Saddle the Wind
| Saddle the Wind | |
| Jess Foley | |
| Random House (2011) | |
| Tags: | Sagas, Fiction |
Synopsis
In a small village in the West Country a child is born: a baby girl, the fifth child of an impoverished labourer whose aspirations to be a painter are rapidly fading. For little Blanche the future would appear bleak- survival, possibly; marriage, possibly; drudgery certainly. It is by a stroke of good- and ill- fortune that Blanche's mother is requested at the 'big house', to suckle Marianne, the motherless daughter of John Savill whose wife has died in childbirth. And it is by good and ill fortune that the two babies, so different in their hopes, are brought up together caring for each other as sisters. But sisters they are not- as the outside world is keen to point out. Blanche is torn between her love for her real mother and her desire for a life of wealth and ease; and when her eyes alight on Gentry, Marianne's intended husband, her struggle against selfishness is compounded. In this original and vivid saga, Jess Foley weaves a tale of passion and pain against a background of unsentimentalized rural England.
Jess Foley was born in Wiltshire but moved to London to study at the Chelsea School of Art, then subsequently worked as a painter and actor before taking up writing. Now living in Blackheath, south-east London, Jess Foley’s first novel
So Long At The Fair
was published in 2001, followed by
Too Close To The Sun
in 2002.
So Long At The Fair
‘Jess has really captured the sense of a family united against great odds. The heroine, Abbie, is strong but flawed as all good heroines should be and as we follow her triumphs and trials we see her change from a girl to a woman in the most dramatic and satisfying of ways’ Iris Gower
‘A compulsive and well-paced story’
Wiltshire Times
‘An earthy tale of love, longing and tragedy’
Swindon Evening Advertiser
‘A jolly good read … Abbie is a great character, buffeted by fate but a powerful woman of her time’ Susan Sallis
So Long At The Fair
Too Close To The Sun
Jess Foley
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781446429754
Published by Arrow Books in 2004
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Jess Foley 1989
Jess Foley has asserted the right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the
author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated
without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 1989 by Grafton Books
Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA
Random House Australia (Pty) Limited
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney,
New South Wales 2061, Australia
Random House New Zealand Limited
18 Poland Road, Glenfield,
Auckland 10, New Zealand
Random House (Pty) Limited
Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 09 946645 7
For Bev and Glenyse,
for Pamela and Robert,
and for Jackie S
To my editors Patricia Parkin and Judith Kendra,
the staff of the Trowbridge and Norwich Libraries,
and Dr Carmelo Mirabile of the Messina Tourist Board –
my gratitude.
Chapter One
‘Are you sure?’ he asked. His voice had the burr of the West Country; a voice usually soft but now touched with a note of weary disbelief. The woman raised her eyebrows and answered in a tone of angry impatience.
‘Of course I’m sure.’
He shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ. Why did this have to happen? As if there’s not enough to cope with already with four small mouths to feed.’ In a sudden display of anger he slammed his fist onto the table top, making the cheap shade of the oil lamp rattle on its metal base. ‘Damn it!’ he said bitterly through gritted teeth. ‘Damn and blast it!’
Sarah stood very still, watching him. She knew that with her words she was shattering what little of the dream remained.
‘How d’
you
feel about it?’ he said at last.
She didn’t answer. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you haven’t got the responsibility of providing, have you? Oh, yes, you bring in a few shillings each week with the washing, but how far does that get us?’
Remaining silent she turned away.
‘Have we
got
to have it?’ he asked. ‘Have we?’
There was a little silence, during which only the ticking of the clock could be heard, then Sarah said, ‘Yes, Ollie, we have. There’s nothing to be done about it now.’
‘Nothing?’
Briefly she closed her eyes, sighing. ‘What are you
asking, Ollie? What do you want me to do?’ She had no need to ask, of course. She knew what was in his mind. The thought had been in her own at the beginning, but then the memory of her mother had come clutching at her and she had thrust the thought aside. She could never risk that happening to her. ‘We’ll manage somehow, Ollie,’ she said, then added a little more forcefully: ‘We must.’
Glancing up, she looked at the reflection of his face in the mirror beside the range. A cheap glass, it distorted his image so that his features became as seen through water, an ugly parody of those she knew so well. After a moment he came around the table, stood behind her and raised his hands to her shoulders. At his touch she shook him off. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘– don’t ask me again. It’s no use.’
‘Well, we’ve got to do
something
about it.’
Turning back to him she said, ‘We’re not doing
anything
about it, Ollie. Nothing. So you can forget that. I’m not taking the chance of leaving my children without a mother. It happened with my own mother. It won’t happen here.’
‘That’s foolish talk,’ he said. ‘You’d be all right. For God’s sake, Sarah, we haven’t got enough to live on as it is.’
‘I know, but –’ She shook her head hopelessly. ‘I’m sorry, Ollie.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘– it’s the only thing to do – with four children already – you must see that. They’re more than enough to cope with. Damn it, we can’t afford another child. We can’t even afford the ones we’ve got.’
‘Well,’ she said quickly, ‘you should give that some thought when you start coming at me like some damned bull, not to be denied.’
He stared at her for a moment then raised his hand and struck her hard across the face. With a little cry she
put a hand up to her check then turned and ran from the room.
In the small thatched cottage there was not far she could go before she reached the limits of the interior. Now, with the tears starting in her eyes she ran up the stairs and into the front bedroom, the one she shared with Ollie. There in the dark she closed the door behind her, moved to the bed and sat down, the worn springs giving a whine of protest under the weight of her small frame.
As she sat there she made an effort to choke back the tears. She wouldn’t cry. Anyway, what good would it do? There was no room in this life for indulgences. Besides, she had brought it on herself. For those moments downstairs she had so wanted to hurt him. And she had succeeded. The stinging imprint on her cheek was proof enough of that; he had never struck her before. But
she
had been hurt too. Not by the blow from his hand – no, not that – but by his reaction to the news of the baby. But she had known what his reaction would be. Which was why she’d put off saying anything until tonight. She’d been sure about the baby for more than a fortnight now, but she had been afraid to tell him. And so she had put it off. She’d kept on putting it off.
After a while she heard the sound of the front door closing. He was going out. Leaning closer to the window she pulled aside the thin curtain and, in the moonlight, saw him move from the front gate and start off along the lane. He would go to the Wheatsheaf – and probably wouldn’t be back till it closed.
She sighed, took up the matches and lit the candle that rested on the chest of drawers next to the bed. With the candleholder in her hand she got up and moved to the door and stepped out onto the narrow strip of thread-bare carpet that covered the tiny landing. There she
stood listening outside the children’s room. All was quiet. Softly she opened the door and went in.
Inside the room she stood in the wavering light of the candle flame looking down at the nearest bed, in which slept the boys Ernest and Arthur.
Ernest, her first born, was eight years old. Arthur was four. Both boys had dark chestnut hair – her own colouring – but it was there that any likeness between the two ended. Ernest, the picture of health, slept soundly, his face slightly flushed from the past day’s sun. Arthur lay a little apart, his head further up on the pillow, as if unconsciously reaching for air and space. And while Ernest’s breath came sweet and even, Arthur’s sounded slightly laboured, coming only through his open mouth, evidence of the problems that had plagued him from his earliest days. All his life Sarah had had to give him that extra bit of care.