by Jess Foley
That night when Lily lay in bed, she thought about the coming day. Joel would be waiting for her by the park gates. It would be the last time she saw him before he went off to France.
As he often did on a Sunday morning, Mr Haskin went into the factory the next day. Before he left, he told Lily that he would return for dinner about one o’clock. Later, as the hour approached, Lily set the table and began to cook the meal. She had started the preparations in good time, so that everything would be ready as soon as Mr Haskin returned. She kept an eye on the weather too, and was relieved to see it remaining bright and fair.
But the minutes went by, and Mr Haskin did not appear.
When he was not there by one-thirty, Lily changed out of her working dress into her best, then put her apron back on. As she moved from her room she heard the sound of the cob’s hooves coming round the side of the house. A few minutes later, as she began to busy herself once more in the kitchen, Mr Haskin came through the door.
He was in a jovial mood. He poured himself some beer from the cask in the scullery, and sat back in his chair with a sigh of pleasure. Eyeing his display of ease with a little dismay, Lily said that dinner was nearly ready, to which he replied, ‘In a while, girlie, in a while. Let me get my breath for a minute,’ and she could do nothing but mark time and wait. At last, to her relief, he said, ‘Right, Lily, now we’ll have our bit of dinner.’
As he took his seat, Lily set out the food and then took her own usual place. While Mr Haskin ate with a good appetite she ate sparingly, only waiting for the time to pass when she could clear the dishes away. He looked at the small amount of food on her plate and said, ‘You ain’t eating, girl. Not sickening for something, are you?’
‘No, sir,’ Lily replied. ‘I’m just not hungry.’
‘Not hungry,’ he said with a little snort. ‘You eat like a sparrow on a diet.’
He went on then to remark that the food was excellent, and on how odd it felt not to have Mrs Haskin around. And the long case clocked ticked on. When Lily glanced at it and saw the hands at two-forty-five, she pictured Joel moving to the park gates and sitting down to wait.
At last, however, the meal was over and Lily was able to start clearing the dishes away. As she did so, he said to her with an approving little nod, ‘I just noticed, Lily, you’re lookin’ mighty sharp today. You got on a new frock, have you?’
She felt herself colouring slightly. ‘No, sir,’ she said, avoiding his amused gaze as she moved to the door. ‘I’ve had it ages.’
‘Well, I guess I can’t be the most observant man, can I? You’ve done something to your hair as well.’
With a self-conscious smile she said, ‘I just gave it a bit of curl, sir. I did it with the poker.’
‘And very nice it looks too.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She hovered in the doorway. ‘Would you like tea, sir?’
‘No, thanks, I shall have a drop more beer in a minute. I’ll help myself.’
When she had washed and dried the dishes she carried some of the china back into the kitchen to put it away in the dresser. Mr Haskin watched her working for a minute or two then said:
‘I just realised, Lily – it’s your time off, isn’t it?’
She paused before answering. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Course it is. What am I thinking of? There I’ve been taking my time over everything and it’s your afternoon off.’ He gave a nod. ‘Of course – that’s why you’re all in your Sunday best.’ He waved a hand. ‘You better get off, then, girl.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She could not show her relief. ‘Is there anything else you want before I go?’
‘No, I’ll manage. You get off wherever you’re going.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Upstairs in her room she took off her apron and put on her bonnet and a light linen jacket. A final touch at her hair and she was as ready as she could be.
Downstairs she moved towards the rear door, and reached it as Mr Haskin came from the kitchen to stand in the doorway.
‘You’re off, then, Lily, I see.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He smiled. ‘I’m tempted to ask where you’re a-goin’. Lookin’ like that, I mean. Not to Sunday school I’ll wager.’
Lily said nothing, but stood with one hand on the door catch.
‘What is it you do on your Sunday afternoons when you leave Henhurst?’ he said.
