by Jess Foley
She found the elder Miss Carling and Miss Lessing talking together in the hall. Miss Carling turned her red face towards the sound of Blanche’s hurrying feet. ‘Walk, young lady,’ she reprimanded. ‘You’re not outside now.’ Then her tone changed as she asked, frowning, ‘What’s the matter? Is something wrong?’
‘Well, Ma’am,’ Blanche said ingenuously, ‘it’s just that we saw someone go into the summerhouse.’ Please, God, she prayed, let Helen’s young man have turned up. ‘One of the boys from the grammar school,’ she added.
Her words, as she had hoped they would be, were like a red rag to a bull. Miss Carling and Miss Lessing exchanged sharp looks. Miss Carling’s face had grown a little redder. ‘Are you sure?’ she said, turning back to Blanche.
‘Oh, yes, Ma’am. Marianne and I were sketching nearby when we saw him. We saw him go inside.’
‘But – the place is locked.’
Blanche shrugged. ‘Well, he went in, Ma’am. We saw him. He’s there now.’ A brief pause then she added, ‘You’ll catch him if you hurry. And if you’re very quiet.’
Miss Carling, tight-lipped and preparing to move away, was already lifting the little chain which, suspended from her belt, held a heavy bunch of keys. ‘Does this boy know that you saw him?’
‘Oh, no, Ma’am. Marianne and I – we were very careful not to let him see us. But I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Thank you. You did right to tell me.’ Miss Carling exchanged a further glance with Miss Lessing and then they were striding away towards the door.
Moments later Blanche was walking some way behind the two women as they moved across the grounds; they walked at such a swift, determined pace that Blanche had no trouble keeping her distance. Please, God, let Helen and the boy be there, she prayed as she left the field and entered the woodland. And then up ahead she saw the smaller, nearer clearing, and there was Marianne, sitting where she had left her, on the little hillock in the shrubbery. Watching anxiously she saw the women stop at Marianne’s side, exchange a few brief words with her and then slip quietly out of sight into the larger clearing beyond. As Blanche approached Marianne a moment later Marianne turned and gave a slow smile and nodded.
A little later as Blanche and Marianne hovered in the shrubbery, pretending to get on with their drawing, Miss Carling reappeared and told them to go back to the schoolhouse. Miss Carling’s face was almost purple. Neither she nor Miss Lessing put in an appearance at the refectory for luncheon, and of the two only Miss Lessing, looking nervous and shaken, was at dinner. When one of the girls enquired after Miss Carling she was told that she was unwell and was lying down.
And of course neither was Helen Webster at luncheon or dinner that day – or on any other day that followed.
Now, in July, three years later, sitting in the train bound for Trowbridge, Blanche smiled to herself at the memory, the pictures as clear in her mind as the images thrown by Miss Lessing’s magic lantern.
She had been a little sorry at first about the boy; whatever had happened to him she didn’t know. She was not unduly perturbed, though; she had quickly thrust aside any feelings of sympathy. So often a trap needed live bait, and like any angler, if one spent too much time feeling sorry for the fly, one would never catch the fish.
Chapter Twenty-Three
John Savill had lunched with his brother Harold at Hallowford House. They had talked at length of the worsening situation in the Transvaal, discussing the likelihood of another war with the Boers. Now, though, it was just after four o’clock, Harold had gone, and Savill, sitting in the library, heard the sound of the carriage on the drive. At once he got up and went into the hall, opening the front door just as the carriage drew up before the house. He was sixty-six now, and the years had whitened his grey hair, and made leaner the fine lines of his face. His bearing was still upright, though, and his step still firm, and as the girls got down onto the forecourt he hurried towards them, smiling, reaching out in welcome. He had not seen them since the Easter holidays and the house, as always, had been a duller place for their absence. Embracing them, first Marianne and then Blanche, he kissed them, then, arms around their shoulders, led them into the hall.
