So Long At the Fair (25 page)

He then went on to say that he had spent some time in Bristol, working at a hospital, but had left to take up a share in a practice in Frome, where one of the general practitioners in a partnership had recently retired. He enjoyed his work, he told her. At that moment, he added, he was returning from a visit to his father in Gravesend.

When he asked Abbie about herself she told him that she was teaching at the village school in Flaxdown.

‘So it happened after all,’ he said. ‘You
did
become a teacher. When we talked about it you thought it was not going to happen. Well done.’

‘Thank you.’ She was surprised that he remembered their conversation.

‘Are you liking it, your work?’ he asked.

‘Yes, very much – when I’m allowed to get on with it.’

‘But what are you doing here, on the train?’

‘I’m returning from London.’

‘You’ve been to London?’

‘Yes.’ Now there was a note of pride in her voice. ‘I went there to spend the Christmas period.’ She paused, then, looking away, unable to meet his eyes, added, ‘With my fiancé.’

‘Oh, Abbie – you’re engaged to be married.’

‘Yes.’ Unable to read his tone, she looked back at him. He was smiling at her.

‘So you’re to be married,’ he said. ‘Oh – I’m so happy for you. Congratulations. When is your marriage to take place?’

‘In the spring. At Easter.’

‘Well – that will soon be here. Then you’ll be a married woman. Would I know the gentleman?’

‘I hardly think so. His name is Arthur Gilmore.’

‘No, I don’t know him – though I’m certain he’s a lucky man.’

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Are you married?’

‘Me? No, I’m afraid not.’ He smiled. ‘Obviously I haven’t been as fortunate as you.’

Darkness had fallen by the time they reached Frome, and to Abbie’s disappointment there was no cab to be had when they emerged from the station. ‘Well, I’ll just have to wait,’ she said, her breath vapouring in the cold air. She felt dirty and tired. She had set out from Arthur’s house just after nine o’clock that morning and it was now after four.

‘You can’t wait around here in the dark in this cold weather,’ Louis said. ‘Come on.’ He took up her box. ‘I live close by. I’ll drive you home.’

She protested for a moment, but he would hear of no other course and together they set off along the street.

He lived only five or six minutes’ walk from the station, in a large grey-stone house set back from the road, and from the little Abbie could see in the gloom, surrounded by a fairly spacious garden. Louis invited her to take some tea before starting off for Flaxdown, but she declined, saying that if it was all the same to him she would prefer to get on home. He agreed at once and, after putting his bag in the house and collecting a lamp, he led the way to the small stable and coach house at the end of the drive. She stood watching as he hitched up the mare and then, shortly afterwards, muffled up against the cold wind, she was sitting beside him as they set off.

At last they drew into Flaxdown and he brought the carriage to a halt at the schoolhouse, helped Abbie down, picked up her box and followed her up to the front door. When she had unlocked it he went in after her and set her box down. She thanked him for his kindness and asked whether she could offer him some refreshment before he started home.

‘Another time I’d like to very much,’ he said. ‘But I must get back now. I have a lot to do before I start work in the morning.’

When, after an exchange of handshakes he had left, Abbie hung up her cape and bonnet. It was warm in the cottage; Violet or Eddie had been round and lit the stove. She filled the kettle and put it on to boil. In the larder she found fresh milk, eggs, bread and cheese – again thanks to Eddie or Violet. After preparing a simple meal of bread, cheese and pickles she made a pot of tea and sat down to eat.

As she ate she became aware of a sense of dissatisfaction. She felt strangely low-spirited – yet she could not pin down the cause of such feelings. Once having departed from London, she had been eager to get home again, but now that she was here her eagerness had somehow gone flat. She looked around her. The cottage was so small and humble compared with Arthur’s house in London . . . Yet it was not that, she realized – not disappointment in her present surroundings. What, then? She thought back over her week in the capital. There had been so many things to see and do. And through it all Arthur had been so solicitous of her happiness. It had also been good to see Jane again. She thought of Jane’s words to her when they had been lying in bed in Arthur’s house: ‘You’re very lucky.’ And it was true; she was lucky; in the spring she and Arthur would be married, and from then on she would want for nothing. She had, she told herself, absolutely nothing to be disappointed about.

