Saddle the Wind (27 page)

*

Savill had pondered on when to tell Blanche of the deaths of her brother and sister. But then, realizing that everyone in the house but the two girls knew of it, and fearing that it would only be a matter of days before word got to Blanche in some oblique way and perhaps made the shock even greater, he decided she would have to be told.

On the day of the funerals he sent word to Blanche that he would like to see her, and two minutes later she entered the library.

After Savill had told her she just remained there, standing in silence for what seemed to him a long time, occasionally glancing up at him and then looking away again. There was a perplexed expression on her face, a slight creasing of her brow, as if she did not understand. Then, looking up at him again she said,

‘Arthur, sir?’

‘Yes …’

‘And Agnes?’

‘Yes …Oh, Blanche – I’m so sorry.’

A further little silence. ‘And my mama, sir? How is she?’

‘Your mama – she’s going to be all right, I’m sure. It may take some time, but I would think now she must be over the worst. She’ll be all right again soon, don’t worry. You’ll be seeing her again soon.’

She nodded, still frowning. ‘But – Agnes – and Arthur – I shan’t be seeing them again, shall I, sir?’

‘No, Blanche – I’m afraid not.’

She glanced dully from the window. ‘It’s snowing again,’ she said. Savill watched her.

‘You do understand what I’ve been saying, don’t you, Blanche?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ She half turned on the carpet. ‘May I go back now, sir …?’

‘Yes – yes, of course.’

She moved to the door, opened it and looked back at him. ‘I must go and see my mama,’ she said.

‘No – not just yet, my dear.’ He shook his head. ‘She’ll be all right. You just wait a little longer, till she’s better.’

‘But – she’ll want to see me. Won’t she?’

‘Well, yes, but – what if you catch the ‘flu as well? How would she feel then, d’you suppose?’

She nodded her understanding. Then she said softly, her eyes gazing into the distance:

‘Arthur and Agnes …’

Savill said nothing. After a moment she raised her eyes to his.

‘What happens to them, sir?’

‘What happens? What d’you mean?’

‘When people – die. Where do they go?’

‘Do you mean when –’

She broke in quickly: ‘I don’t mean when they’re put in – in the graves. I mean – what happens to
them
– the – the
persons
–
inside
. Do they just – stop?’

Savill frowned, gazing down at her. Then he said, ‘You mean – well, you’re talking about a person’s
soul
, Blanche.’

She was silent, waiting.

‘Well, it – it goes to – to God …’

‘To God …’

‘Yes …’ He felt stupid and ineffectual. ‘Yes …God takes them.’

The frown on her brow was deeper. ‘God took them? Arthur – and Agnes?’

‘Well – yes.’

‘
Why
, sir?’

‘Why …?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘
Why?
’

She waited for some moments for an answer that never came, then turned and went from the room.

*

A week after the funeral it was Christmas. At the Farrars’ cottage the time came and went with barely any acknowledgement. On the way to and from the farm Ernest passed by some dwellings where lighted windows gave glimpses of Christmas trees and holly and decorated rooms. In deference to the sickness and deaths in the village there were fewer this year. What there were, though, he observed dully; they had no relevance for him.

Over the days messages had come from various people in the village. Mr Savill had written several times, on the occasions of the deaths of the children and also to say that Blanche was perfectly well. For Ernest, too, there had been letters from Fanny, offering sympathy and saying that she herself was recovering well. She looked forward to seeing him again soon, she told him. He had not seen her since before she herself had been taken ill, though he had called at her home on a few occasions to ask after her and to convey his affection and good wishes.

On the Sunday evening just a few days after Christmas she came round to the cottage. Ernest was sitting up in the bedroom reading to Sarah when he heard his name softly called from below the stairs. Leaving Sarah with some murmured words he left the room, turned onto the landing and saw Fanny standing at the foot of the stairs. When he reached the hall he led her back into the kitchen where he turned up the flame in the lamp. They stood facing one another. He smiled at her and she smiled back at him, a slow, melancholy smile like his own.

‘Hello, Fan,’ he said.

‘Hello, Ernie. I knocked but I couldn’t make you hear. I hope it’s all right – my coming in.’

‘Oh, yeh, course it is.’ He paused. ‘I’m right glad to see you.’

‘I’m glad to see you too. How’s your mam?’

He gave a little shrug. ‘I think she’s gettin’ better – slowly.’

