Through Glass Eyes

by Margaret Muir

  ‘Like the white cliffs of Dover,’ Cyril said, putting his arm around his new wife. ‘Happy?’ he asked.

  Lucy nodded.

  ‘Homesick?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Home is where the heart is, isn’t that what you say?’

  Chapter 25

  Home Again

  Grace grew increasingly anxious when she heard Alice was planning to move back into Pansy’s old cottage, whereas James was delighted at the prospect and mentioned the fact almost every day. Though always busy, he made time to weed Alice’s garden, even though their own garden and Lucy’s were equally overgrown. He also washed the downstairs windows of the end cottage and replaced the hinges on the gate which Crowther had broken. Though she never said anything, Grace couldn’t help feeling slightly jealous. Would James want to spend time with Alice when she came back? And would Crowther reappear and start bothering them?

  As each day passed, she found it harder to hide her feelings, and the idea of moving back to the farm became more and more appealing. If they stayed in the cottage she knew she would feel vulnerable. Alice was a clever girl, a nursing sister, well educated, and always well dressed. Alice was also intelligent and nicely spoken, while she was just a farmer’s daughter, who had left school at twelve and who could boast no fancy clothes or ways. Alice was not only pretty and slim, but, even in her white satin nurse’s shoes, was taller than her. The baggy trousers, Grace wore every day, the broad leather belt and mud laden Wellington boots, made her look even shorter and fatter than she really was and, the fact she was pregnant, didn’t help matters.

  ‘Who cares what someone wears! I don’t!’ said James, pulling his wife to him and hugging her. ‘You always look smashing to me. And besides,’ he said, ‘in a few months’ time, when the baby’s due, you’ll be glad to have Alice around.’

  Grace smiled and kissed him. As usual, he was right and she was being foolish, but she found it difficult to talk to him about her feelings. He and Alice had grown up together and were as close as any brother and sister, and, because of that, it appeared to Grace that James’s instinct would be to defend Alice whatever happened.

  Two things puzzled Grace, though. Why had Alice left Rachel to be brought up by Pansy in Ilkley? And why was she now planning to move back into the cottage on her own, yet not bringing Rachel with her?

  ‘Seems odd to me,’ Grace said casually, ‘not having the little lass with her. I can promise, when I have the baby, I won’t let her out of my sight.’

  ‘And what will you do when you’re milking?’ James joked.

  ‘She can sit on a stool and watch. Never too soon to learn!’

  ‘It’s going to be a girl, is it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Grace, rubbing her hands across her belly.

  ‘Is there anything else of yours in here?’ James asked, as Alice rummaged through the four large boxes which he had just collected from the police station.

  ‘The rest of these things came from your mother’s place,’ Alice said. ‘Including this.’ As she spoke she pulled the old doll out of the box. The lace trim on the frock had yellowed and the black goat skin pate looked stark against the pale bisque cheeks. Laying it gently on the table, Alice watched as the eyelashes closed across the luminous blue eyes.

  ‘I loved this doll when I was young,’ she said. ‘When I was afraid of the dark, I would take her to bed with me and talk to her under the covers. I didn’t feel scared when she was with me. I suppose I thought she was real.’ She turned and smiled at Grace. ‘Silly isn’t it, how you think when you are a child.’

  Grace nodded and smiled sadly, but her eyes were not on the dilapidated doll, she was looking at the hands holding it, ugly hands, the skin coiled and scarred from being burnt.

  ‘Why don’t you keep it?’ James said, closing the box’s lid. ‘Mum gave it to you, didn’t she? And she’s no reason to want it now.’

  Alice held the doll to her chest and thanked James saying it would be nice to have its company in the empty house. Grace offered to help her unpack her suitcases, but Alice preferred to manage alone.

