So Long At the Fair (20 page)

‘D’you think I could?’

‘Why not.’

Lizzie nodded. ‘I’ll write to him. And I’ll go and see Father first thing in the morning.’

‘Yes, you don’t want him to hear from somebody else that you’re back. Besides, he’s not well at the moment. He’s been home from work the past couple of days – which is unusual for him.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘A severe chill, I think. He’ll be all right as long as he rests in the warm. Anyway, come on. Let’s get to bed.’

The next morning, Sunday, Abbie accompanied Lizzie to Green Lane to see their father. Having passed a restless night, he had not long got up when they arrived. As Lizzie followed Abbie into the kitchen he looked at her in surprise.

‘What are you doing here?’

When Lizzie told him her story he reacted with anger and amazement. ‘What? Accuse my girl of stealing? Accuse my girl of being a common thief!’ Getting up from his chair, he strode across the room and snatched his coat from its hook. ‘I’m going to see that woman. I’m not standing for this!’

‘Father, please,’ Lizzie said, ‘it won’t help. There’s nothing to be done.’

‘Of course there’s something to be done! She can’t accuse you of theft and get away with it.’ His face pale with rage, he stood in the middle of the room, perspiring, his breathing sounding harsh and laboured.

‘Come on, Father,’ Abbie said, ‘you’re not in a fit state to go anywhere.’

He remained standing there. ‘Well, what do you suggest we do?’

Abbie was at a loss. ‘Perhaps we could write Mrs Carling a letter.’

‘A fat lot of good that’ll do.’

‘Well, then,’ Abbie said, ‘if you’re set on going to see her, wait a day or two – at least till you’re feeling a bit better. Then we’ll go together.’

He continued to protest for a few minutes, then hung up his coat again and sat down. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but I’m not just letting this ride.’

After Abbie had insisted on preparing some breakfast for him she and Lizzie left for the schoolhouse, telling their father that they would be back to get midday dinner. However, when they returned just after twelve o’clock, they found the cottage empty. A hastily scrawled note from their father, left on the kitchen table, told them that he had gone to Trowbridge to see Lizzie’s former employer.

Abbie groaned and shook her head. ‘You wonder where Eddie gets his hot-headedness and then you find out. Well – there’s nothing we can do now but wait for him to get back.’

Frank Morris had got a ride in a cart as far as Westbury, his benefactor one Fred Haroldson, a local tradesman who told him that he would be returning to Flaxdown that afternoon. ‘If you wants a lift,’ he said as Frank Morris got down from the cart, ‘I’ll be passin’ by the crossroads ’ere again about quarter past three. If I see you waitin’ you’re welcome to ride back with me.’

Frank Morris thanked him and said he’d do his best to be there. ‘If I look sharp,’ he said, ‘I can just about get to Trowbridge and back in time.’

He set off then to walk the remaining six-odd miles. The rain that had begun to threaten started to fall heavily when he was within a mile of his destination, but he pressed on; there was no time to stop for shelter. By the time he reached the Laurels, the family home of the Carlings, he was soaked through.

His ring at the back door brought a young maid before him. He told her his name and said he had come to see Mrs Carling. The girl glanced at him curiously for a second, then invited him to step inside while she went to inform her mistress.

As he stood holding his hat he realized what an unprepossessing sight he must present. With his handkerchief he dabbed at his cheeks and forehead, but he was so wet that as the minutes dragged by a small pool of water formed on the flags around his feet. He wondered again at his wisdom in making such a precipitate venture. Perhaps Abbie had been right, maybe it would have been wiser to have written a letter.

There came the sound of footsteps and the young maid was there again. ‘If you’ll come this way, sir. Mrs Carling will see you in the library.’

He thought of his boots on the soft carpets. ‘I’m wet through,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t Mrs Carling prefer me to stay here?’ The maid went away again and he waited, and after a few minutes Mrs Carling herself was coming into the room.

