Wait For the Dawn

by Jess Foley

  ‘I started a blister on my heel,’ he said. ‘That walking, that wasted effort.’

  ‘Oh, dear. You want to bathe your foot?’

  ‘No, I’ll just rest it. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘It’ll be no trouble. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘I just told you, it’ll be all right.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll get your slippers.’

  A minute later his slippers were on his feet.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ Mrs Halley said. ‘You want some tea or something?’

  ‘Yes, a cup of tea would be welcome. I should have thought you’d have the kettle on already.’

  ‘It won’t take but a few minutes. It’s already filled.’

  Standing at the range she moved the kettle on to the heat. As she did so he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Then from the dresser drawer he took a notepad and a pencil.

  ‘Are you going to start work?’ Mrs Halley said. ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘As I walked I worked on my sermon,’ he said shortly. ‘I want to get it down while I think of it. While it’s still fresh in my mind. At least something might be salvaged from this evening.’ Then, frowning, he added, ‘I can’t see by this dratted useless lamp. Where’s the other one?’ Getting up from his chair he moved to the dresser and took the repaired lamp and brought it to the table. Then, removing the shade and the funnel he struck a match and lit the wick. After adjusting the wick and the flame he replaced the funnel and took up the shade.

  It was as he moved the shade around in his hand to set it back on the base that he saw the crack. He held it up before him.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Shocked by the fury in his face, Mrs Halley stood motionless and speechless by the range.

  ‘I asked you,’ he said, ‘what is the meaning of this?’ He turned the shade to get a clearer view, and then took up the base with the funnel and held it closer to the shade, letting the light fall clean upon the break.

  ‘Who did this?’ he said, and when there was no answer, said again, ‘Who did this?’ This time he almost screamed the words. ‘Tell me! Answer me!’ He slammed the shade down on to the table top, so hard that the glass shattered, sending splinters flying across the room. Mrs Halley flinched but did not move. ‘Answer me,’ he said grimly. ‘Who did it? It wouldn’t be Lydia, for she’d have owned up – she wouldn’t have crept off to bed, afraid to face me.’ He paused. ‘Was it Amaryllis?’

  No answer came, and after glaring at his wife for the briefest moment he turned and, still holding the lamp base, strode towards the door to the hall and the stairs.

  ‘No, Father,’ Mrs Halley said, and then as he turned to face her, added: ‘I did it. I broke the shade.’

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘You.’ His teeth clenched, his breath coming in loud gasps, he burst out, ‘Can’t we keep anything intact in this God-forsaken house! Does everything that comes in have to be ruined?’ Then, drawing back his hand to its limit he threw the lamp.

  Hurled with all his force, it struck the corner of the table, the china and glass of the base and the funnel immediately breaking, sending up a showering spray of flaming paraffin.

  Chapter Four

  Lydia and Ryllis sat up as their mother’s screams rang out into the night, then leapt from their bed and, still in their nightdresses, ran down the stairs and into the room.

  The scene that met their eyes was like something out of a nightmare, something not even to be imagined in the darkest moments. The room was full of smoke, and their mother, shrieking, her clothes and hair all ablaze, was running from one end of the room to the other. As she ran she scattered furniture and anything that was in her way, as if somehow she could escape from the fire that was enveloping her. Their father, trying to put out the flames, was flapping at them with his hands, but at the same time not getting near enough to be effective. Seeing the girls enter the room he cried to Lydia, ‘Get a blanket! Get a blanket!’ and Lydia turned and dashed back up the stairs. In her bedroom she snatched blankets from the bed, rushed back downstairs and, without hesitating, dashed at her mother with the blanket outstretched in both hands and wrapped it around her. Then, as the flames were smothered, Mrs Halley fell back onto the window seat. When at last, certain that the fire was out, Lydia and her father pulled the blanket free, they saw that Mrs Halley’s clothes were scorched and charred and that there was scarcely a hair left on her seared and blistered head.

  ‘Father,’ Lydia gasped hoarsely as the three of them stood looking down on the gravely injured woman, ‘Ryllis must go and fetch Dr Harvey.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ryllis was already moving to the hall door, ‘I’ll get dressed and go at once.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mr Halley said quickly, ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘But Ryllis can run so fast,’ Lydia said. ‘She’ll be there in no time.’

  ‘I told you, I’ll go,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m already dressed.’ He turned and looked to the window, beyond which the full moon shone down from a clear sky. ‘And I shan’t need the lantern; the moon’s bright enough.’ He looked back at the form of his wife as she lay there. ‘Don’t leave her,’ he added. ‘I’ll bring back the doctor as soon as I can.’

  Moments later he had gone from the house, and from the window Lydia and Ryllis glimpsed him walking quickly through the yard. As he disappeared from sight Ryllis turned and ran upstairs, to return moments later with a fresh blanket which they gently laid over their mother. She then moved back to the hall doorway. ‘I’ll go on upstairs and get dressed, Lyddy,’ she said. ‘Then when I come down you can do the same.’

  While Ryllis went upstairs Lydia pulled up a chair, and sat and bent over her mother. She wanted to wrap her in her arms, but did not dare touch her for fear of causing her further hurt. ‘Oh, Mother,’ she murmured, leaning closer, the tears streaming down her cheeks, ‘what a dreadful thing to happen.’

  She did not expect her mother to respond, but Mrs Halley said haltingly, ‘He – he didn’t m-mean it.’ The words struggled out through her cracked and blistered lips, while her eyes rolled in her head. She tried to sit up. ‘Be-believe me. He didn’t – mean it.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it?’ Lydia felt herself go cold. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The l-lamp. He – didn’t m-mean to hurt me. He – he . . .’ Then Mrs Halley’s words trailed off and her eyes closed as she sank back into her seat.