  The rain, which had started soon after she arrived, was getting heavier. Alice ran back to her cottage trying to avoid the puddles and streams forming on the lane. But the water splashed over her shoes and saturated her stockings. As she neared the front door, she was annoyed with herself. She noticed she hadn’t closed it properly and the rain was blowing in. The cottage was chilly enough already. It had suffered from being left vacant and always felt cold and damp, and a smell of mould permanently hung in the air.

  After rubbing the rain from her hair and drying the doll’s head, Alice kicked off her shoes and ran upstairs to find her slippers. As she walked across the bedroom her toes squelched on the bedside rug. It was sopping wet. Looking up she could see water dripping from around the man-hole which led up into the roof.

  Why was the ceiling wet? There was no window in the attic. Nowhere the rain could blow in from. As she stood pondering over it, drops of water dripped down to the already saturated rug.

  Hurrying to the kitchen, she returned with a stack of pans and bowls and placed them around the floor like stepping stones. In the morning she would tell James; ask him to climb into the roof cavity to investigate the leak. Perhaps when the tree branches were moving in the wind, they had dislodged one of the slate shingles. Whatever the reason she knew James would fix it, but as she unpacked her clothes and hung them neatly in the wardrobe, she could not escape the constant plop-plopping of the water as it dripped into the pans.

  It was hard for Alice to get to sleep that night. Rain lashed against the window and water continued to seep in. Across the roof, the tree branches scraped eerily on the shingles and in the white flashes of the storm, the blot of mottled mould on the ceiling appeared to move and roll like a gathering thundercloud.

  As she pulled the doll into bed beside her, its lids slid over the luminescent eyes, but it was well over two hours before Alice’s eyes closed.

  James knocked on Alice’s door at midnight, and Andrew Oldfield was born two hours later. His arrival was three weeks earlier than expected and Grace was relieved Alice had been there to help her.

  As the day dawned, James felt guilty knowing Alice was on duty that day at the hospital. But Alice would hear nothing of his concern. She was used to not getting much sleep and besides, she was pleased to assist the new baby into the world.

  The River Wharfe meandered lazily. Sunlight bursting through the trees flickered on the fresh green leaves and glinted on the water. The woodland path was soft underfoot. To the left, the lush ground was a carpet of blue. Masses of bell-shaped flowers bowed their heads towards the earth shedding tears of morning dew. To the right was the river. A pair of squirrels raced along the path, stopped for a moment, tails erect, then scampered across of mesh of twisted roots and up the crumpled bark of an ageing tree. In the silence of the woods the sounds of birds echoed in the still morning air.

  Alice loved her weekly visits to Ilkley, especially in spring. Rising before dawn, she would catch the early train so she could share breakfast with her mother and Rachel. But as soon as the meal was cleared away, they would pack a picnic and set off for the day. Miss Pugh’s big house was dark, cold and rather depressing and it had a distinct musty smell which reminded her of the hospital. So, unless the weather was really inclement, she always preferred to go out. Alice sympathized with the spinster’s mental condition, and admired her mother for looking after her, but was relieved her great-aunt never asked if she could join them.

  On the days they spent together, Alice, Rachel and Pansy walked for miles in countryside around Ilkley. Pansy still appeared thin and frail, but was active and surprised her daughter. Little Rachel could walk well too until she was tired, then the two women would take turns to carry her on their backs.

  If the ground was not too slippery, they would take the steep path up the side of Heber’s Ghyll, the stream which arose on the moors and gurgled down throug
h the shaded undergrowth to the river in the valley. At the top of the ghyll, where the trees stopped and the moors began, they would stop and drink the crystal water pouring from a freshwater spring, or ponder the ancient shapes carved on the weathered stones.

  When it was fine, they would hike through the heather to the Cow and Calf rocks, always stopping at the bottom of the cliff face, never venturing to climb. Some days they would stroll down to the River Wharfe and wander across the meadows through which the river meandered. Sometimes, when they reached a pebbled beach, Rachel would paddle in the shallow water whilst the two women sat and chatted, gazing contentedly at the river winding lazily by.

