No Wings to Fly (6 page)

‘So . . .’ he said, ‘d’you think we might meet on Sunday? When you’re through getting the old lady’s dinner.’

Her heart began to beat a little harder in her breast. ‘Well – yes – perhaps we can.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘What time d’you finish?’

‘By the time we’ve eaten and I’ve washed the pots it’ll be about half-past two.’

‘I could come to meet you there in Henhurst – or wherever you like, come to that. If the weather’s fine we could walk in the park.’ When she did not answer, he said, ‘Well – what d’you think?’

‘Yes. Yes, we could.’

‘Then I’ll meet you at the park, shall I? Is that convenient for you?’

She nodded. ‘I have to pass by the gates on my way home.’

‘Even better,’ he said. ‘I’ll be waiting by the gates. Say quarter to three?’

Another nod. ‘All right.’

‘If it rains I’ll wait in the bandstand shelter.’ He was gazing at her intently, and she shifted her eyes to the
window again. ‘The sun’s trying to break through,’ she said. ‘I’d better go.’

He reached out and took her right hand in his. ‘I’m so glad to have met you, Lily,’ he said, shaking her hand.

‘Yes . . .’ she said, feeling utterly foolish. She was so aware of the touch of him, his skin against hers, the feel of her slim hand held in his broad grasp.

‘I’ll look forward to Sunday,’ he said as he released her.

She could think of no words to say, and merely nodded.

‘I’d like to walk back with you now,’ he said, ‘but I’m bound to wait here to see Mr Haskin.’

‘Yes, of course you must.’ She pulled on her gloves, then picked up her basket and hooped it over her arm. ‘Well . . .’ She started towards the door, conscious of each step she took. ‘Until Sunday, then.’

He moved before her, opening the door to allow her to step out into the rain-washed yard. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘till Sunday.’

Lying in bed that night, Lily kept thinking back on her meeting with the young man. She could hear his voice and the words he had spoken. She could see him too, his tall frame, his broad face with the wide smile.

She had said she would see him on Sunday afternoon. Would she? Would she, when the time came, have the courage? Would it matter that much if she did not go to the park as arranged? Oh, he would think poorly of her if she failed to turn up, and just left him waiting, and she would deserve his calumny. In the long run, though, it would not matter. She would not have to witness his disappointment and his displeasure, or hear any hard words that he might speak. It was unlikely that they would ever meet again. They were little other than ships that pass in the night.

*

The weekly visit to Mrs Haskin’s mother, who lived a little over a mile and a half away, was a regular part of Lily’s routine, and one that she quite enjoyed. The old woman was in her early eighties now and finding it increasingly difficult to get about. So it had become Lily’s regular Sunday task to take food to her for her midday dinner, and prepare it and eat with her. Mrs Shalcross was very glad of Lily’s company, though she never failed to complain that her daughter had not come instead.

The weather had remained fine on this Sunday, and judging by the clear sky looked set to continue so. Lily arrived at the cottage to find the old woman waiting for her. As Lily stepped over the threshold, Mrs Shalcross looked her over and said at once, ‘You’re lookin’ sharp today, Lily. You got yourself a new bonnet?’ Lily replied that she had not, that she had merely added some blue ribbon trim to her second-best, at which the old lady nodded approval, and said, ‘Well, it looks a treat, dear, it does, really.’

Lily got busy at once and wasted no time in preparing the meat and vegetables, and putting them on to cook. When the food was ready they sat down together. As they ate, Mrs Shalcross spoke approvingly of her son-in-law, and his diligence in his work, but complainingly of her daughter who, she said, did not visit her nearly often enough. For her part, Lily ate her pork and potatoes and greens, and thought of the young man who would soon be waiting at the park.

When the meal was eaten Lily made tea, and afterwards did the washing up and then prepared to say her goodbyes. ‘Can’t you stay a bit longer?’ Mrs Shalcross pleaded, to which Lily replied with a feeling of guilt that she could not, but that she would try to stay longer on her next visit. Minutes later she was out in the lane.

