Saddle the Wind (13 page)

‘Mary was asking for you tonight. So many times. She was worried about you.’ She smiled, shaking her head in wonder. ‘That child loves you so much, Ollie. She worships you.’ She paused. ‘Remember, Ollie – whatever might happen, you’ve got us. We love you.’

The following evening when Ollie came in from work he ate his supper in silence and afterwards sat before the kitchen range, an open book in his hands. He was not reading, though. Often Sarah would glance his way and see him just gazing before him, as if his eyes were fixed on some distant vision.

When the children were on the point of going to bed they said their goodnights to Ollie and went upstairs – except for Mary, who lingered at his side.

‘Papa,’ she said, ‘what’s the matter?’ She took his hand. ‘You look so sad.’

‘No – I’m all right.’

‘Are you?’ She paused. ‘You have to finish my portrait soon, remember.’

He hesitated for a moment then said, ‘Yes, of course.’

‘But not on Sunday, though. There won’t be time.’

‘No?’

‘It’s my birthday – have you forgotten?’ She frowned. ‘Papa, you forgot.’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I wouldn’t forget a thing like that.’

Mary kissed him and then followed the other children upstairs. A few minutes later when Sarah came down from seeing them tucked up in bed she found Ollie sitting at the kitchen table with paper and pencil before him. She stood watching him as he worked. After a moment he said, without looking up:

‘I promised Mary a kite for her birthday. I’d better get started.’

Every evening that week when Ollie got in from work he waited until the children had gone to bed and then got on with the business of making Mary’s kite. In the kitchen by the light of the lamp he worked carefully, meticulously, with balsa wood, paper and glue. Sarah, pausing occasionally to look up from her mending, would ask how he was getting on. ‘All right,’ he would answer. ‘All right.’ When it was time for him and Sarah to go up to bed he took the unfinished kite with him, in the bedroom placing it carefully on top of the old wardrobe out of sight.

When the construction was finished he took water-colours and painted on it roses of yellow and pink, Mary’s favourite colours, after which he attached to the lowest point of its diamond shape a long tail of string with paper bows at regular intervals. Nine of them, one for each year of her life.

It was finished on the Friday evening.

On the Sunday morning, over breakfast, Mary began to receive her birthday gifts and good wishes. Arthur had drawn her a picture of a sailing boat – something he had never seen in his life, and Agnes, not to be outdone, had also drawn a picture – but of lambs.

Ernest had gone off for his morning’s work at the farm, but he had left for Mary a little book on famous painters that he had bought in Trowbridge. Sarah had made her a little bag, embroidered with her name, in which to keep pencils and chalks. Inside she had placed a new pencil and a small piece of indiarubber.

When Mary had looked at her presents and thanked the givers Ollie got up and went out of the room. Two minutes later, standing outside the kitchen door, he called out for her to close her eyes. Then, assured by Arthur that she had done so, he entered, cleared a space on the table, and placed the kite before her.

Ernest returned to the cottage just before eleven and at once he and Ollie and the children got ready to go up onto the hill. In the meantime Sarah set off for Hallowford House to fetch Blanche down to the cottage to spend the afternoon and join in Mary’s birthday tea.

Soon after Sarah had left, Ollie, Mary, Ernest, Arthur and Agnes set off from the cottage. Ollie carried the kite. The day was still bright but it had become very cold and they were wrapped up against the keen wind. Arthur, pointing up to the high chalk cliff that rose up behind the cottages, said, ‘We can fly the kite from there, Papa.’ But Ollie said, ‘No, we need space. We’ll be better up on the hill.’

It was even colder up on the hill and in no time the cheeks and noses of the children glowed pink and they were pulling their hats down over their ears.
Spring was close, though. The signs were everywhere. Clumps of primroses dotted the banks, the gorse bushes were all in bloom, and in the centre of one of them Ernest found a pair of yellowhammers building a nest.

It was a perfect day for flying a kite, Ollie said, and once up on the very top of the hill he managed, after one or two attempts, to get it off the ground and soaring up on the wind. As the children stood at his side watching the yellow and pink diamond rising up, he glanced down at Mary and saw the excitement in her wide eyes and in the clenching of her hands. Her hair, escaping from beneath her old woollen hat, streamed out in the wind.