She was a tall, middle-aged woman with dark, greying hair, dressed in a blue housecoat. She gave him a somewhat nervous smile and asked him if he would care to sit down. He thanked her but said that if she didn’t mind he would prefer to stand. ‘You know, ma’am, why I’ve called, I’m sure,’ he added.

‘Indeed I do, Mr Morris. This incident concerning Lizzie has been a most unfortunate occurrence . . .’ Reaching into her pocket she drew out a letter. ‘I wrote to her just this morning. It would have been posted later today.’ She gestured to one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Do please sit down. It would make it –’

‘Mrs Carling,’ he said, interrupting her words, ‘my girl is not a thief. Lizzie’s a good girl. She would never dream of stealing anything.’

‘I know that, Mr Morris,’ the woman said. ‘That’s why I’ve written her this letter.’

He frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand . . .’

‘No, and why should you?’ She gave a sharp little sigh. ‘Mr Morris, the missing brooch has been found.’

‘It’s been found?’

‘Yes. That’s what I’ve written to tell Lizzie. It was found last night. The clasp was not secure and the brooch had obviously come loose and fallen. I found it myself, caught on one of the cushions in the drawing room. There’s no question of Lizzie having taken it.’

Frank Morris’s sense of relief fought with his anger at the unnecessary distress that Lizzie had been caused. ‘It was there all the time,’ he said, ‘and my girl was branded a common thief and dismissed from her post.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Mrs Carling said. ‘This is very difficult for me. But – well, I didn’t know Lizzie. She’d only been with me a very short time.’ She gave a helpless little shrug. ‘I wish I could undo it all, but that’s not possible. Though it goes without saying that if she would care to return here then I shall of course be very pleased to take her back. If, however, she should decide that she cannot, then of course I’ll provide her with references for her next post.’

She held out the letter. ‘Please – give it to Lizzie. I’ve explained everything.’

He took the envelope, glanced at it, then put it in his pocket. ‘She’ll be very relieved. As I am.’ As he finished speaking he felt the room sway slightly and he reached out and clutched at the back of a nearby chair.

‘Are you all right, Mr Morris?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’

She frowned. ‘You’re absolutely soaked. Let me get the maid to bring you a towel.’ She waved a hand back towards the deeper interior of the house. ‘There’s a fire in the library. Wouldn’t you like to get dry and rest for a while before you start for home? You’ve come all this way. I’ll have the maid bring you some tea and something to eat.’

‘No, no. Thank you anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘I must get back. I’m getting a lift at Westbury. Besides, my daughters will be wondering about me.’

‘Well, at least wait until the rain stops.’

He turned, glancing from the window. ‘It’s nothing to speak of now.’

‘How will you get to Westbury?’

‘Walking.’

‘But it’s miles. Couldn’t you take a train from here to Frome? You wouldn’t have so far to walk.’

‘Yes, that’s true, but . . .’ He shrugged, moving away, anxious to be gone. ‘I’ll manage all right.’ In the open doorway he turned to her. He felt strangely light-headed and as he wished her good day his voice seemed to come from a long way off, echoing in his head. A moment later he was turning again and stumbling away across the yard.

As he emerged into the lane beside the house he looked up at the sky. Furled, ragged clouds rolled heavy and dark, but for the moment the rain was light. He pulled down the brim of his hat, turned up the collar of his coat and started off for the main road. On reaching it he came to a stop. It would indeed be easier to take the train from Trowbridge to Frome and walk the three miles from there. But he had already made his arrangements, besides which he could not afford to throw good money away. He reached inside his coat and took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. Just after two o’clock. He had no time to waste if he was to be at the crossroads in time. Turning to the left, he started on the long and winding road that would eventually take him to Westbury.

The rain came on more heavily after a time, but he trudged on; he was still so wet from his previous soaking that he saw no point in taking shelter. As the continuing downpour turned the road into mud, his progress became slower and more difficult. The light-headed sensation that had briefly touched him in the Carling house returned, coming over him in waves, sometimes so powerfully that he became momentarily disorientated and staggered in his path. But then, after taking a few moments for recovery, he would press onwards.