The distance was not so long to the recreation ground, and Lily could have walked it in a relatively short time. She
forced herself to move at a fairly slow pace, however, for it was a warm day, and she did not want to perspire. As she drew nearer the park she could hear faintly on the summer breeze the sound of a brass band. Soon afterwards she came in sight of the gates, and moments later she saw Joel as he got up from a bench and started towards her. He was taller than she had remembered.

‘Lily! Well, hello!’ He stopped before her, his mouth in a wide smile. Lily returned his hello, and asked whether he had been waiting long.

‘Just twenty minutes or so,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been listening to the band, and doing a little sketching.’ He was carrying under his arm what looked to Lily to be a small file or book. He held it up and said, ‘My sketchbook.’

‘You’re an artist.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, I wish I were.’

‘Are you good?’ she said.

‘Hmm. Perhaps just good enough to know that I should be so much better.’ He turned and gestured towards the park’s entrance. ‘Shall we go in?’

She nodded. ‘We might as well.’

Side by side they walked through the iron gates into the park. There were many other people there, making the most of the fine weather and a day off work, sitting and lounging on the grass in the sun while the band played. The bandstand was not large, but the eight or nine musicians made up for their small number with their enthusiasm.

Joel suggested that they sit for a while, and they chose a spot a little distance from the bandstand, in the shade of a rowan tree. There Lily set down her bag and sat on the grass. Joel sat down beside her. The band was playing ‘When You Come Home Again’, and some of the sojourners sang along with snatches of the familiar words. Joel sat in silence for a little while, then said to Lily, smiling, with a sigh, ‘This is splendid. Really excellent.’

‘The music?’

‘Everything. The music, the sunshine.’ He paused. ‘Seeing you again.’

She said nothing, and they sat for a while without speaking, just listening to the music, then Joel said, ‘I wasn’t convinced you’d turn up today.’

In disregard of the doubt she had felt during the week, she said, ‘I said I would.’

‘Yes, I know you did . . . Still . . .’ A moment passed, then he said, ‘Do you miss your home?’

‘Sometimes. I miss my father and my brother, and my little sister.’

‘You don’t mention your mother.’

‘My mother died,’ she said, ‘when my younger brother was born. We’ve got a stepmother – and things are different.’

Aware of a change in her tone, Joel said, ‘Don’t you get on with her?’

‘It could be better.’ She paused. ‘But anyway, it’s not so bad. I shall be going home to see them all again soon.’

‘That’ll be nice. When did you last go for a visit?’

‘In the spring. Just for the weekend. The time before that was at Christmas. That was a short visit too.’

‘And when are you going next?’

‘In three weeks.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’ll be glad of the break, won’t you?’

She gave a sigh and smiled. ‘Well, I have to admit that my life here with the Haskins can really become rather boring at times.’

‘Do you get on with them all right?’

‘Yes – quite well. Mrs Haskin has her ups and downs, but Mr Haskin’s always got a smile and a friendly word. I like him a lot. He and my father have been lifelong friends.’ She paused for a second. ‘But I’ve got to think about moving on
before too long. I’ve been there almost three years. I can’t stay for ever.’

‘What d’you think you might do?’

‘I don’t know. I told you I was hoping to be a school-teacher, but that all came to nothing.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, tell me something about yourself. Have you got brothers and sisters?’

‘I have a brother, Crispin. He’s three years older than I.’

‘And your parents? Are they well?’

‘Oh, yes, they’re fine. They’re in France at the moment.’

‘In
France
?’

‘Yes. My father has a business there. He’s back and forth a good deal of the time. My brother too.’

Lily was about to ask what kind of business it was that took a man back and forth over the Channel, when Joel said, ‘What’s happened to the music? The band’s stopped playing.’

Lily looked over to the bandstand and saw that the bandsmen had left their seats and that two or three of them were drinking from mugs. ‘I guess they need to wet their whistles,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet it’s thirsty work.’

They continued to sit there, and as the minutes passed she felt increasingly at ease in Joel’s company. The sun was shining, and all around them the air was filled with contented chatter and laughter. She realised that she was glad she had come.

Then, after a while, a group of six youths came and sat a few feet away, and with their arrival the air erupted with their raucous voices and braying laughter. When the noise had gone on for a few minutes Joel leant closer to Lily and said, ‘What do you say? Would you like a change of scene?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, why not.’ Her glance rested briefly on the noisy group.

