Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  A little later as he took from the tin one of the two hard-boiled eggs packed there his eye was caught by a movement to his left and, looking over, he saw an animal slink by in the foliage. A second or two later the creature came more clearly into his view and he saw that it was a dog.

  As he looked at the animal it came to a halt and turned to face him. For some seconds they stared at one another, then Ernest leant back against the tree and began to eat.

  When both eggs were gone a few minutes later he looked over and saw that the dog was still there, watching him. It had moved a little nearer now, lying in the long grass beside a bramble bush. After a moment Ernest said gently, ‘Hello, there, dog. What’re you doin’ ‘ere, then? Are you lost?’ The dog remained still. Ernest put out a hand. ‘Here, boy …’ Seconds went by. Ernest spoke again: ‘Here, boy. Come on, now …’ And slowly, cautiously, the dog raised itself and, limping slightly on its right foreleg, moved a few feet towards him. Ernest began to speak again, a gentle, continuous, coaxing murmur, and eventually the animal was crouching just six feet away.

  Keeping his eyes on the dog, Ernest reached down to the tin at his side. At the movement the dog backed away a foot. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right …’ Ernest kept up the soothing words as he slowly took the lid from the tin and laid it on the ground. There was only some cold meat left now, some mutton left over from yesterday’s supper. He picked it up, unwrapped it and broke off a small piece. With a soft word he tossed the morsel towards the dog, which quickly stepped back in alarm. ‘It’s all right,’ Ernest said. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right …’

  The dog stayed there for a few seconds, eyes lifted to Ernest’s face. Ernest gazed back. The dog was of medium size, of some indeterminate mixture of breeds. Its dull and dirty coat was white with a black patch over its right eye and ear. One or two bits of twig and dried grass clung to the matted and tangled hair. Beneath the dog’s coat its frame looked thin and starved, and obviously the creature’s limp had been caused by some injury.

  After remaining still for some seconds the dog lowered its head and cautiously stretched its neck towards the smell of the meat.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ Ernest said. ‘Come on. Eat it. It’s good. Come on, boy …’

  And suddenly the dog moved forward, snatched up the scrap of meat, wolfed it down and backed away again.

  ‘Was that good, boy?’ Ernest kept his voice to a soothing monotone. ‘You want more?’ He threw another scrap towards the dog. This time the dog hesitated for only a second before moving forward and snatching it up. Timidly it backed off again. ‘It’s all right,’ Ernest said. ‘You don’t need to be afraid – not of me.’ He tossed another morsel of meat and now, almost without hesitating, the dog moved forward and ate it. And this time instead of backing off afterwards it merely wavered a little on the spot, its head lifted to Ernest, its dark, moist, fearful eyes gazing into his own.

  ‘Come on, boy …You and I can be friends, I reckon.’

  Ernest took another scrap of meat and this time tossed it so that it fell only a yard away. The dog hesitated again, then timidly moved forward, its cringing body low to the ground. It took up the meat slowly, aware of the shortened distance between itself and the man. Afterwards it didn’t move. Ernest too remained still.

  ‘Come on, boy.’

  Ernest tore off another piece of the meat – there was little of it left now – and slowly bent forward and placed it on the grass near his feet. He remained there, bending over, watching the dog. After a few seconds the animal moved forward. When it had eaten the meat it looked up at Ernest. Moving slowly, Ernest tore the last of the mutton in two and slowly, slowly reached out, one of the remaining pieces of meat on his outstretched palm. A few moments later he felt the dog’s warm breath on his hand as it took the meat gently into its mouth. Ernest held out the last piece and watched as the dog carefully took it.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all, boy,’ Ernest said. ‘There’s no more.’

  The dog stayed a while longer, waiting, looking up at him, while once again Ernest took in the creature’s sorry condition. Turning, the dog moved away, limping down to the bank of the shallow stream where it began to drink. Afterwards it stepped away, moved across the grass a few feet and urinated against a tree. Then Ernest watched with a little surge of happiness as the dog came back to his side and, after a moment, lay down in the grass at his feet.

