Saddle the Wind Page 6

  ‘Yes, coming home,’ Sarah answered, and Esther nodded. ‘Well, it’ll be nice for you to be all together again.’

  They stayed chatting for another minute or two and then Esther took up her pail while Sarah opened the gate and went around to the back of the cottage. There Arthur and Agnes left her to go and join Mary who was playing in the garden and she called after them not to dirty their clothes. As she moved to the scullery door a moment later she thought of Esther’s words: It’ll be nice for you to be all together again. Would Ollie think the same? she wondered.

  Pushing open the scullery door she went inside, pulled the perambulator after her and set it near the wall. Ollie, as she had left him, was sitting at his easel. He turned and smiled at her. She returned the smile and then bent to the baby. Blanche was lying quietly for the moment. She would leave her there for now while she got the dinner.

  ‘Is Ernest still out in the fields?’ she asked Ollie as she took off her shawl and moved towards him.

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded briefly then turned and gave his attention back to the painting before him. The canvas depicted a number of men burning the stubble after the harvest had been gathered in. The scene was one of quiet drama. In a lowering, stormy sky clouds streamed out like grey, shot-riddled banners above a field in which the stubble burned in long lines of brilliant flame. The men, tension evident in every line of their muscular bodies, concentrated on containing the fire, while the smoke swirled about them before being carried up towards the clouds above.

  Sarah stood at his shoulder for some moments, looking at the canvas, then she said, ‘Ollie, it’s magnificent.’

  He turned to her, pleased. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’

  ‘It’s not quite finished yet,’ he said. ‘But I’m hoping to get it finished today – if I get the time before the light goes.’

  Since the spring Ollie had become much calmer, far more at peace. And it wasn’t only because the two of them had grown closer again, Sarah knew. It was also partly because of his painting. It was a similar pattern every year. During the short days of the winter the hours he could spend at his easel were limited, and there were always so many other things, more important things, to be done. With the lengthening days, though, he was able to find more opportunity to work at his painting, and any odd hour that he could squeeze in between his other responsibilities found him either at his easel or working on sketches in preparation for the painting that would follow. At such times, doing what he loved best, so much of his frustration seemed to vanish. He was clearly so much happier.

  The picture now before him he had begun several weeks ago, working at it every Sunday, his one day off in the week. Today he had been sitting at his easel since eight o’clock that morning. When he was painting, Sarah kept the children out of his way as much as she could – easy on fine days but more difficult when they were confined to the house. This afternoon, she decided, after the children had got back from Sunday school, she would take them out for a walk if the weather stayed dry. That would give Ollie a little more time on his own.

  Into her contentment a thought nagged faintly. She hadn’t yet told him that Blanche was home to stay. The thought stayed with her; Ollie’s relationship with the baby was a constant source of quiet melancholy in the back of her mind. She felt that he had still never truly accepted the child, and that he was relieved that she spent most of the time up at the house. He rarely showed any interest in her, or referred to her when she was absent. It was almost as if during the time when she was away she ceased to exist for him. It was true that on those Sundays when Sarah brought Blanche back to spend some hours with the family he made token gestures to show a kind of affection, but, Sarah felt, they were only gestures; nothing more.

  As she entered the kitchen to begin preparing dinner she suddenly thought of her meeting with Mr Savill in the stable yard. From the shelf above the range she took down an old broken teapot. It held a brooch that had belonged to her grandmother, and her mother’s wedding ring. Taking the sovereign from her pocket she placed it along with the other treasures.

  When Ernest returned from his excursion in the fields they had dinner. Blanche slept peacefully afterwards and while Ollie returned to his easel Sarah got the three older children ready for Sunday school. Then, with Agnes and Blanche going along for the air, they set off for the church hall.

  Ollie was still working when she returned, and while Agnes sat down to play with her doll she took Blanche – becoming restless back in the house – and laid her on a blanket in one corner of the room. To prevent her from straying she arranged a couple of chairs and a piece of wood to form a makeshift barrier.

  Agnes grew tired after a while and Sarah put her upstairs in bed to sleep for a while. Then, with Blanche still crawling about behind the chair-fence, Sarah washed the dishes, tidied the room and put kettles of water on the range. When the water was hot she undressed herself and, standing in a wide tin bowl, washed herself from top to toe. When she was dry she went upstairs and put on her second-best dress – the one for Sundays – undid her hair, brushed it and re-plaited it and then coiled the heavy plait around the crown of her head and pinned it in place.

  As she went back down the stairs a few minutes later she heard the sounds of the children returning from Sunday school. Looking out at the sky, she saw that dark clouds had gathered and rain was beginning to fall. The thought of any walk was out of the question now.

  After tea Ollie went back to his painting while the children went to play quietly in the front parlour. When Blanche began to grow fretful Sarah took her up into her arms. The baby wouldn’t settle, though, and she was crying loudly when Ernest came in from the parlour to get one of his books. After listening to the baby’s crying for a moment or two he said, ‘She always becomes a misery at this time of a Sunday, doesn’t she? She wants to go back up to the house. She doesn’t like it here.’