After a little while when the kite was safely aloft, Ollie handed the winding card to Mary and showed her how to let the string out and draw it in again. Then, following his directions she loosed the string and sent the kite even higher. A little later, when the kite had come diving down to earth again, coming to rest in a gorse bush, she handed the string to Ernest.

He took it eagerly and after getting the kite in the air again began to walk backwards along the hill’s crest, playing out the string. Agnes and Arthur walked with him, as usual, like acolytes following their priest. And soon the kite was riding on the wind again, soaring up, higher and higher.

Standing together, hands linked for warmth and for closeness, Ollie and Mary gazed up as the kite rose and dipped above their heads on the bitter wind, watching the diamond bank and halt and then come plunging down towards the earth in sudden, breathtaking dives, only to swoop up again to swing and drift on the currents. The string in Ernest’s hand was taut. Glancing back at Mary, Ollie saw the pride and happiness in her
upturned face. Every hour spent making the kite had been worth it.

Later when it was time to go home they set off along the top of the hill towards the path that would take them down. Ernest led the way with Agnes and Arthur on either side of him, their hands linked, while Ollie followed with the kite. Behind him Mary had stopped to gather some primroses.

At the spot where the path led down, Ollie came to a stop and waited while Ernest, Arthur and Agnes walked on ahead. After a few moments Mary came running to Ollie’s side, a bunch of primroses in her hand.

‘Here, Papa.’

She was holding the flowers up to him, and he thought,
I would like to paint you now. Just as you are now – your cheeks reddened by the wind, your hand reaching up with the flowers
…

‘Are they for me?’ he said.

‘Yes, of course. You like primroses, don’t you.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Oh, yes, I like them. Thank you.’

‘But you mustn’t be sad anymore, Papa.’

‘– No, I won’t be.’

She smiled up at him until he smiled back, then she turned and pointed off.

‘Look, Papa – the cottages are so small from here …’

He followed her eyes to the row of thatched cottages in the valley. ‘Yes, they are.’ They were small from any distance.

Turning her head, Mary sought out Mr Savill’s house at the top of Gorse Hill.

‘– Not like Hallowford House,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘No, not at all.’

He stood there without moving for long moments,
and then she said, pulling at his hand, ‘Come on, Papa, let’s go home; I’m getting cold.’

He didn’t seem to hear her. ‘We’ll have a place like that one day,’ he said.

‘Like Hallowford House?’

‘Yes.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

‘When?’

‘One day. You just wait. Just wait a little longer.’

And perhaps it could happen after all, he said to himself. Perhaps he
could
start all over again with his paintings. Yes. And he would work even harder at it this time. And he would find a gallery where he could show them, and sell them.

He glanced down at the child as she gazed across the hilltop. He would do it for her, for Mary – for Mary and for the others.

With the thought it was suddenly as if their future was as clear and as real to him as the panorama that was stretched out below. He had lost sight of it, but now he could see it all again. Everything. In time his painting would bring to them what they wanted. It would take longer now, but it would happen. In time. He just needed to be patient, and in time they would have everything. There would be a fine house. For Sarah there’d be no more doing other people’s laundry. For himself no more working on Mr Savill’s gardens. There’d be no further need to scrimp and save to put away the odd penny for Mary’s future. His painting would make certain that her future was assured. As would be the futures of all the children.

He lowered himself, crouching before the child. Then, placing the kite and the flowers at his side he reached out and put his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her blue, blue eyes.

‘Trust in me,’ he said gruffly. ‘Believe me. We’ll have a good life soon.’ He nodded and laughed suddenly out into the wind. Then, leaning forward he kissed her on the forehead and drew her small slim body to him. As he held her he silently murmured:
I vow it. For your sake, I vow it
.

After dinner Sarah got Mary, Arthur and Agnes dressed in their best clothes and, settling Blanche in the perambulator, took them off to Sunday school. Ernest who, now working for his living, was no longer obliged to accompany them, went off to join some of his friends. His only part in the others’ Sunday-schooling would be to meet them and bring them home when it was over.

