No Wings to Fly

by Jess Foley

  The vicar, coming to the end of his piece, closed his book and, after a moment of respectful silence, stepped back a pace. The ceremony was over. Turning to Mrs Clair he murmured some final words of commiseration, and she thanked him and then turned to Lily, remarking that they had better start back.

  On the way to the church Lily and her stepmother had followed the hearse in a carriage hired from a local man, but such a convenience was eschewed for the return journey. Expenses had to be watched out for, Mrs Clair had said, and they would make their own way home. And so they did, walking side by side through the dreary lanes until they reached the house. There they were greeted by Dora and Mrs McKinner, the neighbour who had come in to keep an eye on the child and also help put out the ale and coffee and bread and ham that the mourners – albeit there were few of them – would expect.

  For Lily the next hour passed in a blur, but at last the neighbours had all gone, and she and her stepmother and Dora were left alone. Together they cleared away the few remaining bits of food, and washed the china and glass. When everything was back in its usual order the two women turned to their mending while Dora took a story book and sat before the range.

  The hours in the house passed slowly. The lamps were lighted as dusk fell, and the curtains were drawn against the coming night. At six they ate a light supper, and afterwards Lily and Mrs Clair once more turned to their mending, while Dora took up a piece of sewing of her own.

  Lily found a certain comfort in the banal process of working with her darning needle, for as time had passed she had become aware of an atmosphere in the room. It was not connected with the family’s grief, but something else. It had nothing to do with Dora, but came solely from Mrs Clair, and Lily saw it in a dozen little instances of coolness in manner towards her, of short replies and a marked flintiness in the tone of voice. The faint little show of warmth that had met her on her arrival at the house had quite gone. Lily could not pinpoint a time when the new coldness had begun, nor could she understand why it should be. She was puzzled. Perhaps with someone other she would have asked what the matter was, but she had never in her life entered into any kind of conversation or discussion with her stepmother, and now was not the time to attempt to do so. As she sat there she became further aware that they were so far apart that even in their common grief they could not comfort one another.

  The long-case clock ticked on in the quiet. Soon after seven Dora put down the piece of linen she was stitching, kissed her mother on the cheek, and went up to bed. With her departure the strained atmosphere in the room was even more marked.

  The time dragged on. Lily, sitting at the table with the darning, felt that she had reached some kind of watershed, some kind of finale as she realised that her ties to her former home had been almost severed. Her father was dead and buried in his grave, and tomorrow she must set off to return to Sherrell.

  To her deep disappointment and puzzlement there had still been not a single word from Tom. She had written to him again immediately following their father’s death, informing him of their loss, but even this news had brought no response. She had also written to Miss Elsie, telling of her father’s demise and saying that she would be returning on Saturday, the day after the funeral. Miss Elsie had written back at once, offering her condolences.

  ‘Well . . .’ Her stepmother’s voice came into the hush, ‘it’s time I went to bed. I’ve been up since half-past-five this morning, and I’m very tired.’

  Lily glanced at the clock. It was after nine-thirty. ‘Yes, you go to bed, Mother,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to the lamps and the fire.’

  Mrs Clair put aside her mending, rose and crossed to the hall door. ‘Then I’ll wish you good night.’ There was no warmth in her tone. Without waiting for a reply from Lily she went, closing the door behind her.

  In the silence the click of the door catch seemed to hang in the room. Lily continued to sit there. She too had been up since the early hours, but she felt far from sleepy. There was a tension in her whole body that denied any idea of sleep.

  From over her head came the faint sound of movement as her stepmother prepared for her solitary night in her bed alone. From outside came the hoot of an owl, its sound to Lily strangely comforting and familiar. She continued with the darning. She too would go to bed in a while, as soon as she had finished mending the stocking in her hands.

