Saddle the Wind (12 page)

She was silent for a second or two. Then she said:

‘Papa, it’s my birthday soon. Could I have it for my birthday?’

He nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, you shall.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’ He stepped forward and gently adjusted the position of her head. ‘Now,’ he added, ‘d’you think we might get on with the picture?’

The following Sunday Ollie returned to the painting, working on it for another two hours, after which he set aside his brush and told Mary that she could get down. The cottage was empty but for the two of them. Ernest was out with friends while Sarah, with Blanche in the perambulator, had taken Arthur and Agnes to Sunday school.

Mary stretched, sighing with relief. ‘Is it finished, Papa?’

‘Almost – not quite.’ He checked his hands to make sure they were clean then lifted her down from the elevated chair. ‘There’s just a little more to do on your dress and the back of the chair. That won’t take long. We’ll finish it next Sunday.’

‘Next Sunday’s my birthday.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Well, then, the Sunday after if there’s no time.’

She stood there looking up at him. ‘You haven’t forgotten my kite, have you?’

He smiled. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten your kite. Don’t worry – you’ll have it.’ Then urging her out of the scullery, he added, ‘Now go and change your dress, as your mother told you.’

When Sarah returned she left Blanche in Mary’s care while she took off her coat and went to look at the work Ollie had done. She gazed at the painting for a long time, then, turning to Ollie who had come to stand at her side, she said, ‘Oh, Ollie, it’s beautiful.’

‘It’s not finished yet, mind.’

‘Even so.’ She paused. ‘They’re going to be after you to sell this one, too – you see.’

‘Ah, maybe. But I won’t part with it – ever.’

He began to clear his brushes and materials away then and as he did so there came a knock at the front door. ‘I wonder who that can be,’ Sarah said as she moved into the hall. A few moments later she was back to say that Mr Heritage was there. ‘I showed him into the front room,’ she said.

‘Mr Heritage?’ Ollie smiled at the news, then quickly running his fingers through his hair he went from the kitchen and into the hall.

Entering the front room a moment later he smilingly greeted the man. Heritage took his hand, but did not return his smile. Instead he looked at him gravely. Ollie, seeing the man’s set expression, felt his own smile die away and a little tremor of nervousness begin suddenly to flutter in his chest. There was a moment of silence between the two men, and then Heritage shook his head and said:

‘Mr Farrar – I had to come and see you …’ He broke off and turned away, as if unable to meet Ollie’s eyes.

Ollie stood in silence, waiting, then, frowning, he said: ‘Mr Heritage – what is it?’ He felt his heart sinking. ‘It’s – it’s the exhibition, isn’t it? Is it the exhibition?’
It’s not going to happen now
, the thought went through his mind.
He’s come to tell me that it’s cancelled
.

Heritage shook his head and turned his eyes back to Ollie’s anxious gaze.

‘It’s your paintings,’ he said.

Ollie forced a smile to his mouth. ‘Don’t you think they’re good enough now? Don’t you think that –’

Heritage broke in before he could go on. ‘They’re gone.’

‘
Gone
? My paintings? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, God.’ Heritage gave a kind of groan.

‘Tell me – please. What is it? What’s happened?’

Heritage hesitated for a second or two and then said dully, ‘There was a fire last night. In the workshop of the picture-framer. I’m afraid everything was destroyed.’

‘And you mean – my paintings were there …’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Not only
your
paintings but others too – not that they’re any concern of yours.’

Ollie turned away. He felt a sick feeling rising from the pit of his stomach. With his back to Heritage he stood gazing unseeingly from the window. After some seconds he took a breath and said: ‘So – so it’s all finished.’

‘I’m sorry – there was nothing left. Nothing.’ A pause then Heritage added: ‘And he was not insured.’

Ollie turned back to face him. ‘So it really is finished, isn’t it?’

Heritage put a hand to his forehead. ‘I would have given anything for this not to have happened.’

The two of them remained standing there. After a
moment Heritage said: ‘All I can say – if it’s any consolation at all – is that if you can get to work and produce some more paintings I’ll exhibit them as I planned to do with the first ones.’

‘Do more paintings?’

