Saddle the Wind (23 page)

‘Not much, but – I can save.’

‘After you’re married? That’s easier said than done. Why don’t you wait – and try to save a little while you’re waiting. You won’t have much chance afterwards, believe me.’ She paused. ‘And – are you absolutely sure Fanny’s the right girl for you?’

A look of profound disappointment crossed his face. ‘You don’t think she is?’

‘Oh, I didn’t say that, lad. It’s what
you
feel that counts.’

‘Oh, but – I love her, Mam. I do.’

Sarah sighed. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say to that, Ernest. I reckon there’s not much I
can
say – except that – oh, but I do wish you’d wait.’

‘I knew you’d say that.’

‘I have to, my dear. And if your father were here he’d tell you just the same.’

‘But – I’m afraid if I wait I’ll lose her.’

She gave a melancholy little smile. ‘Fear isn’t the best start, is it? And how d’you think you might lose her?’

‘Oh, you know – some other chap’ll come along. Bound to. A girl lookin’ like she does.’

‘No – not if she loves you.’

A little pause, then Ernest said. ‘Are you saying no, then? That I can’t?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not saying that, son. I’m saying I’d like you both to wait. But – if you’ve made up your mind – well, then, you must do what you want. If you’re sure you love one another, then – well, I won’t stand in your way. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Thanks, Mam.’ A slow smile touched Ernest’s mouth. ‘I’ll tell Fanny tomorrow, all right?’

Arthur’s condition grew worse as the evening wore on and it was agreed that Sarah would sleep in Ernest’s bed that night, in order to be near Arthur if he should need anything. Ernest would sleep downstairs on the parlour sofa, or make up a bed in front of the kitchen range; whichever he wanted.

With the little room lit faintly by the glow of the nightlight, Sarah slept only fitfully, each time she awoke her eyes going at once to Arthur in the next bed. Dr Harmon had left a sleeping draught and although Sarah had given a measure to the boy he passed a restless night, turning, muttering in his shallow sleep, mouth open, as if fighting for breath. Next morning it was clear to Sarah that he was much worse.

Dr Harmon called during the late afternoon. An elderly man, he appeared to be tiring somewhat from the now frequent demands on his time and energy. Also he had about him a rather harassed air and his usually slightly impatient manner was more pronounced. He didn’t stay long. After examining Arthur, sounding his
chest and taking his pulse he shook his head and told Sarah that there couldn’t be much doubt that Arthur’s influenza had turned to broncho-pneumonia. After giving Sarah further instructions as to the boy’s care and leaving with her bottles of linctus and chloral, he left, saying that he would call again the next day.

That night, in spite of the sedative, Arthur remained feverishly wakeful, and Sarah was kept moving about, giving him what help she could, bathing his forehead; giving him doses of the linctus, of honey and vinegar; feeding him warm milk and murmuring softly to him when in his periods of restless sleep he cried out. At long last she saw the curtains lighten with the dawn.

It was clear that Arthur had grown worse during the night, and Sarah remained with him while Agnes got breakfast for herself and Ernest. When Ernest was ready to leave for work he crept up the stairs and came into the bedroom. He stood above Arthur’s bed, gazing down at him as he fought for breath. Briefly Ernest laid a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Mam,’ he whispered, ‘Doctor’ll be here again soon. He’ll look after ‘im all right.’ Sarah nodded. Exhaustion lay on her like a blanket. Her eyelids felt sore and prickly from her vigil while her emotions seemed so tautly strung that she could hardly trust herself to speak. Turning to him as if only just becoming aware of his presence she said: ‘Ernest … how are you, son? Did you sleep all right?’ He had spent the night on the kitchen floor. He couldn’t have slept that well, she knew.

‘Oh, I’m all right. Don’t concern yourself with me.’

A few minutes after Ernest’s departure Agnes came upstairs. She was wearing her coat. As she stood looking from her brother to Sarah her eyes glistened with tears.

‘D’you want me to stay, Mam?’ she said after a moment.

‘No, no, my dear. You go on to work. There’s nothing you can do. I’ll just wait for Dr Harmon. He’ll be here soon.’

Reluctantly Agnes left and Sarah settled herself to waiting again.

