No Wings to Fly (48 page)

‘I don’t know, miss, I’m sure.’

As the nurse finished speaking, Lily stepped beside the bed and opened the locker. It was now empty. ‘I put some apples in there,’ she said, ‘and some plums, and a couple of little packages holding cheese and cake. My basket, too. I left that here. Everything’s gone. It’s all gone.’

‘I wasn’t here when he left, miss. It was another nurse he spoke to. Nurse Hesketh.’

‘Is she about?’ Lily asked quickly. ‘May I speak to her?’

‘I’m afraid you can’t, miss. She was called away a little while ago, to go to the isolation hospital at Biller. There’ve been more smallpox cases in Corster and she’s gone off to help.’ The nurse gave a little shrug. ‘Though I doubt as she could tell you much more, miss. By all accounts the young man didn’t hang about once he’d made up his mind. He went about half-past-twelve. Nurse Hesketh said there was no stopping him.’ She gestured to the empty locker. ‘His locker was all cleared after he went, of course.’

Lily said, helplessly, repeating herself, ‘But – but I was with him. I left him at half-past-eleven. I left him in bed here.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to have a word with Sister, miss,’ the nurse said. ‘If Nurse Hesketh knew anything she’d have told Sister.’ She gestured up the ward towards the entrance. ‘She’ll be in her office, just on the right outside there. Sister James. She might be able to tell you a bit more. You go and see Sister.’ With that she gave Lily a tentative smile, and moved past, continuing on her way.

Lily watched her go, then turned and made her way to the Sister’s office, where she tapped on the door. There was a call of ‘Come in,’ and Lily turned the handle and pushed open the door.

Sister James was seated at a desk with some papers before her. She smiled at Lily as she entered, but frowned at the same time, giving the message that she had no time to waste. ‘Yes, can I help you?’ she said.

‘One of the nurses,’ Lily said, ‘said I should come and see you. It’s about my brother.’

‘Your brother?’

‘Yes, he was a patient here. Thomas Clair.’

‘Clair – ah, yes.’ The nurse nodded. ‘Thomas Clair. Very sad business. Amputation of the left hand. You say you’re his sister.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Well, I must tell you that he was in a very bad way when he came in. An accident with him falling under a cart, so we were told by the men who brought him. He was badly concussed and totally unconscious. What was worse, his left hand and wrist had been so completely crushed that there was nothing for it but to amputate – and without delay, before mortification set in. I’m afraid there was no way of saving it. I was there with the young man, Thomas, when he came round later – when he discovered what had been done to him.’ She gave a little shake of her head, as if dispelling the memory.

Lily, who had listened to the account with mounting horror, felt tears welling in her eyes. After a few moments, when she had gained a little control, she said, ‘I came to visit him this morning, and then came back this afternoon to see him again, but – but he has gone.’

The nurse’s frown deepened. ‘Oh, dear. And you didn’t know he was going?’

‘I had no idea.’ Lily shook her head. ‘When I saw him this morning he had no intention of leaving – I’m sure of that. He knew I was coming back.’

The nurse sighed. ‘I’m very sorry for you, miss, I’m sure. All I know is that he left. We couldn’t stop him. I spoke to him myself, and tried to persuade him to stay on a while, but he was that set on going. He still had his bandage on.’

Lily said, her throat tight, ‘I brought him some cake, and some cheese.’

‘Yes, he left it all behind,’ the nurse said. ‘When we cleared out his locker it was all there. Did you want it?’

‘No.’

‘There was a basket too.’ As the woman spoke she leant down to the side of her desk and lifted up Lily’s basket. ‘This is yours, is it, miss?’

Lily nodded. ‘Yes.’

The nurse placed the basket on the desk, and Lily took it up. ‘Did he say anything to you,’ Lily asked, ‘or to anyone else – about where he was going?’

‘Not to me. And Nurse Hesketh said he had very little to say.’

Lily put a hand to her brow. ‘I just – don’t understand it. Where could he have gone? He’s got no money – only a couple of shillings that I gave him. He’s got nowhere to go. He’s got no friends.
I’m
all he’s got.’ She added plaintively, ‘I don’t suppose he left any message for me?’

‘Not with me, miss. And I’m afraid I can’t ask Nurse Hesketh anything further about him as she’s had to go off. Which leaves me shorthanded here. This smallpox – it’s absolutely dreadful. People are going down like ninepins.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, miss.’

Lily nodded her thanks and stood in silence, helpless. There was nothing more to say, and she could think of no further questions. ‘Well,’ she whispered at last, with a little nod, ‘I thank you for your time.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you,’ the nurse said. ‘He will, I’m sure he will.’

‘Yes.’ Lily summoned up a sad little smile, then, thanking the woman again, she turned and left the room.

Tom’s letter came to Lily at Rowanleigh three days later. Since returning from Grassinghill she had moped about the house with little purpose and not the vaguest notion of
what her immediate future might hold. She had had long conversations with Miss Elsie, but, in spite of all the sympathy and understanding she received she had felt no wiser at the end of them. She pondered on what possible work she could obtain, work that would keep not only herself, but Tom also. For many hours over the days she worked in the little spare room above the stable, washing and scrubbing, and all in the half-held belief that Tom would, after all, come there to stay.

His letter was written on the cheapest notepaper and dated the day after he had left the hospital. It gave no address, but simply said:

In her room, sitting on the side of the bed, she folded up the letter. She had no way now of helping him. She had no idea even where he was, how he was living, how he was managing for his next meal or even for somewhere to sleep.