‘Yes. You have my word on that.’ Heritage put a hand into his pocket. ‘In the meantime – perhaps you’ll accept something towards your – your loss.’ He held out his hand and Ollie saw some gold coins in his palm. He made no move to take them. After a moment Heritage turned and placed the money on the top of the piano at his side. ‘I wish I could fully recompense you for the paintings you lost,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t. That’s beyond me. I’m not exactly a wealthy man.’

They stood in silence again for some moments, then Heritage gave a sigh and said, ‘Well …’ He took up his hat, ready to make his departure. Ollie remained standing there as if in a dream, then after a second he straightened and followed the man into the hall.

At the front door Heritage turned to him again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ he said.

Ollie said nothing. Heritage went on:

‘But remember what I said – if you can do some more paintings …’ He left the rest of the sentence unspoken, hesitated a moment longer then put on his hat and moved out onto the front path.

After Ollie had closed the door on the sound of the departing phaeton he remained in the hall for some seconds before turning and moving stiffly back into the front parlour. There he came to a stop in the centre of the little room and just stood there. His paintings – they were gone. Every single one of them. All of them destroyed.

‘Ollie … ?’

Vaguely, through his numbing thoughts, he became
aware of Sarah’s voice behind him. He turned towards her.

‘I heard the front door go,’ she said. ‘What did Mr Heritage –’ Her words broke off. ‘Ollie … what’s the matter … ?’ Putting a hand on his arm she looked up into his face. Under her gaze he turned his head away.

‘Ollie,’ she said, ‘what’s happened? Tell me.’

‘It’s all gone,’ he said. He barely opened his mouth as he spoke, his words only just audible in the little room. ‘My pictures – they’ve been burnt. There was a fire. They’re gone.’

Sarah stared at him in horror for a second as if hardly able to believe what she was hearing. The sound of a sob welled up in her throat and quickly she choked it down. Raising her hand she laid it against his cheek, her other arm going around him. He stayed without moving in her awkward embrace. As they stood there there came the sound of footsteps and the next moment Mary was standing in the doorway. Looking at the two of them she sensed at once that something was wrong.

‘Papa,’ she said, ‘what’s the matter?’

Neither Ollie nor Sarah spoke.

‘Papa, what’s the matter?’ Mary said again. Her safe world was threatened and there was the sudden sound of tears in her voice.

Forcing a smile to her lips, Sarah turned to her. ‘It’s nothing, my dear. Nothing. Please – you go on into the kitchen and watch over Blanche, there’s a good girl.’

Mary gave a slow, reluctant nod and, with a single backward glance, turned away and disappeared from sight.

After a moment Ollie said quietly:

‘He told me – Heritage told me – that if I do some more paintings he’ll put them up in his gallery.’ He gave a hopeless shake of his head and a bitter smile. ‘
Do more
paintings
…’ His voice was heavy with irony. ‘The ones I had took me years to do.
Years
. A lifetime.’

Sarah tightened her arm about him. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t …’

‘Do more paintings,’ Ollie said again. ‘Easy for him to say.’

A moment later he was aware of her releasing him. She stepped to the piano and took up the coins. Ollie said:

‘He gave them to me to help make up for my loss – as he put it.’

Sarah looked at the money in her hand. ‘Five sovereigns, Ollie,’ she said. ‘Five sovereigns. It’s a lot of money.’ She raised her palm for him to see but he didn’t look. He only shook his head, the bitter smile back on his lips.

‘Five sovereigns,’ he said. ‘He could have afforded more than that – even though he
says
he’s not a wealthy man. But what does it matter to him? It matters nothing at all to him – not for all his show of sympathy.’ He gave a little groan that pressed Sarah’s heart. ‘Five sovereigns,’ he said. ‘What I was expecting was a future.’

In the dark of the bedroom Sarah lay awake, waiting for Ollie to come home.

He had been gone for hours, leaving the cottage not very long after Heritage’s departure. Standing there with the sovereigns in her hand she had watched him go, not asking where he was going and unable to say anything that would keep him by her side. Later she had put Blanche in the perambulator and, with Mary, Arthur and Agnes beside her, had taken her back to Hallowford House. Coming down the hill on her return she had quickened her steps, hoping that on her arrival she would find Ollie at home. Entering the cottage she saw at once that he hadn’t returned.