When the girls had taken off their capes and hats and washed their hands, they joined John Savill in the library where afternoon tea was served, over which they talked lightly of this and that – mostly about their recent days at Clifton.
As they talked Marianne touched at her hair and then got up from her seat and moved to a small, ornate looking-glass beside the fireplace. Standing almost in profile to her father she took a couple of pins from her braided hair, placed them between her even, white teeth and readjusted the loosened braids. As she reached to the back of her head, elbows lifted high, Savill saw the swell of her breasts, a sudden anachronism against the dull green of her uniform school dress. He became aware suddenly of the neatness of her small waist, the curve of her hips – and it was as if he was suddenly seeing her with new eyes. She’s no longer a child; she’s a young woman, he thought with a little shock of mingled joy and sadness. His glance rising he took in her face, the fine arch of her eyebrows as she concentrated on her reflection, her dark, wide eyes, the pink blush of her cheeks, her lips a deeper pink, drawn back over the remaining hair pin between her teeth. Savill’s glance lingered on her in a kind of wonder, and then Blanche was asking him whether he wanted more tea. His eyes moved to her. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. He watched as she leaned forward slightly in her chair and poured tea into her own cup. Blanche, too, of course … With similar fascination he found himself watching her movements with the teapot, the cup and saucer, the milk jug – everything she did was casually deft and sure with the assurance of her nascent maturity. He saw then the way her pale, heavy hair fell against her shoulders; he saw the line of her lip, the fringe of her lashes on her lowered lids; the smoothness of her cheek, the curve of her delicately pointed chin. Marianne was telling some story about one of the teachers at the school, but Savill’s mind was on his discovery. The girls had been growing up and he had not realized it until now.
When tea was finished Blanche changed her clothes and went out to the stables where James had saddled one of the cobs. Mounting the pony she rode it out of the yard and away from Hallowford, heading for Colford, a small village a short distance to the north. Three years earlier Ernest had changed his employment, moving as stockman to a farm a little further afield. Following the change he and his mother had left the Hallowford cottage to rent one in Colford. The move had had varying effects, among them on the relationship between Blanche and her mother and brother. With them all living in Hallowford their very different social circumstances had created certain tensions and problems – although they were unacknowledged. To a degree the move of Mrs Farrar and Ernest to Colford had eased these tensions – but at the same time the greater distance meant that Blanche had seen less of them over recent times, and consequently had grown further away.
Reaching Colford, Blanche dismounted near the end of Hummock Lane, tethered the pony and walked the short distance along to the cottage, there going around to the rear where she entered by the scullery and went into the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the kitchen table, a pair of scissors in her hand. Beside her, spread out on the table, was a large piece of white cotton to which was pinned a dressmaker’s paper pattern. Putting down the scissors, Sarah smiled warmly at her.
‘Hello, Blanche. I thought that would be you.’
‘Hello, Mama …’ Blanche briefly wrapped her arms around her mother and kissed her on the cheek. Then she stepped back and looked at her. ‘Well – how are you?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Oh, quite well, thank you, dear. And you?’
‘Yes, very well.’
Sarah rolled up the cotton. ‘It’s just an apron I’m making,’ she said. ‘I’m not sorry to put it away. I think I need to get some spectacles …’ She smiled. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
Blanche filled the kettle and put it on the ran
ge. She didn’t want more tea but the ritual came as welcome assistance. As Sarah set out the cups Blanche looked around her. Although the interior of the cottage was clean and neat, she was struck – as she was every time she entered – by its lack of any kind of luxury.
When the tea was made Blanche and her mother sat facing one another beside the range, Blanche taking Ernest’s chair. Beside it stood a small bureau holding a number of well-read books, and as Blanche set down her cup she took in the titles; there were volumes of Keats’s and Shelley’s poetry, a copy of Measure for Measure, and two or three medical books. Sarah, observing Blanche’s interest, said, ‘Oh, Ernest’s books are all over the place.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘He should be home soon.’