Fanny nodded. ‘Good …’

‘Should you be out yet, Fan? You sure you’re well enough?’

‘Oh, yes, I’m feelin’ all right now.’ She smiled. ‘I liked gettin’ your letters, Ernie. It was so nice.’

‘Ah – well …’ After a moment he held out his arms and she came to him. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. She sighed, laying her head against his shoulder. ‘Oh, Ernie,’ she said, ‘it’s such a – terrible, terrible time.’ She paused. ‘Still – at least we’ve got each other.’

He bent his head and she lifted her face to him. As he kissed her he was aware of a greater warmth in her kiss than he had known before. After the kiss she said, looking up at him:

‘What did you mean – in your letter?’

‘– Mean?’

‘In your first letter. You said you’d talked to your mam and that you had some good news …’

‘Oh – yeh – that …’

She waited. ‘Well? What was the good news?’

For the briefest moment he felt himself touched by a little shadow of disappointment. But he brushed the thought aside and shook his head. ‘Oh, yeh – well,’ he said awkwardly, ‘this – this ain’t the time for it, Fan. Not right now.’

‘Oh …’ She frowned momentarily, then gave a shrug. ‘I was just lookin’ forward to hearin’ it – the good news, that’s all … Whatever it is …’

‘Yeh, I know, but – well, like I said, this ain’t the time for it.’

‘Oh, well – when will be the time for it?’

‘Later on. A bit later. We’ll talk about it later on. There’s time.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Just so long as you don’t forget, though.’

‘No, I won’t forget.’

She sighed and stepped away. ‘Anyway, Ernie, I must get back home. I told our mam I’d just slip out for a few minutes.’

‘Ah, right.’ He followed her to the scullery door. ‘Will you be all right, going back on your own?’

‘Yes, of course. I got ‘ere, didn’t I?’ She stretched up and kissed him. ‘Shall I see you soon?’

‘Yes – soon as our mam’s a bit better I’ll come round.’

She pulled her coat collar more closely about her throat. ‘You won’t leave it too long, will you?’

‘No – course not.’

‘– It’s New Year’s Eve day after tomorrow. Shall I see you then?’

‘I’d like to but – I don’t know. I doubt I’ll be able to come out.’

She nodded. ‘Anyway – I’ll see you soon, Ernie.’

‘Yes, soon.’ He bent and kissed her. ‘And don’t forget, Fan – I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

On Wednesday evening Sarah insisted that she would be perfectly all right on her own and when Ernest had shaved and changed he went to Fox Lane to the Greenhams’ cottage. Fanny herself answered the door.

She smiled at him. ‘What are you doin’ here?’

‘I just come to wish you a happy new year,’ he said.

From behind Fanny came the sound of voices, that of her sisters and brothers. She frowned. ‘Wait a minute, Ernie, and I’ll get my coat.’

He waited while she went back into the cottage. Five minutes later she had returned wearing a dark brown
coat with trimmings of squirrel at the collar and cuffs. ‘You got a new coat,’ he said.

‘You like it?’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Looks champion.’

She took his arm and together they set off along the lane, the snow crunching beneath their boots. It was too cold to keep walking, though, and they made their way to Coates Lane. When they got to the cottage Ernest led Fanny inside, lit the lamp then took off his coat and went upstairs to look in on his mother. Finding her sleeping he crept out of the room again and went back down to the kitchen where Fanny had taken off her coat and now stood warming her hands before the range. Ernest moved up quietly behind her, put his arms around her waist and held her, laying his cheek against the top of her head. She turned in the circle of his grasp, lifted her face to his and kissed him gently on the mouth.

‘Just think,’ Fanny said, ‘we could be in our own ‘ome like this, couldn’t we?’

He smiled. ‘Yeh, I s’pose we could at that.’

‘Be nice, wouldn’t it? Though not here – in Hallowford, I mean. Though I s’pose at the start we’d have to, wouldn’t we? Till we decide where we want to go, and get a few things up together.’

Ernest didn’t answer. He put on the kettle and made tea. As they drank it Fanny looked at him over the rim of her cup.

‘All right, Ernie Farrar, what’s this news you’ve got for me, eh? You said you’d talked to your mam.’ She paused. ‘Come on now. You can’t expect me to wait for ever.’

He sighed, smiled at her. ‘Oh – well …’ He felt somehow a reluctance to talk about it. But then, seeing the look on her face, he went on: ‘Well, you know what I meant, didn’t you?’