  Sarah was about to make some angry retort when Ollie appeared, paintbrush in hand. Looking down at the baby he said: ‘Isn’t it time you took her back to the house?’

  Sarah looked at him over the head of the crying child. ‘She’s not going back anymore, Ollie. Marianne’s weaned now, and there’s no longer any need for us to go there.’

  ‘Oh – I see …’ He nodded, then gave a shrug and turned back into the scullery.

  Half an hour later, when Sarah sat alone with the baby still crying in her arms Ollie came back into the kitchen and sat down.

  ‘Have you finished?’ Sarah asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘You taking a rest from it for a while … ?’

  ‘No. I reckon I’ll stop now.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to finish it today. The light’s still good enough, isn’t it?’ The rain had stopped now, the clouds had passed over and the sky was bright again.

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s nothing wrong with the light.’

  There was a little silence, broken only by the fretful sounds of the child, then Sarah said, frowning, ‘It’s Blanche, isn’t it?’ She shook her head distractedly. ‘Oh, Ollie, I’m sorry. But she’ll be all right soon. I just don’t know why she keeps crying the way she does.’

  He gave a little smile. ‘No? Perhaps it’s true what Ernest said – perhaps she’d rather be up at the house.’

  As they sat there Blanche’s crying began to grow louder and more piercing, and after a while Ollie got up and went into the front parlour to join the children. Sarah remained sitting there with the crying baby in her arms.

  Chapter Five

  Marianne lay in her crib while Dr Kelsey bent over her. After examining the infant he straightened and turned to John Savill.

  ‘Well, she has no fever. I can’t see any obvious sign that she’s sickening for anything.’

  Savill’s expression remained one of concern. He had arrived home after spending several days in London on business to find his daughter fretful, listless, and refusing to eat, and her nurse, Ell
en Jessop, worried and at a loss to account for the situation. Now, with the nurse being questioned by the doctor, it emerged that Marianne’s condition had developed over the past three or four days.

  ‘But what’s wrong with her?’ John Savill said. He added, ‘As you know, Mrs Farrar has been here wet-nursing her. She took her own baby away just the other day. Could it be that Marianne was weaned too early? Perhaps she wasn’t ready.’

  ‘No.’ Kelsey shook his head. ‘I’m sure it’s not that.’ He was silent, then: ‘You say Mrs Farrar only recently took her baby home?’

  ‘Yes,’ Savill answered, to which Ellen added,

  ‘A week ago exactly, sir.’

  After a moment’s thought Kelsey said, ‘When I’ve called at the house in the past they’ve always been together – Marianne and the Farrar child. Did they sleep together too?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ the nurse answered, ‘– here in the same crib. Miss Marianne always slept better like that.’

  Kelsey nodded. Turning to Savill he said, ‘Then I should think that’s your answer. I can’t be sure, of course, but it seems to me that your daughter misses the other infant. She’s pining for her.’

  ‘Pining?’

  ‘Yes, if Marianne has spent almost every minute of her life with the other baby then she’s bound to miss her enormously. I’ve seen the same thing in the past, with twins – when one of them dies.’

  Savill frowned. ‘And – and what happens?’

  ‘To the pining child? – the survivor? Oh, usually it gets over it all right – though I’ve known it to take quite a time.’

  ‘– You say the child usually gets over it. What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, the pining in itself isn’t dangerous. It’s just that its effects can sometimes – cause problems.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Kelsey shrugged. ‘Well, according to the nurse the baby’s not eating properly – which commonly happens when a child pines. And of course at this very tender age a child is delicate and needs to be properly nourished. If not, it starts losing weight and then, of course, becomes far more vulnerable to any illness that might be lying in wait.’

  Seeing the deepening concern in John Savill’s face the doctor quickly added, ‘Look, I don’t think you need to start worrying. The Farrar baby has only just left. Marianne will probably get over it in a few more days.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  ‘Then you’d do well to try to get the other child back for a while. It’s like weaning a baby from the breast. Sometimes a child needs to be weaned, slowly, from the companionship of another infant.’ The doctor fastened his bag. ‘Look,’ he said, turning back to Savill, ‘I suggest you wait a day or two and see whether Marianne begins to get over it. If she doesn’t then perhaps you can get the Farrar child back to stay with her for a time. If you do that then I warrant that your daughter will pick up again in no time.’

  A few minutes after Kelsey had gone from the house Savill was downstairs and reaching for his coat. ‘I shan’t be long,’ he said to Mrs Callow, the housekeeper, ‘I’m just going down the hill to see Mrs Farrar.’ He wasn’t prepared to wait to see whether Marianne began to grow accustomed to the Farrar child’s absence. Where Marianne’s health was at stake he wasn’t prepared to take any chances.

  Sarah Farrar was drying her hands as she opened the front door to John Savill’s knock and it was clear to him that he had caught her in the middle of her work. After he had wished her a good afternoon he said apologetically,

  ‘Mrs Farrar, I’m sorry to disturb you. I wanted to talk to you for a minute – but it looks as if I’ve chosen the wrong time. I’ll come back when you’re not so busy.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘Wait for then, sir, and you’ll be waiting a very long time.’ As she spoke her small daughter – he remembered that her name was Agnes – came to her side and stood looking up at him with wide hazel eyes, curious to see him again. The woman spoke again.