Most of the time that followed she spent upstairs with Arthur or in the kitchen where she warmed milk for him, made him broth, and porridge. She could get him to eat but little of it, however. And the hours dragged by, and still Dr Harmon didn’t come. When Agnes arrived home from work that afternoon there had still been no sign of the doctor. Arthur’s condition seemed to have grown worse. His breathing sounded frighteningly constricted now, and he seemed too weak to bring up any of the secretions that were filling his lungs. Then towards five o’clock the scullery door opened and Dr Kelsey was there. Agnes was sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes and she looked up as with barely a knock he came striding into the kitchen and began to take off his coat. Quickly she got to her feet. He had come to see Arthur, he told her, adding that he was taking Dr Harmon’s calls as Dr Harmon was sick. She took his coat and, going before him, directed him into the hall and up the stairs.

He was down again ten minutes later, his expression solemn. Sarah followed him into the kitchen. He washed his hands in some warm water that Sarah poured into a bowl, dried them, and then pulled on his coat again. ‘I’ll look in again tomorrow,’ he said as he moved back towards the hall. Just before he went through the door he turned back and looked at Agnes.

‘I heard you sing in church a few weeks back,’ he said.

Agnes nodded, a nervous little smile touching her lips.

‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Keep it up.’

Glowing, Agnes thanked him. A few moments later, with Sarah following him to the front door, he was gone.

On the way home from the farm Ernest stopped at the Greenhams’ house to ask after Fanny. Mrs Greenham came to the door at his knock. She was a short, wiry little woman with reddish hair and small, neat features. She told Ernest that Fanny, Edie and Lottie were still in bed. She’d ask him in to see Fanny, she added, but she couldn’t, not with all three girls being in the one room. They were quite poorly, she added, but were not too bad and were bearing up. Ernest hesitated, then he took from his pocket a sealed envelope containing a letter he had hurriedly written at the farm that morning.

‘Would you give Fanny this for me, please?’ he said.

Mrs Greenham put the envelope into her apron pocket. ‘I’ll see she gets it, Ernie. Don’t worry.’

‘Thank you. And tell her I ‘ope she’ll be better soon.’

‘I will.’

‘Here you are – a letter from your young man.’

Up in the girls’ bedroom Fanny took the letter from her mother and looked at it.
Miss Fanny Greenham
, Ernest had written in pencil. Fanny tore open the envelope, took out the letter and read what Ernest had written:

Dearest Fan,

I was so sorry to hear you’re laid low with the ‘flu, and I hope it won’t be long before you’re well again. I’m looking forward to seeing you. I miss you that much.

I thought you might be interested to know that I talked with my mother last night, and I think I
might have some good news for you when I see you next.

As I say, I hope that will be soon. In the meantime, please think of,

Your loving

Ernie

Fanny read the letter again and smiled through the pain in her head. Her sister Edie, lying in the next bed with Lottie, looked across at her and said.

‘What is it? What are you smiling about?’

‘Never you mind.’ Fanny gave her a glance of mock hauteur. ‘You’ll find out in good time – perhaps.’

Agnes served Ernest his dinner when he got indoors. Their mother was upstairs with Arthur. Agnes told Ernest about Dr Kelsey’s visit, and then, looking round at the door to make sure that she wouldn’t be heard, gave a little shake of her head and added,

‘I didn’t tell Mam. But I heard this afternoon that there’s a couple have died in the village. Mr Grill was one of ‘em.’

Ernest was asleep in the kitchen that night when he suddenly heard his name being called. He sat up abruptly and saw his mother standing in the doorway.

‘Quick, Ernest! Quick!’ she shouted to him. ‘Quick! You must get up and go for Dr Kelsey.’ There was fear in her voice.

Throwing back the blankets he swung his legs off the cushions and stood up. ‘Is it Arthur?’ he said.

‘Yes. Oh, be quick.
Please
.’ With her words Sarah turned back into the hall and the next moment he heard the sound of her feet as she hurried back up the stairs.

As he quickly got dressed he saw that the time was
just after two o’clock. Minutes later he was letting himself out of the back door and starting off at a run along the lane.

‘All right, Arthur. It’s all right, my darling. Mam’s here. Mam’s got you.’

Agnes, in her nightdress, was standing in the doorway helplessly looking on as Sarah sat on Arthur’s bed holding him in her arms. His breath was rasping through his open mouth and in the light of the candle and the nightlight she could see that his skin had a strange, cold look about it.

