No Wings to Fly (39 page)

‘My employer is a happily married man in his forties,’ she said. ‘He’s not Mr Rochester, and I’m not Jane Eyre.’

His smile faded. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t implying anything. That was crass, and I’m talking like an idiot. It’s just that – I’ve wondered how you are . . .’

‘If you really want to know,’ she said, ‘my life is somewhat dull. I keep busy with my pupils all week. And alternate weekends, as I told you, I collect the rents here in Corster, then go on to Sherrell to see Miss Balfour. We have dinner, and we chat – and the time passes. I stay the night and then I return to Little Patten on the Sunday. So as you can tell, I live a quiet life.’

He gave a little nod. ‘And you’re managing all right, are you?’

‘Managing?’

‘I meant financially. I mean – if you’re in need of money . . .’

Her eyes widened, and she stiffened. ‘No, I am not,’ she said.

He groaned. ‘Oh, my God – Lily, I’m so sorry. I’ve offended you. I can’t seem to say the right thing. Oh, Lily, I didn’t mean . . .’

‘It’s all right; it doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter. I’m sorry – really I am.’

Neither spoke for a while. The old woman nearby scattered the last of her crumbs, and watched, smiling and toothless as the sparrows hopped and pecked about at her feet. Joel watched them too, but frowning, preoccupied. Then, turning back to Lily, he said:

‘Could you ever forgive me for what I did? Sending you the letter?’

‘Ah,’ she nodded. ‘Your letter.’

‘I must have – have hurt you so much.’

She could not look him in the eye. Studying her gloved hands, she said, ‘We have reasons for doing things, and we don’t always have that much choice in what we do.’

‘I had told my father,’ he said. ‘About you.’

She looked at him now. ‘You told your father?’ Then she nodded. ‘Yes. You would have had to.’

‘Yes. I – I suppose I wanted his blessing. Well, I know I did. I wanted to do everything right. It was so important to me. Especially coming so soon after Crispin’s death.’

She sat silent, waiting for the next words. Then Joel said: ‘He couldn’t accept what I had to say – what I had to tell him. He – he just couldn’t.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to go into it. Of course he couldn’t accept it. What father could?’

‘I’m sorry, Lily.’

She lifted her head, turning to look at him now. ‘It’s all right. I understand. Believe me, I do.’ Seeing him there, sitting on the bench beside her, she realised afresh how far apart they were. She took in his expensive suit with the
pink rosebud in the lapel, the waistcoat, the finely finished shirt, the silk cravat. He looked more removed from her than ever. Yes, of course there was a difference in her status now – to go from general maid to governess was no small step – but in his world she might hardly have moved an inch. They were still oceans apart.

‘So – what about you, Joel,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Well, you’ve told me how busy you are in the family business, but what else has been happening? I’m sure you don’t spend all your time behind a desk, or checking on deliveries of goods or the manners of your shop assistants. Do
you
have friends? Is there someone special in
your
life?’

He looked back at her without answering, and in the midst of the surrounding tapestry of sounds his silence was profound.

Of course, she said to herself, there must be someone in his life. There was bound to be. Three and a half years had passed since their last meeting, and he, a handsome, single, talented man, could not have gone through all that time in isolation.

She felt within her a little stab of anger – not at him, but at herself. For she realised now what she had been doing, all along. Like some naïve schoolgirl she had somehow believed that the feelings behind those early, passionate declarations of love would last and see them through; that they would be the answer to any obstacle that life might throw up between them. No matter the signs and the evidence that those obstacles had made apparent, she realised that she had somehow continued to live in hope that one day all would be well.

‘So,’ she said, forcing a smile, ‘has a date been set for the happy day?’

‘Lily . . .’ He frowned, leaning closer.

‘So I should be congratulating you, Joel,’ she said. ‘And I
do. I wish you all the very best – and the young lady too.’ She paused. ‘She must be someone of whom your father approves. Are you going to tell me who she is?’

He hesitated for a moment, then said: ‘Her name is Simone.’

‘Ah.’ Lily nodded. ‘Simone. The girl in the drawing. The daughter of your father’s partner.’