As they drank they spoke of Blanche’s days at Clifton and events in Hallowford, but the conversation did not flow and its course was dotted with little pockets of silence.
Blanche studied her mother as the desultory conversation progressed, noticing the lines in Sarah’s face, the grey in her hair. Sarah was forty-eight now, and Blanche was aware of the fact that her mother was ageing. Thrusting the realization from her mind, she said:
‘Mama – Mr Savill wants me to go away with Marianne to finishing school. In France, so he says.’
Her mother looked at her in surprise. ‘Oh, Blanche, really? What a wonderful opportunity for you.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t mind. If it’s what you want.’ She paused. ‘Is it?’
Blanche nodded. ‘It would be lovely to – to have the experience of another country.’
‘Oh, indeed. And if Mr Savill wants you to go and you want to, then of course you must.’
‘Thank you. Mr Savill said he’s going to talk to you about it, but I said I wanted to speak to you first.’
‘When would you go?’
‘Not for another year. Next summer, Mr Savill says.’
They talked for a little while about the proposed year in France but then silence fell again, so that the ticking of the clock sounded unusually loud in the small room. Blanche found herself wishing for the time to pass when she could leave and return to Hallowford. In spite of the smiles and the enthusiasm, somehow all the conversation had about it the faint ring of politeness, and Blanche found herself wondering, once more, whether she and her mother would ever be really close. But perhaps, she said to herself, it had all gone beyond that. She thought of earlier times; in times past her mother had been warm and approachable. Now there was a distance between them, a distance which had grown wider with the passing years. Was it, Blanche asked herself, all due to their move here to Colford?
Soon after six o’clock Ernest came in after finishing his work for the day. He kissed his mother and then with a smile moved to Blanche as if he would embrace her, but then, as if becoming aware of his rough working clothes he dropped his arms. He stood before her, a tall, handsome young man of twenty-five, with level grey eyes, thick, chestnut hair, straight, blunt nose.
‘Oh, my, Blanche,’ he said, gazing at her, ‘I notice such a difference every time I see you.’ He shook his head in a little gesture of wonder and approval. ‘You’re a real young lady now.’
Blanche felt a sense of awkwardness as they faced one another. She didn’t know what to say. Then as Sarah set about making fresh tea for Ernest, Blanche prepared to leave. Ernest said, ‘I don’t know what we’ve got for supper, Blanche, but will you stay?’
At his words Sarah began to add her own words of invitation, but Blanche thanked her and said that she was expected at Hallowford House for dinner. Perhaps on another day, however, she said; they would arrange it.
She wished her mother goodbye then, and Ernest, saying that he would see her to her mount, followed her out of the cottage.
As they walked together towards the waiting pony Ernest looked up at the evening sky, sighed and said, ‘It’s a beautiful evening. You should come for a walk with me on an evening like this. It’s beautiful round here in the woodland at this time of year.’
‘I will,’ Blanche said.
They came to a stop some yards from the pony. ‘You’d better get back,’ Blanche said, smiling. ‘Mam will have your tea ready.’
Ernest nodded. ‘Ah, in a minute.’
They stood facing one another. Blanche thought suddenly of the girl, Fanny Greenham, who had left Hallowford long ago. Blanche wondered whether Ernest ever thought about her. Had he loved her? Such a question had never occurred to her before, at those times when Fanny had been there and they had all walked together and played on the hill. Was there anyone now he loved? She knew that over the years he had walked out on occasions with two or three young women from the area, but the relationships had never lasted.
Blanche thought suddenly of the medical books she had seen at the cottage.
‘I saw your books, Ernest,’ she said.
‘My what?’
‘Your books. Your medical books.’
‘Oh – those …’ He straightened, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. ‘I picked them up ‘ere and there.’
She smiled. ‘You haven’t given up, have you?’
‘Given up?’
‘– Well – those medical books. You’ve never forgotten, have you? – what you wanted to be – a doctor.’
‘Oh, I’ll never be a doctor now. But I can’t help but be – interested.’
