by Helen Spring
'I have to cook the dinner,' Anna protested, 'And make up the infusion for Mrs. Sullivan.'
'Yo' needn't mek me any dinner,' George Gibson remarked, 'I'm off to the Sandley Arms. I wanted me dinner an hour since but there was none.'
'Well hang on a bit Dad, it won't be long.'
''Ang on? Ang on fer yo'? Who do yo' think you'm tellin' to 'ang on? In case yo 've forgot it ma wench, this is my 'ouse, an' I'll 'ave dinner when I say, not when you' m ready ter mek it!'
'I didn't mean that Dad...'
'I'll gerra pie at the pub. A fine thing when a bloke cor gerra meal in 'is own 'ouse after a weeks work! When 'is daughter is too busy flauntin' 'erself on the Clent 'ills like any brass faced tart.'
'Dad!'
'Well, it's true ay it?' he shouted belligerently.
'No it's not true! I was with Clancy Sullivan.'
'Arr. An' everybody knows what yo' was up to!'
Anna's face flamed crimson. 'Don't you dare... don't you dare say such a thing!'
'I'll dare what I want in me own 'ouse ma wench, an' do' yo' forget it! Yo' was off wi' that painter chap Nicholson the night yer Mom died...'
Anna let out a shriek and sprang at him. Her father swung his arm to fend her off, and caught her with a heavy swipe across her cheek. The blow knocked Anna across the room, and for a few seconds she blacked out as she slid slowly down the wall. George Gibson hesitated for a moment, then went out and slammed the door.
When Will arrived half an hour later, the kettle was singing on the hob, and Anna was seated by the fire, weeping quietly.
‘What's to do our Anna?' Will bent over and put his hand under her chin. His face darkened as he noticed the red marks on the side of her cheek.
''As our Dad been at it again?' he asked.
Anna nodded briefly. 'He wasn't drunk either,' she said 'Not this time.'
'What was it about?'
'I don't know really. I think it was because I'd been to Clent with Clancy to get dandelion flowers, but he knew we were going. He was cross because his dinner wasn't ready when he wanted it, but it was only six o'clock...'
She raised a tear stained face to Will. 'Oh Will, he called me names, said I had been up to things with Clancy... and Mr. Nicholson... and I haven't! Oh Will... I haven't, truly!'
''Course you 'aven't ma wench.' Will sighed. 'What we'm goin' to do with Dad I do'know. 'E's gettin' worse...'
Anna began to weep again. 'He said...he said I was off with Mr. Nicholson when Mom died...' she broke down into heavy sobs.
'Arr... that's it. That's what's mekin 'im like this,' said Will. 'Come on our Anna, get a cup of tea on an' stop cryin'. We'll soon sort this out.'
Anna put the teapot to warm and got down two mugs. She wiped her eyes. 'What do you mean Will? What is making Dad like this?'
'Guilt,' said Will briefly. ''E feels guilty about Mom, so 'e lashes out at whoever's nearest. It just 'appens to be yo''
Anna, still sniffing, poured the water into the teapot.
Will asked, 'Yo' remember 'ow 'e was Anna? After the funeral?'
Anna nodded. Would she ever forget, she wondered, and knew that the image of her father's grief on that dreadful day would stay with her all her life. It had been so strange. He had been quiet and morose until the day of the funeral, and had seemed pleased and touched when Anna and Clancy returned from the Clent Hills with bunches of primroses for the coffin. He had kept up well through the service and the tea afterwards, accepting condolences and chatting to his neighbours in a matter of fact manner. It was only after everyone had gone, and Will, Mary and Anna were starting to clear away, that George Gibson broke down. He had suddenly put his head down on the table and begun to weep, pouring out his grief in loud racking sobs which shook his great frame and wrung the hearts of his family. It had seemed to go on for ages, and Anna, who had never seen her father cry, became quite distressed. It was Will who eventually got their father to bed.
Anna looked at her brother now with affection. She poured the tea, and Will, clasping his hands around the enamel mug said quietly,
'He's took it a lot 'arder than folks think.'
'Perhaps.'
Will hesitated, trying to choose his words. 'The... the cryin'... yo' remember. It wasn't just because Mom was dead...'
'No. It was for himself,' Anna said. 'It was because he didn't know how he would manage...'
'No Anna... yo' don't understand.' Will swigged at the mug of tea as if it would help him find the words he needed. 'All that grief... all that pain... it was for... for what might have been.'
