So Long At the Fair (28 page)
‘Do you need to ask?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do, Mother.’
Mrs Morris gave a shake of her head. ‘I don’t. But if you’ve got money to waste . . .’
‘You know I haven’t. And by the way, I got rid of the other brandy bottle too – the empty one.’
Silence in the room. Taking up the bottle of medicine that the doctor had left, Abbie said, ‘Come on – I think you should take a little of your medicine.’
She poured some into a glass and watched as her mother reluctantly drank it.
‘It’s just a bit of an upset stomach,’ Mrs Morris said sulkily, at the same time pulling a face at the taste.
By the light of a single oil lamp Abbie sat at the kitchen table, her writing pad before her. Raising her head, she looked across at her mother where she lay on the sofa in the shadows. Earlier there had been tears of self-recrimination – and apologies and promises too. Never again, her mother had said, would she do such a thing. ‘I don’t know what got into me,’ she said through her tears. ‘But it just happens like that sometimes – the need to have something to drink.’ Then, self-pity colouring her tone, she added, ‘Don’t be hard on me, Abbie. I haven’t had an easy time, you know.’
‘I’m sure of that, Mother.’
‘And sometimes a little drink has made things easier to bear. Sometimes it’s the only way to shut out the reality.’
‘I understand.’ Abbie had put an arm round her. ‘Believe me, I do.’
‘But no more. I promise you that.’
‘It’s for your own good, you must realize. Dr Parrish made that very clear.’
‘I know. I know.’
Mrs Morris was sleeping now. Abbie gazed at her for a moment or two longer then turned back to her task.
Beside her writing pad lay the letter she had written earlier that day to Arthur – the letter in which she had asked if her mother could live with them in London after their marriage. She read once more what she had written and, with a little sigh, tore the paper in pieces. Then, taking up her pen she wrote:
Flaxdown
Friday, 17 January 1873
Dear Arthur,
Today I received your letter of the 15th. In fact I’ve received three letters from you this past week. I can understand your being disappointed that I have not written as often since my return from London. I can only ask you to forgive me, and hope that you will bear with me and try to understand. For one thing, I have been extremely busy. Added to which I have been back before my class over the past week, and the first week of a new term is always very demanding.
You asked me whether I have yet handed in my notice to the Board of School Governors. I have to tell you that as yet I have not. Oh, I wish I could see you face to face, instead of having to write these words to you. I do not really know how to say it, but I want to ask whether you do not feel that perhaps we are being a little hasty in planning our marriage for this coming Easter. I truly feel that it might be better for us to wait a little while – perhaps until the summer. What do you think? In that way it would give us both a bit more time to get all our arrangements made. As it is I feel that everything is happening so fast and I can’t quite keep up with it all.
I beg you – please do not infer from my words that I care any the less; it is just that at present I feel that this would be the wisest course.
Please write back at once and tell me that you do not think too badly of me.
Ever your loving,
Abbie
She read the letter through once more. It was far from ideal, but it would have to do.
She posted it the next morning.
Chapter Nineteen
On Wednesday, when Abbie returned to the schoolhouse in the break between morning and afternoon classes, she found a letter waiting for her.
‘From your young man,’ said her mother from her chair by the range, ‘going by the writing on the envelope.’
Abbie took it into the parlour, opened it and read Arthur’s words.
London
Tuesday, 21 January 1873
My dear Abbie,
This must be brief as I have very little time. Simply I have to say that your letter of the 17th came as a great shock. I just don’t understand what is happening. Anyway, if possible I shall travel down to Flaxdown this coming weekend, probably arriving late on Saturday. I’ll get a room at the Harp and Horses. No more until then. I’ll call to see you as soon as I can. I’ll let you know later the time of my train and when I expect to be in Flaxdown. We can discuss everything when we meet. In the meantime I remain, as always,
Your loving
Arthur
Abbie stood for a moment or two, then thrust the letter into her pocket and went back into the kitchen.