She pushed aside her plate with the uneaten food and picked up her cup. As she raised it to her lips there came a knock at the door. It would be Eddie, she guessed, checking to see whether she had returned safely.

Moving to the door, she opened it and in the light that spilled out saw not the familiar figure of her brother standing there but a woman.

‘Yes . . . ?’ Abbie said.

The woman did not answer.

‘Yes?’ Abbie said again. ‘Can I help you?’

The other nodded and the nod was not an answer to Abbie’s question but a gesture of affirmation. ‘Yes,’ the woman said and nodded again. ‘Yes, it is you. Oh – Abbie . . .’

Abbie frowned, perplexed; there was something in the woman’s voice.

The other spoke again. ‘You don’t know me, do you?’

A moment of silence passed, then, her knees suddenly weak, Abbie breathed: ‘Mother . . . ? Is it – is it you?’

Chapter Seventeen

In the kitchen Abbie sat and looked at her mother as she drank the tea and picked at the bread and cheese that had been put before her.

Now, without her cape and bonnet, her mother seemed smaller in height than Abbie remembered. At the same time she appeared heavier; there was a thickness about her chin and throat and about her waist that Abbie could not recall. There was a faint, musty, stale smell about her and she looked so much older too. The rather striking prettiness that Abbie remembered had gone for ever – not only in the coarsening of her features and the lines in her face, but also in the appearance of her skin; the flesh of her cheeks and nose was now covered with a fine mesh of broken veins – like the faces of some of the ale drinkers Abbie had seen standing around outside the pub.

Her mother’s appearance had altered in other aspects also. Abbie remembered her having always taken great pains with her dress and her hair, but now it looked as if such concerns were things of the past. Her clothes were dirty and worn, her boots dusty and down-at-heel; and her hair, now thinning and greying, was unpinned and uncombed, and hung untidily about her cheeks. Her mother had been thirty-eight years old at the time of her departure. Ten years had passed since that time and they were all reflected in her appearance.

Elizabeth Morris had said little since her arrival, mostly confining herself to a few monosyllables. Now, though, raising her head from her cup she said, ‘Oh, Abbie – you can’t imagine how relieved I am to see you.’ A pause, and then, ‘I suppose you want to know what I’ve been doing all this time . . .’

Abbie shook her head. ‘There’s time. For now I think you should rest for a while. And I think I should go and let Eddie know you’re here.’

‘He already knows. I called there first. A young woman answered the door. I thought for a minute you’d all moved away.’

‘The young woman – that would be Violet, his wife.’

‘So I gathered.’ Mrs Morris nodded. ‘Anyway, I asked for him – Eddie – and he came to the door and . . .’ The piece of bread fell from her fingers and she suddenly bent her head, her shoulders shaking while tears ran from her eyes.

Abbie went to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t cry. Oh, don’t cry.’

After a minute, a little calmer, her mother went on, ‘He didn’t want to know me. He wouldn’t ask me in.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘So then I asked to see your father – and he told me that he – that he’d died.’

‘Yes.’

‘Please – tell me what happened.’

While her mother listened in silence, Abbie sat down again and told of Lizzie’s dismissal and their father’s subsequent death on his way back from Trowbridge.

When she had finished her mother briefly closed her eyes and said, ‘I was not a good wife to your father, Abbie. I wasn’t a good wife to him – nor a good mother to you children.’

Abbie remained silent. After a few moments her mother brightened a little and said, ‘So – here you are, a grown woman and living in the schoolhouse. The village schoolmistress. Your father would be proud. Mind you, he was a clever man himself.’

‘Yes, he was.’

A brief silence, then with a little wondering shake of her head, Mrs Morris said, ‘I can’t get over it – seeing Eddie standing there in the doorway. It was such a – a shock. He’s all grown up now. And married too.’

Abbie nodded. ‘His wife was one of the Neville girls. They lived on the other side of the green, if you remember.’

‘Ah – yes.’ Her mother gave a non-committal nod.

‘And they have a baby now,’ Abbie said. ‘Sarah. She was born just last month.’

‘Eddie – a father,’ her mother said. ‘Just fancy.’ The corners of her mouth turning down she added, ‘You should have seen his face as he looked at me. It was like stone. He hates me.’

