Saddle the Wind (32 page)

‘I will,’ Blanche said.

They came to a stop some yards from the pony. ‘You’d better get back,’ Blanche said, smiling. ‘Mam will have your tea ready.’

Ernest nodded. ‘Ah, in a minute.’

They stood facing one another. Blanche thought suddenly of the girl, Fanny Greenham, who had left Hallowford long ago. Blanche wondered whether Ernest ever thought about her. Had he loved her? Such a question had never occurred to her before, at those times when Fanny had been there and they had all walked together and played on the hill. Was there anyone now he loved? She knew that over the years he had walked out on occasions with two or three young women from the area, but the relationships had never lasted.

Blanche thought suddenly of the medical books she had seen at the cottage.

‘I saw your books, Ernest,’ she said.

‘My what?’

‘Your books. Your medical books.’

‘Oh – those …’ He straightened, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. ‘I picked them up ‘ere and there.’

She smiled. ‘You haven’t given up, have you?’

‘Given up?’

‘– Well – those medical books. You’ve never forgotten, have you? – what you wanted to be – a doctor.’

‘Oh, I’ll never be a doctor now. But I can’t help but be – interested.’

‘No more than interested?’

He laughed. ‘Ah, well – per’aps. I’ve learned a good deal working with the animals at the farm. And I’ve ‘elped the vet on a few occasions.’ He gave a little snort of derision. ‘Not that it’ll ever do me any good.’

‘Are you happy, Ernest?’ she asked.

He frowned. ‘Happy? Oh – Blanche – it’s not a thing I ever think about.’ He narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘I s’pose I’m happy enough, all right. Are you?’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, yes. Like you, I suppose I’m happy enough.’

‘Still getting on all right at Clifton?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘How much longer have you got there?’

‘Another year.’

‘That’ll go soon enough. Will you be sorry to leave? I expect you will – a clever girl like you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that – being clever.’

He smiled. ‘No Miss Bakers there.’

‘No, no Miss Bakers.’

She told him then about Mr Savill’s proposal to send her to finishing school with Marianne when they had finished their studies at Clifton. He gave a low whistle. ‘Going to France, eh? Well, if that don’t beat all.’

Blanche gave a deprecating little laugh. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s not like a real education, is it? I mean, it’s not like going to university or anything like that, is it?’

‘Is that what you’d like to do – go to university?’

‘Oh, fine chance of that for a girl. Haven’t you
realized that no one takes education seriously for females? No, girls have to learn deportment and such fascinating things.’

A little silence fell between them. A movement to her right drew her eyes and she saw the red shape of a squirrel come to a halt on the branch of an oak and stay for some moments, tail flicking, before leaping away again. She watched the squirrel until it had gone from her sight. When she moved her glance back to Ernest she found him studying her. She smiled. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ He returned her smile. ‘I was just thinking that Mary would have looked just like you.’

‘I wish I could remember her. I was too young.’

‘Yes, of course you were. But you’re very like her. And Dad. You’ve got their colouring.’

A little silence, then Blanche said:

‘How is Mama, Ernest? I can’t tell. She never talks much about herself when I go to see her, or in her letters when I’m away at school.’

Ernest shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s all right, I s’pose. She gets about a bit more now.’ He paused. ‘Though I don’t think she’s that strong.’

‘She – she’s not ill, is she?’

‘No, she’s not ill. But, as I say – I don’t think she’s that strong.’ He gazed at her in silence for a moment, then he said, ‘Come and see her soon again, will you?’

‘Yes, of course I will.’

‘You promise?’

She felt touched by a little irritation at his words. ‘I said I would,’ she said.

‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to push you. It’s just that …’ He let the rest of his words go unsaid.

Blanche said suddenly, ‘When I go to see Mama there’s – there’s no real – closeness between us anymore.’

He frowned. ‘Oh, Blanche, what a melancholy thing to say.’

‘It’s true.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish it were otherwise.’

He paused. ‘Have you any notion as to why it should be?’

‘No.’

He pondered the problem for a few moments then said, ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see. And in the meantime don’t worry about it.’ He gave a little smile. ‘Fancy – you going away to France. You’ll be so grand when you come back it’ll be a wonder if you ever speak to us again.’ He laughed, and Blanche laughed with him.

