Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  She didn’t answer for some moments, and in those moments, watching her, thinking of all that she had so recently been through, he gained some inkling of the situation. For some reason or other she didn’t want Blanche back yet; she wasn’t ready.

  When at last she spoke she kept her eyes fixed on the cup in her hand and said simply: ‘I – I want what is best for Blanche.’

  ‘Yes, of course you do.’ He couldn’t get over the change in her. And it wasn’t only in her looks, the way she had aged, it was everything about her. In the past he had always been so aware of a certain indomitability of spirit that had somehow shone through, whatever had happened. Not now. Not anymore. Now to his eyes she looked beaten, utterly defeated.

  ‘Mrs Farrar,’ he said carefully, ‘I know how much you want Blanche to come back to her home but – why not wait until you feel quite well again? A few months isn’t going to make any difference, is it?’

  At his words she looked up at him and he saw a faint but unmistakable flicker of relief in her dull eyes.

  ‘I’m sure it would be better for both of you,’ he added. ‘For both you and Blanche.’

  She gave a slow, brief nod, then, frowning, she said:

  ‘But – to give you responsibility for her still … You’ve already done so much for her – for us.’

  ‘Oh, please, please.’ He raised a hand, palm out. ‘I shall never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for me. Never. I have so much to be grateful for where you’re concerned. For so much – for all you’ve given me and Marianne. Mrs Farrar – you gave me my daughter. You gave her to me. You gave me her life, and since that time, through Blanche and through your own kindness, you – you have added to the quality of that life – of Marianne’s life. Please, I ask you, don’t speak of what I have done for you.’

  She said nothing to this, but continued to gaze down at her cup.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘will you allow Blanche to remain where she is – until you’re well again?’

  ‘Well – it would be better for her,’ she said. ‘I know it would be, of course.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘And if it – suits you, sir …’

  ‘Oh, indeed. We shall be happy to have her with us for as long as you want, Marianne and I.’ He paused then added softly, ‘We love her, Mrs Farrar. We love her – very much.’

  That evening Sarah told Ernest of Mr Savill’s visit.

  ‘And now Blanche is going to stay there?’ he said. ‘Up at the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But – I thought you wanted to bring her back.’

  She paused before she spoke again. ‘Bring her back,’ she said. ‘Bring her back to what, Ernest? Don’t you realize – the only thing that saved her was being where she is now. If she hadn’t been up at the house during the sickness …’ She let her words trail off. Then she added, her words seeming to echo in her mind from some past time:

  ‘Leave her where she is. She’s better off there.’ She paused. ‘And anyway, it’s where she belongs – now. She hasn’t been mine for a long time.’

  On Sunday afternoon while Sarah prepared the tea, Ernest and Fanny walked across the heath to the river. March was drawing to a close and new buds could be seen on the trees, and in the springing grass the first signs of awakening life. Beside a gnarled old oak Ernest drew Fanny to his side and they stood in silence while she nestled into his warmth. After a while they set off again, arms linked, walking back through the copse towards the road. On reaching the cottage in Coates Lane Fanny helped Sarah set the table and afterwards the three of them sat down to eat. This was only the second time Fanny had gone to tea with Ernest and his mother since before the epidemic. As on the last occasion a week before, the meal that afternoon was a fairly quiet, subdued affair. When it was over Fanny helped Sarah wash the dishes. Afterwards they sat around talking for an hour, until Fanny said that she had better get back home. Ernest set off to walk back to Fox Lane with her. As they left Elm Street, heading for the green, Fanny said,

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to say something, Ernie.’

  He knew what she meant, but he said vaguely, ‘Oh, what’s that, then?’

  ‘What’s that, then? Ernie, you know very well what I’m talking about. The last time we spoke about our gettin’ married you said it was too soon to think about it – because of your mam, you said.’

  ‘Ah …yes.’

  ‘Well – is it still too soon? I mean, she’s a lot better now, ain’t she?’

  ‘I dunno.’ He sighed. ‘It’s changed her – a lot.’

  ‘Well – bound to, a thing like that. How could it not? But she’s getting better now, you can see she is.’