  ‘I’ve decided I’m going to leave the hospital,’ Alice said, to her mother, as Rachel danced in the bed of bluebells. ‘I’ll get a day job, like the one I had in the nursing home. I want Rachel living at home with me before she’s too old.’

  Pansy squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m pleased to hear you say that, dear. I love the little lass, but I know she misses you. It’s only right she should be with you.’

  ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Now I’m settled back at the cottage it seems the obvious thing to do.’ Alice sighed, as she voiced her thoughts out loud. ‘Over the years I’ve been too involved with work. But, now it doesn’t seem important any more.’

  ‘But you’ve been a good nurse and your training won’t go astray.’

  ‘I know,’ said Alice. ‘But I wish I hadn’t been so blind.’

  Rachel presented her grandmother with a bunch of bluebells before running back into the glade to gather more.

  ‘Little Andrew is already walking and Grace is expecting another baby around Christmas time. Which means Rachel will have someone to play with at last.’

  ‘I’m pleased, Alice. But I’ll miss her.’

  ‘Then you must come to the cottage and stay with us.’

  ‘It’s hard for me to leave my aunt for long. The old dear is apt to go wandering, if I’m not around.’

  Alice looked disappointed.

  ‘But we’ll see. You never know what’s round the corner.’

  As the sun’s rays poured between the treetops, Alice and Pansy ambled along the path hand in hand. Knee-deep in blue-bells, the child wandered through the woodland, stopping at times to pick another flower. A pair of chaffinches, busy at their nest, attracted her attention. A dragonfly hovered in the air, then darted away. She heard a cuckoo and watched as a butterfly settle on the flowers in her hand. Above her head she saw a cloud of tiny flies, and when she heard the bushes rustling she looked around expecting to see a squirrel scampering up a tree.

  Engrossed in conversation, the women wandered on, their minds removed from the sights and sounds of the river-bank. They didn’t hear the startled shriek of a bird or the crack of dead twigs being broken underfoot. They didn’t see the man who was following them, loitering in the undergrowth.

  Chapter 26

  The Car

  Lucy’s letter bore an American postage stamp. James had read it earlier, but as they sat by the fire in the evening, Grace asked him to read it again.

  My dear James and Grace

  As I write, the ship is steaming slowly through the Panama Canal. How different the scenery here is from the canal at Suez. Being near the equator, the weather is hot and sticky and Cyril and I are looking forward to being back on the open sea again. We change ships at New York but will not stay there for long as we do not want to be crossing the North Atlantic after the winter storms have blown in. From New York the ship steams via the Azores for Southampton where we will disembark.

  But first let me congratulate you both. I was overjoyed to hear that I have a grandson and congratulate you and Grace on the birth of Andrew Edward Oldfield. I only wish I could have been home in time for his arrival. But I am glad Grace and baby are well, and to hear Alice is living back home and was able to share the joy with you. It will be wonderful for us all to be together again at Honeysuckle Cottages. Perhaps one day Pansy will come back too.

  I hope it will not come as too much of a shock to you, but Cyril and I were married some weeks ago. I mentioned our friendship when I wrote from India. We were attracted to each other when we first met and, as Cyril does not believe in wasting time, we decided to get married straight away. Being practical, as we both are, we agreed it was foolish to pay for two cabins on the ship and two rooms in the hotels, therefore when the ship docked in Fremantle in Western Australia we arranged for a special marriage licence. As our relationship had been a topic of gossip amongst the first-class passengers, it seemed fitting to have a party on board to celebrate. I was hardly the young blushing bride, but it was a memorable day.

  I feel sure you will both like Cyril. He is a kind and considerate man with a lively sense of humour. He has the patience and tolerance of Edward, and a considerable amount more energy. Hopefully we will be home within two months.

  Give my regards to John Fothergill.

  Your loving Mother

  ‘She sounds happy,’ said James.

  Grace agreed. ‘And they will be home before Christmas.’