  It was almost done. As she put in the final stitch the thought came to her: what was the point in mending it? Her father would never wear it again. No matter. She snipped off the woollen thread, and reached for her stepmother’s sewing box where it stood on the table a foot away. The top of the box held a compartment for thimbles and needles and pins and other sewing implements. She put the scissors in one of the trays, and then lifted the tray out. She knew what she would find underneath – a little collection of her stepmother’s odds and ends: trinkets and two or three discoloured old photographs, and a few papers that she had kept over the years. She laid the tray down on the tablecloth and looked into the well of the box. There was a bill there from a glover and beneath that a cracked photograph of Dora as a very small child. Idly, Lily took out the sepia-toned picture and looked at the faded image with a fleeting interest, and then went to put it back. As she did so, she saw what had been lying underneath it.

  For a moment or two she just sat there, looking down at the envelope. It seemed to fill up the whole scope of her vision. Then she put in her hand and picked it up. Tom’s round, carefully-formed handwriting was so familiar to her that she could not possibly mistake it for that of any other person. Then she saw to her greater surprise that there was another, similar-looking envelope lying in the box. She took that out also, and laid the two envelopes side by side on the table before her.

  They were letters from Tom. Two letters from Tom, and each addressed to Mr and Mrs Edwin Clair. On the second she could see a postmarked date: 18 September, 1867.

  She sat looking at the two envelopes, both of which had been opened. And the moments went by while the clock ticked into the silence, sounding suddenly loud in the quiet of the room.

  Taking a breath, Lily picked up the first envelope. Briefly, very briefly, the concept of privacy and invasion flashed through her mind, but in seconds it was gone and with cool fingers she withdrew the letter and opened it out. On a sheet of cheap, lined paper, in her brother’s unmistakeable hand she saw the few words that he had written:

  Fellowes Farm

  Halls Haven

  Nr Corster, Wilts

  17th Sep 1867

  Dear Father and Mother,

  It is a while since I last wrote to you, and an even longer time since I last saw you. I know I let you down, but it was never my wish to bring trouble or shame on you, and I am truly sorry I did. I hope you will be able to forgive me, for I can tell you honestly that I’ll never do such a thing again.

  Mr Thompson here at the farm says I can have a couple of days off in a fortnight or so, and I told him I’d like to come home to see you for a spell. I’ll have to lose the money, but it will be worth it. Will you please write back and let me know whether I’m welcome. After your last letter to me, it is something I need to know. I shall wait for your letter.

  Your son,

  Thomas

  Lily read the letter through again, then put it down and turned her attention to the other one. Without hesitation she took the letter from the envelope, unfolded it and laid it before her on the table. The address was the same, but the date of it was the eleventh of October, nearly a month following the first letter. In it, Tom had written:

  Dear Father and Mother,

  The weather is fine here, and I’m well and hoping you are too, and Dora also. I have been hoping for a letter from you, following my last, but there has been nothing. I guess you’re pretty busy with so much to do. When you have time please write. I’d so like to come home and see you. I promise you, I have done no wrong since that time, and I never will again. Please, please write. I am, as always,

>   Your loving, obedient son,

  Thomas

  Lily remained at the table with the two open letters before her on the dark crimson cloth. The fire in the range had burnt low and the room had grown colder. Still she continued to sit there.

  Later, lying in bed beside the sleeping Dora, she felt far from sleep, and turned restlessly on the old mattress, trying to find comfort. So many things were going through her head, tumbling round in her brain. She thought of Tom and his unhappiness and his pleas to be accepted back into his father’s heart – for there was no doubt in her mind as to whom the letter was meant for – and also of her father and his last hours. She thought too of her stepmother and the present, sudden coldness in her manner. She could find no accounting for it.

  Her thoughts moved on, shifting with the restlessness of her body and her brain. She thought of Joel, and of their meeting and her revelation. Tomorrow she would return to Sherrell, and there would surely be a letter there waiting for her, a letter from him.

  At last, in the early hours, she fell asleep.

  In spite of having little sleep, Lily was up early the following morning, and when she was dressed went downstairs into the kitchen where her stepmother was preparing the breakfast. When Dora came downstairs the three of them sat down to eat, the meal with her stepmother proving, as Lily expected, to be a very quiet affair. Had it not been for Dora’s occasional bursts of chatter it might have passed in silence.