‘No more than interested?’
He laughed. ‘Ah, well – per’aps. I’ve learned a good deal working with the animals at the farm. And I’ve ‘elped the vet on a few occasions.’ He gave a little snort of derision. ‘Not that it’ll ever do me any good.’
‘Are you happy, Ernest?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘Happy? Oh – Blanche – it’s not a thing I ever think about.’ He narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘I s’pose I’m happy enough, all right. Are you?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, yes. Like you, I suppose I’m happy enough.’
‘Still getting on all right at Clifton?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘How much longer have you got there?’
‘Another year.’
‘That’ll go soon enough. Will you be sorry to leave? I expect you will – a clever girl like you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that – being clever.’
He smiled. ‘No Miss Bakers there.’
‘No, no Miss Bakers.’
She told him then about Mr Savill’s proposal to send her to finishing school with Marianne when they had finished their studies at Clifton. He gave a low whistle. ‘Going to France, eh? Well, if that don’t beat all.’
Blanche gave a deprecating little laugh. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s not like a real education, is it? I mean, it’s not like going to university or anything like that, is it?’
‘Is that what you’d like to do – go to university?’
‘Oh, fine chance of that for a girl. Haven’t you realized that no one takes education seriously for females? No, girls have to learn deportment and such fascinating things.’
A little silence fell between them. A movement to her right drew her eyes and she saw the red shape of a squirrel come to a halt on the branch of an oak and stay for some moments, tail flicking, before leaping away again. She watched the squirrel until it had gone from her sight. When she moved her glance back to Ernest she found him studying her. She smiled. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He returned her smile. ‘I was just thinking that Mary would have looked just like you.’
‘I wish I could remember her. I was too young.’
‘Yes, of course you were. But you’re very like her. And Dad. You’ve got their colouring.’
A little silence, then Blanche said:
‘How is Mama, Ernest? I can’t tell. She never talks much about herself when I go to see her, or in her letters when I’m away at school.’
Ernest shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s all right, I s’pose. She gets about a bit more now.’ He paused. ‘Th
ough I don’t think she’s that strong.’
‘She – she’s not ill, is she?’
‘No, she’s not ill. But, as I say – I don’t think she’s that strong.’ He gazed at her in silence for a moment, then he said, ‘Come and see her soon again, will you?’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
‘You promise?’
She felt touched by a little irritation at his words. ‘I said I would,’ she said.
‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to push you. It’s just that …’ He let the rest of his words go unsaid.
Blanche said suddenly, ‘When I go to see Mama there’s – there’s no real – closeness between us anymore.’
He frowned. ‘Oh, Blanche, what a melancholy thing to say.’
‘It’s true.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish it were otherwise.’
He paused. ‘Have you any notion as to why it should be?’
‘No.’
He pondered the problem for a few moments then said, ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see. And in the meantime don’t worry about it.’ He gave a little smile. ‘Fancy – you going away to France. You’ll be so grand when you come back it’ll be a wonder if you ever speak to us again.’ He laughed, and Blanche laughed with him.
As she rode away on the cob a few minutes later, heading back towards Hallowford, the sound of his words lingered in her mind.
At noon the following day Ernest filled a mug with fresh milk from the dairy and, taking up the tin containing his dinner, left the farmyard. When he had crossed over the narrow road between the farm buildings and the meadows he passed through a stile into a field where a number of Palmer’s cows were grazing. Walking beside the hedge he made his way to a clump of trees on the far side, a small thicket in which was a clearing through which flowed a narrow stream. Near the stream he sat down at the foot of an oak. It was the usual spot in which he ate when the weather was fine, and this July day was warm and bright.
The varying shades of green of the sundrenched copse about him was splashed here and there with the pink of dogroses. Through the screen of leaves he could watch the cows grazing in the meadow. From his pocket he took a small volume and opened it on his knee. As he read he slowly drank the milk, and ate the bread-and-cheese and bread-and-dripping his mother had prepared for him.