‘Per’aps.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s just that I talked to our mam about – about gettin’ married …’

‘– And?’

‘Well, she thinks I’m too young but –’

‘Oh, drat!’ Fanny said. ‘I was afraid she’d say that.’

‘No, wait,’ Ernest said, ‘– let me finish. She said I was too young – she thinks we’re
both
too young, come to that – but that if it’s what I want – well, she won’t stand in my way.’

‘Oh, Ernie!’ Fanny put down her cup, got up and came to him. She took his own cup from his hand and set it down on the table beside her own, then sat on his lap, putting her arm around his neck. She kissed him on the cheek, on the ear, on the forehead. Then, laying her face against his, she said, ‘That’s wonderful news, Ernie. Just about the best present a girl could ‘ave.’ She drew back a little and looked into his eyes. Her own eyes were sparkling. ‘So – there’s nothing in the way now, is there.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘So now you’ll have to go and talk to my dad.’

‘Oh, now, wait a bit, Fan …’ He frowned.

‘What’s up? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing – just – well, I don’t think we should be in too much of a hurry.’

‘What d’you mean?’

He shrugged. ‘Let’s wait a little while yet, before we go talking about it to anybody, all right?’

‘Why? Oh, Ernie, I want to tell
e
verybody.’

‘No, come on now, Fan. It’s too soon.’

‘Too soon? You already told me your mam says it’s all right.’

‘I know that. I mean it’s too soon after – well, after what’s ‘appened.’

‘Oh … yes … of course.’ Her expression became grave. ‘I’m sorry, Ernie, I should’ve realized.’

‘That don’t matter. But anyway – what with – that, and with Mam still bad – I’d just like to keep it to ourselves for a spell yet, all right?’

‘All right. It’ll be our secret. I won’t tell anybody yet. We’ll wait till your mam’s better.’

‘Right. There’ll be time enough then.’

A little over an hour later, when Ernest had walked Fanny back to her home, he went upstairs to see his mother again. Standing beside the bed he looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. When she opened them she looked up at him without surprise.

‘Ah, you’re back now, lad.’

‘Yeh, back now.’ He smiled at her. ‘Ow’re you feelin’?’

The shrug was in her tone. ‘Oh – all right. What time is it?’

‘Just on nine. I’ll make your fire up then get to bed. I’ll change the brick, too. T’ other’s in the oven.’ He grinned. ‘Good and ‘ot now.’

When he had taken the brick from the foot of her bed and replaced it with the one hot from the oven he made up the fire and put the guard back in front of it. Then, returning to Sarah’s side he sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Is there anything you need?’

‘No, nothing, thanks.’ Taking her hand from beneath the covers she laid it on his own as it rested on the patchwork coverlet. ‘How’s Fanny?’ she asked.

He smiled. ‘Oh – very well.’

‘That’s good.’ Shifting her glance towards the window she added, ‘I suppose the two of you will want to be naming the day soon, won’t you? You’ll want to start making your plans.’

‘Ah, we’ll talk about that later.’ Gently he pressed her hand in his. ‘You just think about gettin’ well again. That’s all you got to think about.’

Sarah said nothing to this. Then as Ernest watched her he saw the silent tears run from her lowered eyelids and course slowly down her cheeks.

‘– Oh, Mam, don’t – please.’ Taking up a handkerchief from beside the pillow he dabbed gently at her tears. When her tears had stopped he said softly, earnestly:

‘It will get better, Mam. It will. Soon you’ll be well again, and then the spring’ll be ‘ere before you know it. Things will look different then.’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘Oh, I know it’s no good my saying it’ll be like old times again. We both know it won’t. But it
will
get better – in time. We’ll be all right again, you’ll see.’

The rain, driven by the early March winds, lashed the window panes. Savill had just returned from Trowbridge, from the mill. Now, sitting beside the library fire in his carpet slippers, he drank the tea that Annie, the maid, had brought him. When his cup was empty he sighed and leaned back in his chair. He had been back at work for more than a fortnight now. The worst of the influenza had come and gone. Throughout the country by the end of January the effects and the number of instances of the disease had passed their peak and begun to wane. The situation had started to get back to normal again; the workers going back to their jobs, and the students – Gentry among them – to their schools. By the end of February only a few cases of the sickness were being reported in the village, none of which, according to Kelsey, gave any real cause for alarm. The toll, however, had been great. About one in four of the villagers had been affected – among whom there had been seven deaths.