  When the the breakfast things were cleared away and washed up, Lily was ready to leave for the station. She was eager now to get away from the atmosphere in the house. Having already said her goodbyes to Dora, who had gone off to call on a neighbouring friend, she was alone with her stepmother.

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Clair, ‘you’re off now, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lily stood before the small looking glass beside the chimney, making a last adjustment to the black crêpe ribbon on her bonnet. ‘There’s a train at eleven-thirty.’ Her overnight bag had been packed since early that morning.

  ‘Make sure you’ve got everything,’ Mrs Clair said.

  ‘Yes, I have, thanks.’

  ‘Better not go without this, then.’ As Mrs Clair spoke, she put a hand into her apron pocket and brought out an item which she held out. Lily took it from her and saw at once what it was. In her palm lay a small, soft leather pouch which, she knew, held a gold half-hunter watch.

  She gazed down at the precious treasure. She had seen it once or twice over the years, stored carefully away in a drawer. ‘My mother’s watch,’ she said in a tone of wonder.

  ‘Yes, your mother’s watch.’ Mrs Clair’s voice was cold. ‘Your father insisted it came to you.’

  Lily’s heart was suddenly full. She slipped the watch from its little pouch and looked at its dull gleam. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Oh, Mother, thank you, so much.’

  ‘There’s nothing to thank me for,’ Mrs Clair said shortly. ‘I just told you, your father said you had to have it.’ The briefest pause, and she added, ‘Anyway, you’d better get off, or you’ll miss your train.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Lily took up her reticule and carefully placed the watch inside. Then she bent and picked up her overnight bag. Moving to the door leading to the scullery, she opened it and turned back to face her stepmother.

  ‘Well – Mother – I’ll say goodbye.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Clair said, and then she added quickly, as if the words had been bubbling up inside her, searching for a way out: ‘You’ll be hearing from the solicitor in the next week or two, no doubt.’

  ‘The solicitor?’ Lily frowned. ‘What do you mean? Why should I be hearing from a solicitor?’

  ‘Your father’s solicitor. Mr Robson of Cunningham and West.’

  ‘But – but why?’

  ‘Because of the money, of course.’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘The money. Didn’t you know?’ Mrs Clair’s mouth was pinched and thin. ‘Didn’t your father mention it?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about any money. Father never spoke of such a thing to me.’

  ‘No – well – perhaps not.’ Mrs Clair spoke dismissively. ‘I only learnt of it myself yesterday morning, when I saw his will.’

  ‘Mother,’ Lily said after a moment, ‘what is this all about?’

  ‘He’s left you money, in case you didn’t know.’ She almost hissed the words out. ‘As if the watch wasn’t enough, he left you money too.’

  Lily gave a little shake of her head. ‘I know nothing about this.’

  ‘No? Well, for your information he’s left you fifteen pounds.’

  Lily’s astonishment showed in her face. ‘Fifteen pounds. So much money.’

  ‘Yes, so much money,’ Mrs Clair said with a nod, then added bitterly, ‘As if his wife and child didn’t have need of it.’

  Lily saw now the reason for her stepmother’s antagonism. So it was this, the money her father had left. It had been eating away at her, festering, for twenty-four hours.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anything,’ Lily said. ‘Not a thing. I thought everything would go to you and Dora.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Clair hissed, ‘and so it should have. We have so little, Dora and I.’

  ‘But he left everything else to you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he did. He left us the rest of his money, but how far will that take us?’

  ‘But isn’t there a pension,’ Lily said, ‘from his workplace?’

  ‘Oh, how nice of you to mention that,’ Mrs Clair said. ‘Yes, there is a pension – of sorts – but that won’t buy us very much. And I shall get a little help from the Friendly Society, but if I don’t have to start taking in washing, or getting a job at the tile factory it’ll be a wonder.’ She was glaring at Lily, her lip curled. ‘And what have you ever done for him that he should reward you in such a way? All you ever did for him was bring him heartache and disgrace, and now he leaves you this.’

