by Jess Foley
He bent his head and she lifted her face to him. As he kissed her he was aware of a greater warmth in her kiss than he had known before. After the kiss she said, looking up at him:
‘What did you mean – in your letter?’
‘– Mean?’
‘In your first letter. You said you’d talked to your mam and that you had some good news …’
‘Oh – yeh – that …’
She waited. ‘Well? What was the good news?’
For the briefest moment he felt himself touched by a little shadow of disappointment. But he brushed the thought aside and shook his head. ‘Oh, yeh – well,’ he said awkwardly, ‘this – this ain’t the time for it, Fan. Not right now.’
‘Oh …’ She frowned momentarily, then gave a shrug. ‘I was just lookin’ forward to hearin’ it – the good news, that’s all … Whatever it is …’
‘Yeh, I know, but – well, like I said, this ain’t the time for it.’
‘Oh, well – when will be the time for it?’
‘Later on. A bit later. We’ll talk about it later on. There’s time.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Just so long as you don’t forget, though.’
‘No, I won’t forget.’
She sighed and stepped away. ‘Anyway, Ernie, I must get back home. I told our mam I’d just slip out for a few minutes.’
‘Ah, right.’ He followed her to the scullery door. ‘Will you be all right, going back on your own?’
‘Yes, of course. I got ‘ere, didn’t I?’ She stretched up and kissed him. ‘Shall I see you soon?’
‘Yes – soon as our mam’s a bit better I’ll come round.’
She pulled her coat collar more closely about her throat. ‘You won’t leave it too long, will you?’
‘No – course not.’
‘– It’s New Year’s Eve day after tomorrow. Shall I see you then?’
‘I’d like to but – I don’t know. I doubt I’ll be able to come out.’
She nodded. ‘Anyway – I’ll see you soon, Ernie.’
‘Yes, soon.’ He bent and kissed her. ‘And don’t forget, Fan – I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
On Wednesday evening Sarah insisted that she would be perfectly all right on her own and when Ernest had shaved and changed he went to Fox Lane to the Greenhams’ cottage. Fanny herself answered the door.
She smiled at him. ‘What are you doin’ here?’
‘I just come to wish you a happy new year,’ he said.
From behind Fanny came the sound of voices, that of her sisters and brothers. She frowned. ‘Wait a minute, Ernie, and I’ll get my coat.’
He waited while she went back into the cottage. Five minutes later she had returned wearing a dark brown coat with trimmings of squirrel at the collar and cuffs. ‘You got a new coat,’ he said.
‘You like it?’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Looks champion.’
She took his arm and together they set off along the lane, the snow crunching beneath their boots. It was too cold to keep walking, though, and they made their way to Coates Lane. When they got to the cottage Ernest led Fanny inside, lit the lamp then took off his coat and went upstairs to look in on his mother. Finding her sleeping he crept out of the room again and went back down to the kitchen where Fanny had taken off her coat and now stood warming her hands before the range. Ernest moved up quietly behind her, put his arms around her waist and held her, laying his cheek against the top of her head. She turned in the circle of his grasp, lifted her face to his and kissed him gently on the mouth.
‘Just think,’ Fanny said, ‘we could be in our own ‘ome like this, couldn’t we?’
He smiled. ‘Yeh, I s’pose we could at that.’
‘Be nice, wouldn’t it? Though not here – in Hallowford, I mean. Though I s’pose at the start we’d have to, wouldn’t we? Till we decide where we want to go, and get a few things up together.’
Ernest didn’t answer. He put on the kettle and made tea. As they drank it Fanny looked at him over the rim of her cup.
‘All right, Ernie Farrar, what’s this news you’ve got for me, eh? You said you’d talked to your mam.’ She paused. ‘Come on now. You can’t expect me to wait for ever.’
He sighed, smiled at her. ‘Oh – well …’ He felt somehow a reluctance to talk about it. But then, seeing the look on her face, he went on: ‘Well, you know what I meant, didn’t you?’
‘Per’aps.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s just that I talked to our mam about – about gettin’ married …’
‘– And?’
‘Well, she thinks I’m too young but –’
‘Oh, drat!’ Fanny said. ‘I was afraid she’d say that.’
‘No, wait,’ Ernest said, ‘– let me finish. She said I was too young – she thinks we’re both too young, come to that – but that if it’s what I want – well, she won’t stand in my way.’
‘Oh, Ernie!’ Fanny put down her cup, got up and came to him. She took his own cup from his hand and set it down on the table beside her own, then sat on his lap, putting her arm around his neck. She kissed him on the cheek, on the ear, on the forehead. Then, laying her face against his, she said, ‘That’s wonderful news, Ernie. Just about the best present a girl could ‘ave.’ She drew back a little and looked into his eyes. Her own eyes were sparkling. ‘So – there’s nothing in the way now, is there.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘So now you’ll have to go and talk to my dad.’
‘Oh, now, wait a bit, Fan …’ He frowned.
‘What’s up? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing – just – well, I don’t think we should be in too much of a hurry.’
‘What d’you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘Let’s wait a little while yet, before we go talking about it to anybody, all right?’