Sarah had watched over him as the evening had worn on, but with the night exhaustion had taken over and she had begun to doze. Then, suddenly, she had awakened and realized that the sound of Arthur’s breathing had changed. Getting up from the chair she had moved to his side. His breathing had been bad before, but now it was so much worse; now she could also hear in it a terrifying, strange, fine crackling sound. It was then that she had run downstairs to waken Ernest.

Now as she held Arthur in her arms he coughed his dry, painful, hacking cough and she felt the spasms shake his body before he went limp again in her arms. Then, his body tightening, clenching again, he struggled to draw in a harsh, tortured breath of air and coughed once more. The mucus bubbled out of his nostrils and Sarah took a cloth and gently wiped him clean. He was unaware of it; he seemed unaware of everything. Sarah, tears streaming down her cheeks, had no idea what to do. She could only sit there, murmuring to him over and over and praying that the doctor would soon arrive. Dr Kelsey would know what to do, she muttered to Agnes. He would know.

And then Arthur briefly stiffened in her arms again
and opened his eyes. They were unfocused for some moments, but then they lighted on Sarah’s face and she saw the light of knowing in them. The breath was whistling from his lungs and the cold, mauvish look of his skin seemed to have grown stronger. ‘Mam …’ He gasped hoarsely on a terrifying intake of air and Sarah involuntarily cried out and wrapped her arms more firmly about him. He seemed to be turning blue before her eyes. ‘
Dear God, help me
!’ She almost shrieked out the words while at the same time she half rose from the bed, still clutching him in her arms, as if she would run somewhere for help, carrying him with her. Then, sinking back onto the bed she held him close while his breathing grew even more tortured and eventually stopped.

John Savill stood without moving in the hall, the letters in his hand forgotten. In his ears he could still hear the postman’s words as they had come to him through the crack of the partly opened door. One of the Farrar children was dead, the man had told him, and Mrs Farrar herself had also been stricken with the ‘flu. Savill remained there for some seconds longer, then slowly turned and made his way across the hall.

The reports of the disease in the village had been filtering in as the days had gone by, sometimes by means of the postman, sometimes by means of James who left the occasional note on the back doorstep, and at other times by means of the tradesmen who, when leaving their produce at the back door, had called through to Florence or one of the maids.

This was the fifth day that Savill and the other inhabitants of Hallowford House had been in isolation, and while the reports from the outside world had grown more disturbing with each day, the house’s occupants had so far remained healthy and free of the disease’s symptoms.

And the news from outside
was
disturbing, with the newspapers giving regular reports of the toll of the disease in London and other cities. They told of fire brigades being understaffed, of communications being hampered by the high number of absentees among postmen and telegraph operators. And the number of sufferers went on mounting.

Closer to home the reports were no less saddening and alarming. Dr Harmon was seriously ill, it was said. As was poor, little, ineffectual Miss Timperley, the girls’ erstwhile temporary governess. The butcher, Grill, was dead, as was his wife. Also the wife of Webster, the blacksmith. And now one of the Farrar children.

At the library door Savill came to a stop. Blanche would have to be told. He moved to the foot of the stairs, came to a halt and hesitated there. Looking at his watch he realized that she would be having lunch. He would tell her later, when she had eaten.

As he stood there he thought of the birthday party that had been planned for next Tuesday, Marianne’s birthday. It was to be a joint party, for both girls; Blanche’s ninth birthday had fallen on the Tuesday past. The party the two girls were looking forward to would not now take place.

A little later Savill joined Gentry in the dining room for lunch.

Gentry, remaining free of any symptoms of the disease, had had the run of the house for several days now, and Savill, sitting facing him across the table, realized that he was glad of the boy’s presence. Confined as he himself was, it was good to have someone to talk to, even someone as young as Gentry; for all the boy’s youth and inexperience, he had found him to be intelligent and entertaining. And Gentry had helped considerably with Marianne and Blanche, too, saving them from a good deal of the boredom that might otherwise have been theirs in their confinement to the house. Since Monday when he had been released from his own incarceration he had done what he could to keep them amused, not only in the nursery, where he had played endless games with them, but also in the schoolroom where he had sometimes helped Miss Fenwick with their lessons.