Saddle the Wind (11 page)

Joining Ernest a minute later, Ollie saw the object of the onlookers’ gaze. In the hollow beneath the towering bank five black-faced Suffolk sheep lay dead, the blood from their mouths running out and starkly staining the chalk on which their broken bodies lay. Arkham, another of the tenants from the lane cottages, came to Ollie’s side and told him that a stray dog had run amok among Savill’s sheep and driven five of them over the precipitous drop.

The sight of the dead sheep lying there was like a sudden cloud across Ollie’s particular sun. He touched Ernest’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said, turning from the sight, ‘– let’s go on home.’

Entering the lane moments later he thrust the memory of the incident from him. In his pocket the sovereigns and the shillings were real and hard.

That Christmas was one of the best the Farrars had ever known. Not only did the extra money make a great difference as regards the things they could buy, but the happening itself had brought to Ollie a feeling of well-being that he had not known for a long time.

A week later, on Monday, January 2nd, Ernest started work as assistant stockman for Harker, a Hallowford farmer. His hours were long, and he could have earned more by working in one of the Trowbridge factories, but he preferred the open air.

The following day Sarah was in the kitchen ironing when there came a knock at the front door. Quickly she straightened her apron and smoothed her hair. On opening the door she found herself facing a tall, elderly man in a well-cut coat. He took off his hat to her and, after ascertaining that she was Mrs Oliver Farrar, handed her a card and introduced himself. His name, he said, was James Heritage, and he wished to enquire as to when he might be able to see Mr Farrar. When Sarah said that Ollie was out at work and wouldn’t be back till just after six o’clock the man said he would call again just after six-thirty if it was convenient. Yes, she said, of course. As he was about to turn away she asked: ‘Could you tell me, sir, what you want to see my husband about … ?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ he smiled. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell him that I own an art gallery in Bath,
and that recently I’ve seen one of his paintings, and that I was most impressed with what I saw.
Most
impressed.’ He paused then added, ‘And who knows – if Mr Farrar is agreeable we might be able to do some business together.’

He went away then and Sarah was left to try and calm her growing excitement and try to get on with her work.

A little while before Ollie was due back she stopped work, changed out of her old clothes and put on her best dress. A few minutes later when he came in he looked her up and down and asked, ‘What’s the matter? Why are you all dressed up?’

‘Quick, Ollie,’ she said, ‘you must get changed too. We’ve got a visitor coming in a few minutes.’ Giving him Heritage’s card she told him of the man’s visit. ‘He’s coming to talk to you about your paintings,’ she added.

Ollie stood there gazing at her in surprise. She shook her head impatiently.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ she said. ‘Hurry up and get ready. He’ll be here any minute.’

With a bewildered nod he quickly began to take off his jacket. As he did so Sarah added: ‘I’ve made a fire in the front room, and lit the lamps – so you can show him your pictures in there.’

It was just after seven when Heritage reappeared and Ollie, looking fresh and spruce, asked him in and showed him into the parlour. In the kitchen Sarah kept Ollie’s dinner warm while the children were ordered to be on their best behaviour. They, awed by the presence in the house of the elegant stranger, willingly complied.

It was almost an hour later when Sarah heard the visitor depart, and as his carriage moved away down the lane she went into the front room where Ollie stood in silence, gazing down into the fire that crackled in the
small fireplace. She stopped before him and stood waiting. When at last he turned to her she saw a strange, excited look on his face, an expression not quite like any she had ever seen there before. His eyes shining, he suddenly gave a little laugh.

‘Oh, my God, Sare,’ he said. Reaching out to her he put his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him and held her close. He laughed again, the sound muffled against her hair.

‘What happened?’ she said, then quickly added, ‘I told you to offer him some tea. Did you forget?’

‘What? Tea? No, I didn’t forget. He didn’t want any. He just wanted to talk. And he didn’t have much time; he had to get off again.’

‘Tell me what he had to say.’ She drew back so that she could look into his face. ‘Does he want to buy a painting?’

He shook his head. ‘No – not that.’

‘Then what?’