She gave a shrug. ‘Well – when the weather’s nice I might go for a walk in the park. Sometimes the brass band’s playing. That’s very nice. Or sometimes I get the train into Corster. I’ve been to the museum there, and the art gallery.’
‘Oh, the museum and the art gallery. Very cultural indeed.’ His smile was broad. ‘I’m glad to hear you’re improving your mind. I’m sure your father would approve.’ His smile grew wider. ‘Are you sure you haven’t got some young fellow out there? You sure there’s not some young man waiting for you?’
Feeling her face flushing, she shook her head, and Mr Haskin watched her discomfort and gave a little chuckle. ‘Oh, I reckon you’re a dark horse, you are, Lily Clair,’ he said. ‘Well, anyway, I hope he’s somebody your father would approve of. But I’m sure he must be. Smart girl like you.’
Moments went by, and Lily remained with her hand on the door catch. Then Mr Haskin said, ‘Anyway, you get off, my girl. Don’t take any notice of my teasin’. You go and have your walk, or whatever you’ve got planned. And let’s hope the weather stays fine for you.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘And by the way, that little matter you talked to me about – the possibility of a job at Silver’s – well, I haven’t forgotten it. Mr Horsham’s away right now, but when he gets back we’ll have a word.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled at her. ‘Well, then – off you go.’ Seconds later she was outside and walking to the gate.
She passed St Peter’s church as she came around the corner into Park Street, and as she did so the clock on the tower struck four. He would not be there, surely he would not be there now. She hurried on. The day had continued warm, and now there was a haze over the sun had brought a little humidity to the air, and had the perspiration breaking out under her arms. She could feel it as she stepped out. She should have left off her jacket, she told herself. She could feel the sweat at her hairline too, under the rim of her bonnet.
She saw him as she came out of Park Street. He was sitting on the bench outside the gates, but facing away from her, clearly expecting her arrival from another direction. From the park came the music of the band.
She had almost reached his side when he turned and saw her approaching. His face lit up, and he rose at once from his seat. He was in his shirtsleeves; his jacket lay on the seat of the bench.
‘You got here.’ He was smiling, his relief and pleasure evident. ‘I was about to leave. I’d just about given up.’
‘I’m so sorry. I got held up.’
‘Well, thank the Lord I hung on for a while.’ He gestured off. ‘And you came from the wrong direction.’
‘I know. I didn’t go to Henhurst today. I’ve come from the Haskins’. I couldn’t get away any earlier.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’re here now, that’s the important thing. I’m just glad to see you.’
His smile shone into her face and she lowered her eyes. She was conscious of the beating of her heart, not due only to her hurrying through the streets.
Next to his jacket on the bench where he had been sitting lay his small sketchbook. She glanced down at it and said, ‘Well, at least you haven’t been idle while you were waiting, I’m glad to see.’
‘No, not at all.’ He picked up the book. ‘I actually managed to do a little work. Though I can’t say my concentration was that special.’ He lifted his hands. ‘Well? So give me the good news or the bad news. Are you free for a while, or have you got to go rushing off again?’
‘No, it’s all right,’ she said
, smiling back. ‘I’m not expected back at the house for a while yet.’
‘Well, that’s excellent. Just excellent. So – what would you like to do? Shall we walk a little?’
‘Yes – all right.’
‘To the pond, yes?’ He looked up at the sky, where the sun lurked behind the cloudy haze. ‘Is there rain up there, d’you think?’
She followed his glance. ‘Perhaps, but not just yet, let’s hope.’
They went through the gates into the park, the music coming louder as they moved on towards the bandstand. This time, though, they did not linger to listen, but passed on by, continuing at a slow pace down towards the pond. All the benches about the pond’s rim were occupied, but Joel at once laid his jacket on the dry grass, and after a second’s hesitation Lily sat down on it. He sat beside her, then took his cap off and laid it with his sketchbook. He sat hunched over, with his arms round his knees. She would have liked to take off her jacket too, but she was afraid there might be damp patches under her arms.
