, just murmuring occasionally to the mare as they made their way. Just before Church Row became Elm Road the phaeton was brought to a crawl behind a herd of cows bound for a nearby farm. But then at last the cattle had moved on and the carriage was free to turn into Coates
Lane. As it did so it was jolted by a pothole in the road and Kelsey held on to Agnes’s slight form at his side, tightening his arm about her and saying with a little chuckle, ‘Hey-up!’ Then, turning, he looked down at her. Her head was bent low, her face obscured by the woollen hat. He pressed his encircling hand into her arm. ‘We’re almost there now, Agnes. Nearly home now.’

  She didn’t answer. He spoke again. ‘Agnes …?’

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Agnes.’ His voice was sharper now, imperative and touched with fear. ‘Agnes!’

  Holding her fast with his left hand he pulled on the reins with his right, calling out, ‘Who-o-a-a-ah, Janie,’ and brought the mare to a halt. Then, letting fall the reins he turned and lifted Agnes’s face, his fingers beneath her chin. The glow from the lamp reflected in her dull sightless eyes as they gazed past his collar into the bitter evening air.

  Chapter Twenty

  The snow fell intermittently over the following days, adding to the silence within the walls of the cottage. There seemed to be no words to say and Ernest and Sarah went for hours at a time hardly speaking. For a time Ernest was deathly afraid that Agnes’s death would be the final blow to his mother, but it was not so. Somehow, it was as if the death of Arthur had filled up the capacity of Sarah’s grief, and when she learned of Agnes’s death too she just seemed to retreat into a kind of numbness. Lying in her bed, so ill herself, it was as if some cocooning shield slowly enwrapped her, keeping her from a total awareness which, Ernest was sure, should it find her when she was so weak, would surely be too much.

  The days passed. Ernest, having no choice, continued with his work at the farm while Esther from next door came in during the days to stay with his mother. On Wednesday while Sarah, too ill to move, had remained in her bed, Ernest had taken the morning off and, following the coffin of Arthur, had helped carry Agnes’s coffin to the churchyard. There beside Mary and their father the two were buried. After the funeral Ernest changed back into his working clothes and left for the farm. No matter what happened livestock had to be fed and watered, cows milked.

  Each evening on leaving the farm Ernest hurried back home to be with his mother. And slowly, slowly, with no effort on her own part, Sarah began to recover. It seemed to Ernest that his mother had no real will to keep living, yet at the same time she showed no wish to die. She just didn’t seem to care what became of her. Lying silent and uncomplaining on her bed she obediently did as she was told, almost childlike in a way, as if the matter of what became of her held no interest for her and was outside her own control.

  With the death of Dr Harmon, Dr Kelsey had continued to make frequent calls at the cottage, attending Sarah with gentleness, firmness and understanding. Ernest, on meeting the doctor there, knew that he would never see his face without it bringing back to him the memory of the afternoon when Agnes had died. That Sunday, increasingly concerned about his mother, Ernest had asked for an hour’s leave from his duties at the farm and had hurried home to see how she was. Finding Esther Hewitt sitting with his mother, and learning that Agnes had gone off to fetch the doctor he had sat waiting for his sister’s return. When, after half-an-hour there had been no sign of her he had announced his intention of going to find her. He had put his coat back on and was just opening the scullery door when he had seen a dark figure moving towards him across the yard. In the darkness he hadn’t been able to make out who it was – someone carrying a bundle in his arms. Then, in the faint light from the lamp-lit kitchen window he had made out the figure of the doctor. ‘Ah, Dr Kelsey,’ he had said with relief as the man came towards him, ‘– our Agnes has gone off to find you and –’ Coming to a stop he had seen then what was the burden in Kelsey’s arms. A child. And then some part of his brain had registered the coat the child was wearing. But – it was Arthur’s old coat. Then, a moment later, he had recognized the child’s old woollen hat and realized who it was.

  *

  Savill had pondered on when to tell Blanche of the deaths of her brother and sister. But then, realizing that everyone in the house but the two girls knew of it, and fearing that it would only be a matter of days before word got to Blanche in some oblique way and perhaps made the shock even greater, he decided she would have to be told.

  On the day of the funerals he sent word to Blanche that he would like to see her, and two minutes later she entered the library.

