Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  ‘You’ve been quick,’ Grace said. ‘I thought you were going off exploring.’

  ‘I don’t want to today.’

  ‘You don’t feel like it?’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘You could go in for your swim.’

  ‘No, not today.’

  ‘Why not? A fine swimmer like you – to miss a fine chance like this? You’d soon dry off in this sun.’

  ‘I don’t feel like it. Perhaps another day.’

  ‘As you like.’

  She felt a sense of disappointment. She had thought that the little sojourn would have a positive effect on him, but it had not. Looking at him, she thought that he appeared dull and preoccupied, and totally uninterested in the surroundings which he had usually found so fascinating. He sat silent, his gaze unseeing over the water. Grace, twelve years his senior, could see her own features reflected in his. He had been a surprise child for their parents, a joyous surprise, born to them when neither expected to have another.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Grace asked him.

  ‘Nothing much,’ he said; and then: ‘Imagine – Mrs Spencer limping like that, Grace.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  She looked at him but he sat with his gaze still over the water. After a few moments he said:

  ‘I came here with Mam a few times.’

  ‘Oh, I know that. We had some wonderful times.’

  ‘No, I mean me – just me and Mam on our own. Nobody else, just the two of us.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ And Grace realized how important it had been to him. ‘She used to like those times, with you.’

  He gave a little nod. ‘Did you ever come here with her? Just the two of you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, when I was younger.’ Grace thought back, smiling faintly at the memories. She had often sat in this same spot with her mother. But they had been on so many jaunts together. Sometimes there had been errands – as with herself and Billy today – but at other times there had been no purpose to their excursions other than pleasure – the pleasure of their surroundings and at being in one another’s company. She could remember so many occasions so clearly, walks in the meadows, and through cool woods where no grass grew and the birdsong had a different ring. And, of course, little sojourns here by the waterside.

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ Billy said, ‘what it would have been like – to be with Mam on my own – all the time, I mean.’ Grace suddenly realized that he had not really had his mother’s exclusive company for any sustained periods.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Billy’s voice came, interrupting her thoughts, his words delivered on the back of a sigh, ‘sometimes I worry.’

  ‘Oh? What about?’

  He did not answer.

  ‘Well, whatever it is,’ Grace said, ‘you’ve no need. We’d never let anything happen. Pappy and I – we’d make sure you’re all right.’

  ‘I know.’ There was no conviction in his voice.

  Grace got to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I suppose we’d better start back.’

  They were now drawing very near to Green Shipton and ahead, visible beyond the trees, though still some good distance away, the tower of the village church rose up.

  Grace said, ‘I thought we might go by way of the churchyard.’

  ‘But we haven’t got any flowers.’

  ‘Mam wouldn’t care about that. I usually go on a Saturday anyway, you know that.’

  Reaching the end of the path, they passed through the stile and there was the village and the church right before them. As they walked towards the church gates Grace glanced up at the clock on the tower and saw that it was almost one. ‘We’re later than I’d anticipated,’ she said. ‘Pappy’ll be wondering where we are.’

  Billy went on ahead of Grace now, stepping carefully over the manicured grass of the walkways between the graves, making his way to the newer grave that lay further to one side, near the wall. As Grace neared it, he came to a stop at the grave’s foot, standing very straight, almost to attention, the manner of his stance like some mark of respect. Then, bending his head a little, he said, his tone sorrowful and a little matter-of-fact: ‘I’m sorry, Mammy, but we haven’t got you any flowers today.’

  ‘She won’t mind,’ Grace said. ‘It’s enough that you’re here.’

  Their mother’s headstone was the newest in this particular area. Of a simple white stone, it bore in neat chiselled letters, all in upper case: ANNE ELIZABETH, BELOVED WIFE OF SAMUEL DAVID HARPER – and told that she had lived forty-eight years.

  ‘We should have brought flowers,’ Billy said to Grace. ‘I always do. Even if it’s just three or four.’

  Suddenly tears were running down his cheeks, and Grace, lifting her skirts, knelt before him on the green grass. Putting her arms around him, she drew him close and held him. It had been so little time, and he had hardly paid more than lip service to the fact of their mother’s departure; in reality he had not yet taken it in that she was gone and would never return.

  ‘Oh, Billy,’ Grace said, her right hand lifting to stroke his hair. ‘I know what you must be feeling.’ She could feel tears pricking her own eyes. How suddenly life could change, she said to herself. Things were now so much more difficult without her mother.

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ Billy said, ‘make her come back. Please make her come back.’

  There were no words she could find. She held him closer still, feeling his tear-wet cheek on the side of her neck. Like Billy, she missed her so much; at times it was all she herself could do not to give way to weeping.

  After a while Billy’s sobbing eased to a little, dry catching sound. He sniffed once or twice then drew back. ‘Mam wouldn’t like to see me make such a fuss.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. Whatever you did she would approve. You were her boy. Her young man.’

  A turned-down smile came at this, while the tears swam in his eyes. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’ He paused. ‘I could be your boy too.’

  ‘You already are.’