‘Why? Oh, Ernie, I want to tell everybody.’
‘No, come on now, Fan. It’s too soon.’
‘Too soon? You already told me your mam says it’s all right.’
‘I know that. I mean it’s too soon after – well, after what’s ‘appened.’
‘Oh … yes … of course.’ Her expression became grave. ‘I’m sorry, Ernie, I should’ve realized.’
‘That don’t matter. But anyway – what with – that, and with Mam still bad – I’d just like to keep it to ourselves for a spell yet, all right?’
‘All right. It’ll be our secret. I won’t tell anybody yet. We’ll wait till your mam’s better.’
‘Right. There’ll be time enough then.’
A little over an hour later, when Ernest had walked Fanny back to her home, he went upstairs to see his mother again. Standing beside the bed he looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. When she opened them she looked up at him without surprise.
‘Ah, you’re back now, lad.’
‘Yeh, back now.’ He smiled at her. ‘Ow’re you feelin’?’
The shrug was in her tone. ‘Oh – all right. What time is it?’
‘Just on nine. I’ll make your fire up then get to bed. I’ll change the brick, too. T’ other’s in the oven.’ He grinned. ‘Good and ‘ot now.’
When he had taken the brick from the foot of her bed and replaced it with the one hot from the oven he made up the fire and put the guard back in front of it. Then, returning to Sarah’s side he sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘No, nothing, thanks.’ Taking her hand from beneath the covers she laid it on his own as it rested on the patchwork coverlet. ‘How’s Fanny?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘Oh – very well.’
‘That’s good.’ Shifting her glance towards the window she added, ‘I suppose the two of you will want to be naming the day soon, won’t you? You’ll want to start making your plans.’
‘Ah, we’ll talk about that later.’ Gently he pressed her hand in his. ‘You just think about gettin’ well again. That’s all you got to think about.’
Sarah said noth
ing to this. Then as Ernest watched her he saw the silent tears run from her lowered eyelids and course slowly down her cheeks.
‘– Oh, Mam, don’t – please.’ Taking up a handkerchief from beside the pillow he dabbed gently at her tears. When her tears had stopped he said softly, earnestly:
‘It will get better, Mam. It will. Soon you’ll be well again, and then the spring’ll be ‘ere before you know it. Things will look different then.’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘Oh, I know it’s no good my saying it’ll be like old times again. We both know it won’t. But it will get better – in time. We’ll be all right again, you’ll see.’
Chapter Twenty-One
The rain, driven by the early March winds, lashed the window panes. Savill had just returned from Trowbridge, from the mill. Now, sitting beside the library fire in his carpet slippers, he drank the tea that Annie, the maid, had brought him. When his cup was empty he sighed and leaned back in his chair. He had been back at work for more than a fortnight now. The worst of the influenza had come and gone. Throughout the country by the end of January the effects and the number of instances of the disease had passed their peak and begun to wane. The situation had started to get back to normal again; the workers going back to their jobs, and the students – Gentry among them – to their schools. By the end of February only a few cases of the sickness were being reported in the village, none of which, according to Kelsey, gave any real cause for alarm. The toll, however, had been great. About one in four of the villagers had been affected – among whom there had been seven deaths.
Savill sighed again. The deaths of the two Farrar children had touched him more than he might have guessed and he wondered increasingly about the effect it had had on their mother. She had not been to the house since before the epidemic had begun, and although he and the other members of his household had been going about their business for over a month now, no one had seen anything of Sarah Farrar about the village. Earlier, in January, Ernest had called at the house and told Mrs Callow that his mother would not be able to do the Hallowford House laundry again until she was strong enough once more. When that would be, he had said, he didn’t know. Since that time Ernest had visited the house on several occasions to see Blanche, but of his mother at such times he had said little. Savill’s only sources of information with regard to Sarah Farrah had been Robert Kelsey, and the vicar, Tupper, who had called on her on a number of occasions. Kelsey had reported that she had recovered quite well from her illness, although it had left her somewhat weak. With regard to her emotional and mental state, however, he, like the vicar, had shown himself far less satisfied.
Over Christmas Blanche had confided to Savill her mother’s intention of taking her back to live in Coates Lane. He had not been surprised at the news, though seeing the unhappiness in the child’s face he had for a moment been at a loss as to what to say and could give her no words of comfort other than to tell her that she would soon settle down and be happy again. He knew well how difficult it would be, though. His own hopes regarding Blanche had been finished by the influenza. He had had to dismiss from his mind every thought he had ever entertained about her adoption. Sarah Farrar had lost two of her four children in the space of a week. He couldn’t think of taking away a third.
With regard to Mrs Farrar’s decision to take Blanche back to the cottage, however, there had been no word since that which had come from Blanche herself …
On Thursday Ernest called at Hallowford House and left word that he would call for Blanche on Sunday afternoon.
When the day came Blanche changed her clothes after lunch and went into the hall to wait.
She sat there nervously, viewing the visit to the cottage with mixed feelings. There had been no further word from her mother about her, Blanche’s, returning to live at the cottage, but she felt sure it wouldn’t be long now. And although she felt that for her mother’s sake she should go, still, in her heart she didn’t want to. To her Hallowford House was home.