  ‘I dunno,’ he said again. ‘I thought she was getting to be all right. She seemed to be. But then it was like she reached a particular point and just – sort of stayed there. She don’t get any better and she don’t seem to get any worse. She just stays the same.’

  They walked on in silence for a few paces, then Fanny came to a halt. As Ernest stopped at her side she looked up into his face.

  ‘Tell me, Ernie, what’s gunna happen to us? When d’you reckon we can get married?’ She laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Oh, I’m that impatient to be wed and have my own home. I’ll be eighteen next month and – oh, I don’t want to wait for ever.’

  ‘Course you don’t. Neither do I, but –’

  ‘But what?’ She raised her head, looked up at him. ‘Tell me the truth, Ernie, you’re just not ready to get married, are you?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Are you?’ she insisted.

  ‘– I love you, Fan …’

  ‘I love you, Fan,’ she echoed scornfully. ‘Yes, you love me, but not enough, right?’ She paused, then said evenly, ‘Tell me, are we getting wed or not?’

  ‘I want to,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I do.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘try to understand. Our mam’s gone through hell these past weeks. I can’t leave her now, Fan, I just can’t.’

  Sudden tears sprang into Fanny’s eyes. At the sight of them Ernest reached out for her hand but she snatched it away. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’ she said.

  He was silent.

  ‘So how long do we wait for your mother?’ she went on. ‘We could wait for ever till you think she’s well enough.’

  Still he said nothing.

  The tears brimming over and starting down her cheeks, she raised her fist and struck him on the chest. He closed his eyes, not from the pain of the blow, but from some other hurt. When he opened his eyes she was standing back, glaring at him.

  ‘So, that’s it, then, Ernie Farrar,’ she said, spitting out the words. ‘You’ve made your decision and that’s it. That’s it, mama’s boy.’ He flinched at the words. She went on: ‘Well, if you think I’m sitting around waiting you’ve got another think coming. I’m not. If you don’t want me, there’s others that do.’

  ‘Fan – please.’

  ‘There’s others that do,’ she repeated. With these words she spun and began to walk away. Ernest started after her.

  ‘Fan – wait …’

  ‘Go on back,’ she said without looking at him. ‘Get on back to your mother.’ Then, turning to face him, her eyes cold with contempt, she added, ‘And tell ‘er she’s welcome to you – because I don’t want you.’

  When Ernest called at the Greenhams’ cottage in Fox Lane the next evening her sister Lottie came to the door and told him curtly that Fanny wasn’t in. He knew she was lying.

  Two weeks later while walking in a Trowbridge street after the market he saw Fanny’s father, Arthur Greenham. A meek little man, he came over to Ernest and asked how he was. After a couple of minutes of awkward conversation Ernest asked after Fanny. Greenham shook his head.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he said.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘She’ve gone. On Sat’dy last. Packed her box and went.’

  ‘But – but wh
ere …?’

  ‘Up to London. She’ve been walkin’ out these past few days with some feller from the factory – Higham. She’ve gone with ‘im, I reckon.’

  That evening Ernest told his mother of Fanny’s leaving. As he sat staring into the fire Sarah put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, son – I’m so sorry …’

  He reached up and patted her hand. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. After a moment he said:

  ‘Ah, well – I daresay I’ll manage.’

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On a July Friday in 1897 Blanche and Marianne sat gazing from the windows of the 2.20 from Bristol as it moved through the green countryside towards Trowbridge. Both girls wore the uniform of their school, white blouse and deep green skirt; brown capes and light-toned straw boaters lay on the seats beside them.

  Their clothing apart, the two sixteen-year-old girls could not have looked more different. Marianne’s hair was woven into two heavy plaits that encircled the crown of her head, and its rich dark brown, along with the darkness of her eyes, set off the delicate pink of her skin. In contrast, Blanche’s own thick, corn-coloured hair hung past her shoulders, secured back from her face by a ribbon. Her eyes, usually appearing of the richest blue, had taken on a slight hint of green as they reflected the grass of the verges beside the line.

