No Wings to Fly (65 page)

From the little notebook in her reticule she copied onto the envelope the address that Mrs Soameson had given her. Then, when the ink was dry, she slipped the letter inside. She would post it tomorrow, on the way to the station.

After a while she got up, filled the kettle and put it on the range. Then, returning to the table, she sat down. There was no sound within the house. She sighed deeply. With her firm decision to go back to Happerfell she could feel the tension draining out of her. Soon, she told herself, the problems would be facts of life, and beyond her control. And she would be alone. There was no more Joel in her life, Tom was gone, and soon the boy would be out of it too.

She sat up late that night. When at last she went up to bed she found the child sleeping soundly. Silently and softly she undressed and climbed in beside him, lying against his tender warmth. After some hours she slept.

She left him still sleeping the next morning, and went downstairs into the kitchen. It was icy cold. She slipped on her shoes, put her coat on over her dress and lit the fire in the range and made some tea. When it was brewed she sat hunched at the table, sipping from the cup.

Her decision to return to Happerfell had brought, she found, an enormous relief, and now, having made that decision, she was desperate to keep to it. Of course they must go back. Every hour she kept him away only made her sin the greater. What exactly she would say on her return to The Gables she had not decided, but she would work it out.

Moving into the hall, she stood at the foot of the stairs and listened for any sound from the bedroom above. All was quiet. Back in the kitchen she took off her coat and hung it up behind the door. The room was getting warmer now. She filled the kettle again and put it to heat. It would be ready for Joshua’s wash when he came downstairs.

A little later she poured more tea for herself. She had kept the pot hot on the range, and the brew was strong and stewed. She drank it anyway, and ate with it a slice of bread which she spread with a little beef dripping that Mrs Tanner had sent round with Millie.

As she sat there she was attracted by a movement beyond the window, and she turned and saw the woodpecker perched on the edge of the earthenware bowl. He drank there from the rainwater, and then, in an instant, was gone again. He had his own life to live, she thought, and lived it
untouched by the little dramas of others around him. An image of Joel came into her head, and she saw him as he had sat at the table before her that day when the woodpecker had come to drink after the rain. She could see every detail of his features, from the curve of his upper lip to the faintest lines etched in his brow. She could hear his voice too, not only his words, but his tone, his every nuance. She had believed him, when he had said that all would be well for them – but even then, she had been a little afraid.

Her reticule was on the dresser nearby, and she took from it his letter. She had not read it since that morning when she had received it at The Gables. Now she unfolded it and read it again. Though she knew what she must read, at the same time there was one desperate, irrational part of her being that hoped that somehow it would tell a different story. Of course she could change nothing. Every word was there, irrevocable. Afterwards she folded the letter again and put it back in the envelope.

Don’t think about it, she told herself. It was done. As recent as it was, it was now a part of the past. Now was the time to think about the present, and the future. Later today she would take the child back to Happerfell. She would remain at The Gables for a few days with him until the nurse was fit enough to care for the boy and then, if nothing more was required of her, she would leave and go back to Sherrell.

And what of Miss Elsie? She would be wondering what had happened. She would have been expecting Lily to have arrived back at Rowanleigh by this time, on her return from escorting the boy to his parents in Scotland.

What could she tell her? How could she admit what she had done? How could she confess to such foolishness, such selfishness . . .?

The writing paper and envelopes and pen and ink were still there on the table. She adjusted a sheet of notepaper
before her, dipped the pen in the ink and wrote:

2 Merridew Villa
Brookham Way
Corster
17th November 1871

She addressed the envelope and stuck on one of the postage stamps that she had brought in her bag. She looked then at her watch on the dresser and saw that it was almost half-past-nine. Joshua, generally an early riser, was usually up long before this time. She would not wake him, though. He needed his sleep, particularly today when they had the journey back to Happerfell before them.

Millie called round a while later, asking if there was anything she could do, and Lily told her that she and Joshua were to leave that day. When the girl left, she took off to the post the letters that Lily had written.

Over the next hour Lily packed some of their things into the carpet bag in preparation for their leaving, and did a little tidying up around the kitchen. She also made for herself a breakfast of a slice of bread with some of the beef dripping. She would keep what was left for the boy. It would be good for him. When she had dried her hands on a dish towel she went upstairs into the bedroom. He was not sleeping, but lying with his eyes open.

‘Ah, so you’re awake,’ she said. ‘Did you have a good sleep?’

He did not answer, but just looked at her.

‘I’ve got you some nice dripping for your breakfast,’ she said. ‘Or if you’d prefer it you can have a lovely fresh egg. How would that be?’