On Sarah’s return from the church hall she set Blanche down in the makeshift pen in the kitchen. Blanche had been walking for three months now and was also starting to talk. Leaving her there, for the moment happily playing with various old toys, Sarah turned to Ollie where he sat in his chair. He had appeared so much brighter earlier on when he and the children had got back from flying the kite. She looked at him closely.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

He hesitated before he answered. ‘Fine. Almost – now.’

‘Good.’ She reached out and gently brushed his shoulder with her fingers.

‘I’ve decided,’ he said after a moment, ‘to go on with my painting.’

‘Oh – I’m so glad, Ollie.’

‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Next week I’ll get Mary to sit for me for an hour or two – then I can finish her portrait. After that – I’ll start another picture.’

‘Oh, Ollie, it makes me so happy to hear you say that.’

He nodded. ‘I won’t be beaten, Sare. I won’t.’

A little while later, taking advantage of the children’s absence, she began to prepare water for a bath, filling kettles and saucepans and putting them to heat on the range. Ollie, meanwhile, brought in the tin bathtub from the shed. A little later, while he was lighting the Sunday fire in the front parlour, Blanche began to cry. Sarah took her onto her lap and talked softly to her. Blanche went on crying for some minutes longer, but then at last she became quieter and, lying back in Sarah’s arms, drifted off to sleep.

Gently, Sarah laid her in the perambulator, loosely tied the rag cords to stop her falling out, and stood gazing down at her. She was a year and three months old now. She was a beautiful child. Her closed eyelids were rimmed with the densest lashes, while her softly curling hair, unusually thick, was, like Ollie’s and Mary’s, the colour of pale corn.

Since Blanche had been taken back to Hallowford House to ease Marianne’s pining six months had gone by and there had been no word from Mr Savill regarding the question of her leaving the nursery and returning to the cottage. He was well content, it seemed, for the situation to continue and, as Sarah had said nothing to him about it either, the situation had gone on. Blanche now had spent practically all her life at Hallowford House, Sarah reflected. And, she realized with a pang of guilt, she had not really missed her. Not because she didn’t love her – she did. But there had been no time to miss her with all there was to do. Besides, she had seen her regularly, making it a rule to visit her once or twice each week and bring her back to the cottage almost every Sunday when the weather permitted. It was
important that Blanche’s ties with her family were maintained; she mustn’t be allowed to forget them.

But Blanche
was
forgetting.

Sarah had seen the signs over the months and she had tried to disregard them. It did no good, though; it had to be faced; just as Mr Savill’s daughter had been unhappy at being separated from Blanche, so, it appeared, Blanche was unhappy when she was away from Hallowford House. She always became fretful when she was kept away for any length of time, and when she did settle in the cottage the peace was usually an uneasy one.

Sarah thought of what Ollie had said about bringing Blanche back to live at the cottage again. And that’s what they should do, she knew. Blanche should be where she belonged, with her family – before she grew even more accustomed to her present life …

When the water on the range was boiling Sarah left the baby and drew the curtains while Ollie poured some of the water into the tub and added cold to it from the pails he had brought in from the pump. Then while he refilled the kettles and put them back on the range Sarah got undressed and stepped into the tub.

When she had bathed she got out and washed her hair. Then, while she dried herself and wrapped herself in a towel Ollie renewed the water and got in. After a minute or two Sarah knelt beside the tub and washed his back, her soapy hands moving over the smooth, muscular shoulders – she could feel the tension there – then down to his narrow, tapering waist. Ollie was the only man she had ever seen naked and the sense of wonder that had first touched her had never quite left her. It was there now as she moved her hands over his body.

Without either of them speaking Ollie got to his feet
in the tub and Sarah took a towel and began to dry his back. When she had finished he turned to face her and she began to dry his front. Stepping back a foot she looked at him as he stood there. How beautiful he is, she thought. Bending her head she kissed his chest and then pressed her face against his loins, feeling against her cheek his hardness, the coarseness of his damp pubic hair and the soft firmness of his lower belly.