He hesitated, teasing her, then said:

‘He wants to take all my pictures – or most of them – and put them on show in his picture gallery in Bath. And they’ll be for sale, and people will come to the gallery to buy them. He’ll take a commission on any that he sells – and the rest of the money will come to us.’ He drew her close again. ‘Oh, Sare,’ he breathed, ‘things could change for us.’ He spoke with wonder in his voice. ‘Things could really change.’

The exhibition of Ollie’s paintings would open in early April, Heritage had said. Ollie had agreed that he would supply him with the paintings in the cottage – there were just under thirty – and that if he was able he would do one or two new ones in addition. To pay for any canvases and paints Ollie might need Heritage advanced
him a guinea which, he said, he would deduct from any monies finally due from the sales of the works. In the same way, Heritage undertook to frame all the paintings, the cost of which would also be deducted later, when the exhibition was over. The prices of the various canvases he and Ollie would decide between them. ‘But what if I don’t sell any paintings?’ Ollie asked him. The thought of being left with an enormous bill for the framing and the painting materials was daunting. ‘Don’t worry,’ Heritage told him, ‘that’s a risk
I’ll
take. All you have to do is supply the pictures. If you don’t sell anything you won’t owe me a farthing. But don’t worry –’ he reassuringly pressed Ollie’s shoulder, ‘I’m certain you’ll sell a good number. If I didn’t think so I wouldn’t be taking the chance.’

Ollie asked him then how he had come to seek him out.

‘Oh, I thought I’d mentioned it,’ Heritage said. ‘I saw a painting of yours – of children sitting beside a pond. It was in the house of a friend of mine in Bath – Mr Harold Savill. It was given to him by his brother – who’s your employer, I believe.’

‘– Yes – at Hallowford House.’

Heritage nodded. ‘As soon as I saw it I made it my business to find out about the artist.’

The next morning at Hallowford House as Ollie left the kitchen after delivering vegetables he saw Mr Savill moving across the yard. Quickening his steps he went after him.

‘Mr Savill – sir …’

The older man came to a stop and turned to him. ‘Yes, Farrar. What is it?’

‘Excuse me, sir, but – I just wanted to thank you.’

‘Thank me? For what?’

A little hesitantly, Ollie told him of the visit from Mr Heritage, and of the coming exhibition of his work.

‘Well,’ Savill said, ‘that’s good news. That’s excellent news.’ He shook his head. ‘But I don’t see why you have to thank me for any part in it. My brother wrote and asked me about you and where you could be found – and I told him. But anyway I’m delighted that something has come out of it. You’re a talented man, Farrar, and it’s always a good thing to see talent recognized.’ He smiled as he added, ‘And I wish you luck.’

Following the meeting with Heritage Ollie spent every spare minute on his painting while Sarah did her best to ensure that he was not disturbed by the children or anyone or anything else.

In the period from Heritage’s visit to near the end of February Ollie completed one further picture. A few days after it was finished Heritage came with an assistant and packed up all the paintings and took them away.

When the two men had driven out of sight Sarah stood looking around her. How strange the room looked without Ollie’s pictures on the walls.

On the following Sunday morning Ollie put a fresh canvas on his easel. He was going to paint Mary’s portrait, he said. And this one, he added, would not be for sale. He got to work soon after, with Mary sitting before him, her chair and his easel over to one side, well away from the clean laundry and the table on which Sarah was working.

From where Sarah stood near the window she could see Agnes and Arthur as they played in the garden. There had been heavy snow for much of January but of late the weather had greatly improved and the two children, well wrapped up, had been encouraged to get
outside and take advantage of the day’s mildness. Ernest was nowhere to be seen; he was off somewhere with Davie Hewitt. This was his first day off since starting work earlier in the month and he was making the most of his time off.

As she worked Sarah reflected on the differences that were touching their lives. For one thing she and Ollie had grown closer. And it was hope that had done it – hope that life could change for them, could change for the better.

The previous night in bed Ollie had lain with his arm around her. After a while he had whispered into the dark, ‘Sare – are you awake?’

‘Yes …’

‘I was thinking – what it will be like for us …’

‘With your paintings in the gallery, you mean?’