He gave the faintest little nod. She smiled at him, then sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘You’re going home today,’ she said. ‘You’re going to see Nursie again. Won’t that be nice?’

He remained silent for a moment, then he said, frowning, ‘My head hurts.’

‘Your head? Oh, my dear. It’s that nasty old chill of yours. Perhaps it’s come back. I’ll get you a little of your medicine. You’ll feel better then.’

She fetched the bottle and gave him a spoonful. He
pulled a face as he swallowed it, but did not protest. Afterwards she took him down into the warm kitchen, gave him a wash and got him dressed. He seemed quite languid throughout the whole process, and afterwards he climbed onto the sofa and lay back against the worn cushion.

‘Do you want Mr Charlie Dobbin?’ Lily asked him.

He nodded dully, and she got the toy and gave it to him. He took it in his hands without enthusiasm, and after a moment laid it down on the seat beside him. ‘Oh, poor Mr Charlie,’ Lily said in a sympathetic voice, smiling, trying to encourage some little vital response from him, but he did not smile in return. Bending to him, she laid the back of her hand on his smooth brow. He was warm. He was too warm. It was his chill, she said to herself. It was still lingering. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take him to the aquarium. But he had seemed quite well, and had been so happy.

‘Would you like a little breakfast?’ she asked him. ‘Perhaps some of that nice dripping? I know you like that. Or maybe that nice little egg. Would you?’

He shook his head, and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

She sat there, watching him.

Millie called in later on, to say goodbye, but Lily said they would not be returning to Happerfell today after all; the child was not well enough for the journey. Millie was surprised to see him lying down, so subdued, so lacking in vitality. It was his chill, Lily said. She should not have taken him out to the aquarium; she should have kept him indoors. But he would be better tomorrow.

Joshua stayed on the sofa all day. Lily kept him warm with blankets laid over him, and gave him his medicine at intervals. In the afternoon he ate a little bread and dripping, but only a little, leaving most of the food on the plate. His head still ached, he said, and he complained also of an ache
in the small of his back. Lily turned him over on the sofa, pulled up his shirt and gently massaged his lower back for a couple of minutes. He grew impatient with it, though, and irritable, so she stopped, and adjusted his clothing again.

In the early evening, she boiled an egg for him, cut a thin piece of bread and butter into fingers, and sat beside him encouraging him to eat. He tried a little, but with no enthusiasm, and eventually the plate was abandoned with the egg only half-eaten. When she tried to persuade him to eat more, he began to cry.

That night, lying in bed beside him, she put her arm around his small body, holding him as close to her as she dared. When he fell asleep she lay there listening to the sound of his breathing.

On Saturday she awoke in the morning with her head feeling heavy, dull and woolly. She had not slept well. She had not slept well for the simple reason that the child had not slept well. He had tossed and turned in the night, sometimes talking in his sleep, muttering unintelligible words. On two or three occasions he had briefly surfaced from his shallow sleep and tried to sit up, staring around him at the dimly-lit room. Lily, sensitive to every movement he made, had looked into his wide eyes and put her gentle hands upon him, trying to calm, to soothe. ‘It’s all right, my darling. It’s all right. Go back to sleep.’ And after a moment or two he had closed his languid, bewildered eyes, and settled back again with a troubled sigh.

She had lain awake long enough, she decided. She must get up. The boy was silent at her side, sleeping, and she was loath to disturb him. She moved carefully in the bed, easing herself out onto the thin mat that lay on the cold linoleum. She adjusted the bedcovers behind her, then took her clothes and crept out of the room.

Downstairs she went through the usual routine: wash
quickly, get dressed, then rake out the stove, relight the fire and put a kettle of water on to boil. While the water was heating she put on her boots and her coat and went outside into the yard to draw fresh water from the well. She made tea and sat down at the table and sipped from the cup. The tea was scalding hot, but it brought no comfort. Unless the child was so much better, she thought, he would still not be well enough to travel.

The door to the hall was open, as usual, and she got up and stood at the foot of the stairs and listened. There was no sound. Back in the kitchen, she saw that they would need more coal, and she took the bucket from the hearth and went out into the yard, and filled it from the bunker.

She was just coming in through the back door when she heard the boy’s cry.

For all that it was fairly faint, the sound of it almost stopped the blood in her veins. For the briefest moment she stood stock still, then she set down the bucket, hurried into the hall and started up the stairs.

The bedroom door was open, and she swung around the jamb into the room and saw the boy kneeling up in the bed.

‘Mama,’ he said, frowning, as she appeared in his view, his mouth distorted. ‘Mama.’