Inherit the Skies (12 page)

‘Sarah – there's pickle left on the edge of this plate! Can't you do anything properly?'

‘Sorry, Mrs Pugh.'

‘Sorry's no good though is it? If you did it right in the first place you'd save us both a lot of trouble. I don't know … dragged up she must have been!' she had added as an aside to one of the wives who had come to help but spent more time gossiping than making tea or sandwiches.

Sarah had heard the remark but remained silent. She had quickly learned that this was the best way but it rankled all the same and she remembered it now as she carefully took the eggs from the basket and placed them in the sink.

I wasn't dragged up! she thought. And anyway I've got better manners than Mrs Pugh. I know it's rude to talk about people in their hearing.

She scrubbed away at the eggs conscientiously but for all her efforts bits of muck clung to the shells and Sarah began to feel desperate. They wouldn't do for Mrs Pugh, she knew. There would be another tongue-lashing in store unless she could get them cleaner than this. But cold water did not seem to be making any impression on those last stubborn bits of muck and straw which stuck like glue to the speckled shells. If only she had some warm water …

She glanced round. The big old kettle was settled on the hob where it sat most of the day. Sarah went across and lifted it. It felt heavy. She took it back to the sink and poured some hot water into the cold in the sink, then began to scrub the eggs again. Yes, that was better. The bits of muck were loosening now.

She had been working steadily for a few minutes when she heard the door open.

Bertha Pugh came in, puffing a little, and set her basket down on the table.

‘Whew, it's warm this afternoon! How are you getting on, Sarah? Not finished yet?' She turned, wiping the film of perspiration from her forehead with one of Amos's large handkerchiefs, and noticed the pool of moisture beneath the sink. ‘ What's all this mess, eh? You've spilled water all over my clean floor!'

My
clean floor, Sarah thought with a stirring of rebellion.

‘I'll clean it up in a minute,' she said.

‘In a minute! Well, in a minute might not be good enough!' Bertha snapped. Then, seeing the kettle standing on the cupboard top beside the egg basket, her small mean eyes narrowed. ‘And what's
that
doing there, I'd like to know?'

Sarah dropped the egg she had been scrubbing back into the water.

‘I'll put it back …'

She lifted the kettle but Bertha advanced, head poked forward, concertina chins jutting, so that she looked for all the world like one of her own broody hens.

‘What's it doing here? That's what I asked.' She dipped a thick finger into the sink and withdrew it so sharply that spray splashed up onto the front of her blouse. ‘Oh my lord, you haven't been washing the eggs in hot water, have you?'

‘I'm trying to get them clean,' Sarah explained.

‘You stupid girl!' Bertha's neck was turning turkey-cock red and as always when she was angry she began to gobble. ‘You can't use hot water to wash eggs!'

‘But …' Sarah broke off aghast as the terrible truth began to dawn. ‘Oh!' she said in a small voice.

‘You've coddled them, that's what you've done! Every one of them bloody eggs!' Bertha was not above swearing when she was angry and she was angry now. ‘Two dozen eggs and you've gone and bloody coddled 'em!' she repeated. Then not even the unladylike language was enough to relieve the rage that was coursing through her body and throbbing in her temples and she set about Sarah, cuffing her sharply round the ears, then striking out wildly at her arms and chest. Sarah ducked and tried to move back out of the way of those flailing hands, her boot slipped on the wet flagstone and she went crashing down, grazing her knee on the corner of the sink. Bertha kicked out at her. Her toe caught Sarah in the ribs and she squealed like an injured puppy.

‘Little Turk!' Bertha screamed at her. ‘Are you stupid? Or did you do it o' purpose? You did, didn't you! You did it o' …'

She stopped mid sentence, hearing for the first time above the roar of the blood in her ears the alien sound floating in through the open door – the bub-bub-bub of a motor car engine. She straightened quickly, patting her hair into place and hissing at Sarah: ‘Get up! Get up, do you hear me?'

Sarah scrambled to her feet just as Gilbert Morse approached the door. Her knee was stinging and there was a sharp pain in her ribs where Bertha had kicked her, but she felt only an acute sense of shame.

