Saddle the Wind (22 page)

When Arthur arrived home that Friday evening, it was with the information that Mr Grill, his employer, had come down with the ‘flu and had spent most of the day in bed.

Ernest returned from the farm a little later and after he had washed and changed and eaten, Fanny came round. They had arranged to go out for a walk together. Soon after her arrival Ernest put on his coat and they left the cottage.

They walked along Elm Road, Peters Lane, along Bridge Street and around the green. As they approached the back of Fox Lane Fanny said,

‘Did you think any more on what we talked about?’

‘– About – getting married, you mean?’

‘Yes.’ When he didn’t answer she prompted him, ‘Well, did you?’

He shook his head. ‘We’re too young, Fan. We are, you know that.’

‘Oh, we’re not, Ernie. We’re not.’ She came to a stop, Ernest halting beside her. ‘Think how it could be, Ernie,’ she said. ‘We’d find our own little place. A home of our own. And we wouldn’t have to stay in Hallowford if we didn’t want to.’

He smiled. ‘You’re really set on goin’ away, ain’t you?’

‘Well – why not? Anywhere’s better than here. Trowbridge, Bristol. Maybe London.’

‘London?’

‘Why not?’ She paused. ‘Tim Higham says he’s going to London soon.’

‘Tim Higham, that bloke who works with you at the factory? Well, you can believe that when it ‘appens.’

‘How can you say that? You don’t even know ‘im.’

‘No, but I’ve ‘eard about ‘im. I’ve seen ‘im, too – all that macassar on ‘is hair. I shouldn’t think ‘e needs any more oil – not by the looks of ‘im.’

Fanny smiled. ‘It couldn’t be that you’re jealous, could it?’

‘Jealous? Me? Of that masher?’

‘Ernie, I think you are. Come on now, own up.’

‘Nah, I ain’t jealous. Why should I be jealous about ‘im? Besides, he’s too old for you. He’s ten years older than you at least.’

She shook her head. ‘Ernie, you don’t know anything about him, really.’

‘No, well, maybe I don’t.’

‘He’s been to London. He was tellin’ me all about it. He said I could get a really good job there if I wanted. I could go into an office and work a typewriter machine. He makes London sound a really wonderful place and –’

‘Yeh, wonderful,’ Ernest broke in. ‘If Jack the Ripper don’t get you the ‘flu will. They’re droppin’ like flies there.’

‘Oh, well, if you don’t want to be serious …’ She turned away and began to walk on. Ernest hurried after her and took her by the arm.

‘Fan, don’t get all like that,’ he said as he turned her to face him.

‘Ernie, you say you love me, but sometimes I get the feelin’ that it’s only talk.’

He felt a little rise of panic within his chest. ‘No, Fan, don’t say that.’ He drew her to him. She came unwillingly; he could feel her resistance. ‘I do love you, Fan,’ he said. ‘I do. You know I do.’

‘Ah, so you say, but talk’s cheap.’ She pulled away from him and moved towards the rear gate of her home. ‘Anyway, I must go in.’

‘Ain’t you gunna say goodnight to me?’

She closed the gate and looked at him over the top of it. ‘Goodnight, Ernie.’

‘I mean
properly
.’ He reached out for her over the gate, but she stepped back out of his reach.

‘I must go. Really I must.’

‘– Well, shall I see you tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know.’ She gave a shrug. ‘We’ll see.’ Then she was turning and moving away up the path.

As the evening had worn on Arthur had begun to complain of not feeling well and at Sarah’s insistence he went up to bed before his usual time.

The next morning, Saturday, while Ernest was having his breakfast, Sarah went up to see Arthur. He was already awake. When she asked him how he was feeling he complained of a headache and a sore throat. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘I must get ready for work.’ He sat up and made to get out of the bed but she put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, you stay where you are,’ she told him. ‘Lie down again.’ She went back downstairs then and put a brick into the oven. Afterwards, returning to the bedroom, she lit the fire in the little fireplace. When the brick was hot she wrapped it in an old piece of flannel and put it beneath the bedclothes against Arthur’s feet. ‘Now, you stay there, and try to go back to sleep.’ ‘But I’ll be needed at work,’ he protested feebly. ‘Well, that can’t be helped,’ Sarah replied. ‘You’re not going anywhere today.’