  James smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, gazing out of the window. As the wind bent the long grass into waves across the meadow, he tried to picture his mother on the deck of a ship sailing across the North Atlantic. He remembered his voyage to India and wondered if he would ever travel abroad again. ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I think I will go to bed.’

  ‘I will follow in a few minutes.’

  James kissed her. For some reason, he felt more weary than usual. The last few weeks had not gone well and there was little for him to feel positive about. The heavy rain had come at the wrong time damaging the crops which were ripening and almost ready for harvest. A month ago the top field had swayed golden in the breeze, waving like the surface of the sea bathed in a glorious sunset. Now the field was spoiled, flattened, the whole crop turning black and mouldy on the ground. A full year’s work had gone to waste.

  Apart from the wheat, the drenching rain had turned the bottom meadows into swamps. The cows, sinking to their bellies in the mire, were coming in for milking with filthy udders. The farm’s tracks were gouged with muddy ruts and potholes and James’s legs ached constantly from the weight of clay caked around his boots. He was tired of being soaked to the skin, tired of the wind’s bitter chill striking through him like a steel blade and tired of everything going wrong. At times he wanted to give up, to ignore the cows and the farm, to stay indoors with Grace.

  Lying in bed, he asked himself if he was cut out to be a farmer.

  The thirty gallons of milk wasted during the week was due to his own stupidity. No one else was to blame. He had been hurrying. Stubborn. Not listened to Grace when she had advised him to be careful. He had known the roads were bad but had been driving too fast. He remembered the truck rocking from side to side. Remembered his sudden sense of panic expecting it to topple. He had felt the wheels lock, struggled with the wheel, but could do nothing. Within seconds the front end had embedded itself into a deep ditch.

  Along the road, he had left a trail of spilled milk and littered the verge with dented churns. Fortunately there was no damage to the truck or himself, but it took three hours, and the help of another farmer, to pull the vehicle out of the ditch, and besides that, the missing milk delivery had upset several of their regular customers.

  John Fothergill had never made a fuss. He had been concerned but seemed philosophical about the accident, and glad that James had not been injured. ‘These things happen,’ he had said. ‘Not a lot you can do about it.’ He calculated that the number of cattle they were feeding for the Christmas trade would compensate them for the loss of crop, and if needed, they could buy extra stock feed. Despite their losses, he seemed quite positive. James, however, wasn’t convinced. Market prices fluctuated and though at present the cattle looked good, if the rain continued much longer their condition would start to decline.

  As he lay on the bed almos
t too weary for sleep, he thought about Grace. She was pregnant again and, whether she wanted to or not, soon she must stop working. That was going to mean even more work for him.

  What the farm needed was an extra hand. But could they afford it and still support the two households? He must speak seriously to John about taking on some help. Perhaps a young lad to work full-time or a man to work part-time in the dairy and drive the truck.

  He didn’t know how Grace and her father had managed to run the farm on their own and wondered why he couldn’t manage. What was he doing wrong? As he rolled over, he heard Grace’s footsteps on the stairs. They must find time to talk about these things. Yawning, he heard her close the bedroom door but by the time she climbed into bed beside him, he was asleep.

  ‘James! Help!’

  James dropped the pails when he heard Grace’s cry and ran back towards the farmhouse splashing through pools of mud.

  ‘It’s Dad,’ she cried, when he was near the house.

  John Fothergill was sprawled on the ground outside the back door. He was soaking wet, his face half submerged in muddy water but he was still breathing.

  ‘I thought he was with you!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve just found him. I don’t know how long he’s been here.’ Taking her father’s arm, she tried to pull him up.

  ‘Let me!’ James said

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s alive, but we’ve got to get him inside and warm or he’ll not be for much longer.’

  James grasped his father-in-law under the arms and dragged him into the house. A trail of mud followed them down the hall and into the bedroom. The old man groaned as James hoisted him onto the bed.