  A little later when Ernest got up to go back to the farm the dog rose too and moved after him. And walking along the edge of the field Ernest glanced back and saw the dog still there, walking steadily behind him. For a moment Ernest feared that the dog might go after the cows, but it paid no heed to them, continuing to limp along, keeping to the hedge. Reaching the stile beside the gate Ernest stepped through it onto the roadside. When he had crossed to the entrance to the yard he looked back and saw the dog sitting beside the stile. ‘Ah, that’s right,’ Ernest said. ‘You’d better not come in ‘ere, lad. A stranger like you – you come in ‘ere you’re likely to find yourself in trouble.’ He turned away again, opened the gate to the yard and went in, closing the gate behind him. Just before he turned out of sight by the cowshed he glanced back and saw the dog still sitting there.

  Later on, when he crossed back into the field to help Lizzie, the young milkmaid, with the milking, there was no sign of the dog. He was aware of a slight feeling of disappointment.

  At six o’clock when he left the farm dark clouds were gathering and there was the scent of rain in the air. He set off briskly, heading for home. As he moved along the road he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the dog was there again, following him at a distance of about twenty yards. By the time he got to Hummock Lane the dog had shortened the distance between them. When he reached the cottage gate he left it open behind him, and reaching the scullery door a moment later he turned and saw that the dog had followed him into the yard.

  In the kitchen he found his mother preparing his supper. ‘Come and look,’ he said, nodding towards the door. Sarah, busy at the range, said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come and look.’

  She came towards him and looked past his broad back at the dog. It backed away a little at the sight of her and then stayed there, looking nervously from her to Ernest.

  ‘Where did he come from?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘God knows. He’s been following me around half the day.’

  As Ernest spoke the first drops of rain fell. In just seconds it was raining heavily. The dog didn’t move; it remained there, seemingly oblivious, eyes fixed on Ernest’s face.

  ‘Well,’ Ernest said, ‘we can’t leave the creature out there, can we?’ He bent, stretching out his hand. ‘Come on, boy. Come on inside, in the dry.’

  After a moment’s hesitation the dog moved forward. As it came through the doorway, Sarah said:

  ‘You make sure he stays in the scullery.’

  The first thing Ernest did was to dry the animal and then feed him. Only then, and with much impatient admonishing from Sarah, did he change his clothes and eat his own supper.

  Afterwards he gave his attention to the dog once more, first of all examining his injured paw. He found there was a thorn deeply embedded in the soft pad, and with the dog flinching and whimpering he carefully extracted it.

  In the corner of the scullery he laid down an old, worn-out coat and a bit of an old blanket. He set the dog down on the makeshift bed and stood back watching as it circled, lay down and began to lick its paw.

  ‘He’ll be all right now,’ he said.

  Sarah, watching from the kitchen doorway, said: ‘Have you any idea where he’s come from?’

  ‘None at all. I’ve never seen him around before.’

  ‘He’s a funny-looking thing,’ Sarah said.

  Ernest nodded. ‘Ah, I doubt he’ll win any prizes for looks.’

  ‘How old is he, d’you think? He’s not a pup. You can see that.’

  ‘No, but he’s not very old, I don’t reckon.’


  ‘He looks half-starved.’

  ‘He does. I should think he’s been on the move for a good while. Wandering about … Either that or he’s been very badly mistreated by his owner. Still – we’ll soon put him right.’

  At the implication of his words Sarah turned to look at Ernest. He shrugged.

  ‘Well, we can’t turn him out, can we?’

  She frowned. ‘You want him to stay? But he’s so – so dirty and –’

  ‘He won’t be in a day or two, you’ll see. Just let ‘im get his health and strength back.’

  Sarah said: ‘He might not want to stay. Surely he must have a home somewhere.’

  Ernest looked back at the dog which now lay sleeping, head on its paws.