As she rode away on the cob a few minutes later, heading back towards Hallowford, the sound of his words lingered in her mind.

At noon the following day Ernest filled a mug with fresh milk from the dairy and, taking up the tin containing his dinner, left the farmyard. When he had crossed over the narrow road between the farm buildings and the meadows he passed through a stile into a field where a number of Palmer’s cows were grazing. Walking beside the hedge he made his way to a clump of trees on the far side, a small thicket in which was a clearing through which flowed a narrow stream. Near the stream he sat down at the foot of an oak. It was the usual spot in which he ate when the weather was fine, and this July day was warm and bright.

The varying shades of green of the sundrenched copse about him was splashed here and there with the pink of dogroses. Through the screen of leaves he could watch the cows grazing in the meadow. From his pocket he took a small volume and opened it on his knee. As he read he slowly drank the milk, and ate the bread-and-cheese
and bread-and-dripping his mother had prepared for him.

A little later as he took from the tin one of the two hard-boiled eggs packed there his eye was caught by a movement to his left and, looking over, he saw an animal slink by in the foliage. A second or two later the creature came more clearly into his view and he saw that it was a dog.

As he looked at the animal it came to a halt and turned to face him. For some seconds they stared at one another, then Ernest leant back against the tree and began to eat.

When both eggs were gone a few minutes later he looked over and saw that the dog was still there, watching him. It had moved a little nearer now, lying in the long grass beside a bramble bush. After a moment Ernest said gently, ‘Hello, there, dog. What’re you doin’ ‘ere, then? Are you lost?’ The dog remained still. Ernest put out a hand. ‘Here, boy …’ Seconds went by. Ernest spoke again: ‘Here, boy. Come on, now …’ And slowly, cautiously, the dog raised itself and, limping slightly on its right foreleg, moved a few feet towards him. Ernest began to speak again, a gentle, continuous, coaxing murmur, and eventually the animal was crouching just six feet away.

Keeping his eyes on the dog, Ernest reached down to the tin at his side. At the movement the dog backed away a foot. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right …’ Ernest kept up the soothing words as he slowly took the lid from the tin and laid it on the ground. There was only some cold meat left now, some mutton left over from yesterday’s supper. He picked it up, unwrapped it and broke off a small piece. With a soft word he tossed the morsel towards the dog, which quickly stepped back in alarm. ‘It’s all right,’ Ernest said. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right …’

The dog stayed there for a few seconds, eyes lifted to Ernest’s face. Ernest gazed back. The dog was of medium size, of some indeterminate mixture of breeds. Its dull and dirty coat was white with a black patch over its right eye and ear. One or two bits of twig and dried grass clung to the matted and tangled hair. Beneath the dog’s coat its frame looked thin and starved, and obviously the creature’s limp had been caused by some injury.

After remaining still for some seconds the dog lowered its head and cautiously stretched its neck towards the smell of the meat.

‘Come on, boy,’ Ernest said. ‘Come on. Eat it. It’s good. Come on, boy …’

And suddenly the dog moved forward, snatched up the scrap of meat, wolfed it down and backed away again.

‘Was that good, boy?’ Ernest kept his voice to a soothing monotone. ‘You want more?’ He threw another scrap towards the dog. This time the dog hesitated for only a second before moving forward and snatching it up. Timidly it backed off again. ‘It’s all right,’ Ernest said. ‘You don’t need to be afraid – not of me.’ He tossed another morsel of meat and now, almost without hesitating, the dog moved forward and ate it. And this time instead of backing off afterwards it merely wavered a little on the spot, its head lifted to Ernest, its dark, moist, fearful eyes gazing into his own.

‘Come on, boy …You and I can be friends, I reckon.’

Ernest took another scrap of meat and this time tossed it so that it fell only a yard away. The dog hesitated again, then timidly moved forward, its cringing body low to the ground. It took up the meat slowly, aware of the shortened distance between itself and the man. Afterwards it didn’t move. Ernest too remained still.

‘Come on, boy.’