Now, Sarah sat up in bed and lit the candle. After some moments she got out of bed and put on the old coat she used as a dressing-gown. Taking up the candle-holder she moved to the door, quietly opened it and started down the stairs. A candle was burning on the table near the window in the kitchen and she blew out the candle in her hand and settled herself in a chair to wait. It was just after eleven-thirty. A wind had sprung up and was keening around the thatch, creeping in through the cracks in the window frame and making the candle flame shudder and dance. The fire in the range had died and the room was cold. She drew her coat more closely about her.

It was just after midnight when she heard Ollie’s
footsteps at the back door. She heard the door softly open and close and then moments later the kitchen door was opening and he was standing there facing her. After a second or two he closed the door behind him.

‘I saw the light of the candle as I came round the back,’ he said as he turned to her. Then he added. ‘You shouldn’t be waiting up for me. You should be asleep.’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, Ollie, I couldn’t sleep – not knowing where you were.’

‘Are you angry?’ he said.

‘Angry? No, of course not.’

‘I walked,’ he said. ‘I walked for hours. And then I went to the Wheatsheaf.’

She shrugged. ‘– Just so long as you’re home.’

‘I had some drink. I wanted to get drunk but – it didn’t seem to make any difference – however much I had. Afterwards I walked again. I’ve walked miles.’

He stood before her in the pale light, his form splintered by the tears in her eyes. She blinked them back. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you some tea.’

She was about to get up but he came towards her and stood above her, looking down at her. She remained in the chair. Then with a little groan he sank to his knees and laid his head on her thigh. His head was turned away from her and she couldn’t see his face. But then suddenly she was aware of the shaking of his body and she reached out and laid her hand gently on his cheek and felt there the wet of his tears.

‘Oh, Ollie …’ She whispered the words chokingly as her own tears sprang into her eyes again. ‘Please don’t. Please. I can’t bear to see you cry. I can bear everyone else’s tears but yours.’

His tears continued to flow, as, unspeaking, the two of them sat there, she in the chair, bending over him, her hand on his cheek, he on the floor, his head against
her thigh. After a while his silent tears ceased, but still he sat there, the only sounds in the room the sounds of their breathing, the ticking of the clock and the sighing of the wind as it roamed about the cottage. After a long time he said quietly into the silence:

‘I can still hardly believe it’s happened.’

She said nothing but moved her hand and gently stroked his cheek. He went on:

‘It’s his fault, of course – Heritage’s. He’s the one who’s – who’s liable. They should have been insured – my paintings.’

Sarah nodded. Then she said, ‘– Well, then, perhaps he should be made to pay you what they were worth.’

‘How?’

She gave a faint shrug. ‘I don’t know. The law, perhaps.’

‘The law,’ he scoffed. ‘It takes money to go to the law. You mean hire some fine lawyer? Lawyers are rich men. How d’you think they get rich?’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s no good. I’ve been through it all, over and over. There’s nothing to be done. Nothing at all.’

She was silent for a few moments then she said, ‘But there’s one thing, Ollie – at least you know now that people will buy your paintings.’

‘What good will that do me? I’ve got no paintings to sell.’

‘No, but – well, perhaps – you
could
do some more, couldn’t you? I know it’ll take a long time, but –’

‘Years. Years and years to get together as many as that again.’ He shook his head, sat there for a moment longer then got slowly to his feet. With his back to her he said:

‘I don’t think I could do it, Sare. Having it all so close and then seeing it just – snatched away – right when it was almost in my grasp. I don’t think I could do it again.’ He paused. ‘I haven’t got the heart for it.’

She remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. After a few moments she got up from the chair. ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ she said.

‘No, thanks. I don’t want anything.’

She nodded. Moments of silence went by. ‘Come to bed, Ollie,’ she said softly.

‘Yes.’ He turned to her. ‘Oh, God, I’m so tired.’

In the wavering light of the candle she could see how weary he looked, how defeated. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘let’s go to bed.’

He sighed and slowly began to take off his jacket. As he did so he came to a stop and Sarah saw that he was looking at the little picture on the wall beside him. It was the picture that Mary had made for him, her portrait of him sitting at his easel. He had framed it and hung it on the wall beside the kitchen range. Now with his jacket half off he stood gazing at the picture as if he had never seen it before. After a minute Sarah said: