So Long At the Fair (6 page)

‘So,’ said Frank Morris, pulling at a blade of grass, ‘next Saturday when I get back you won’t be here.’

‘No, I shan’t.’

‘How d’you feel about it – going away?’

She shrugged. ‘A bit nervous – but I reckon that’s only natural.’

‘You’ll let me know at once if things ain’t right, won’t you? If anybody mistreats you or anything like that, you let me know. I won’t have you staying in a place where you’re unhappy.’ He sat with his arms resting on his knees, hands clasped low. His hands were broadened by years of manual work, the edges of his fingernails ingrained with the stains of soil and mortar that no amount of scrubbing on a Saturday would shift. ‘It’ll be strange without you,’ he said. ‘But there, you’ll be back some weekends – and you’ll come and spend your summer holiday back home, won’t you?’

‘Oh, ah, I’ll do that. And when I come I’ll try to bring you a nice present.’

‘No, no,’ he said, ‘don’t you go spending your money on me. My God, you’ll have worked hard enough for it and you’ll need it for yourself.’

She didn’t say anything to this.

‘You’ll see,’ he went on, ‘your year at Eversleigh will soon pass, and then you’ll be able to move on to something better. Have a chance to work your way up.’

She looked at him. His words surprised her. Was he accepting the possibility that she would spend all her working life in service? ‘Don’t you think it’s a good idea,’ she asked ‘what we talked about? About my studyin’ to be a teacher?’

He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘I only want what’s best for you, Abbie. But I suppose we’ve got to realize that what we want is not always to be had. If things could be different . . .’ He shook his head. ‘But they’re
not
different – no matter how much we might wish ’em to be.’

Abbie felt her spirits sink.

‘But you’ll be happy,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll make the best of whatever comes your way.’

She nodded, disappointment welling in her. Turning to face him again she could see the hurt in his eyes. ‘Don’t worry about me, Father,’ she said. ‘I shall be all right. And one day I’ll make you proud of me.’

‘I already am.’

Silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of birdsong. Abbie was suddenly aware of how much she loved him. Looking away over the green meadow she said, ‘I’ll miss you, Father.’

He did not respond at once, but then his left hand came round and clasped her shoulder. He held her close and the smell of him in her nostrils was the sweetest scent. ‘I’ll miss
you
, my girl,’ he said.

She knew, without looking at him, that there were tears in his eyes.

Eddie returned late from work at the farm on Wednesday evening, telling his mother that both Mr White and his son were laid up with the flu, while Gresham, one of White’s right-hand men, had been confined to his bed following an accident in which he had injured his leg. An added complication was the fact that two of White’s mares were about to foal at any time. As a result, Eddie had agreed to sleep over at the farm for the next few nights in order to be on hand when needed.

On Thursday, after midday dinner, Abbie concentrated on making sure that her things were ready for her move to Eversleigh. She did not have much to take in the way of clothes, but the little she owned had to be clean and mended and pressed. Her mother, it had been arranged, would accompany her to Eversleigh. Leaving Lizzie and Iris in the care of Jane and Mrs Carroll, Abbie and Mrs Morris would get a ride part of the way with Mr Taggart, the landlord of the Harp and Horses. Abbie knew that on a Saturday he usually drove to the market in Westbury, and on approaching him he readily agreed to take her and her mother in his cart. From Westbury the pair would walk the remaining two-and-a-half miles to Eversleigh.

When her box was packed, Abbie resumed her work in the cottage. Her mother seemed strangely preoccupied. Several times when Abbie spoke to her in the course of their work she gave no answer; she appeared not to hear, to be far away in some world of her own; then, when Abbie repeated her words, she would turn to her as if coming out of a dream. Once or twice Abbie was tempted to ask if there was something wrong, but each time she let the moment pass and put the question from her mind.

That night when she lay in bed her thoughts centred once again on her own concerns. After tonight there would be only one more day and one more night, then she would be leaving for Eversleigh.

From the other bed she could hear the soft, regular breathing of her younger sisters. They had been asleep for hours. As she should have been. Nervousness, excitement, however, all got in the way. Faintly, from the church, she heard the striking of the clock and counted the twelve strokes.

