Through Glass Eyes (26 page)

Lucy’s letter bore an American postage stamp. James had read it earlier, but as they sat by the fire in the evening, Grace asked him to read it again.

My dear James and Grace

As I write, the ship is steaming slowly through the Panama Canal. How different the scenery here is from the canal at Suez. Being near the equator, the weather is hot and sticky and Cyril and I are looking forward to being back on the open sea again. We change ships at New York but will not stay there for long as we do not want to be crossing the North Atlantic after the winter storms have blown in. From New York the ship steams via the Azores for Southampton where we will disembark.

But first let me congratulate you both. I was overjoyed to hear that I have a grandson and congratulate you and Grace on the birth of Andrew Edward Oldfield. I only wish I could have been home in time for his arrival. But I am glad Grace and baby are well, and to hear Alice is living back home and was able to share the joy with you. It will be wonderful for us all to be together again at Honeysuckle Cottages. Perhaps one day Pansy will come back too.

I hope it will not come as too much of a shock to you, but Cyril and I were married some weeks ago. I mentioned our friendship when I wrote from India. We were attracted to each other when we first met and, as Cyril does not believe in wasting time, we decided to get married straight away. Being practical, as we both are, we agreed it was foolish to pay for two cabins on the ship and two rooms in the hotels, therefore when the ship docked in Fremantle in Western Australia we arranged for a special marriage licence. As our relationship had been a topic of gossip amongst the first-class passengers, it seemed fitting to have a party on board to celebrate. I was hardly the young blushing bride, but it was a memorable day.

I feel sure you will both like Cyril. He is a kind and considerate man with a lively sense of humour. He has the patience and tolerance of Edward, and a considerable amount more energy. Hopefully we will be home within two months.

Give my regards to John Fothergill.

Your
loving Mother

‘She sounds happy,’ said James.

Grace agreed. ‘And they will be home before Christmas.’

James smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, gazing out of the window. As the wind bent the long grass into waves across the meadow, he tried to picture his mother on the deck of a ship sailing across the North Atlantic. He remembered his voyage to India and wondered if he would ever travel abroad again. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I think I will go to bed.’

‘I will follow in a few minutes.’

James kissed her. For some reason, he felt more weary than usual. The last few weeks had not gone well and there was little for him to feel positive about. The heavy rain had come at the wrong time damaging the crops which were ripening and almost ready for harvest. A month ago the top field had swayed golden in the breeze, waving like the surface of the sea bathed in a glorious sunset. Now the field was spoiled, flattened, the whole crop turning black and mouldy on the ground. A full year’s work had gone to waste.

Apart from the wheat, the drenching rain had turned the bottom meadows into swamps. The cows, sinking to their bellies in the mire, were coming in for milking with filthy udders. The farm’s tracks were gouged with muddy ruts and potholes and James’s legs ached constantly from the weight of clay caked around his boots. He was tired of being soaked to the skin, tired of the wind’s bitter chill striking through him like a steel blade and tired of everything going wrong. At times he wanted to give up, to ignore the cows and the farm, to stay indoors with Grace.

Lying in bed, he asked himself if he was cut out to be a farmer.

The thirty gallons of milk wasted during the week was due to his own stupidity. No one else was to blame. He had been hurrying. Stubborn. Not listened to Grace when she had advised him to be careful. He had known the roads were bad but had been driving too fast. He remembered the truck rocking from side to side. Remembered his sudden sense of panic expecting it to topple. He had felt the wheels lock, struggled with the wheel, but could do nothing. Within seconds the front end had embedded itself into a deep ditch.

Along the road, he had left a trail of spilled milk and littered the verge with dented churns. Fortunately there was no damage to the truck or himself, but it took three hours, and the help of another farmer, to pull the vehicle out of the ditch, and besides that, the missing milk delivery had upset several of their regular customers.