‘Yes.’

‘And this is serious, is it? You’re to be married, are you?’ Without waiting for an answer, she glanced up at the clock on the wall of the corn exchange. ‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘look at the time.’ She took up her bag. ‘Joel, I have to go. I’m so sorry, but I must.’

‘Oh, not just yet,’ he said quickly. ‘Please.’

‘No, I really must.’

She got up from the bench, reached out and swiftly shook his hand. ‘Goodbye, Joel. It was so good to see you again – and to see you looking so well and so successful – and I do wish you every happiness in the future.’ She flashed a brief smile that she somehow managed to summon up from unknown theatrical depths and turned away. Then, forcing one foot in front of the other, she walked out into the square.

At Rowanleigh over the rest of that Saturday, and on Sunday, Lily spent a little time with Miss Elsie, the two chatting together over dinner and breakfast and the occasional cup of tea. At other times, Miss Elsie, taking advantage of the warm, dry weather, took her easel into the garden and worked at her watercolours. For her part, Lily planned the coming week’s lessons with the Acland girls, and helped Mary in the kitchen. In some solitary moments she found herself returning to thoughts of Joel and their meeting in Corster, but each time such thoughts intruded she tried to thrust them from her.

Late on Sunday afternoon she took the train back to Little Patten, and the following morning resumed her work at Yew Tree House. On returning to her lodgings that evening, she found a letter awaiting her.

It was in response to the letter she had written to the advertiser in Seston, and was inviting her for an interview on Saturday, the nineteenth of August. The writer, who signed himself Lincoln Corelman, had written in a heavy, angular script: ‘Laenar House is situated on the south side of Greenbanks Lane, and is a twenty-minute walk north from Seston station. Alternatively, it can be reached by cab. I shall be obliged if you will present yourself with references promptly at four o’clock, and if on receipt of this letter you will at once confirm that we may expect you.’

Lily wasted no time but sat straight down and penned her reply, saying she would be there at the appointed time.
Perhaps, at long last, she said to herself, things were moving and she was making a little progress – and not before time; she had less than two weeks’ employment before her. As soon as the letter was finished and sealed, she went along the lane and deposited it in the post box.

The following day, to her great relief, she received a letter from Tom. It had been sent to her at Rowanleigh, and forwarded on to her lodgings by Miss Elsie. Her brother had written to say he was back in Wiltshire, and had found a job on a farm in Wilton Ferres, a village near Corster. He planned to come into Corster on the Friday evening, the eighteenth, he said, and asked Lily to meet him near the entrance to the Victoria Gardens. He would try to be there at six-thirty, and if it rained he would wait in the museum. Lily wrote back at once to say she would be there to meet him.

Friday, when it came, dragged by. From the moment Lily awoke that morning she had her mind set upon her coming meeting with Tom. Then at last the hour came when she was free of her responsibilities for the day, and she took her leave of her pupils and set off back for her lodgings.

On her arrival, Mrs Thorne handed her a letter, which turned out to be in answer to her response to the advertisement placed by the family in Upinshall. It informed her politely that they did not now require a governess until after Christmas, but that they would keep her in mind as the time approached.

After some tea and a sandwich in the kitchen with Mrs Thorne, she set out for the station, carrying her umbrella along with her bag, for there were threatening clouds on the horizon. On arriving in Corster, she bought a copy of that day’s
Gazette
, eager to see whether her classified advertisement was in it, and then continued on her way to the square, and the entrance to the Victoria Gardens.

In the flagstoned yard near the Gardens’ gate a number of the townsfolk were in evidence and, in spite of the gathering clouds, several of the benches were taken. Lily found a space on one at the other end of which sat an old woman, wrapped up as if for winter and hunched over her fraying basket of belongings. A little distance to the right across the cobbles stood the old town museum, a tall building that dated back to Tudor times, but which had been added to in various haphazard ways over the years. Looking up at the clock on the wall of the corn exchange, Lily saw that it was just after six. She was in good time. Dipping into her bag, she took out the newspaper and scanned the classified advertisements – and there halfway down the column was her own, word for word as she had presented it to the clerk. She read it through with satisfaction, then folded the paper and put it back into her bag. In the square the people came and went. A child with a hoop ran past, then a young lad with a brush and a shovel came cleaning up horse droppings. On her left, the old woman opened a snuff box, sniffed a pinch into her nostrils, and then, muttering to herself, got up and hobbled away. Up above, the sky was darkening by the minute. Half-past six came and went. Lily kept her eyes moving back and forth across the square.