A mile out of Eversleigh he left the road to take a short cut across fields, and still the driving rain came down, lashing his bent head and running beneath the collar of his coat. He had long since ceased to be aware of the discomfort it brought; he was only intent on reaching the crossroads and then getting back home with the good news for Lizzie.

The footpath he followed led for part of the route alongside a small wood where he was sheltered in part from the rain. It could do nothing, however, to diminish his growing fever, and as he made his way his walk became a staggering gait. With the sky reeling above him, he came to a halt, clutching at a tree trunk for support, and there he clung, trying to slow his gasping breath.

Pushing on once more, he took a few further staggering steps and then, catching his foot against the root of a beech tree, fell heavily onto the sodden ground. There he lay without moving, eyes closed, his only feeling one of relief at the chance to rest for a while.

It was nearly half past three when Fred Haroldson approached the crossroads. He had been delayed because of the storm. The rain had ceased now, however, and the sun had come out, burning fiercely, drying the mud of the road and drawing a fine haze of vapour from the verges and the hedgerows. Reaching the crossroads Haroldson brought the mare to a halt and looked around him. There was no one in sight. Frank must have got tired of waiting, he thought, and made his own way back to Flaxdown. After a while he flicked the reins, called out a command to the mare and the cart started forward again.

While Fred Haroldson continued on his way back to Flaxdown, Frank Morris lay beneath the beech tree at the edge of the wood. As his clothes dried in the warm sun, the bluebottles were already buzzing around him and settling on his flesh and crawling into his mouth.

Chapter Fourteen

Stooping over the grave in which her father now lay, Abbie made a final adjustment to the white roses in the little earthenware pot.

It was a bright Saturday afternoon, the last day in August. Five weeks had passed since her father’s death. When he had not returned that rainy Sunday she and Lizzie had gone out searching for him – though without direction, for they had not known the precise way he had travelled. Then, early that evening there had come word that his body had been found. The letter in his pocket, addressed to Lizzie, had quickly led to his identification.

Since that time there had been so many occasions when, finding herself absorbed in thoughts of him, Abbie could do nothing but weep. She wept not only over the fact of his loss but also for his goodness, for the unrewarded struggles he had known in his life and for his disappointment in the loveless marriage he had known.

For those remaining life had, of course, to go on. The cottage in Green Lane had passed to Eddie – which, Abbie thought, was the way it should be (her father’s books Eddie had given to her – which was all that she had wanted). Lizzie too, now, was settled. She had not returned to her former position – it was too uncomfortably bound up with her father’s death – but with the aid of glowing references from Mrs Carling had found a new post – this time in Lullington – and seemed to be reasonably content there.

Now, Abbie realized as she turned from the grave, her own ties to Flaxdown were far less strong than they had been. Apart from Eddie – who in any case was immersed in his own family and his own life – she now had no real bond with the village. Beatie and her father were dead; her mother had long since abandoned all connection with the place, and Lizzie and Iris were away in service and unlikely ever to return here to live – as likewise was Jane. It was only her own work at the school that kept Abbie in Flaxdown. As she made her way between the graves onto the gravel path she had a sudden picture of herself in twenty or thirty years, a mature woman, the archetypal spinster schoolmistress. The thought filled her with a strange, vague regret.

In the schoolhouse she made some tea and read for a while, then began to work on her knitting for Violet’s coming baby. She could not relax, though, and after twenty minutes or so she put the half-finished garment in its bag and went outside. After standing at the gate for a while, she opened it and walked out into the lane.

At the end of the lane she turned away from the village, taking a narrow footpath that led across a field where sheep and cattle grazed. At the far side she crossed over a stile and followed the path beside a field of ripening wheat. She was aware of a strange restlessness within her, a feeling akin to that she had known in the churchyard earlier that afternoon. Leaving the cornfield behind her, she walked through a small thicket, coming to a halt at the far side where she sat on a stile to rest for a while before returning. As she sat there she heard footsteps approaching behind her and turned to see a tall figure coming along the path. As he drew nearer she recognized him as the man with whom she and Jane had driven back from Warminster a month before.