  Lily was so amazed at the hostility that she could not speak. She stood there at the door, taking in her step-mother’s attack. Mrs Clair was not to be stopped.

  ‘It isn’t as if you needed the money,’ she said. ‘You’re starting in a new post on Monday. You’re to become a governess, for heaven’s sake. You’re nineteen, and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. What about Dora? And what about me? My life now is finished. I’ve got no husband, and hardly any money coming in. What’s going to happen to me?’

  At last Lily found a voice. ‘I can scarcely believe I’m hearing this,’ she said. ‘All this because of fifteen pounds. I could see that something was eating you, but I couldn’t imagine what it was. Fifteen pounds. Good God, Mother, if it means that much to you, you can have it. Have it and welcome.’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘As soon as the money comes to me I’ll send it on to you. God forbid I should ever take what you see as yours.’

  ‘Well, it’s not fair,’ Mrs Clair said, her angry voice approaching a whine. ‘It’s just not fair.’

  ‘Fair,’ Lily said. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word, and you never have.’ After she had spoken, she realised that she had never in her life addressed her stepmother in such a way, and she stood a little astonished at her own temerity.

  Her stepmother too was surprised by it. She gazed at Lily for a second or two with her mouth slightly open, then said, grinding the words out, ‘I think you’d best be off to get your train. You wouldn’t want to miss it.’

  ‘No,’ Lily said. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss it – and I wouldn’t want to stay in your company any longer than I have to.’ She paused, took a breath. ‘But before I go I’ve got one or two things I want to say.’

  Mrs Clair put a hand up to her open mouth. This was a new side to her stepdaughter. ‘Oh, listen to it,’ she said scornfully. ‘If your father could hear you and see you now.’

  ‘Well, he cannot – more’s the pity,’ Lily said. ‘And while we’re on the subject of my father, let me ask you something. Why didn’t you let me know soo
ner that he was so ill? When I got here you said he’d been ill for weeks – so why wasn’t I sent for? He told me himself that he’d been waiting for me.’

  ‘I told you,’ Mrs Clair said, ‘I hadn’t got a minute to myself. Caring for a sick man – you don’t know what it’s like.’

  ‘Yes, so you told me,’ Lily said. ‘But what about my brother Tom?’

  Her stepmother’s mouth twisted, the upper lip curving in contempt. ‘Oh, now we’re on to your brother, are we? I wondered how long it would be before we got round to him. What about him, anyway?’

  ‘Why didn’t you let him know? Why didn’t you write and tell him that Father was ill?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. Because I didn’t have time to sit writing to everybody. I already said – there was so much to do.’

  ‘Tom isn’t everybody,’ Lily said. ‘Thomas was Father’s son, his only son. And Father was sick, very sick – in fact near to dying, you told me –’ She felt tears suddenly threaten as she uttered these last words, but she fought them back; she would not cry; she would not. ‘Were you ever going to write and tell him?’ she said.

  ‘This is absolutely outrageous.’ Mrs Clair glared at Lily. ‘I’m not going to be taken to task like this by you. While you’ve been away you’ve forgotten your place, miss, and how to show respect. You’ve forgotten your manners too.’

  ‘You’re not getting round it like that, by attacking me.’ Lily’s voice was heavy with scorn. ‘Tom loved his father, and he should have been here at such a time. He had a right to be. You should have written and told him.’

  ‘Oh, I should, should I?’ Mrs Clair’s defensive tone was sharp. ‘Well, it might have helped if we knew where he was. We haven’t had a word in ages. How were we supposed to know where he was?’

  ‘That is a lie,’ Lily said.

  Mrs Clair’s small mouth opened in renewed outrage. ‘How dare you! You – accuse me of lying! You, the greatest liar on earth – to accuse me.’

  ‘I’m not a liar,’ Lily said. ‘But you are.’ Putting down her bag and reticule, she stepped to the shelf beside the chimney breast and snatched up her stepmother’s sewing box. At the table she set it down. Flinging open the lid, she lifted out the inner tray, then dipped in her hand and brought out Tom’s two letters.