On Sunday Blanche stood gazing out of the nursery window while the rain fell with increasing force on the pane. The nursery clock said twelve-fifteen. Nearby on a chair lay her coat. Her mother would be there at any moment to take her to the cottage for the day.

There was ‘flu in the village, and because of it she
and Marianne and Mr Savill had not gone to church that morning – and neither would they, Mr Savill had said, until the ‘flu had passed. In the room across the landing Gentry Harrow was installed. She and Marianne had called out to him as they had passed his door, but Mr Savill had forbidden them to go near him yet.

Behind her in the room now Marianne sat cutting out fashion figures from a magazine while their new governess, Miss Fenwick, sat nearby mending some linen. Young and attractive, she had come from nearby Frome. With her arrival Miss Timperley, their temporary governess, had gone back to live in the village.

Blanche turned and looked around her. This room would not be her home for much longer. Soon she would be returning to the cottage to live. She wondered what it would be like. She had said nothing to Marianne or Mr Savill about her mother’s decision. She didn’t want to think about it until the time came.
We’ll all be together
, her mother had said,
and that’s how families should be. You’ll be happy, I promise you
… She thought of her mother’s words; the promise. They brought little comfort, though.

Turning back to the window she saw a familiar figure come striding across the yard through the rain.

‘Here’s Ernest,’ she said. ‘Here’s my brother come for me.’

She watched until Ernest had moved out of sight beneath the window then turned and picked up her coat. When she was dressed in her coat, hat and boots she waited for the maid to come for her, but the minutes ticked by and then she saw Ernest moving away again across the yard towards the side door. ‘He’s going away again,’ she said. She frowned, puzzled.

A few moments later there was the sound of footsteps
on the landing outside and then Mr Savill was opening the door and calling to her. She went to him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Your brother Ernest was just here,’ he said. Blanche nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I know. I saw him from the window. I thought he was here to take me home …’

‘No. He came to say that it would be better if you didn’t go home today – or even perhaps next Sunday.’

‘Oh. Why not?’

‘Apparently your brother Arthur is sick. Your mother’s sure it’s the ‘flu, and she thinks it best that you don’t go home yet – not until Arthur has recovered.’

When Blanche had gone back into the nursery Savill went downstairs to the library. He had thought of going to see Mrs Farrar today. It would have to wait, though. This wasn’t the time to go to the Farrars’ cottage – not when they had sickness there.

After Ernest and Agnes had gone from the cottage on Monday morning Sarah went upstairs to the boys’ room where Arthur lay in a restless sleep. Earlier she had made up the fire and replaced the brick in his bed. Now she stood beside the bed, looking down at him. At the neck of his old shirt she could see the edge of the brown-paper vest she had made for him the night before, first having rubbed his narrow chest with camphorated oil. After that she had smoothed goose grease on his chest; this she had covered with the brown paper. To combat his cough she had given him honey and vinegar and, last thing the night before, an inhalation of eucalyptus which she had sprinkled on a handkerchief and held beneath his nose. Now as she bent lower to pull the blankets more closely up to his chin the smell of the goose grease and the eucalyptus rose up to her nostrils from his warm, feverish body. He coughed, the sound dry and hacking. It had grown worse during the night and she realized that none of the remedies seemed to be having much effect. She continued to stand there for some minutes then, quietly, so as not to disturb him, she turned from the bed and made her way back downstairs.

Galvanized by the disturbing news of the spreading epidemic, Savill took measures to prevent the admittance of the disease to Hallowford House. On Monday
morning he sent a message to his manager telling him that he would not be back at the mill until the epidemic was over. After that he cancelled the few social arrangements he had made and his various business appointments. Then he arranged for certain provisions from the butcher and the grocer to be delivered at once to the house, at the same time instructing the servants not to leave the house on any account. The non-resident servants, such as the gardeners, the odd-job boy and James the groom, he told to continue with their work but not to come to the house. If there was anything he wanted them to know he would put out a note for them, he said. Likewise they could do the same. Savill had no doubt that folk would regard him as fastidious and eccentric for the measures he was taking, but he didn’t care. In a matter of hours the situation at Hallowford House was something like a state of siege.

When Ernest got in from the farm that Monday evening he found his brother no better. At Sarah’s insistence he at once went next door, borrowed Davie Hewitt’s bicycle and rode off to fetch Dr Harmon. The Harmons’ maid answered his ring at the door. She told him that Dr Harmon was out, but that she would give him the message as soon as he returned.