They got up from the warm grass and moved off across the sward to a ring of trees, in the midst of which lay a
pond. On its bank three small boys moved back and forth, sailing boats on the smooth water, while their parents looked on from benches set about the rim.

Joel and Lily walked around the until they came to a vacant bench that looked out over the water. There they sat down side by side on the wooden seat, and Lily untied the strings of her bonnet. Further along on the grassy bank a mallard and his mate rested in the shade of a willow. On the summer breeze came the sound of the band starting up again. Joel listened for a second to the melody, then said, ‘Ah, that’s a grand old tune,’ and Lily puckered up her lips and whistled along with it for a few bars.

Joel looked at her in surprise. ‘Hey, you can whistle,’ he said.

She gave a little chuckle. ‘Well, of course I can whistle.’

He laughed. ‘I didn’t think girls could.’

‘It’s not that they can’t,’ she said, ‘it’s that they’re not allowed to.’ She joined in, whistling with the tune again, and then sang a few of the words.

‘The girl can sing too,’ Joel said. ‘I’m really impressed.’

Lily laughed. ‘No, I can’t sing. I wish I could.’

‘Yes, you can.’

She laughed again. ‘You don’t call that singing.’

‘Yes, it was nice. Go on, sing it for me – please. I like that song.’

She shook her head and briefly bit her lip. Then, throwing dignity aside, she came in, singing softly along with the band. Her voice was low and light, slightly husky, with a fine little vibrato. A little embarrassed at her own bravado, she sang, avoiding his eyes:

She broke off with a little laugh. ‘That’s it. I don’t know any more.’

Joel clapped his hands. ‘You’ve got a very nice voice. You really have.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I can tell you’re a man of taste.’ Then, with an abrupt change of subject, she indicated the sketchbook that lay on the bench at his side. ‘It’s your turn to show off now,’ she said. ‘May I look at your sketches?’

He hesitated. ‘As long as you’re not too critical.’ He held out the book.

‘I can’t draw a thing,’ she said as she took it from him, ‘so I’m in no position to criticise.’

Opening the book on her knees she went slowly through the pages, and every now and again gave a little wondering shake of her head. ‘They’re very fine,’ she said. ‘They’re beautiful.’ The pages were filled with pencil sketches. Some were of trees and plants and flowers and horses, and others were of buildings: houses and small cottages. There were three or four figure studies too, and coming upon the drawing of a bespectacled man sitting in a chair, Lily looked enquiringly at Joel.

‘My father,’ Joel said. ‘There’s one of my mother there too, somewhere.’

Lily turned a page and saw a picture of a young woman. ‘Who’s this? This isn’t your mother.’

He smiled. ‘Oh, no. She’s the daughter of my father’s partner. Simone Rojet, her name is. She’s French.’

‘She’s very pretty.’ Lily studied the fine draughts-manship of the drawing, seeing how, in just a few lines, he had caught so much detail and feeling. She shook her head in wonder. ‘Oh, it’s really splendid.’

He gave a nod of gratitude. ‘Well – thank you.’

‘I don’t pretend to know much about such things,’ she said, ‘but I’ve always loved to look at paintings and drawings and other works of art. An exhibition of paintings
came to Corster last year, and I went twice. It was of some of the works of those new painters, the Pre-Raphaelites. It was so wonderful.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘what it must be like to be a really great painter – like Turner, or one of the newer artists. I love them – the Pre-Raphaelites. Frederick Sandys, Millais, and that marvellous Arthur Hughes. Their work is so splendid. If I could ever turn out anything like
The Death of Chatterton
, or Millais’
Blind Girl
. . .’ He came to a stop, as if slightly out of breath, and then gave a chuckle, laughing at himself, at the passion in his voice. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I sound like a madman. Don’t worry, it will pass.’

Lily did not laugh. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with having dreams, longings? We’d be nowhere without them.’

Along the bank one of the boys gave a little shout of enthusiasm, while further off the band struck up a military march. Lily said: ‘And you’re studying law. Could you not have studied to be a painter? I’ve read about famous colleges in London, like the Slade and Chelsea.’