‘Yes. I keep thinking about it. You know, if things go well – if I sell my pictures – well, it could be the beginning for us – for all of us.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘A real beginning – of a better life …’

He began then to speak of the money that could be realized if the exhibition of his work proved successful, and the figures he spoke of were beyond anything she had ever dreamed of. ‘And another thing,’ he said, ‘– we’ll get Blanche back as soon as we can. I know it’s nice for Mr Savill’s daughter, having her up there at the house – but after all, she belongs here with us.’

Ollie’s voice went on, murmuring soft in the silence of the room. If all went well and the exhibition was successful, he said, he should be able to leave his work on the gardens – and in time they could move to a bigger place, where he could spend his time just painting. Listening to him, Sarah realized that she didn’t dare think about it too much. Somehow even with the
promise writ large the possibilities were too remote, too fragile.

‘I’m afraid, Ollie,’ she said after a while. ‘It’s all too – too wonderful to be real … I feel it can’t really be happening to us.’

‘Well, it
is
happening to us,’ he said. ‘It
is
.’

After a while the confidence in his voice began to settle a warm contentment within her. But it was more a contentment for the present – not for what was promised for the future. Perhaps this is the best time of all, she said to herself, turning, burrowing gently into his warmth – this time of hope, this time when hope is everything, this time when everything is before us and everything is possible.

Then, holding onto the contentment and settling into the comfort of Ollie’s body, she had slept.

Now, today, standing ironing at the scrubbed-wood table, that contentment was still on her.

She worked silently, listening to the sounds of Arthur and Agnes from the garden and the occasional words that passed between Ollie and the child: ‘Mary, please don’t keep moving your head, there’s a good girl.’ Then Mary’s reply: ‘All right, Papa.’ And then after a moment, Mary’s voice again: ‘Will it soon be finished, Papa?’ ‘No, of course not. Be patient.’

There was no impatience or irritability in Ollie’s voice, though, and likewise there was none in Mary’s. She regarded it as no hardship to sit still for him. Silently observing the two of them, Sarah reflected that Mary would do just about anything for her father.

The canvas Ollie was working on was relatively small compared to some of those Heritage had taken for the gallery. He was working left-side-on to the window, getting the best of the north light over his shoulder onto the surface of the canvas. Mary sat about four feet
away against the wall, in the old grandfather chair which had been propped up on a makeshift dais of old boxes.

Although it was winter, she wore her best summer dress. Made by Sarah it was of blue linen with a lace collar taken from an old dress of Sarah’s own. The fact that it had been made for the summer had made no difference to Mary, and although Ollie had wanted to paint her in the old brown dress and pinafore that she wore around the house she had been firm in her choice. Ollie had not insisted and Sarah had merely made her put on extra underclothes. Now, dwarfed by the grandfather chair, Mary sat with the light from the window on her face, her blue eyes shining, her blonde hair, tied up with an old, but newly pressed ribbon, tumbling to her shoulders. Her gaze was directed past Ollie’s head and out through the window where, beyond the garden in which Arthur and Agnes played, she could see up onto the hills.

Sarah, glancing up from her ironing every now and again, watched the progress on the picture, while faintly came from the garden the murmurs of Arthur and Agnes. Sarah thought she had never before known such a time of peace. It didn’t matter about getting rich and moving to a big house, she said to herself; she would be content if they could remain as happy as they were right now.

‘Oh, Papa – look … !’

Into the quiet Mary’s voice came as she straightened in the chair and pointed out past Ollie’s head. ‘Mary, please,’ he protested. Then, sighing, he turned and looked out and up to the hill, above which a tiny shape dipped and soared on the wind.

‘It’s a kite, Papa,’ Mary said. She sat there for some moments watching as the kite dipped and rose, then she added, ‘Oh, it’s like a bird. It’s just like a bird.’

Ollie turned back and looked at her as she sat gazing out, rapt. ‘Would you like a kite too?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes!’ She moved her eager gaze to him. ‘Could I? Could you make me one?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘When?’

‘Oh – soon.’

‘Will it be like that one, Papa?’

‘Like that one?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no – much better. Much, much better. You shall have the best kite in all of Wiltshire.’