  ‘But you’ll be going away.’

  She raised her hands and gently placed one on either side of his face. Beneath her fingers his cheeks were warm from the afternoon’s sun, warm and as smooth as silk. ‘Not yet. And if I do go away I shall come back and see you very often.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘You’ll have Pappy.’

  ‘I know, but if you go away maybe I shan’t see you again.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll never happen. I’d never leave you for good. In any case, I shan’t be going anywhere for a while yet.’ They had been over this so many times, in various ways.

  As they moved back among the graves, Billy said, ‘If all these poor people are in heaven, it must be a very crowded place. How would you find anybody?’

  Outside the churchyard they set off again, walking beside the green. Then, a turn around the bend in the lane and there before them was home.

  They came to the gate at the front of the house, opened it and, with Grace leading, went around the side of the house to the rear. As they came to the back yard the first thing Grace noticed was a chestnut mare tethered to a stanchion by the side fence. Billy recognized the horse before Grace did. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it looks like Mr Spencer’s come to see Pappy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘so it would seem.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Billy was looking up at her.

  ‘You go on indoors,’ she said. ‘I want to check on a couple of things before I go in.’ So Mr Spencer had called on her father. The thought went through her mind that perhaps he had ridden over at the behest of his wife, who was angry at the behaviour of her and Billy. But they had not meant to stare, the woman would surely have known that – though her anger had certainly been there nonetheless.

  ‘What things d’you want to check on?’ Billy asked.

  ‘What? Oh – well – that the hens are locked up safely, for one thing. The fox was mooching around last night.’

&nb
sp; ‘The hens are safe. You said yesterday you’d made sure of it.’

  ‘Please, Billy – do as I ask.’ The truth was, she did not wish to see Mr Spencer. She had met him on two previous occasions when he had called on her father, and he had a way, inexplicable, of slightly unnerving her.

  ‘All right,’ Billy said.

  As he stepped towards the house, Grace turned and started across the yard. She didn’t get far. Almost immediately she heard a voice calling her.

  ‘Miss Grace …?’

  She halted, turning to the sound, and saw Mr Spencer coming towards her. Billy passed him halfway across the yard and the man smiled at him, saying, ‘Hello, young Master William. And how are you today?’ And Billy shyly returned his smile and murmured polite responses. The man’s glance followed Billy as he went into the house and then turned back to light upon Grace once more.

  ‘So – Miss Grace …’ He came to a stop before her, gave a little nod and briefly raised his hat.

  Grace nodded, ‘Mr Spencer,’ adding a little smile of politeness. ‘I was just about to go and look at the chickens.’

  ‘This is fine timing,’ he said. ‘Another minute and I’d have ridden off and missed you.’

  She did not know how to respond; she only wished she had been five minutes later in returning. ‘We’ve just been to Asterleigh,’ she said, ‘delivering Mrs Spencer’s paintings.’

  ‘Yes, so your father’s told me. I could have saved you a journey.’

  ‘I handed the pictures to Mrs Spencer.’

  ‘Oh, did you now?’

  ‘She was painting in her studio.’

  He nodded and smiled. ‘I see.’ He was wearing riding breeches and jacket, and a soft felt hat. A good-looking man, she reckoned he could not be more than thirty-seven. He was tall and broad-shouldered, still slim at the waist, and his dark hair was dense and rich in colour. His brown eyes shone as he smiled at her.

  ‘It must have been a hot walk over to Berron Wick,’ he said.

  ‘It was rather. On the way back we stopped at the Pits. Just for a little while.’

  ‘And very nice too. I’m sure your young brother appreciated it. Nice to have a big sister who’ll do things for you, take you places …’

  She moved to take a step away, preparing her departure. But Mr Spencer forestalled her, saying, ‘Did you have a nice time by the water?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Were there many others there?’

  ‘I think we were the only ones. I didn’t see anyone else.’

  ‘You need to be careful, you know, swimming in that place. There have been a few mishaps over the years. People have drowned.’

  ‘I know. But we didn’t swim. In any case, we’re always careful.’

  ‘I’m sure you are – sensible young woman like you.’

  She became aware that he was holding her glance – a little longer than was comfortable for her, and she lowered her eyes and shifted from one foot to the other. From over to the right the tethered mare lifted her nose into the air and snorted. Mr Spencer looked at her, called out soothingly, ‘Don’t worry, Biddie, we’ll soon be on our way,’ then, turning back to Grace, gave a little smile. ‘She’s a bit like you, Miss Grace, somewhat anxious to get going.’

  ‘No, really,’ Grace murmured, ‘ – it’s just that I was going to check on the hen-house. Make sure they’re safe from the fox tonight.’

  ‘So you said.’

  There fell a little silence, which he broke, saying: ‘But if you want to go and look at your chickens, don’t let me hold you up.’

  Relieved, she took her first step away, then he added, ‘I’ll come with you if I may.’