  ‘Ah, I reckon he has,’ he said with a nod. ‘And I reckon it’s ‘ere, with us.’

  Under Ernest’s care there was a marked difference in the creature’s appearance and behaviour in only the space of days as its health and strength improved. Ernest called him ‘Jacko’. Blanche, calling at the cottage a week after the dog’s adoption, was surprised to see him there. She sat watching as Ernest brushed the animal’s coat. Seeing the love and trust in the creature’s soft, dark eyes as it looked up at Ernest she reflected that she had never before seen such naked adoration.

  ‘Is he yours?’ she asked.

  Ernest nodded, smiling. ‘In a way. Though I think it might be nearer the truth to say that I am his.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  That Christmas guests were expected at Hallowford House. Edward Harrow and Gentry were to spend the holiday season there. Gentry was to visit from Oxford where he was a student at Trinity College, while his father planned to travel over from Sicily, both to see his son and to visit his old friend. Edward Harrow’s wife having died some two years earlier, he would be travelling alone. Another reason for his visit was to meet Marianne. She would be seventeen that December, and, like Savill, Edward Harrow had long had dreams of her and Gentry making a match.

  Gentry, who had not been to Hallowford for several years now, was due to arrive at the house two days after the girls’ own arrival. The last time Blanche and Marianne had seen him they had been only twelve years of age. They recalled him as a tall, dark young man who had sometimes teased them, had sometimes played a few games with them, but who, for most of the time, had virtually ignored their presence. Since that time, when not able to return to Sicily, he had chosen to spend his school vacations with one or other of his fellow students, either going to stay with them at their homes, or else going off with them on various travelling holidays.

  Now, on the day of Gentry’s planned arrival Savill had to go to Bath on business and he left instructions with James to drive to Trowbridge in the phaeton to meet Gentry at the station and bring him to the house. Savill had suggested to Marianne that she and Blanche go along to welcome him, but Marianne had resisted the suggestion. She was well aware of her father’s unspoken wish with regard to herself and Gentry and silently she balked at the idea. Although she had no particular feelings at all for Gentry Harrow – she was nothing if not indifferent to him – she was quietly determined, on principle, to resist any thought that, simply because their respective fathers wished for it, there could ever be anything between them.

  When the phaeton with Gentry inside eventually drove up Gorse Hill towards Hallowford House Marianne and Blanche were standing at the window of the first floor landing half-concealed behind the curtains, watching for his arrival. A minute or two later the phaeton was entering through the gates and coming up the drive.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Marianne whispered, ‘here he is. I can’t bear it.’ With her words she moved back behind the curtain. Blanche, continuing to gaze out, said, ‘Aren’t you curious as to what he’s like?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  The phaeton came to a stop on the forecourt below. Marianne said:

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The phaeton’s stopped – and now he’s just stepping out. I can’t see what he looks like; his hat is hiding his face.’

  ‘Who cares what he looks like, anyway?’

  ‘He’s very tall.’

  ‘Who cares.’

  ‘Oh, you must give him a chance, Marianne. I’m sure he can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Are you? How can you be so sure?’

  ‘– Anyway, you’ll have to go down and welcome him.’

  Marianne gave a resigned sigh. ‘I suppose so.’

  As Marianne moved across the landing towards the stairs Blanche continued to gaze down, watching as the young man waved aside the offered help of the groom and took up his box. As he turned towards the house he glanced up and for a moment he and Blanche were looking into one another’s eyes. For a split second her gaze was held as she looked into his dark eyes; then the next moment, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks, she was stepping back out of sight behind the curtain. Marianne, half-way down the first flight of stairs, turned to her and whispered:

  ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

  Wild horses could not have dragged Blanche down the stairs at that moment. ‘Not for a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll join you in a moment or two.’

  Marianne shrugged, touched at her hair with a nervous hand and went on down the stairs. Blanche lingered there. Unlike Marianne she had been not a little curious about Gentry Harrow. Now, having been caught looking at him from the window, spying on his arrival, she felt she would be happier if they never met.

