Saddle the Wind (31 page)

The following Saturday morning dawned cloudy and Blanche was afraid that there would be rain and they would be confined to the indoors. Over breakfast, though, the clouds disappeared and the sun came out bright and warm. Covertly as they ate she watched Helen at the next table. Helen’s hair had been brushed till it shone, and there was a faint blush on her cheeks. Like last Saturday she had once again taken particular care with her appearance. Blanche smiled to herself.

‘May we go outside to sketch again today, Ma’am?’ Blanche asked Miss Lessing when breakfast was over. ‘Marianne and I would like to finish our drawings of the beech tree.’ Miss Lessing looked at her keenly. She was a short woman and her eyes were not far above the level of Blanche’s own. ‘All right,’ she said after a moment, ‘and I hope that you’ll accomplish a little more than you did last week. You didn’t have much to show for your time.’

‘Oh, I’ll do well this time, Ma’am,’ Blanche assured her. ‘Really I will.’

Blanche’s final words to Miss Lessing echoed in her
mind as she gathered her drawing materials together. She
would
do well. She turned to Marianne, grinned at her, and together they went out into the sun.

At the edge of the smaller clearing they waited for Helen to appear, and as the time went by Blanche began to fear that she would not come. After all, she said to herself, perhaps the incident with the boy had been an isolated one. And then she would remind herself of the key – the key to the summerhouse which Helen had somehow got hold of and which she had kept hidden under the stone. However Helen had come by it, whether it had been stolen or copied, it made clear that her visits to the summerhouse were regular events.

Helen arrived some twenty minutes after Blanche and Marianne, and they watched through the leaves as she stepped quickly across the clearing to the summer-house door. A moment later she had vanished inside and the door had closed behind her. At once Blanche got to her feet and started off at a run towards the schoolhouse.

She found the elder Miss Carling and Miss Lessing talking together in the hall. Miss Carling turned her red face towards the sound of Blanche’s hurrying feet. ‘Walk, young lady,’ she reprimanded. ‘You’re not outside now.’ Then her tone changed as she asked, frowning, ‘What’s the matter? Is something wrong?’

‘Well, Ma’am,’ Blanche said ingenuously, ‘it’s just that we saw someone go into the summerhouse.’ Please, God, she prayed, let Helen’s young man have turned up. ‘One of the boys from the grammar school,’ she added.

Her words, as she had hoped they would be, were like a red rag to a bull. Miss Carling and Miss Lessing exchanged sharp looks. Miss Carling’s face had grown
a little redder. ‘Are you sure?’ she said, turning back to Blanche.

‘Oh, yes, Ma’am. Marianne and I were sketching nearby when we saw him. We saw him go inside.’

‘But – the place is locked.’

Blanche shrugged. ‘Well, he went in, Ma’am. We saw him. He’s there now.’ A brief pause then she added, ‘You’ll catch him if you hurry. And if you’re very quiet.’

Miss Carling, tight-lipped and preparing to move away, was already lifting the little chain which, suspended from her belt, held a heavy bunch of keys. ‘Does this boy know that you saw him?’

‘Oh, no, Ma’am. Marianne and I – we were very careful not to let him see us. But I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Thank you. You did right to tell me.’ Miss Carling exchanged a further glance with Miss Lessing and then they were striding away towards the door.

Moments later Blanche was walking some way behind the two women as they moved across the grounds; they walked at such a swift, determined pace that Blanche had no trouble keeping her distance.
Please, God, let Helen and the boy be there
, she prayed as she left the field and entered the woodland. And then up ahead she saw the smaller, nearer clearing, and there was Marianne, sitting where she had left her, on the little hillock in the shrubbery. Watching anxiously she saw the women stop at Marianne’s side, exchange a few brief words with her and then slip quietly out of sight into the larger clearing beyond. As Blanche approached Marianne a moment later Marianne turned and gave a slow smile and nodded.

A little later as Blanche and Marianne hovered in the shrubbery, pretending to get on with their drawing, Miss Carling reappeared and told them to go back to the
schoolhouse. Miss Carling’s face was almost purple. Neither she nor Miss Lessing put in an appearance at the refectory for luncheon, and of the two only Miss Lessing, looking nervous and shaken, was at dinner. When one of the girls enquired after Miss Carling she was told that she was unwell and was lying down.