‘Oh, what it is to be in love,’ her mother said with a faintly cynical note in her voice. Then, giving a rather theatrical little shiver she added, ‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed but it’s freezing in here. The fire’s almost out and there’s no more fuel.’
Abbie went to the outhouse and brought in some wood. When she had fed the stove she put a pan of soup on to heat, and set bread and cheese on the table.
Leaning towards the fire her mother said, ‘Oh, it’ll be grand to get away from here. To get back to London again. To be able to enjoy a few real creature comforts.’
Abbie remained silent.
‘Well?’ her mother asked, ‘what did he say, your young man?’
‘He’s coming down to Flaxdown this weekend.’
‘Good. I’ll have a chance to meet him at last.’
Saturday came, and Abbie found herself watching the clock more and more as the afternoon drew into the evening. At seven o’clock she donned her coat and muffler and pulled on her mittens. From her chair by the fire her mother surveyed her for a moment, then asked, ‘Will he be coming back here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Abbie replied. She was lying; she had no intention of bringing Arthur back to the schoolhouse. ‘In any case I shan’t be late,’ she added. She gestured to the basket of firewood by the range. ‘You won’t let the fire out, will you?’
Her mother ignored this. ‘I hope I’m going to meet him,’ she said.
‘We’ll see.’
As Abbie let herself out the bitter evening air struck her so keenly that it almost took her breath away. Hurrying through the gate, she started along the lane. She had received a letter that morning from Arthur telling her what train he would take and that he would be calling on her around seven thirty. It was her intention to meet him before then, however; she didn’t want him coming to the schoolhouse.
Reaching the end of the lane, she came to a halt. The sky above was clear; all the stars were out and shining with an icy crystal brilliance. The moon hung low, its light reflecting dully off the frozen snow that lay on the tops of the hedgerow. She would wait for him here, for he would have to come this way from the Harp and Horses.
In just minutes she could feel the icy cold creeping through the soles of her boots. She pulled up the collar of her coat, hugged herself against the chill, and began to pace back and forth. A couple of villagers passed by as she stood there and, recognizing her, called out cheery greetings. Abbie answered them, her breath vapouring in the cold air. At last, after almost half an hour, she heard footsteps and saw coming towards her the tall shape of a man. She waited until she was sure and then stepped forward to meet him.
‘Arthur – hello.’
He came to a stop before her. ‘Abbie. What are you doing out here? You’ll catch your death on a night like this.’
‘I was waiting for you.’
He smiled, then, reaching out, put his gloved hands on her shoulders and drew her towards him. He kissed her, drew back a little and looked down into her face.
‘Well? What now? Are we going to your house?’
‘Arthur,’ she said, ‘do you mind if we don’t?’
He looked at her questioningly.
‘It’s – it’s not really convenient,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain later.’
He frowned. ‘As you like. Then where shall we go?’
‘Could we just – walk?’
‘On a night like this? Abbie, you must be joking. Come on, let’s go back to the Harp. At least there we shall be in the warm.’
They set off together, walking through the village till they came to the public house. Entering the private bar they found it – to Abbie’s relief – empty. She took off her coat, muffler and mittens, and sat by the crackling fire. Arthur ordered drinks for the two of them – tea for Abbie and a glass of ale for himself.
Seated beside her, he said, ‘Now, Abbie – tell me what this is all about.’
‘Oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’ve made such a mess of everything.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Your letter came like a bolt out of the blue.’ He paused, gazing into her eyes. ‘Did you mean what you said about our waiting to get married?’
She nodded, turning away, avoiding his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
She turned back to him. ‘You remember I told you about my mother, don’t you?’
‘Yes. What about her?’
‘Well – she’s come back. To Flaxdown.’
‘She’s here?’
‘She’s at home right now, at the schoolhouse.’
‘But – when did this happen? When did she come back?’