  The trees, bridges, hedges and fields swept by, the green splashed with the colours of summer flowers: thistle, elder-flower, cow parsley, the trumpets of bindweed. Faded bunting festooning one or two of the stations they passed through gave lingering signs of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations from the month before, a time when the Queen had driven in her carriage through the streets of London to the tumultuous cheers of her subjects, while throughout the rest of the country bonfires had been lit and flags hung from windows. At their school in Clifton Blanche and Marianne had celebrated along with the other pupils; but the celebrations were over now, and the pageantry and patriotic songs seemed very far away from the peace of the gently rocking railway carriage.

  Feeling a touch on her knee Blanche turned her head to Marianne, who, seated opposite, smiled and gestured towards the far corner of the carriage where Mrs Callow sat. The housekeeper had travelled to Clifton that morning to collect the girls, taking a cab from Bristol station to the school, and then returning with them in time to catch the train back to Trowbridge. Now, the warmth of the July day and the rhythm of the train had lulled her into a doze and she sat with her cap a little askew and her mouth slightly open. With a faint, smothered giggle Marianne leaned closer to Blanche. ‘It seems such a shame to wake her, poor dear,’ she whispered. ‘She obviously needs her sleep. Perhaps we should leave her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Blanche nodded, ‘she might appreciate an unexpected afternoon in Westbury.’

  They smiled affectionately towards the sleeping woman. Mrs Callow, now in her fifties, had been as much a constant in their lives as anyone they had known. The governesses and other servants had come and gone at Hallowford House, but Mrs Callow had always been there.

  The train rattled on. Blanche and Marianne had taken the journey between Trowbridge and Bristol so many times since the September of 1893 when they had first gone away to The Towers, as the school was named. Blanche would not easily recall the journeys made since that time, but she could remember that first one well enough. Even now she could remember her sensation of excitement, the odd, unaccustomed feel of the new school uniform, see the dully gleaming leather of the new satchel on the seat at her side. She could see Mrs Callow again, as she had been then, absorbed in her book in the corner seat diagonally across the compartment; Marianne sitting opposite, dark braids reaching halfway to her waist. She would see again in her mind’s eye the reflection of herself in the carriage window as the train had passed through one of the several tunnels between Trowbridge and Bristol – herself at twelve years old, wide eyes peering at her reflection in the sudden mirror of the glass. That had been four years ago, and come September she and Marianne would begin their final year at Clifton. And then – France. Finishing school in France. It was a whole year away but the time would eventually come.

  As Blanche sat there in the gently rocking carriage she felt full of hope for her future, and in control of her destiny. In her complacency she thought back to the start of her schooling at The Towers. She was happy there now, but it had not always been so, even though she had gone there in such excitement and hope. It had not taken long before there had come the assault on the bubble of her dreams.

  The Towers, with no sign of a tower in sight, was a large Georgian house of three storeys near the edge of the Somersetshire town of Clifton, boasting accommodation and facilities for some fifty-five girls. Owned and run by the two principal teachers, two maiden sisters, the Misses Carling, the house stood in grounds that stretched behind and to either side for several acres.

  There were four dormitories, all on the top floor, one of which Blanche and Marianne – who had adjacent beds near a window – shared with ten other girls.

  The two had settled in well on their arrival and had quickly made friends with many of the other girls. They had done well in their lessons, too, and although Blanche had sometimes found herself in trouble over minor infractions of the rules, nevertheless she had been happy and successful.

  The threat to her happiness had come the following autumn with the arrival at the school of a new girl, Helen Webster. Some two years older than Blanche, and a few inches taller, she was a beautiful girl with a mass of dark brown hair and long, angular face and limbs. At fifteen years old her breasts were full and she had possessed a self-assurance that was daunting.

  Blanche had come face to face with her for the first time in the second week of that term.