And of course neither was Helen Webster at luncheon or dinner that day – or on any other day that followed.

Now, in July, three years later, sitting in the train bound for Trowbridge, Blanche smiled to herself at the memory, the pictures as clear in her mind as the images thrown by Miss Lessing’s magic lantern.

She had been a little sorry at first about the boy; whatever had happened to him she didn’t know. She was not unduly perturbed, though; she had quickly thrust aside any feelings of sympathy. So often a trap needed live bait, and like any angler, if one spent too much time feeling sorry for the fly, one would never catch the fish.

John Savill had lunched with his brother Harold at Hallowford House. They had talked at length of the worsening situation in the Transvaal, discussing the likelihood of another war with the Boers. Now, though, it was just after four o’clock, Harold had gone, and Savill, sitting in the library, heard the sound of the carriage on the drive. At once he got up and went into the hall, opening the front door just as the carriage drew up before the house. He was sixty-six now, and the years had whitened his grey hair, and made leaner the fine lines of his face. His bearing was still upright, though, and his step still firm, and as the girls got down onto the forecourt he hurried towards them, smiling, reaching out in welcome. He had not seen them since the Easter holidays and the house, as always, had been a duller place for their absence. Embracing them, first Marianne and then Blanche, he kissed them, then, arms around their shoulders, led them into the hall.

When the girls had taken off their capes and hats and washed their hands, they joined John Savill in the library where afternoon tea was served, over which they talked lightly of this and that – mostly about their recent days at Clifton.

As they talked Marianne touched at her hair and then got up from her seat and moved to a small, ornate looking-glass beside the fireplace. Standing almost in profile to her father she took a couple of pins from her
braided hair, placed them between her even, white teeth and readjusted the loosened braids. As she reached to the back of her head, elbows lifted high, Savill saw the swell of her breasts, a sudden anachronism against the dull green of her uniform school dress. He became aware suddenly of the neatness of her small waist, the curve of her hips – and it was as if he was suddenly seeing her with new eyes. She’s no longer a child; she’s a young woman, he thought with a little shock of mingled joy and sadness. His glance rising he took in her face, the fine arch of her eyebrows as she concentrated on her reflection, her dark, wide eyes, the pink blush of her cheeks, her lips a deeper pink, drawn back over the remaining hair pin between her teeth. Savill’s glance lingered on her in a kind of wonder, and then Blanche was asking him whether he wanted more tea. His eyes moved to her. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. He watched as she leaned forward slightly in her chair and poured tea into her own cup. Blanche, too, of course … With similar fascination he found himself watching her movements with the teapot, the cup and saucer, the milk jug – everything she did was casually deft and sure with the assurance of her nascent maturity. He saw then the way her pale, heavy hair fell against her shoulders; he saw the line of her lip, the fringe of her lashes on her lowered lids; the smoothness of her cheek, the curve of her delicately pointed chin. Marianne was telling some story about one of the teachers at the school, but Savill’s mind was on his discovery. The girls had been growing up and he had not realized it until now.

When tea was finished Blanche changed her clothes and went out to the stables where James had saddled one of the cobs. Mounting the pony she rode it out of the yard and away from Hallowford, heading for Colford, a small
village a short distance to the north. Three years earlier Ernest had changed his employment, moving as stockman to a farm a little further afield. Following the change he and his mother had left the Hallowford cottage to rent one in Colford. The move had had varying effects, among them on the relationship between Blanche and her mother and brother. With them all living in Hallowford their very different social circumstances had created certain tensions and problems – although they were unacknowledged. To a degree the move of Mrs Farrar and Ernest to Colford had eased these tensions – but at the same time the greater distance meant that Blanche had seen less of them over recent times, and consequently had grown further away.

Reaching Colford, Blanche dismounted near the end of Hummock Lane, tethered the pony and walked the short distance along to the cottage, there going around to the rear where she entered by the scullery and went into the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the kitchen table, a pair of scissors in her hand. Beside her, spread out on the table, was a large piece of white cotton to which was pinned a dressmaker’s paper pattern. Putting down the scissors, Sarah smiled warmly at her.