‘I was so afraid you weren’t coming,’ he said, turning to her. ‘The minutes were going by and there was no sign of you. I began to imagine all kinds of happenings. The worst of all being that you’d decided not to come.’
For fear of saying too much, she did not know how to reply. The music of the band drifted over the grass, filling in the little silence between them. ‘You hear what they’re playing?’ he said. ‘That song – ‘The Water is Wide’. Time for you to sing again.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, no! No more singing – and no more whistling either.’
He groaned. ‘Not even by special request?’
‘Not even by special request. Once was one time too many.’
There were other young couples around them, lounging in the grass, some of them sweethearts, sitting or lying with their arms entwined. There were children there too, running about in the course of their play, or moving about at the water’s edge with their boats and sailing ships.
Joel asked Lily why she had not been to Henhurst to get Mrs Shalcross’s dinner and she told him of the old lady’s fall, and that Mrs Haskin had gone to be with her.
‘And now you’ve got the rest of the day off, have you?’ he said.
‘Well – until half past eight or so. I don’t ever get in later than that.’
He nodded. ‘Then I’ll have to make sure we make good use of the time.’
Into their view there came then a young girl of thirteen or so, with a basket over her arm, halting by the people who sat on the benches or wandered beside the paths. She was selling artificial flowers, and after a little while she came to where Lily and Joel were sitting.
‘Buy a pretty flower, sir?’ she said to Joel, and he looked up at her and smiled. She crouched on the grass and set down her basket of colourful blossoms.
‘You asked about a gardenia,’ Joel said to Lily. ‘D’you remember? Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ He took from the basket three or four little sprays of flowers and laid them on the grass.
‘Are they gardenias?’ Lily asked. He gave a little laugh. ‘Darned if I know.’ Then said to the girl, ‘Have you any? Have you any gardenias?’
The girl gave a little shrug. She was thin-looking, with pale skin and pale hair. ‘I only got what’s ’ere, sir, and I wouldn’t know what a gardenia looks like.’ She touched one of the little sprays that lay in the grass. ‘I makes ’em meself. Silk and linen and such. Pretty, ain’t they?’ Her smile lit up her face.
Joel nodded. ‘They are indeed. They’re very pretty.’ Then to Lily: ‘Which one will you have?’
She gave a little shake of her head. ‘Really – it’s not necessary.’
‘Oh, go on,’ he said. ‘Which one?’
‘Well – you choose.’
‘Right.’ He eschewed the flowers laid on the turf and dipped into the basket and brought out a little spray of mauve blossoms. ‘Gardenias or no,’ he said, ‘these’ll do fine.’ He held them out to Lily. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ she smiled, and took the flowers and moved as if to hold them to her nostrils, but stopped, while the girl said, ‘They ain’t got no smell, miss. They ain’t real, they’re just ‘and-made.’
The girl handed Lily a pin then, and Lily fixed the little mauve spray to the lapel of her jacket. As she did so, Joel paid the girl her two or three coppers and she scooped up the flowers from the grass and dropped them back into her basket. Then, wishing the two of them a good day, she went on her way.
‘They’re nothing special,’ Joel said, watching as Lily adjusted the flowers, ‘but I couldn’t refuse her, could I?’
‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ Lily said. ‘Anyway, they’re very pretty. And they’re very nicely made.’
She glanced up to find him studying her, his dark eyes almost piercing, and she felt herself colouring slightly under his gaze. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Ah, Lily,’ he said on a little sigh, ‘you talk about pretty – And if you’re not the prettiest girl a chap ever set eyes on ... well, I don’t know . . .’
She did not know what to say, and took a breath and said nothing.
‘And I don’t mean I just discovered that,’ he added. ‘I thought it from the very first moment I saw you, sitting in that little room at the factory while the rain was tipping down outside. I thought then – my word! here’s a champion-looking girl if you ever want one.’ He paused and gave a little laugh. ‘And a chap does, you know. Oh, indeed he does. Well, this one does, most certainly he does.’