  The Towers looked out – beyond its front garden – over a surprisingly narrow street, on the other side of which stood a row of tall, terraced houses. Early on that bright September morning Blanche, Marianne and five other girls had finished dressing and now stood peering down from the window towards the central house opposite. They had learned to watch at this time for the awakening of the sleeper there in the room just below the level of their own. He was a short, squarish young man who on fine, warm days would draw back the curtains and open the window, then, leaning out, would close his eyes and deeply breathe in the morning air. On cold mornings his window remained closed – or he would soon retreat from it – but on warm mornings he would take off his nightshirt and, before getting washed and dressed, would walk naked about the room for a minute or two. Did he know that he was being watched? the girls asked each other. He never gave a sign of any awareness; never looked up towards the window from which they peered through the lace net curtains. The watching girls, having made the discovery, were now as interested in the sun as he was, for when it shone they would be afforded a brief, distant glimpse of his genitals before he retreated into the shadows of the room again. They named him Adam. For some of the girls the sight of him naked was a totally new addition to the fragments of fact and myth which went to make up the limited sum of their sexual knowledge. To others who had learned the truth, or who had seen similar sights before, the sight was no less thrilling. To all of them, with their new awareness of sex, it was – whether or not they would have admitted it – totally compelling.

  On this particular morning the young man was there, opening the window. A moment later as he took off his nightshirt Marianne giggled, bit her lip and flicked a swift glance at Blanche who stood beside her. Before Adam Marianne had never in her life seen a naked male body, young or old, her sexual knowledge resulting from conversations with Blanche and two or three children from the village and the occasional sight of mating dogs or other animals. Blanche, with vague memories of having seen her brothers naked when she was much younger and once on a walk with Ernest in the woods having stumbled upon a near-naked couple lying in the grass, had gained a minor advantage over her friend. Now, as the young man tossed his
discarded nightshirt onto a chair the girls stared, seven pairs of eyes fixed on his nakedness, his hairy chest, his penis like a root in the dark of his pubic hair.

  Suddenly a girl’s voice called to them from the open doorway behind them: ‘What are you looking at?’ No one answered. The voice came again: ‘I asked what you were looking at.’

  Blanche, half-turning, saw that the speaker was Helen Webster, the new girl who slept in the dormitory next door. One of the younger girls, Amelia Robson, whispered to her with a giggle, ‘There’s a man in the house opposite. He’s got no clothes on.’

  ‘No clothes on!’ Helen said, raising her voice. ‘What disgusting little wretches you are.’

  ‘Sshh!’ Amelia said sharply. ‘You’ll have Miss Carling coming in.’

  ‘Don’t you shush me,’ Helen said contemptuously, and stepping forward she roughly thrust the small girl out of the way and took her place at the window. ‘Don’t do that,’ Blanche said at once. ‘Don’t push. If you want to see then ask.’

  Helen turned to her at this. ‘Ask? Ask who? Ask you?’ Her tone was incredulous. ‘I should ask you for permission?’ She laughed into Blanche’s face then turned again to the window.

  Blanche felt anger rising within her. ‘Get back to your own dormitory,’ she said sharply. ‘Look out of your own window. Don’t come in here throwing your weight about. We’re not impressed.’

  As she spoke there came the sound of the breakfast bell. Helen straightened and turned to face her again. ‘You’re Blanche Farrar, aren’t you?’

  Blanche looked at her coldly. ‘So?’

  The other girl nodded. ‘I know about you. You’re from Hallowford, aren’t you? My aunt lives in Hallowford. She told me all about you – the charity girl from Hallowford House.’ She smiled coldly. ‘I shall remember you, Blanche Farrar.’ With a little toss of her head she turned and went from the dormitory.

  From that time onwards Helen seemed to do what she could to make Blanche’s life a misery. Whenever she and Blanche came together for any purpose Helen behaved towards her with a contemptuous and ridiculing manner. Sometimes she would start away from Blanche with a grimace, as if Blanche were infected with some unspeakable disease; on other occasions, if it should become necessary for their heads to be close, she would, with eyes rolling, hold up her hands as a screen between Blanche’s head and her own, indicating to her few sniggering cronies that she was terrified of catching lice. If Blanche should just happen to be passing by, then without glancing in her direction, Helen would suddenly begin to talk loudly of ‘peasants’ and ‘upstarts’ and ‘charity’, after which Blanche would be followed by gales of laughter.