She was not sure whether her mother had come to bed. When Eddie slept at the farm Mrs Morris stayed later than usual in the kitchen. Tonight Abbie had been aware on two occasions of her mother climbing the stairs – it was impossible to use them without causing a few creaks – and then descending again. But that second time had been over an hour ago and since then she had heard nothing more.

From the church came the sound of the clock striking the hour of one. Abbie lay there for a few minutes longer and then, as quietly as she could, slipped from her bed and tiptoed out of the room.

In the faint light that crept past the thin curtains at the little landing window she saw that the door to her mother’s room was closed. After hesitating for a moment she gingerly grasped the handle. It turned silently in her hand. Holding her breath, she gently eased open the door. The curtains at the window were still parted, and in the moonlight she saw that her mother’s bed lay empty and undisturbed.

She turned back out onto the landing and went down the stairs. The kitchen too was empty.

Where had her mother gone? Not to Mrs Marling again, surely; Mrs Marling’s baby, a boy, had been born two days ago.

Abbie stood, wondering what to do. Then she moved to the door, put on her pattens and slipped out into the night. At the gate she looked up and down the lane. There was no one in sight and not one single lighted window was in view. The whole village seemed to be asleep. After a minute she turned and went back indoors.

In the kitchen she took off her pattens and moved to the table. Taking a Lucifer match from its box she struck it and put the little flame to the wick of the half-burned candle. In the light of the flame she took Eddie’s old winter coat from its hook behind the door and wrapped it round her shoulders. The fire in the grate had long since died and the room had grown cold. Moving to the window seat, she sat down and settled herself to wait.

She awoke with a start, stiff in her limbs, her bare feet cold in the early morning air. She stretched her arms and rubbed at her neck to ease the stiffness there. It was close on five o’clock and dawn was lighting the room. On the table the candle had burned out.

After raking the ashes from the grate she lit a fire. Then she washed her face and hands, and went upstairs. In the bedroom, moving quietly so as not to waken the girls, she got dressed and then crept again into her mother’s room. Peering into the little wardrobe, she saw that her father’s clothes hung there neatly, while most of her mother’s things had gone.

Back downstairs she made some tea and sat slowly drinking it at the table. She had been sitting there for ten minutes when she noticed the envelope. Glancing over in the direction of the range, she saw it on the mantelpiece, propped up against a little china dog that Eddie had won at the last May fair. She reached up to take it down – and found that there were two others behind it. Each was inscribed in her mother’s handwriting; the first was addressed simply:
Frank
; the second:
Edward
: the third:
Abigail
. All three envelopes were sealed.

At the table she laid the envelopes before her, then, carefully, she took up the one addressed to herself and tore it open. Inside, folded, was a single sheet of flimsy notepaper. Opening it up, she read the words that her mother had written.

At seven o’clock Abbie went upstairs and woke Lizzie and Iris, and told them to get dressed. When they came downstairs she served them porridge, adding to it a little milk and honey. ‘Where’s Mam? Where’s Mam?’ they asked in plaintive, irritating tones, to which Abbie replied that their mother had gone out and would be back later.

When they had eaten – Abbie herself was unable to swallow more than a spoonful or two – she got them into their coats.

‘Where are we going?’ Lizzie asked, her question at once echoed by Iris.

‘To White’s farm,’ Abbie said, ‘to see Eddie.’

‘What for?’ Iris asked.

‘Because we’ve got to.’

When they were all ready, Abbie set the guard before the fire, then took the three letters and put them into her pocket. With the girls at her side, she left the cottage.

It took about twenty minutes to reach the farmhouse and, on enquiring of the farmer’s wife for her brother, Abbie was directed to the stable yard.

Eddie looked up in surprise as his sisters came towards him. ‘What’re you doin’ ’ere?’ he said, frowning.

Abbie came to a halt some ten yards away. ‘Wait here,’ she said to the girls. ‘I want to talk to Eddie for a minute.’

‘What for?’ Lizzie asked.