When he returned to the cottage he ate his dinner, changed, and then went out to call on Fanny. Fanny’s sister Amy answered the door to his knock. Fanny was in bed, she told him – along with her two other sisters, Lottie and Edie. It looked as if they had the ‘flu.

As Ernest returned home a little later he found Agnes just on the point of going out to choir-practice.

‘Where’s Mam?’ he asked as he took off his coat. ‘Up with Artie?’

‘Yes.’ Agnes tied the strings of her bonnet. ‘The doctor came while you were out.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Well, it
is
the ‘flu, of course. But I s’pose we already knew that.’

She went off then, and Ernest put the kettle on the range. A little later Sarah came into the kitchen.

‘How is he?’ Ernest asked.

She sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. All we can do is keep him in bed and just – just hope it doesn’t – get worse. If it goes onto his chest … His cough is very bad. Doctor says he’ll call again tomorrow.’ She paused. ‘What are you doing back so soon? I thought you went out to see Fanny.’

‘I did. She’s got the ‘flu as well, it seems. And Edie and Lottie.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Sarah shook her head in sympathy. ‘How are they?’

‘I don’t know. I was only there a minute.’

The water in the kettle was boiling and Sarah made some tea. They sat together drinking it at the kitchen table.

‘It’s such a terrible thing, this ‘flu,’ Sarah said. ‘Doctor said he’s had one call after another. There’s so much of it about. I mentioned Arthur’s boss having caught it, and he said, yes, Mr Grill was very poorly. And Mr Grill’s wife now, as well.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘It’s a good thing Blanche didn’t come home yesterday. There’s no sense in putting her at risk too.’

‘Right,’ Ernest agreed. ‘Anyway, let’s hope it all passes soon.’

‘Yes.’ She looked at him over the rim of her cup. ‘And don’t you worry about Fanny,’ she said. ‘She’ll be all right soon.’

Ernest said nothing. Sarah continued to study him.
‘I think you’re mighty sweet on that young lady, aren’t you?’ she said.

He grinned at her. ‘Ah, I reckon I am.’

‘It’s not hard to see.’

He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘D’you like her, Mam?’

‘Oh – yes, I do. She’s helpful when she comes round. She’s a smart girl, too – in her dress, I mean. And very pretty, there’s no doubt about that.’

‘Yeh, I think so.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘I’m really lucky, I know that much.’

Sarah smiled. ‘Oh? Well,
I
happen to think that Fanny’s the lucky one. Having a nice, handsome, intelligent young man like you – she ought to
think
herself lucky, anyway. She couldn’t do better, that’s a fact.’ Her smile grew wider. ‘And there’s some typical mother’s unbiased talk for you.’

Ernest laughed, took a swallow from his cup, and said, ‘Yeh, but like you say, she is a smart, pretty girl, ain’t she?’ Then he added, ‘And she’s a sensible girl, too, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Sensible? Well, yes, I should think she is.’

He nodded, pleased. Sarah watched him and said, ‘You really are serious about her, aren’t you?’

He looked at her intently. ‘Mam, what would you say if I wanted to get married?’

A little silence, then Sarah said: ‘– When … ?’

‘Well – soon.’

‘And – does Fanny know you feel like this?’

‘Oh, yes, she wants it too – very much.’

‘More than you, d’you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, I …’ His words tailed off. Sarah reached across the table and briefly pressed his hand.

‘Ernest,’ she said. ‘I know that when
ever
you decide
to leave it will be too soon for me. And that’s something I’ve got to be aware of, and I mustn’t let it get in the way of what is – right for you. But – oh, Ernest, you’re so young. You’re both so young.’

‘Well – not
so
young. Fanny’ll be eighteen in April.’

‘And how old will that make you? You’ll still be eighteen.’

‘Yes, I know, but –’ Giving a little groan of hopelessness he turned his head away.

‘Ernest, listen to me,’ Sarah said. ‘At eighteen years old you shouldn’t be thinking about settling down. There’ll be plenty of time for that in a few years from now.
Then
you’ll have time to start thinking about marriage and – everything else – taking on extra responsibilities. Until then you should be having some fun – both of you. God knows, there’s little opportunity enough. Have you got any money?’