'What do you mean?'
'Yo' know the story ma wench. Mom and Dad 'ad a real love match. Mom got thrown out by 'er folks an' Dad lost 'is job. They were young then Anna, they must 'ave 'ad such 'opes... such plans... for what they were goin' to do together. I expect Dad made promises... an' they all come to nothin'.'E must 'ave felt 'e failed 'er. I think 'e was cryin' for all them things, all them things that never 'appened. For all 'e tried... an' 'e's always been a real worker yo'll give 'im that... they ended up 'ere wi' next to nothin'.'
Anna was silent. She had never heard her brother talk about feelings before, and she was quite affected. After a moment she countered, 'But these last few years, Dad has been earning good wages, and he didn't help... he just spent it all in the pub...'
'Do yo' think 'e don't realise that? By the time 'e was gettin' better money it was too late, the rot 'ad set in so to speak, an' 'e probably tried to blot it all out wi' booze. We don't know Anna... 'ow things were between 'em, what 'ad been said... but I do' think 'e really meant what 'e said to yo', 'e was just 'urt, and lashin' out.'
Anna nodded. 'You may be right Will, but it isn't easy to live with.'
'I know, ma wench. But it may get better. Summer's comin', God's good, an' the Devil ay altogether ta' bad.'
Anna smiled, remembering with a pang the last time she had heard the saying, spoken by the woman at Dudley Castle, when she was with Robert. Now Robert was gone, and her mother too.
'I'd best get goin' if there's no tea left,' said Will. He got up and gave Anna a wink. 'Keep yer chin up ma wench, there's worse things 'appen at sea!'
'I know,’Anna said. 'I'll call in later when I've seen Mrs. Sullivan.'
When Will had gone she made the dandelion infusion, thinking carefully about what he had said. She tried to imagine her parent's courtship, but the image of her father as an impetuous young lover did not come easily. Nevertheless she recognised the truth of Will's remarks. It must have been hard for them, she thought, the plans that foundered, the chances that did not come.
When the infusion had cooled she took it round to Mrs. Sullivan, and was horrified to see the wretched bag of bones that the old lady had become. Clancy was not there, and Anna sat with his mother for an hour and read to her from the New Testament, the story about the loaves and fishes, whilst the old lady sipped the dandelion broth. When Anna left she felt depressed beyond words, but calling in at Will's home to play 'the farmer wants a wife' with Billy and Dottie in the backyard helped to relieve her spirits, and she felt quite cheerful when she returned home to do the ironing.
Anna was in bed when her father returned that night. She was afraid that after their argument he might be aggressive, but he made his own way to bed with little noise. Sunday passed quietly, and as Anna went to chapel in the morning and the evening she saw little of her father.
She was on her way to work early on Monday morning when she saw the postman waving to her. She ran across the road to meet him 'Oh, thank you Jim.'
She held the letter tightly in her hand as she walked down to the chainshop, a letter was something of an event and she would open it when she arrived at work. It must be from Florence, in reply to her own. Anna felt a thrill of satisfaction. Although Florence had asked her to write, Anna had not been at all sure she would receive a reply. She glanced down at the envelope and her heart missed a beat. It was not Florence's hand, but Robert's.
Anna made four links be
fore she could bring herself to open the letter. She glanced at it again and again as she worked, imagining little stories about the contents until she could stand it no longer. When she finished the next link she stopped and tore open the letter, reading the contents with ever increasing incredulity. Maisie Collins at the next hearth was inquisitive.
'Yo' got a letter Anna? Who from?'
Anna did not reply. She just stared blankly, and Maisie watched her anxiously as she finished off a link. Then she came across to Anna and asked kindly, 'Bad news is it love?'
Anna found her tongue. 'No,' she said. 'It's an offer of work, more work as a model.'
'Wi' that lovely Mr. Nicholson?' Maisie laughed delightedly, and she gave a sly grin. 'Yo've fell on yer feet there ma wench!'
'There's nothing like that!' Anna said hotly, feeling the blush suffuse her cheeks. 'It's to model for other people as well, other artists.'
'Well I never! Yo'll be famous!'
'Stop yer yackin!' Ma Higgins was on the warpath. 'I do' pay yer fer...'
'Anna's gorra job,' Maisie interrupted with some pride. ''Er's gonna be a model fer them artists...'