‘Just do as I tell you,’ Abbie said sharply.

Leaving the girls standing side by side, she went to where Eddie stood.

His frown deepened as he saw the grave expression on her face. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

Abbie tried to frame words but none came, and suddenly her lip quivered and she burst into tears.

‘Good God, girl!’ Eddie said, all concern. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Mam,’ she managed to get out at last. ‘She went out again last night, but this time she didn’t come back. And her clothes are gone from her room.’ From her pocket she brought out the letters. ‘Here . . .’ She handed one to him. ‘I got one as well, and there’s another one here for Father.’

Eddie turned the envelope over in his dirty hands, then tore it open.

Abbie watched his face as he unfolded the letter and read it. She saw his mouth twist and the sudden shine of tears in his eyes. ‘What does she say, Eddie?’

He hesitated and swallowed before replying, ‘She’ve gone away. She’ve left us. She ain’t comin’ back no more.’

Abbie began to cry again, silently, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Tell me what she says. What does she say?’

‘She says,’ he said, looking back at the letter, ‘that she’ve got to go away . . .’ His voice trembling, he began to read aloud from it. ‘“You’ve been a good son, Eddie, and from now on I want you to be a good brother to your sisters and look after them. It’s no use me trying to explain now why I’m leaving, but perhaps one day I’ll be able to, and you’ll be able to understand. I’m very sorry.”’ He paused. ‘She signs it “Your loving Mother”.’

Suddenly the tears were flowing unchecked from his eyes and he sobbed out into the still morning air. He spun, took a few steps away, then turned back again. The tears were streaming down his face. In all her life, Abbie had never seen him weep like this. She watched as, in a fever of anguish, he tore at the letter, ripping it to pieces. ‘Well, she can go!’ he cried, letting the fragments of paper fall at his feet. ‘Let ’er go! Well manage without ’er. Let ’er go!’

A little later, after a brief conversation with Mr White, Eddie was given permission to saddle one of the mares and ride to Bath. He found his father working on site, mixing mortar. As Eddie approached, Frank Morris’s eyes registered alarm at the sight of his son there, so far from home. In silence Eddie delivered to him the third letter.

His father read it and then turned away. ‘I’ll see the foreman. He’ll let me off – though of course I’ll lose the pay. It can’t be helped. Tell Abbie I’ll be back later on today.’

‘Where’s Mam gone, Father?’ Eddie asked.

‘She doesn’t say. Though I’ve no doubt she’s gone back to London.’

‘But – but
why
? Why would she want to go off alone and leave us like that?’

‘She hasn’t gone alone,’ his father said. ‘She’s gone with Jack Pattison. They’ve gone off together.’

That evening, after her father had returned, grave-faced, from Bath, Abbie went to tell Jane and Mrs Carroll what had happened. When they had sympathized and given her what comfort they could, Jane asked what she intended to do about her post at Marylea House. Abbie replied that she would have to write to Mrs Curren and tell her that she could not work for her after all, that from now on she would be needed at home. After some discussion it was decided that, if Mrs Curren would accept her, Jane would go in Abbie’s place. So after Abbie had left, Mrs Carroll went to tell Mr Taggart that she and Jane would like to travel with him to Westbury the following day instead of the Morrises.

They approached Marylea House the next morning with some trepidation. They need not have worried, however. Mrs Curren was immediately agreeable – for, as she remarked, Jane had only lost out in the first place through the fall of a coin.

Later, after a rest over a cup of tea, Mrs Carroll and Jane went into the yard where they embraced and said their goodbyes. Then, with tears in her eyes, and watched by Jane from the gate, Mrs Carroll set off back on the dusty road to Flaxdown.

While Jane was learning her duties in Eversleigh, Abbie was trying to deal with the changes in her own life. At first she lived in hope that her mother would return, but the days dragged by and Mrs Morris did not come. How, Abbie wondered, could her mother leave them? It was understandable for a wife to want to escape from a husband who ill-used her and gave no thought to her happiness, but her father was a kind, considerate man. In any case, the relationship between husband and wife apart, how could a woman desert her children?