  ‘Please, sir – come in.’

  Urging the child to stand aside, she stood back from the door and John Savill thanked her and stepped into the little hall. Then she opened a door to a room on the left and gestured in. ‘Please, sir – do go in and sit down.’ As Savill entered the room she turned to the child and said softly:

  ‘Go into the kitchen and try to keep Blanche amused for a few minutes, Agnes, will you? There’s a good girl. Mr Savill wants to talk to me.’

  The child protested at once, shaking her head: ‘Oh, must I?’ and quickly the woman lifted a finger to her lips. ‘Not so loud,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll disturb your brother. He was awake all night and he needs his sleep.’

  As the child turned and moved into the kitchen the woman followed, and John Savill heard her say, ‘Now make sure you keep an eye on her. And don’t let her get up to any mischief.’

  He knew a sense of reluctance as he stood there, feeling that he was intruding on the woman’s privacy. He looked around him. He had passed by the Coates Lane cottages countless times but he had rarely been inside any of them. Now, standing in the Farrars’ little front room he realized how very small the buildings were. And in the tiny, cramped interior the Farrars were raising a family of five children. His eyes wandered about the small room, taking in its cleanness, its neatness, the pictures around the walls. He noticed to his surprise that there was a piano. In the silence the solemn ticking of the old grandfather clock sounded unusually loud. He saw that the time was almost half-past two. The woman’s husband, Oliver Farrar, would be working in the gardens up at the house. He wondered briefly what life was like living with Farrar. He saw him from time to time going about his duties, and according to the head gardener he was a good worker, conscientious and efficient. Savill recalled how he had given him a rise in wages a while back, but that had been less for the man’s efficiency than for the inconvenience he had suffered in having his wife up at the house for so long. Before that, soon after Mrs Farrar had gone to stay up at the house, Savill had made a point of seeking Farrar out, going into the garden where he was working and making known his appreciation of what he and his wife were doing. Farrar had politely replied that they were glad to do what they could. In the brief conversation that followed Savill had found the man to be intelligent and articulate, and his voice surprisingly pleasant. When Savill had left him some ten minutes later, however, it was with the feeling that he didn’t know him much better than he had before. The one thought that had stuck in Savill’s mind was that in spite of the man’s efficiency at his job he nevertheless seemed somehow a stranger to it, as if in a way some part of his mind was on other things.

  The woman came back into the room, closed the door behind her and, a little shyly, asked him to sit. Thanking her, he took a seat on an old sofa, holding his hat between his hands. She looked nervous and a little worried, he thought, as she sat in the chair opposite. Then, before he could speak she said quickly:

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir. It’s – is it about Oliver, sir?’

  ‘About your husband?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, not at all.’

  He suddenly realized that he had never really looked at her before. He had only ever seen what she stood for in his mind – a strong, intelligent woman, the woman who had so willingly come out in the snow that night to try to help his wife – and to be his daughter’s saviour. And somehow, because of her strength of will at that terrible time, because of the spirit she had shown and all that she had done since then he had always seemed to see her as a tall woman. And he could see now that he was wrong. She was quite small. It was partly her carriage that gave the impression of height, he realized; the way she held herself, proudly erect as she faced him, as if her spirit alone might be shield enough against misfortune.

  The thought came into his mind that at one time she must have been beautiful. Now, though, much of that beauty had been worn away, leaving just a shadow of what had once been there; worn away by child-bearing, hard work, care and worry. Even so, enough remained
to show what she must have looked like as a girl. Her hair, a rich chestnut colour and plaited about the crown of her head, still looked thick and luxuriant, and her hazel eyes, in spite of the faint lines that now lay beneath them, were wide and clear. Her features were well-shaped and finely boned, though her hands were broadened and coarsened with hard work.

  He smiled gravely at her.

  ‘Mrs Farrar,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to see you about your little daughter.’

  ‘Blanche … ?’ Her frown deepened.

  ‘Yes – Blanche.’ He hesitated for a moment and then began to tell her of Marianne’s pining and of what Kelsey had said. When he came to a stop the woman said nothing, waiting for him to continue. After a moment he went on:

  ‘What I’m asking is – is whether you would allow Blanche to come back up to the house for a while – to live there again – just to be with Marianne …’

  ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘For how long did you have in mind, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘Well, I can’t say exactly – but I’d hope it wouldn’t be for too long. As the time goes by I’d think we could begin to keep the two babies apart more and more, so eventually we can separate them completely – without Marianne fretting.’ He paused. ‘I need hardly add that I’ll pay you something for your – temporary loss.’

  She moved her hands in a little gesture of protest. ‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t want to be paid for such a thing. And you’ve already done so much – what with the rent and Ollie’s rise in pay.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well – anyway, you’d have the consolation of knowing that Blanche would be well looked after. She’d have the best of everything, I can assure you. And, naturally, I’d take full responsibility for all her expenses – her food, clothing, any doctor’s bills – everything.’ He waited while the woman sat in silence. Then he said gently,

  ‘Well, Mrs Farrar – what do you think?’