He stopped in the doorway, hand raised to knock, looking perplexed.

‘Mrs Pugh. Is everything all right?'

‘Oh yes, Mr Morse.' Her chins bobbed as she tried to hide her own embarrassment and fluster with a ripple of forced laughter. ‘Well, Sarah slipped if you must know on the wet floor. That'll teach her to be more careful with the water won't it, silly child!' She laughed again.

Gilbert turned to look at Sarah. His expression was concerned.

‘Did you hurt yourself, Sarah?'

‘Oh no, no, they fall easy, the young, don't they? Not like you or me, Mr Morse, if we should happen to go down …'

Gilbert ignored her.

‘Sarah?' he asked gravely.

Sarah swallowed at the tears that were gathering in her throat, raised her chin and met his eyes directly.

‘I'm all right.'

He held her gaze for a moment longer and his look was thoughtful.

‘Well, Mr Morse, and to what do we owe this pleasure?' Bertha prattled. ‘ You've come to see Mr Pugh I expect. He's in the cowsheds, I shouldn't wonder. It's just turned milking time …'

‘No, I didn't come to see Amos,' Gilbert said. ‘The purpose of my visit was to see how you are getting along with Sarah.'

He came into the kitchen, removing his cap, and Bertha fussed around him, anxious to dispel any remaining awkwardness.

‘We're doing fine. She has a lot to learn, of course, but then I suppose that's only to be expected. A woman like her mother … raising her all on her own … she's missed out on a lot, stands to reason. But we shall win, I dare say.' She laughed again, a little too loudly.

‘Hmm.' Gilbert was still looking thoughtful.

‘Can I offer you something, Mr Morse?' Bertha gushed. ‘A nice cup of tea or a glass of sherry?'

‘No thank you, Mrs Pugh.' He turned to Sarah. ‘You are settling in then, my dear? And how are you getting on at school?'

‘That's something again, of course,' Bertha interrupted before Sarah could answer. ‘ She's been kept in a few times lately. Not learning her lessons properly, I dare say.'

‘That's not true!' Sarah protested and Mrs Pugh flashed her a warning glare before fawning again for Gilbert's benefit.

‘Well of course it is! Why else would Miss Keevil keep you in when the others have gone home?'

‘Don't you like school, Sarah?' Gilbert asked,

‘Not much,' Sarah admitted honestly.

‘Why not? You are a bright girl.'

‘We do the same things day after day. Though I quite like it when I have to teach the little ones,' she added, brightening.

‘You teach the little ones?'

‘Yes – to read. Miss Keevil can't hear them all and I like reading. I'm good at it,' she said with pride.

‘And what do you like to read?'

‘
Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare
,' she said promptly. ‘And
The Water Babies
. I feel really sorry for Tom, but when he falls in the river it's good. Everything comes right.'

Her face had come alight as she spoke but Bertha tutted and shook her head. She had no time for talking about such nonsense.

‘That's as maybe,' she said shortly. ‘ It's your sums you should be concentrating on, my girl, if you're ever to balance your housekeeping accounts when you've got a home of your own to run.'

‘I like sums too,' Sarah said quickly. ‘It's just that they're too easy.'

A smile twinkled in Gilbert's eyes. What would Mrs Pugh make of
that
, he wondered.

She was shaking her head again.

‘I don't know, I'm sure. Boastfulness is next to vanity, Sarah, and you know what vanity is, don't you? One of the seven deadly sins. Or don't they teach you that in Sunday School any more?'

Gilbert saw the light go out of Sarah's eyes.

‘I didn't mean …'

‘You're just showing off in front of Mr Morse. If you are so clever my girl why did you coddle two dozen eggs, I'd like to know?' She nodded at Gilbert, her chins wobbling as emphasis. ‘Washed the eggs in hot water, she did! Hot water! Now wouldn't you think her own common sense would tell her …'

‘I was only trying to get them clean,' Sarah protested. ‘You were angry last week because …'

‘Don't answer back!' Bertha snapped. ‘I've told you before, children should be seen and not heard!'