He laughed again, and Lily laughed too, and she felt so close to him, and so admired, and so very happy. It didn’t matter that she still felt the dampness under her arms and around the line of her hat band, and that there was dust on her white gloves and her right shoe was scuffed at the toe. She was there with him, and he was so handsome in the grass, and his smile was so white and so warm, and she felt a gladness and a joy and a thrill that she had never known in her life before.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said, giving a harsh little groan. ‘Off to France on Tuesday. Just two days away.’ He groaned again and dramatically put his head in his hands. Raising it again, he added, ‘I’m not going to see you again for ages – unless I can get back for a few days before I go on to Cambridge. Anyway –’ he gave a little shrug, ‘we’ll have to see.’
He sat for a few moments looking at her while the music of the band drifted on the breeze. Keeping his eyes on her, he ran fingers through his hair. Then, taking up his sketchbook, he said, ‘I want to draw you. I want a picture of you, something to keep while I’m away.’
‘Now?’ she said. ‘You want to draw me now?’
‘Of course now. There won’t be another opportunity before I go away.’ He was already opening the sketchbook, turning the leaves to a fresh, unmarked page. From his shirt breast pocket he drew out three or four pencils, looked at them and selected one. From his trousers pocket he took a small pen-knife, opened it to expose the blade, and then sharpened the pencil lead to a fine point. ‘There.’ He closed the knife and laid it down beside his cap. ‘Now – pay attention, please – Mr Leonardo Da Vinci is all set. One masterpiece coming up.’
Lily sat up a little straighter. ‘I feel foolish,’ she said, ‘and very self-conscious. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do a sketch of the pond, or the trees by the bandstand.’
‘Hush,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve got the subject I want, right here. Now – just relax. I’ll try not to be too long.’
‘My hair,’ Lily said in mild protest. ‘I’m not prepared for this.’
‘You look splendid,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have you look any other way.’ Then, a little sternly, ‘Now – please – keep still.’
She remained then unmoving, sitting on his jacket on the grass, while all around them the life of the park went on – illustrated by the shouts of children playing, the voices of adults calling to their dogs, the music of the band. The minutes meandered by. In her own silence Lily sat
looking past his shoulder towards the pond. When he raised his head to look at her it was not to make eye contact but to measure, to observe, to absorb the picture before him, to transfer the perception to his pencil. He sighed a little, and groaned now and again, but then sometimes nodded in qualified approval. And so, under his moving fingers the drawing took shape.
Several melodies had come and gone from the band before he gave a deeper sigh, leant back a little, studying the sketch through half-closed eyes, and gave a final nod, saying with the gesture that it was finished.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘for better or worse, that’ll have to do for now.’
Lily relaxed, her body bending out of the unaccustomed rigidity. ‘Am I allowed to look?’
‘I suppose you must.’
He held out the sketchbook and she took it from him. To her the drawing looked quite exquisite. He seemed to have caught it all, even those things that she would rather he had not. There was her slightly pointed chin, her deep-set eyes, there the loosening ringlets of her dark hair, the locks relaxing again into their natural straightness.
‘I haven’t done you justice,’ he said, watching her as she gazed at the drawing. ‘You’re so much better-looking than that.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. You’ve made me look – beautiful.’
‘You are.’ He leant forward a little. ‘I never met anyone so beautiful before.’
She did not raise her eyes; she did not dare. As she continued to study the drawing, he said, ‘I’ve met a lot of young ladies here and there, and there’s a few times I’ve been attracted to them, and –’ He broke off, then added, ‘Look at me, please.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Please.’
She looked up, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
‘Yes, a few times,’ he said. ‘Oh – the pretty girls around Corster and Bath, and around Cambridge, and in Paris. But there’s none like you, Lily – and I don’t only mean the way you look. Though, Lord knows, that’s special enough.’