And what of herself? Take the job at Happerfell, Tom had said – but Tom did not know everything. He did not know that the house at Happerfell was the home of her son.

At the thought, her eyes strayed to the chest of drawers in which lay Mr Soameson’s letter. She had put off replying to it, but there was still time to do so – still time to write and say that she would be there on Tuesday at the appointed time.

And why should she not? It was true, of course, that taking such a post would give her the chance to look about for something more permanent, which was what she needed, but – and the thought made her heart beat a little faster – it would also give her the chance to see the child.

She got up from the bed, opened the drawer and took out the letter. Then, sitting at the little table, she prepared paper and pen and began to write.

There was a cool breeze blowing as Lily alighted from the train at Pilching. The signs of autumn were in evidence everywhere now, felt in the keener winds and seen in the yellowing of the leaves of the trees that overhung the far edge of the platform. That morning she had received from Mr Soameson a hurried reply to her letter, saying simply that he would expect her at the house that Tuesday afternoon, the nineteenth, at three or thereabouts.

She found that certain details of the station were familiar to her as she moved along the platform, recognising them from her previous visit. Emerging from the station she found a fly waiting near the entrance, and soon she was seated in the carriage and they were jogging along the road. Happerfell was the next village, and once there the driver made for Bourne Way with no hesitation, and then he was tapping on the side of the carriage with his whip and calling out, ‘The Gables, miss. We be ’ere at The Gables.’

Lily got out and paid him, and minutes later the cab was starting away again, leaving her standing in front of the house, looking at it across the lawn. The leaves of the two oaks were turning brown and the summer flowers in the borders had gone. When she had stood here before, she had felt like an intruder, and fearful every moment of discovery. Now she was here by invitation.

From her reticule she took out her mother’s little watch, opened it and checked the time. Twenty minutes to three.
She was early, but better early than late. She put the watch back in her bag and pushed open the wrought iron gate. Then, closing it carefully behind her, and aware of her every action, she moved up the flagstoned pathway and up the steps to the front door.

A maid with red hair and a pale skin answered her ring on the bell. Lily gave her name and was asked to enter, and found herself in a wide, green-carpeted hall. The maid took her coat and umbrella, then said, ‘Come this way, if you please, miss,’ and showed her into a room on the left. ‘Please sit down, miss,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell the master you’re here.’

While the maid withdrew, Lily took a seat on a brown velvet-covered sofa and looked around her. The room was spacious, looked comfortably furnished, but though having its share of elegance, was in no way opulent. With its soft earth colours, there was a casual harmony of hues there. Against the coolness of autumn a bright, flickering fire burnt in the grate. Oil paintings hung on the walls: portraits, still lifes, and scenes of Venetian canals. On the closed lid of the piano stood a bowl of white roses, and there was another on the small table before the sofa. A small clock ticked into the quiet.

A few minutes passed, and then the door opened and a man came into the room.

‘Ah, Miss Clair.’ He came forward, and Lily rose and shook his outstretched hand. ‘You made very good time,’ he said. He spoke in an unfamiliar accent, pleasantly musical, which she realised after a moment or two was Scottish; she had heard such a brogue once before in her life. As he released her hand he added, ‘I’m John Soameson.’ Then, gesturing back to the sofa: ‘Please – sit down again. My wife will be along shortly.’

As Lily sat back on the sofa the man took the armchair nearby. He appeared to be in his late forties, and had a tall,
angular frame. His thick hair was greying, as was the fine moustache that ran the width of his mouth. His features were sharp, as were the grey eyes that gazed at her through fine-rimmed spectacles. He wore a casual tweed jacket with a cravat and a plain waistcoat and brown gabardine trousers.

Sitting back in his chair, he asked a few questions about her journey from Sherrell, then said, ‘I don’t mind telling you that I’m very pleased to see you, Miss Clair. Though I must say that when we didn’t hear back from you before we went away we thought it a lost cause. We assumed that the position was of no interest to you.’

Lily apologised for not writing back sooner, then went on to add that for a time she had been uncertain of her own situation and in no position to commit herself. ‘I just didn’t know where I was,’ she said. It was not the whole truth, but she hoped it would suffice.

‘I understand,’ he said, ‘and anyway, as I say, I’m glad you’re here. You brought your testimonials, did you?’

‘Yes, sir.’ From her bag she brought out her references and gave them to him. After studying them he refolded them and handed them back. ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said, then without further pause got up from his chair. ‘You stay where you are, Miss Clair. Mrs Soameson will have to meet you. I’ll just go and fetch her.’

He left the room then, leaving the door open, and Lily sat alone with the ticking of the clock and the flickering of the fire. The seconds slipped by, and then into the quiet came from the hall the sound of a voice, a small child’s voice. Just a few words were spoken, uttered in a high, piping tone. She could not make out what they were, but she was sure who had spoken them. Immediately afterwards came another voice, a young woman’s, saying, ‘Come along now, dear, you know it’s time for your nap.’ Then the child’s voice came once more, a few words in a little tone of
protest, joined again by the woman’s, and then the two voices faded away.

A few more minutes passed and there came the sound of movement at the door. Lily got up at once.

‘Here’s my wife to meet you,’ Mr Soameson said, and as he made brief introductions, Mrs Soameson shook Lily’s hand and murmured a greeting. Her own accent was English. She was a tall woman, large-boned, with strong features. She wore a light grey dress with a small lace cap set on dark brown hair that was fashioned into coils at either side of her head. While not handsome, there was no doubt that she was a striking-looking woman.