  In seconds, however, she could hear the sound of Gentry’s entry into the hall below; Marianne’s voice and then his own – stronger and deeper than she remembered it. Turning to the mirror on the wall at the foot of the upper flight of stairs she ran a palm over her hair and ran a smoothing fingertip unnecessarily over the arching line of one eyebrow. Then, moving towards the stairs – she couldn’t stay up there forever – she started down.

  As she neared the foot of the stairs she saw Gentry, his back turned to her, handing his coat and hat to the maid. She had a swift impression of black hair and broad shoulders, and then Marianne was catching sight of her and saying, a trifle over-brightly:

  ‘Ah – and here’s Blanche, too.’

  He turned to Blanche at the words and she found herself looking into his eyes once more – eyes almost as black as his hair – while he smiled at her, his teeth very white against the Medditerranean tan of his skin. He stepped towards her, hand outstretched.

  ‘Blanche,’ he said. ‘Hello. Was that you up at the window?’ Then, before she could frame a reply, he added, ‘Imagine – Blanche Farrar – still here after all these years.’

  She felt the colour suffusing her cheeks for the second time in minutes. She gazed at him, horrified by his words. And he was still smiling at her, not knowing – or not caring – how his words had hurt. Then, still gazing down at her, he put his head a little on one side and said with a little nod:

  ‘And you’ve grown up as well, I see.’

  Blanche, glaring at him, lifted her chin and said coldly:

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say the same for you.’

  With her words she turned, moved across the hall and walked quickly up the stairs.

  Upstairs in her room, Blanche sat before her dressing table. Still here, he had said, after all these years. And his words had brought to the fore the constant awareness of Mr Savill’s generosity to her, reminding her too of all the Miss Bakers and the Helen Websters in the world. He, Gentry Harrow, she said to herself, was no better than any of them.

  As she sat there there came a knock at the door. She called out, ‘Come in,’ and Marianne entered, closed the door behind her and came to her side.

  ‘Don’t be upset by it, Blanche.’

  ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘He didn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter to me. Forget it.’

  ‘He was just being thoughtless, that’s all. Don’t take any notice. What does it matter what he says, an
yway?’

  ‘I just told you – it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter to me in the slightest.’

  ‘Good. It certainly doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Blanche said, ‘he thinks he’s so grand, walking in here in his new Chesterfield and his bow tie. Who does he think he’s impressing? Certainly not me.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Marianne gave a little snort of contempt. ‘Anyway, it’s only for this Christmas – and he’ll be gone soon afterwards.’

  Later, over dinner, and afterwards in the drawing room, Gentry tried to entertain Savill and the girls with a few well-chosen and amusing stories of life in Messina and at Oxford. Although Savill clearly found the anecdotes amusing Gentry tried in vain to elicit a similar response from Marianne and Blanche. With secret signs to one another across the table the girls kept a united front against him and refused to be amused, greeting his words with smiles that were clearly nothing more than polite, and damning him with their very faint praise.

  In spite of the girls’ reservations where Gentry was concerned, that Christmas was an unusually lighthearted time at Hallowford House. Marianne and Blanche – helped by Gentry – spent a good deal of time putting up festive decorations and trimming a tall tree which Gentry brought in from a nearby wood, and the house echoed with the sounds of laughter and animated voices. Two days before Christmas Gentry’s father arrived, and he and Savill, after being apart for so many years, had a warm reunion.

  After church on Christmas morning Savill, Edward Harrow, Marianne, Blanche and Gentry exchanged Christmas gifts – and once again Savill’s kindness was brought home to Blanche, for with his allowance to her she was able to give presents which were on a par with those she received. Afterwards, Savill sent her, carrying a hamper and various packages, off in the phaeton, driven by James, to see her mother and brother in Colford. When they reached the cottage James let her off, saying he would go on to have a drink at The Plough and come back to pick her up in an hour.