'More modellin' Anna?' Ma Higgins was interested. 'Well, it's a chance to mek a bit, I do' blame yer, so long as it do' interfere wi' yer work.'
'Oh,' Anna said, still feeling stunned. 'It isn't the same as before Ma, it's... it's...' She swallowed, it was hard to say. 'It's in France!'
~
'Yo' do as yer want, ma wench,' Will said seriously. 'I know there's them as'll say yo' shouldn't go, but tek no notice, nor of Dad neither. It's up ter yo', it's your life!'
Anna smiled at him. She cuddled Dottie to her as the child began to whimper. 'There, my pet, don't cry. Your Mom's getting you some lovely sop.'
Mary brought over the child's dish and began to spoon bread and milk into Dottie's ready mouth. 'Our Will's right Anna,' she said. 'Yo think of yerself fer once, Dad'll be alright. We'll keep an eye...'
'You've got enough to do Mary, with Billy an' the babby.'
Will started to laugh. 'I think yo' should go, you 'm talkin' stronger Black Country every day, since Mom went...'
Anna laughed too. 'You're probably right. But it's easy to say do what I want. That's the trouble, I don't know what I want.'
'But it's only for the summer, yo'll be back before yo' know it,' Mary said. She smiled wistfully. 'I just wish we 'ad the chance,' she said.
'That's true.' Anna gave Dottie back to Mary and rose to leave. 'I do want to go if I'm truthful, I suppose I'm just a bit nervous,' She giggled. 'Going to France is a bit different from going to Dudley Market!'
'Well do' worry about Dad, that's all I'm sayin'' said Mary as she walked through the yard with Anna. 'Old mother Smithson will be glad to do 'is washin' for a shillin', an' I'll be round every day to do 'is cleanin' an' keep the fire up, I can tek Dottie wi' me. 'E can 'ave 'is dinner wi' us on 'is way 'ome from work.'
'He won't like that,' Anna said. She could see storms ahead, her father had refused even to listen to her proposals. He had pronounced that she was not going to France and that was that.
'Then I'll tek 'is dinner round,' said Mary. She gave Anna a swift kiss. 'Tek courage, 'e cor bite yer!' she said with a smile.
That evening Anna did gather her courage as she prepared dinner. One of their neighbours had killed a pig at the weekend and in payment for saving all their vegetable peelings for the pig's feed they had been given a piece of the shoulder meat. Anna had made a rich gravy, and had scored and salted the skin to make the crackling crisp and succulent, and her father complimented her on the tasty roast potatoes and spring cabbage. 'This is a feast for the middle of the week,' he said. 'You've got yer Mom's touch with the taters, an' all.'
Anna decided this was the time. 'Dad,' she said slowly, 'There's something I have to tell you. I've made a decision.'
Her father looked up sharply, and Anna continued, 'I've decided to go... to go to France.'
'I've told yo'...'
'No Dad, you don't understand. It isn't your decision, it's mine.'
'What?' Her father went red in the face.
'Just for once Dad, listen to what I have to say before you fly off the handle.'
For a moment George Gibson looked as if he was going to get up and storm out, as he usually did if crossed. However, the pull of the gravy was strong, and he thought better of it. He sat, eating his dinner in silence, as Anna continued.
'You think I'm trying to cross you Dad, but I'm not. You will be well looked after, if I wasn't sure of that I wouldn't go. The reason I've decided to go is that I shall never have such a chance again. When you were young Dad, you would have wanted to do it, you and Mom. Trouble is you probably didn't get the chance. I have, and I'm not going to let it slip through my fingers.'
Her father remained silent until he had finished his meal. Then he pushed his plate away and said quietly, 'And this chance, what is it exactly? A chance to do what? Play the fool with that young man?'
'No Dad! Not at all!' Anna could feel her temper rising, but was resolved to stay calm. 'It's several chances really, but the first is to make some extra money, the sort of money I can never make at the chain. Mr. Nicholson says there will be several artists there, they rent a big farmhouse every summer. One of the artists wives used to model, but she is expecting a child and won't be there this year. I shall have a room to myself and all my meals provided, there is a cook there called Therese, and when I am not being painted I shall help her in the kitchen.'
'Does she live in, this woman?' Her father asked gruffly.
'Yes, she lives there. But Dad, more than anything else, I shall travel to another country! Think of it Dad, to be able to go so far, and not have to pay anything for it!'
'Mr. Nicholson will pay your fare?'