‘She arrived the night I got back from London.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Why wait until now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And she’s been staying with you since her return?’
‘Yes. She has to. She’s got nowhere else to go.’
The young barmaid appeared at their side, set down the tea and the ale and retreated to the bar.
Arthur said, ‘It must have been a great shock to you, her coming back after all this time.’
‘It was.’ Abbie went on then to tell him a little about her mother’s return, though she was careful to give away no details of the life she had been leading during the years of her absence.
When she had finished Arthur said, ‘And is she the reason for your writing as you did?’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘She – she needs me, Arthur. She’s not well – and she needs to be cared for. She has no one else but me now.’
‘What about your brother? Can’t he help?’
‘He refuses. He won’t forgive her for going off in the first place. He won’t even see her. So you see – it’s all up to me now.’
‘But I don’t understand why her return should affect us – our getting married.’
‘Oh, Arthur, how can I leave her? I told you – she’s sick. I can’t leave her at such a time.’
‘What exactly is wrong with her?’
A moment, then Abbie said, though hating to lie to him, ‘I – I think it’s her heart . . .’
He spread his hands. ‘Well, you don’t have to leave her. She can come and live with us in London. Lord knows, the house is big enough and she’d probably be more comfortable than she is at present. The two of you crammed into that tiny little place – it can’t be easy. And we can make sure that she gets the best medical attention available.’
Abbie did not know what to say. How could she with reason refuse his offer? As far as Arthur was concerned it was the obvious answer to the problem. After a moment she said, ‘No – I’m afraid it wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘No – it just wouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’ he persisted. ‘It’s the perfect solution.’
‘No . . .’ She picked up her teacup and took momentary refuge in drinking a little of the tea.
‘Hadn’t the idea occurred to you,’ Arthur said, ‘that your mother could come and live with us? Surely it must have.’
‘It wouldn’t work,’ Abbie said.
‘You keep on saying that. Why wouldn’t it work?’
‘I told you – she’s sick. She needs attention.’
‘Yes, and I said that she shall have the best attention. And you’ll be at home all the time once we’re married. You won’t be out teaching school half the day. You’ll have time to give her the care she needs.’ He studied Abbie’s face. ‘Why don’t we go and see her? Let me meet her.’
‘No,’ Abbie said quickly, ‘– we can’t do that.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t understand you. I’ve told you that I’ll do everything I can to help and you know I mean it. I’ve given you my assurance that she’ll be well looked after if she comes to stay with us. I can’t do more.’ He studied her. ‘There’s some other reason, isn’t there?’
‘Of course not. What other reason could there be?’
‘Is – Is it because you’re . . . ashamed?’
‘Ashamed? What do you mean?’ Her voice was sharp.
‘Because of what she did – going off and leaving you and your family.’
‘Oh – that . . .’
‘Because it needn’t bother you. It’s none of my business and no one else’s either.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not that. I’ve told you – she’s sick. And apart from that – oh, Arthur, she’s not the easiest woman to get on with.’
He said nothing, but gazed steadily at her, as if trying to read something that was not immediately apparent. The only sounds came from the crackle of the burning logs and the distant murmur of voices from the other bar. After a moment he said in a low voice, ‘Are you sure, Abbie, that this is truly all because of your mother? Are you sure you’re not using her return as an excuse?’
‘What d’you mean? An excuse for what?’
Before he could reply the door opened and a young man and woman entered, strangers to Abbie, in high spirits and chuckling over some shared private joke. They took seats at the next table. With their arrival in the small room the privacy of a moment ago was gone.
Abbie and Arthur retreated into a common silence for a while, then Abbie said, giving him a somewhat uncertain smile, ‘You haven’t touched your beer . . .’
‘What?’ He looked at her as if coming out of a dream.
‘Don’t you want your beer?’
‘My beer? No.’ He shook his head. ‘We can’t talk here.’ He reached for his coat on the bench beside him.
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