  After Savill had told her she just remained there, standing in silence for what seemed to him a long time, occasionally glancing up at him and then looking away again. There was a perplexed expression on her face, a slight creasing of her brow, as if she did not understand. Then, looking up at him again she said,

  ‘Arthur, sir?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘And Agnes?’

  ‘Yes …Oh, Blanche – I’m so sorry.’

  A further little silence. ‘And my mama, sir? How is she?’

  ‘Your mama – she’s going to be all right, I’m sure. It may take some time, but I would think now she must be over the worst. She’ll be all right again soon, don’t worry. You’ll be seeing her again soon.’

  She nodded, still frowning. ‘But – Agnes – and Arthur – I shan’t be seeing them again, shall I, sir?’

  ‘No, Blanche – I’m afraid not.’

  She glanced dully from the window. ‘It’s snowing again,’ she said. Savill watched her.

  ‘You do understand what I’ve been saying, don’t you, Blanche?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ She half turned on the carpet. ‘May I go back now, sir …?’

  ‘Yes – yes, of course.’

  She moved to the door, opened it and looked back at him. ‘I must go and see my mama,’ she said.

  ‘No – not just yet, my dear.’ He shook his head. ‘She’ll be all right. You just wait a little longer, till she’s better.’

  ‘But – she’ll want to see me. Won’t she?’

  ‘Well, yes, but – what if you catch the ‘flu as well? How would she feel then, d’you suppose?’

  She nodded her understanding. Then she said softly, her eyes gazing into the distance:

  ‘Arthur and Agnes …’

  Savill said nothing. After a moment she raised her eyes to his.

  ‘What happens to them, sir?’

  ‘What happens? What d’you mean?’

  ‘When people – die. Where do they go?’

  ‘Do you mean when –’

  She broke in quickly: ‘I don’t mean when they’re put in – in the graves. I mean – what happens to them – the – the persons – inside. Do they just – stop?’

  Savill frowned, gazing down at her. Then he said, ‘You mean – well, you’re talking about a person’s soul, Blanche.’

  She was silent, waiting.

  ‘Well, it – it goes to – to God …’

  ‘To God …’

  ‘Yes …’ He felt stupid and ineffectual. ‘Yes …God takes them.’

  The frown on her brow was deeper. ‘God took them? Arthur – and Agnes?’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Why …?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Why?’

  She waited for some moments for an answer that never came, then turned and went from the room.

  *

  A week after the funeral it was Christmas. At the Farrars’ cottage the time came and went with barely any acknowledgement. On the way to and from the farm Ernest passed by some dwellings where lighted windows gave glimpses of Christmas trees and holly and decorated rooms. In deference to the sickness and deaths in the village there were fewer this year. What there were, though, he observed dully; they had no relevance for him.

  Over the days messages had come from various people in the village. Mr Savill had written several times, on the occasions of the deaths of the children and also to say that Blanche was perfectly well. For Ernest, too, there had been letters from Fanny, offering sympathy and saying that she herself was recovering well. She lo
oked forward to seeing him again soon, she told him. He had not seen her since before she herself had been taken ill, though he had called at her home on a few occasions to ask after her and to convey his affection and good wishes.

  On the Sunday evening just a few days after Christmas she came round to the cottage. Ernest was sitting up in the bedroom reading to Sarah when he heard his name softly called from below the stairs. Leaving Sarah with some murmured words he left the room, turned onto the landing and saw Fanny standing at the foot of the stairs. When he reached the hall he led her back into the kitchen where he turned up the flame in the lamp. They stood facing one another. He smiled at her and she smiled back at him, a slow, melancholy smile like his own.

  ‘Hello, Fan,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Ernie. I knocked but I couldn’t make you hear. I hope it’s all right – my coming in.’

  ‘Oh, yeh, course it is.’ He paused. ‘I’m right glad to see you.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you too. How’s your mam?’

  He gave a little shrug. ‘I think she’s gettin’ better – slowly.’

  Fanny nodded. ‘Good …’

  ‘Should you be out yet, Fan? You sure you’re well enough?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m feelin’ all right now.’ She smiled. ‘I liked gettin’ your letters, Ernie. It was so nice.’

  ‘Ah – well …’ After a moment he held out his arms and she came to him. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. She sighed, laying her head against his shoulder. ‘Oh, Ernie,’ she said, ‘it’s such a – terrible, terrible time.’ She paused. ‘Still – at least we’ve got each other.’