Ernest tore off another piece of the meat – there was little of it left now – and slowly bent forward and placed it on the grass near his feet. He remained there, bending over, watching the dog. After a few seconds the animal moved forward. When it had eaten the meat it looked up at Ernest. Moving slowly, Ernest tore the last of the mutton in two and slowly, slowly reached out, one of the remaining pieces of meat on his outstretched palm. A few moments later he felt the dog’s warm breath on his hand as it took the meat gently into its mouth. Ernest held out the last piece and watched as the dog carefully took it.

‘I’m afraid that’s all, boy,’ Ernest said. ‘There’s no more.’

The dog stayed a while longer, waiting, looking up at him, while once again Ernest took in the creature’s sorry condition. Turning, the dog moved away, limping down to the bank of the shallow stream where it began to drink. Afterwards it stepped away, moved across the grass a few feet and urinated against a tree. Then Ernest watched with a little surge of happiness as the dog came back to his side and, after a moment, lay down in the grass at his feet.

A little later when Ernest got up to go back to the farm the dog rose too and moved after him. And walking along the edge of the field Ernest glanced back and saw the dog still there, walking steadily behind him. For a moment Ernest feared that the dog might go after the cows, but it paid no heed to them, continuing to limp along, keeping to the hedge. Reaching the stile beside the gate Ernest stepped through it onto the roadside. When he had crossed to the entrance to the yard he looked back and saw the dog sitting beside the stile. ‘Ah, that’s right,’ Ernest said. ‘You’d better not come in ‘ere, lad. A stranger like you – you come in ‘ere you’re likely
to find yourself in trouble.’ He turned away again, opened the gate to the yard and went in, closing the gate behind him. Just before he turned out of sight by the cowshed he glanced back and saw the dog still sitting there.

Later on, when he crossed back into the field to help Lizzie, the young milkmaid, with the milking, there was no sign of the dog. He was aware of a slight feeling of disappointment.

At six o’clock when he left the farm dark clouds were gathering and there was the scent of rain in the air. He set off briskly, heading for home. As he moved along the road he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the dog was there again, following him at a distance of about twenty yards. By the time he got to Hummock Lane the dog had shortened the distance between them. When he reached the cottage gate he left it open behind him, and reaching the scullery door a moment later he turned and saw that the dog had followed him into the yard.

In the kitchen he found his mother preparing his supper. ‘Come and look,’ he said, nodding towards the door. Sarah, busy at the range, said, ‘What is it?’

‘Come and look.’

She came towards him and looked past his broad back at the dog. It backed away a little at the sight of her and then stayed there, looking nervously from her to Ernest.

‘Where did he come from?’ Sarah asked.

‘God knows. He’s been following me around half the day.’

As Ernest spoke the first drops of rain fell. In just seconds it was raining heavily. The dog didn’t move; it remained there, seemingly oblivious, eyes fixed on Ernest’s face.

‘Well,’ Ernest said, ‘we can’t leave the creature out
there, can we?’ He bent, stretching out his hand. ‘Come on, boy. Come on inside, in the dry.’

After a moment’s hesitation the dog moved forward. As it came through the doorway, Sarah said:

‘You make sure he stays in the scullery.’

The first thing Ernest did was to dry the animal and then feed him. Only then, and with much impatient admonishing from Sarah, did he change his clothes and eat his own supper.

Afterwards he gave his attention to the dog once more, first of all examining his injured paw. He found there was a thorn deeply embedded in the soft pad, and with the dog flinching and whimpering he carefully extracted it.

In the corner of the scullery he laid down an old, worn-out coat and a bit of an old blanket. He set the dog down on the makeshift bed and stood back watching as it circled, lay down and began to lick its paw.

‘He’ll be all right now,’ he said.

Sarah, watching from the kitchen doorway, said: ‘Have you any idea where he’s come from?’

‘None at all. I’ve never seen him around before.’

‘He’s a funny-looking thing,’ Sarah said.

Ernest nodded. ‘Ah, I doubt he’ll win any prizes for looks.’

‘How old is he, d’you think? He’s not a pup. You can see that.’

‘No, but he’s not very old, I don’t reckon.’

‘He looks half-starved.’

‘He does. I should think he’s been on the move for a good while. Wandering about … Either that or he’s been very badly mistreated by his owner. Still – we’ll soon put him right.’

At the implication of his words Sarah turned to look at Ernest. He shrugged.