Sarah's lips clamped shut and she looked at the flagstone floor. When Gilbert had gone she'd be for it, she knew. Answering back was high on Bertha's list of serious crimes. Oh how she hated her! thought Sarah.

‘I shall not impose on your time any longer, Mrs Pugh,' Gilbert said now. ‘I must be getting along. Would you like to ride as far as the end of the lane, Sarah? You'll have to walk back, of course, but …'

‘I don't mind!' Sarah cried. Her eyes were shining again at the prospect of another chance to ride in the ‘motee car'.

‘Well don't be long now. I shall be getting tea soon.' Mrs Pugh shot a meaningful look at Gilbert and continued: ‘Eats me out of house and home, she does. You'd never think what a difference a skinny little thing like her makes to my grocery bill.'

Gilbert touched Sarah's arm. ‘Out you go then and wait in the car for me.'

Sarah went. Outside the great brass motor car was gleaming in the sunshine and the wonder of it almost eclipsed the well of misery inside her. She climbed up carefully so as not to catch her petticoats, sat down on the warm leather seat and took the steering wheel in her hands, pretending she was driving it.

If only she could! If only she could start the engine and go rattling down the lane as Mr Morse did with the wind in her hair, steering carefully around the bends, feeling the jar of the wheels coming right up the long stick of the steering wheel and into her hands, drive and drive, faster than a horse could gallop, drive and drive and never come back …

One day I will, Sarah promised herself. One day I'll have a ‘motee car' just like Mr Morse's and when I do I won't care about Mrs Pugh or Miss Keevil or anyone. They'll look up to me when I rattle past and they'll say ‘There goes Sarah Thomas in her motee car. Look! Look!'

Bertha's voice as she bade Gilbert Morse an effusive farewell invaded her dream and with a jolt Sarah returned to reality. She had just a short ride down the lane to look forward to and then it would be back to Bertha's bullying and nagging. But the pleasure of these few minutes would remain with her, warming her senses and making it easier to bear. For the moment Sarah knew that would have to be enough.

On a morning in July Gilbert Morse was pacing the floor of his study, deep in thought.

The study was his sanctuary, the one room which was truly his own. Generously proportioned Chewton Leigh House might be; with a large family such as his and an army of servants it often seemed impossible to find a room in which to be alone. A few moments' peace in the big sunny drawing-room was almost certain to be interrupted by either Lawrence or Hugh, his eldest sons, at home from their public school for the long summer vacation; the library was constantly invaded by Alicia, his daughter, who at eleven years old was an avid reader and likely to question him on any of the hundreds of valuable antiquarian books or leather bound classics which lined the walls; and for all the strict discipline Gilbert imposed upon him six-year-old James seemed able to engineer his escape from the nursery often enough to be able to appear, along with Blanche's son, Leo, whose shadow he was, in almost any room in the house where Gilbert happened to be. True, they always lapsed into a nervous silence and edged, straight-backed, for the door when they saw Gilbert, but he found this caution and overweening respect almost as irritating as their defiant presence would have been; he did not like either of them.

As for the bedroom, that was very much Blanche's domain now. She had added frills and furbelows to the decor and furnishings and a permanent haze of perfume hung in the air, even wafting in to invade his dressing-room so that he no longer felt that was his own. And it was not only her perfume that made the invasion but her voice, slightly nasal with that faint Transatlantic drawl he had found so fetching in the days when he had first met her, the well-bred English widow of a wealthy American banker, returned home for a visit with her young son. She had captivated him then for he too was lonely after the loss of Rose, his first wife, who had died giving birth to young James, and Blanche was the very opposite to what Rose had been – a gregarious and social butterfly where Rose had been happiest in a quiet home environment, yet with a sharp and enquiring mind and an interest in politics, business and economics that was totally unusual in a woman and might have been unseemly had it not been for her considerable charm and grace. When he had first met her Gilbert had considered Blanche an extraordinary woman and she had so fascinated him that he had counted himself the luckiest man alive to win her favour; now, three years later, Gilbert was less certain exactly who had been the victor.

In any event the study was his retreat, the one room where none of them, not even the slippery James would dare to intrude, and it was here in this typically masculine domain that Gilbert came to be alone with his thoughts.