And then, suddenly he was there, coming around the corner of the exchange. He saw Lily at once, and made straight for her, his smile lighting up his face. As he approached, she got to her feet, her own smile answering his. A moment later he was at her side and wrapping his arms around her.

‘Oh, Lil . . . Lil . . .’ His voice cracked as he spoke her name, and she could feel her eyes fill with tears.

‘Tom. Oh, Tommo. Oh, my dear . . .’ Her hoarse voice was muffled against the rough fabric of his jacket. For some seconds they held one another, and then she pulled back
and looked at him. ‘Oh, Tom – it’s so good to see you.’

He beamed. ‘Ah, it’s so good to see
you
. It’s been such a long time.’

As he spoke, the first drops of rain fell, and Lily gave a little groan and glanced up at the heavens. ‘Oh, here it comes,’ she said. She reached out and snatched at his arm. ‘Come on – let’s get into the dry.’

Without hesitating, they started at a run across the square, heading for the museum. It was only a short distance, but by the time they reached the building’s entrance the rain was falling heavily. Laughing and a little breathless, they stepped inside the porch. Briefly glancing back to survey the square, Lily saw that it was now almost deserted. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s not going to let up for a while. We might as well go in.’

Tom pushed open the double doors leading into the foyer and he and Lily passed through. It was warm and quiet inside, the only persons in evidence being the curator who sat reading at a desk, and an elderly couple standing before a carved bust of a prominent local politician from earlier times. The curator glanced up briefly as Lily and Tom walked past him and then lowered his head again to his papers. Ignoring the exhibition rooms on the ground floor, they made their way to the wide stairs and started up. The museum’s exhibits held little magic for them now. They had seen them in the past on more than one occasion, and even their first viewing had given no real thrill. Distributed over the building’s four storeys, the town’s treasured antiquities were, for the most part, a lacklustre collection. Both Lily and Tom knew what they would find in the various rooms: the ancient statues, the fossils, the fragments of pottery unearthed from the surrounding Wiltshire hills, the old tapestries, the collection of sepia photographs of the town and some of its past luminaries.

Passing several other visitors on their way, Lily and Tom
continued on up the stairs. When they eventually reached the top floor there was no one else in sight, not even an attendant – the town could not afford to have them on every floor of the place – and they walked into the wide exhibition room to find themselves completely alone. Looking around at the faded tapestries and ancient Eastern vases and other artefacts in the glow of the lamps, Lily felt glad at the familiarity of it all. Beneath a window on the far side stood an old, mellow-polished bench and she moved to it and sat down. Tom followed and sat beside her. Against the pane behind their heads the rain fell steadily.

Lily put her hands up to her hat, checking it, then whispered with a little chuckle, ‘We shouldn’t be sitting here. We should be looking at the treasures, not using the place just to shelter from the rain.’

‘Ah, it’s all right,’ Tom said. ‘We’re not doin’ any ’arm.’

She nodded, sighed, then turned fully to him. ‘Well, now, our Tom – let me look at you.’ She could see in his appearance the time that had passed. He was seventeen now and a little taller, though still with the lean, wiry look he had always had. He was, she thought, no longer a boy.

‘Well,’ he said, taking off his cap, ‘how do I look?’

‘How do you look? You look fine.’ She meant it. Although his jacket and trousers were worn, his polished boots were scuffed, and he was in need of a haircut, there was nevertheless an air of well-being about him, pointed up by the little white rosebud he had pinned in his lapel. He looked positive and bright, and more vital than she had seen him in years. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you look fine, and as handsome as ever.’

He laughed lightly, his voice echoing a little in the quiet. ‘Well, you look handsome too, our Lil. Though I’m bound to say you look a little bit older as well.’