'Yes, just think, I'll see the sea!'
‘And your fare back home?'
'Yes of course. At the end of August they all go to Paris for two weeks, and I shall go with them. They won't be painting then of course, it's like a little holiday...'
'Strikes me it's all 'oliday...'
'Yes, I think so too. In Paris I shall have to help with the cooking, but I shall have time to see the sights. Mr. Nicholson said in his letter he will take me to the Art Gallery to see some paintings by a man called Chardin. I don't really know what he's on about, but it's a painter Mr. Nicholson admires.'
George Gibson gave a deep sigh. Anna's remark about lost chances had gone home. Still he wavered, until Anna said, 'Won't you read Mr. Nicholson's letter Dad? I have it here.'
She fished in her apron pocket and handed him the letter. George Gibson perused it a long while. Eventually he handed it back to Anna and said, 'Well, it seems all above board. But it still don't seem decent to me, a young woman goin' all that way wi' a young man an' them not wed.'
'But Dad, gentlefolks take their servants everywhere with them.'
'Arr, perhaps they do. An' folks do all sorts o' things these days, do' mean I 'ave to agree wi' 'em.' He got to his feet. Anna waited, but he said nothing more.
'Then I can go Dad? You give me your blessing?'
'Yo' get no blessin' from me ma wench. Yo' do what yer want, sein' as yo 've med yer mind up. But do' come runnin' back 'ere when it all ends in tears.
PART TWO
FRANCE
BRITTANY
1905
Anna awoke to the pungent smell of coffee. She lay for a moment, savouring the comfort of the bed, smoothing the thick white counterpane with her fingers. She had never woken up in such a lovely place she decided, it was even better than High Cedars. Not so grand of course, but somehow that made it even more enjoyable. She gazed around her in contentment at the crudely plastered ceiling and walls, whitewashed to snowy contrast with the heavy carved chest and clothes press. In the corner stood a big china jug and washbowl on a tall stand, with thick white towels hanging on a rail at the side of it. Anna got out of bed and crossed to the small window. The cretonne curtains
fluttered slightly in the morning breeze, and she opened the window wide and breathed deeply. Robert had been right, the rain had gone at last, and it was a lovely morning.
In the courtyard below a door opened and she saw the stocky figure of Therese crossing to the open fronted barn with a bucket of feed for the chickens.
'Hello Therese!'
'Bonjour!' Therese turned and waved. 'At last the child awakes! After all the work is finish...'
Anna laughed. Although it was only her third day at the farm, she knew this was a joke. It had taken very little time to discover Therese hid her kind heart with a sharp tongue, and Anna felt a thrill of excitement as she quickly washed and dressed, for this morning she was to accompany Therese to the local market. On the stairs she met one of the resident artists, Alphonse, coming up. He had little English, but he smiled and said 'Bonjour ma petite!' and although Anna did not understand him she knew he was being pleasant and smiled back shyly and said 'Bonjour,' which was the only French word she knew.
Including Robert there were four artists staying at the farmhouse, a very old building of local rose pink stone known as 'La Maison Blanche.' Robert had explained the house originally belonged to a man known as Le Chevalier Blanc, who was turned out of his home at the time of the Revolution. In English, he said, the name meant The White Knight, and at this point Anna had lost the thread of the conversation, when Robert started to talk about teaching her to play chess. The farmhouse now belonged to Therese's father, and hazily remembered tales of the French Revolution made Anna speculate uneasily as to how he had acquired it. What had happened to The White Knight? Had he lost his head like so many others? Had Therese's ancestors been among the army of "sans culottes" who had stormed through the countryside, killing and burning....? The possibility that the farmhouse had played its part in such turbulent history gave added appeal, and, tantalised by her own imaginings, Anna quickly fell under its spell.
When Anna reached the kitchen Robert and the other two artists were finishing breakfast at the big scrubbed table. One of them was Jacques, a big curly haired man with an extraordinarily full beard, who spoke very good English. He had brought Anna a letter of advice from his wife, who had modelled for them in previous summers. Shortly after they arrived Jacques had attempted to translate the letter to her, but had then stuffed it into his pocket saying, 'Don't worry, she only says two things to you. When you are tired, you must tell us because we shall never notice, and do not let me drink too much! She also wishes you luck!' he added, sheepishly. He rolled his eyes and tugged at his beard, 'My wife, she don't think too much of us!'