‘No,’ Abbie said. ‘He was shocked to see you, that’s all. He’ll be all right in a while, you’ll see.’

‘Perhaps.’ Her mother did not sound convinced. ‘He didn’t even ask me in. I asked for you then, and he told me where I’d find you.’ She broke into a spate of coughing – a chesty, painful sound. When the spasm had subsided she went on, ‘And what about you? Are you going to send me away?’

‘What? No, of course not. How can you ask such a thing?’

‘I – I can stay here tonight?’

‘Yes, of course. You shall have my bed.’

‘Where will you sleep?’

‘I’ll be all right. I’ll make up a bed for myself on the sofa.’

Her mother gave a sad little smile. ‘Thank you. At least you’re still my daughter – aren’t you?’

‘Oh – Mother . . .’ At her mother’s side again Abbie bent and put an arm around her shoulders. As she did so she took in the tainted smell of her mother’s breath and fought back a slight feeling of revulsion. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you should get to bed now. You don’t look that well and I should think you could do with a rest.’

Upstairs, her mother put on one of Abbie’s nightdresses and got into bed. When Abbie had seen her settled, she moved to blow out the candle.

‘No,’ her mother said, ‘don’t go just yet. Stay with me for a minute.’

Abbie sat down on the side of the bed. After a moment or two her mother said, ‘I can’t get over it – you being a teacher. You’ve done well for yourself.’

Abbie smiled and gave a little shrug.

‘And what about the other girls? What are they doing now?’

Abbie hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘As I told you – Lizzie’s in service. She’s in Lullington now. As lady’s maid to a Mrs Hazeldine. Iris is in service too – working as a kitchen maid at a house in Bath. They’re happy enough, I think.’

‘And Beatrice? What about Beatrice?’

A little moment of silence, then Abbie said, ‘Beatie . . . Beatie is dead.’

After much weeping Mrs Morris had at last fallen asleep, and Abbie had left her and crept downstairs again. Now, sitting huddled over the stove, getting the last of the heat, she felt drained and too exhausted even to make the effort to make up her bed on the sofa.

Eventally, however, she stirred herself and went into the parlour. Later, lying awake in the dark room, she thought about her mother’s return. What was going to happen now? What was her mother going to do? And what about her own plans? She had not yet told her mother of her forthcoming marriage. Tomorrow, she said to herself, she must go and talk to Eddie.

‘I don’t want to see her,’ Eddie said.

He sat at the kitchen table of the little house in Green Lane, his face stony, his lips set. Behind him on the settle Violet tended the baby while she listened to the strained conversation.

‘But she’s our mother, Eddie,’ Abbie protested. ‘Whatever she’s done she’s still our mother. We can’t forget that.’

‘She’s the one who chose to forget it,’ he said. ‘Our mother. Huh. You can look on ’er like that if you want, but I don’t. I can’t. And I never will be able to.’

‘But she needs looking after. You can’t just pretend she doesn’t exist any more. Besides, she doesn’t look at all well. If you ask me, I think she’s ill.’

‘I’m not asking,’ he said shortly. ‘And if she’s sick then let ’er go and find one of ’er fancy men. Let one of them take care of ’er. Where’s Pattison? Maybe ’e’d like to look after ’er.’

‘Oh, Eddie, you know very well that that was all over and done with years ago.’

‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘and I don’t doubt there’ve been plenty of others since.’

‘Be sensible, Eddie – please.’

‘I am being sensible.’

‘She’s got to stay somewhere.’

‘Let ’er stay with you, then.’

Abbie sighed. ‘For now she can. But what if the school Board find out and object? They might. There’s no telling with them. And if they kick up a fuss she and I could both find ourselves without anywhere to live.’ She paused. ‘Besides, I’m leaving in the spring – to be married. Have you forgotten that?’

‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘you can take ’er with you. If your Mr Gilmore’s ’ouse is as big as you say there’ll be plenty of room for one more. And I expect she’d like that. A grand ’ouse in London – it’s what she’ve always wanted. She was never satisfied ’ere, that’s for sure.’

‘Oh, Eddie, how can I do that – take her to London with me?’