‘Hello, Blanche. I thought that would be you.’

‘Hello, Mama …’ Blanche briefly wrapped her arms around her mother and kissed her on the cheek. Then she stepped back and looked at her. ‘Well – how are you?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Oh, quite well, thank you, dear. And you?’

‘Yes, very well.’

Sarah rolled up the cotton. ‘It’s just an apron I’m making,’ she said. ‘I’m not sorry to put it away. I think I need to get some spectacles …’ She smiled. ‘I’ll make some tea.’

Blanche filled the kettle and put it on the range. She didn’t want more tea but the ritual came as welcome assistance. As Sarah set out the cups Blanche looked around her. Although the interior of the cottage was clean and neat, she was struck – as she was every time she entered – by its lack of any kind of luxury.

When the tea was made Blanche and her mother sat facing one another beside the range, Blanche taking Ernest’s chair. Beside it stood a small bureau holding a number of well-read books, and as Blanche set down her cup she took in the titles; there were volumes of Keats’s and Shelley’s poetry, a copy of
Measure for Measure
, and two or three medical books. Sarah, observing Blanche’s interest, said, ‘Oh, Ernest’s books are all over the place.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘He should be home soon.’

As they drank they spoke of Blanche’s days at Clifton and events in Hallowford, but the conversation did not flow and its course was dotted with little pockets of silence.

Blanche studied her mother as the desultory conversation progressed, noticing the lines in Sarah’s face, the grey in her hair. Sarah was forty-eight now, and Blanche was aware of the fact that her mother was ageing. Thrusting the realization from her mind, she said:

‘Mama – Mr Savill wants me to go away with Marianne to finishing school. In France, so he says.’

Her mother looked at her in surprise. ‘Oh, Blanche, really? What a wonderful opportunity for you.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘Of course I don’t mind. If it’s what you want.’ She paused. ‘Is it?’

Blanche nodded. ‘It would be lovely to – to have the experience of another country.’

‘Oh, indeed. And if Mr Savill wants you to go and you want to, then of course you must.’

‘Thank you. Mr Savill said he’s going to talk to you about it, but I said I wanted to speak to you first.’

‘When would you go?’

‘Not for another year. Next summer, Mr Savill says.’

They talked for a little while about the proposed year in France but then silence fell again, so that the ticking of the clock sounded unusually loud in the small room. Blanche found herself wishing for the time to pass when she could leave and return to Hallowford. In spite of the smiles and the enthusiasm, somehow all the conversation had about it the faint ring of politeness, and Blanche found herself wondering, once more, whether she and her mother would ever be really close. But perhaps, she said to herself, it had all gone beyond that. She thought of earlier times; in times past her mother had been warm and approachable. Now there was a distance between them, a distance which had grown wider with the passing years. Was it, Blanche asked herself, all due to their move here to Colford?

Soon after six o’clock Ernest came in after finishing his work for the day. He kissed his mother and then with a smile moved to Blanche as if he would embrace her, but then, as if becoming aware of his rough working clothes he dropped his arms. He stood before her, a tall, handsome young man of twenty-five, with level grey eyes, thick, chestnut hair, straight, blunt nose.

‘Oh, my, Blanche,’ he said, gazing at her, ‘I notice such a difference every time I see you.’ He shook his head in a little gesture of wonder and approval. ‘You’re a real young lady now.’

Blanche felt a sense of awkwardness as they faced one another. She didn’t know what to say. Then as Sarah set about making fresh tea for Ernest, Blanche prepared to leave. Ernest said, ‘I don’t know what we’ve got for supper, Blanche, but will you stay?’

At his words Sarah began to add her own words of invitation, but Blanche thanked her and said that she was expected at Hallowford House for dinner. Perhaps on another day, however, she said; they would arrange it.

She wished her mother goodbye then, and Ernest, saying that he would see her to her mount, followed her out of the cottage.

As they walked together towards the waiting pony Ernest looked up at the evening sky, sighed and said, ‘It’s a beautiful evening. You should come for a walk with me on an evening like this. It’s beautiful round here in the woodland at this time of year.’