  With the man beside her she walked to the other side of the yard beside the shed where stood the coop and run, both empty at present; all the chickens pecking and scratching away over the yard. They would return to the coop at dusk. At the open door to the run Grace bent and, while Mr Spencer stood in silence, went through the charade of checking that all was secure. As she had only checked it the previous day she had little doubt that all would be well.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he said as she straightened.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. You have to be so careful; that old fox is so wily – always trying to catch us unawares.’

  ‘And has he ever done so?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve lost quite a few chickens over the years. And as you know, the fox never kills just as much as he needs to feed his family; if he gets the chance he’ll kill the whole lot.’ She brushed her palms one against the other, brushing off the dust. After the morning out in the sun she felt in need of a wash and a change of clothes.

  ‘It’s a very nice spot, this,’ Mr Spencer said. ‘I’m sure you must love it here.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well – it’s my home. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.’

  ‘Unless you got something very special offered to you.’

  ‘I can’t think what that would be.’

  ‘No? You’re telling me that if the right person came along you wouldn’t be tempted to consider your situation?’ He smiled. ‘It happens.’ He ducked his head a little, peering more closely at her, trying to read her expression. ‘Is there no one? Does your silence mean there is no one?’

  She looked away, avoiding his searching gaze. ‘I’m kept very busy at home, Mr Spencer.’

  He gave a little laugh. ‘I’m sure you are.’ His smile faded. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease you. Forgive me.’ A pause. ‘You say you’re kept busy at home, but your father tells me you’ll probably be moving on before too long.’

  ‘Oh, well – I shall be looking for a new post at some time or other. Just as soon as things get a bit more settled here.’

  ‘You’ll be going as a governess again.’

  She shrugged. ‘There’s nothing else I can do.’

  ‘I remember that in your present position you live at home, and go in on a daily basis.’

  ‘That’s the way it suits Mr and Mrs Marren. Me too for that matter. And they’re situated close enough.’

  ‘Your father said your pupils are going off to boarding school.’

  ‘Yes, to Crewkerne – when school starts again in September. But my time ends with them this week. On Wednesday they’re off to Bristol to spend time with their grandparents.’

  ‘Will you miss them?’

  She sighed. ‘I haven’t thought about it. Though I’m sure I shall.’

  ‘And I suppose you’d like your next post to enable you to continue living at home.’

  ‘Certainly I’d like to be able to stay close to home for the near future.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s only about three months since your mother’s death – it’s not a very long time. It can be such a dreadful blow.’

  ‘Yes. Though thankfully I have a lot to keep me busy.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. And you don’t dwell on things.’

  She wanted to say, Oh, yes – sometimes I do. Sometimes it’s impossible to escape from it. But she bit back the words and simply said, ‘I try not to.’

  ‘And you cope,’ he said. His face was grave, but she could see sympathy in his eyes.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘ – we have to. We have no choice. Though of course some people cope with it better than others.’ She sighed. ‘Oh – why do things always have to change?’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid that’s the nature of life – life changes. Our circumstances change.’ He paused. ‘Your brother. How is he managing without his mother? He must miss her too. So much.’

  ‘Oh, indeed.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt he was badly affected by his mother’s death.’

  ‘He misses her dreadfully.’

  ‘He’s a nice little fellow. It’s such a terrible shame he’s not – well – like other lads his age. Life can be so unfair.’

  Almost sharply, she said, ‘He’s all right. Billy’s fine.’

  Mr Spencer raised a hand, palm
out, briefly pleading. ‘Oh, please – I was only – observing. He’s a grand little chap; I didn’t mean anything to the contrary.’ He frowned, trying to read her expression. ‘Are you angry with me? Don’t be. I meant nothing by it.’

  ‘It – it’s all right.’

  A brief silence fell. Grace gave a little sigh and looked towards the house. ‘I really shall have to go in,’ she said. She stepped forward and the man moved along at her side. Together they crossed the yard towards the rear of the house. Mr Spencer took out his watch, glanced at it, returned it to his waistcoat pocket and sighed. ‘How the time passes,’ he said. ‘I must make my way also. Much work to do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, there’s always work to do,’ she said. ‘Thank heavens Mrs Tanner comes in to help out here. I don’t know what we’d do without her.’

  They had reached the back door of the house. ‘I’ll have to leave you here,’ Mr Spencer said. ‘I called to see how your father’s getting on with my cabinet. Work is well under way, I was pleased to see. It’s coming on splendidly.’

  ‘Good,’ Grace said. She could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘Though I can’t say I found your father looking too robust. I thought he looked a little tired.’

  ‘Well – he’s been working very hard …’

  He nodded. ‘What a terrible blow for him – losing your mother like that. Tragedy is no respecter of feelings. One still has to go on working, earning a living, caring for others. Anyway –’ he took a step away, ‘I’ll let you go. I told your father I’ll drop by again very soon. And perhaps the next time I come you won’t be in so much of a hurry. Perhaps you’ll be able to chat for longer than five minutes.’

  At his words Grace’s embarrassment rose up and she gave a nervous little laugh. It was not the reaction he expected, and visibly he stiffened. ‘Am I amusing you?’ he said. ‘I hope not.’