John Fothergill had never made a fuss. He had been concerned but seemed philosophical about the accident, and glad that James had not been injured. ‘These things happen,’ he had said. ‘Not a lot you can do about it.’ He calculated that the number of cattle they were feeding for the Christmas trade would compensate them for the loss of crop, and if needed, they could buy extra stock feed. Despite their losses, he seemed quite positive. James, however, wasn’t convinced. Market prices fluctuated and though at present the cattle looked good, if the rain continued much longer their condition would start to decline.  

As he lay on the bed almost too weary for sleep, he thought about Grace. She was pregnant again and, whether she wanted to or not, soon she must stop working. That was going to mean even more work for him.

What the farm needed was an extra hand. But could they afford it and still support the two households? He must speak seriously to John about taking on some help. Perhaps a young lad to work full-time or a man to work part-time in the dairy and drive the truck.

He didn’t know how Grace and her father had managed to run the farm on their own and wondered why he couldn’t manage. What was he doing wrong? As he rolled over, he heard Grace’s footsteps on the stairs. They must find time to talk about these things. Yawning, he heard her close the bedroom door but by the time she climbed into bed beside him, he was asleep.

‘James! Help!’

James dropped the pails when he heard Grace’s cry and ran back towards the farmhouse splashing through pools of mud.

‘It’s Dad,’ she cried, when he was near the house.

John Fothergill was sprawled on the ground outside the back door. He was soaking wet, his face half submerged in muddy water but he was still breathing.

‘I thought he was with you!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve just found him. I don’t know how long he’s been here.’ Taking her father’s arm, she tried to pull him up.

‘Let me!’ James said

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’s alive, but we’ve got to get him inside and warm or he’ll not be for much longer.’

James grasped his father-in-law under the arms and dragged him into the house. A trail of mud followed them down the hall and into the bedroom. The old man groaned as James hoisted him onto the bed.

‘I’ll go fetch Alice. She'll know what to do.’

Grace nodded. What would happen now? Her father couldn’t stay in the farmhouse alone, at least, not while he was sick. She could never sleep in the cottage for fear he might have another fall. There was only one solution – she would have to stay with him.

When more than an hour had elapsed since James had left, Grace started to worry. She was afraid he might have met with an accident; worried that the truck might have gone off the road again, or got bogged in a ditch. She’d wanted to go out searching for him but dare not leave her father. She didn’t know that Alice wasn’t home and James had gone to the village looking for the doctor, that he had waited in the surgery for almost an hour but the doctor didn’t return from his calls.

But by the time James got back, John Fothergill was beginning to feel better. Grace had removed his wet clothes and managed to get some warmth back into his cold body. While he remained still, the farmer had little pain, but with the slightest attempt to move, the pain was excruciating.

Grace was worried about him, but she was worried about James too. He looked exhausted. He was trying to do everything and it just wasn’t possible. If he didn’t slow down soon he would make himself sick.

With Mr Fothergill confined to bed, James and Grace slept at the farmhouse for the following week. There was little the doctor could do for him save recommending bed rest and prescribing something to ease the pain in his hip. The farmer didn’t argue as it was impossible for him to move.

As Grace’s pregnancy advanced, James could read the strain in her face. He knew her energies were being stretched to the limit. One afternoon he found her crying over a sheet she had torn in the mangle.

‘Leave it, love. It doesn’t matter,’ he begged.

‘It does matter!’ she sobbed. ‘I shouldn’t have let it get stuck.’

He knew she was not coping. They were all under strain.

James didn’t want to drive Alice to Ilkley. He wanted to stay at home with Grace and catch up on a few jobs around the cottage. He knew once they got to Ilkley, Alice would be obliged to stop and talk with Pansy and Miss Pugh, which meant they probably wouldn’t get back until late in the afternoon.

But he had promised Alice he would take her to collect Rachel and he couldn’t let them down. At least it wouldn’t happen again. This time Alice was collecting Rachel and bringing her home to stay permanently.

‘Why don’t you come with us?’ James asked Grace ‘There’s plenty of room in the car. The ride’ll do you good.’

‘I can’t leave Dad,’ Grace said.

Despite not wanting to leave either his wife or the farm, James enjoyed the half-hour drive. He’d had little opportunity for such luxuries recently.