The minutes went by. The hall clock struck three, three-thirty. As she sat there Mr Savill appeared from the library. ‘What’s this?’ he said, with a little frown. ‘Still no sign of your brother, Blanche?’ Blanche shook her head: ‘No, not yet, sir.’
Alone again, Blanche continued to sit there, her guilt lying on her like a cloak. She had not wanted to go to the cottage – and now, as if in answer to her prayer, no one had come to take her. She continued to sit there for some moments longer and then suddenly she got up, snatched up her coat and hurried from the house.
At the foot of the hill she turned into Coates Lane, slowing her pace as she approached the first of the cottages. Reaching the gate she stood for a moment of hesitation, then entered the front garden and went round to the back.
Entering the kitchen she found her mother sitting by the range, darning socks. At Blanche’s appearance Sarah lowered her hands and looked at her. After a moment she said awkwardly:
‘Hello, Blanche. What are you doing here?’
Blanche stood and gazed in silence. Her words, her greeting, had died on her lips. Her mother looked different, so different. She looked smaller than Blanche remembered. She looked thinner, somehow shrunken – and older; there were lines in her face that Blanche had never seen before. Her hair, once a rich chestnut, now had streaks of white in it. Turning, closing the door, Blanche said:
‘Ernest didn’t come – up to the house …’
Sarah lowered her eyes to the half-darned sock in her hands, then, looking at Blanche again she said: ‘You came out without your bonnet. You must take care. This weather’s treacherous.’
Blanche frowned. ‘I was waiting for Ernest but he didn’t come. I didn’t know what had happened.’
Sarah gave a little shake of her head. ‘Oh, my dear, forgive me – I’ve had so much to do. I thought it would be better to wait until another day. I should have let you know. I’m sorry.’
Blanche continued to stare at her. It wasn’t only the way her mother looked; there was something else different about her. She seemed almost cool – offhand. Their meeting again after all these weeks – it was not at all the way Blanche had expected it to be. She had expected her mother to take her in her arms, to kiss her. Instead her mother remained in her chair, the sock and the darning needle in her hands.
‘I was waiting,’ Blanche said. She paused. ‘I – I thought you’d want to see me. I knew how – how sad you must be.’
Sarah didn’t speak for a moment, then she said, ‘Does Mr Savill know you’ve come out?’
‘I didn’t tell him. I just – ran out.’ Blanche felt bewildered. ‘Didn’t you want to see me today, Mama?’
‘Oh, yes, my dear, but –’ Sarah sighed. ‘But you’d better not stay, though. I think it would be better if you go on back up to the house. But next time. Stay with me for a little while next time. Not today.’
Blanche stood there for a few seconds longer then turned and moved back to the kitchen door. She opened it and looked back at her mother. ‘Goodbye, Mama,’ she said softly.
Sarah just nodded, her eyes lowered to her still, clenched hands. After another second Blanche stepped out into the yard.
As she emerged from the front garden she saw Ernest coming up the lane from the direction of the village. When he caught sight of her he waved and quickened his steps. She stood waiting for him. As he reached her side he said, smiling,
‘So you came down after all. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. We thought you were going off somewhere with Mr Savill.’
She didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘Going off? With Mr Savill?’ She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t going anywhere. I waited for you, Ernest, but you didn’t come.’
He frowned. ‘But Mam said she got a note from him – Mr Savill – saying that you would be …’ He let his words tail off. Then he smiled. ‘Anyway, where are you off to now?’
‘Back to the house.’ She nodded in the direction of Gorse Hill. She could feel tears starting in her eye
s and she blinked them back.
‘Ain’t you gunna stay for tea, then?’
‘No …’
‘No? Why not?’ He studied her for a moment or two then crouched before her so that his face was on a level with hers. ‘What’s the matter, Blanche?’
Shaking her head, she said, ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand.’
‘What? What don’t you understand?’
‘Mama – she’s – she’s so different. Why?’
‘– Oh, Blanche, you must remember – she’s had so much unhappiness lately.’
‘Yes, I know that. I mean she’s different with me. She’s not the same with me anymore.’
His hands moved from her shoulders and gently touched her cheeks. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid she’s different in lots of ways lately. But just – give it time, eh? She’ll be all right again. Just give it time.’
She nodded. He straightened before her and said, ‘You want me to walk up the hill with you?’
‘No, thank you, I’ll be all right.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. We’ll see you soon, then, yes?’
‘Yes, see you soon, Ernest.’
Something was wrong, Savill thought. First of all Blanche’s brother had not come to collect her, and later, after her return from her visit alone to the cottage, she had seemed troubled, unhappy. On Savill’s questioning her, however, she had said nothing. Afterwards, bearing in mind what Kelsey and Tupper had told him, he decided to call himself and see the child’s mother.
Now, sitting facing Sarah Farrar in the kitchen of the cottage, he thought he had never seen such a change in a person in so brief a time.
As she poured the tea – he had accepted the offer more for her sake than his own – he brought up the subject of Blanche. ‘I understand, from Blanche,’ he said, ‘that last year you spoke of wanting her to come back and live here with you again.’