With the car roof folded back, the wind was exhilarating. Alice, her head wrapped in a silk head-scarf, seemed more relaxed than she had been for a long time. She was looking forward to having Rachel share the cottage with her.

Speeding past open fields and clusters of houses in the villages, James asked Alice about her new job in Horsforth and how she was enjoying being back at the cottage. She asked him about Mr Fothergill, the farm, Grace, and when the next baby was due.

With the conversation drifting to more trivial matters, James relaxed. Sitting beside Alice reminded him of the times they had spent riding when they were young. Those had been good times, happy times without any stress. He had almost forgotten the fun they had had in each other’s company and how much she had meant to him. He looked across at Alice, her eyes watering in the wind, her hair steaming from beneath the scarf. How attractive she was. Mature. Intelligent. Well dressed. The tweed suit she was wearing was well tailored. The silk stockings, smooth and shiny. Her shoes, the latest fashion. Was this really the waif he had found huddled in the heather beside the upturned wagon? How much they had both changed.

It was an emotional parting for Pansy and her granddaughter. Pansy had treated Rachel as if she was her own daughter and Rachel regarded her as her mother. Now the little girl was moving back to live with her real mother, Alice – a woman she knew little about. Back to Horsforth and Honeysuckle Cottages – a place she was not familiar with.

The goodbyes were protracted.

Old Miss Pugh was in surprisingly good spirits and appeared to be in full control of her senses. ‘You mustn’t worry about Pansy,’ Miss Pugh said to Alice. ‘I’ll look after her.’ Her tone was confident and convincing. The spinster was certain it was Pansy, rather than herself, who was in need of care. ‘We manage well together, don’t we dear?’

Pansy smiled. ‘Of course we do, Aunty.’

The old woman drew Alice aside and whispered in her ear: ‘Don’t you worry about her, my dear. She’ll be all right. She’ll have this place when I’m dead and gone.’

Alice thanked Miss Pugh politely and told her that she and Rachel would be visiting every week.

‘But it’s such a long way to come,’ Pansy argued.

‘While the weather’s fine and the trains are running, we’ll come. You know I love to get out on the moors or walk along the river. I’ve spent too many years cooped up indoors. Besides, I know Rachel will want to see you.’

Rachel cried, when she hugged her grandmother.

‘I will see you next week,’ Pansy said. ‘The time will fly.’

Rachel had only one small suitcase and a paper carrier bag with a few books and toys which James placed carefully on the front seat. As he drove back to Horsforth, Alice and Rachel talked quietly. James couldn’t hear what they were saying and didn’t try to join in the conversation.

The following week, Alice and Rachel didn’t go to Ilkley as planned, instead, on the Saturday, Pansy came to visit them in Horsforth.

Alice had arranged a party for Rachel. It wasn’t her birthday, but as she had never given her daughter a party before, coming home seemed like a good enough reason to celebrate.

Prompted by the party and the fact Mr Fothergill could no longer manage on his own after the fall, Grace decided he should move into the cottage with them. James collected a single bed from the farm and assembled it in the front room of the cottage. During the day the farmer sat in Edward’s leather armchair, resting his legs on a stool.

At first Mr Fothergill wasn’t sure about living away from the farm. He had grown up in the rambling old house which his grandfather had built and this was the first time he had been away. But he knew his incapacity was causing problems and hated being a burden.

‘If I was a cow you would shoot me,’ he said to James one day. ‘Damn nuisance. Rheumatics that’s all it is.’

But he never joked to Alice about his leg. ‘I wish sometimes the doctor would take it off. I’d manage better without it.’

It was a fun party. Alice made paper hats and toffee apples. They played charades and James amazed them with card tricks he had learned in the army. Later in the afternoon they trooped into Lucy’s cottage for a sing-song. If some of the keys were out of tune, no one cared. It was a long time since Alice had played.

When Mr Fothergill started to doze, Grace decided it was time to leave and took him home. Only moments after tucking him up in his bed, he was snoring loudly and quite oblivious to the sound of voices raised around the piano next door.