  ‘Mother? Mother?’ Lydia whispered the words, but although she could see her mother’s chest rising and falling with her breathing, it was clear that she was unconscious. Lydia’s hands were clutched to her face. She could do nothing but sit there, and pray that her father would soon return with the doctor.

  She was sitting in the same position a few minutes later when Ryllis came hurrying downstairs, now wearing her day dress and pinafore.

  ‘All right, Lyddy,’ Ryllis said, ‘I’ll stay with Mother now while you go and get dressed.’

  Upstairs in the bedroom, by the light of a candle, Lydia hurriedly took off her nightdress and changed into an old frock. Moments later, as she stood before the small glass and glanced at her pale reflection, she thought of the words her mother had spoken: He didn’t mean it. The question came into her mind: He didn’t mean what? She had no answer, and it did no good to dwell on it. Quickly she smoothed down the skirt of her dress, blew out the candle and started back down the stairs.

  Dr Harvey lived on the far side of the village. Having settled down for the night, and not expecting any calls, he had hurriedly stirred himself and brought Mr Halley back to the little house in his carriage. By the time of their arrival Mrs Halley was conscious again. Lydia and Ryllis had brought more blankets for her, but she still felt cold, and when Dr Harvey appeared at her side she was lying shivering, her teeth chattering. Seeing her again, Mr Halley gave a little cry and rushed across the room.

  Lydia and Ryllis stepped back as their father came to his wife’s side. He
knelt down, tears shining in his eyes, his face pale. ‘Oh, Emmie,’ he murmured. He groped for her hand for a moment and, taking it, said, ‘I’ve brought Dr Harvey, Emmie. He’ll soon have you right again.’

  He released his wife’s hand, straightened and stepped aside. At once Dr Harvey was there, taking a seat on the kitchen chair that Lydia had placed for him, and bending to the woman.

  As the doctor ministered to her and took in the extent of her injuries he murmured comforting little words. Then he said softly, sympathetically, ‘Oh, dear, this was an unfortunate accident, Mrs Halley, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Mrs Halley stuttered. ‘I was c-careless.’

  The doctor gave a little nod. ‘So it seems,’ he said kindly. ‘Lamps can be such dangerous things – all that paraffin.’ Then turning to Mr Halley at his side, he added directly, ‘Very unfortunate indeed, but it’s so easily done.’ He gave a sigh. ‘It’s a bad business. Dropping a lamp like that. I’ve had other cases. Burning paraffin – it can be truly dreadful.’

  The doctor stayed some time longer at the house. At one time he spoke of Mrs Halley being moved to the cottage hospital at Hurstleigh but she would have none of it. She would remain where she was, she insisted, and rely on the care of her husband and daughters.

  After he had done what he could for her, and given her a little chloral to deaden the pain and help her to sleep, the doctor said he would leave, but would return in the morning. Mr Halley saw him to the door, where he asked him quietly how he judged his wife’s injuries.

  The doctor looked grave. They were very serious, he said, and it would aid her greatly if she could be persuaded to go into the hospital.

  When he returned just after eleven the next morning to see his patient he found that she had died less than an hour before.

  It had not rained in several days, but on the morning of the funeral the clouds, which had gathered during the night, opened and let fall the threatened downpour.

  Lydia and Ryllis, the tears streaming from their eyes, stood at the low-curtained window of the parlour and watched as the small funeral cortège moved away from the house, the umbrellas of the mourners opened up against the falling rain.

  Even after the short procession had passed along the lane out of sight, they remained at the window. Victorian manners generally frowned on females being present at a funeral graveside, and so the sisters remained behind. Never having been to a funeral, they had to rely on magazine illustrations and paintings and verbal accounts to have any idea of what went on. Certainly they had their imaginations, and in Lydia’s mind’s eye she saw her father standing at the graveside along with the other mourners, and could almost hear the raindrops drumming on the black domes of their umbrellas. Would the sound drown out the words of the Reverend Hepthaw as he delivered his melancholy address over their mother’s coffin? Lydia could see her father as clearly as if he were beside her, standing with straight back and head bent, the muscle in his jaw working in a steady, rhythmic movement, his eyes swimming with tears behind his steel-rimmed spectacles. What would go through his mind? Would he be focused solely on the loss of his wife or was a part of him judging and criticising the words of the Reverend Hepthaw?

  Lydia could scarcely believe that it was all happening. Was it only just over a week ago that she and Ryllis and her mother had been sitting over their teacups while Ryllis had so amused them with anecdotes from her life with the Lucases? Surely it wasn’t possible. Surely the whole horrific story could not be real.

  When their father and the handful of mourners returned to the house after the funeral Lydia and Ryllis served them tea and sandwiches and cake. Then, when the platters were empty and the visitors had gone, the two sisters changed back into their everyday dresses and pinafores and carried the dishes into the scullery where they washed and dried them. In the meantime their father sat in the front parlour, warming himself over the remains of the fire.

  ‘Well,’ Ryllis said as she wiped her hands, ‘I suppose tomorrow I’ll have to set off back for Barford again.’

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to go,’ Lydia said.

  ‘Yes, I too wish that I didn’t have to go, but there’s nothing for it. Now that the funeral’s done I’ve no reason for staying away. Mind you, even though it was for a funeral I’m sure the Lucases resent my absence.’

  Lydia gave a sigh. ‘I wish I were leaving here as well.’

  ‘You mustn’t think about that,’ Ryllis said. ‘You’ll be needed here at home even more now. You won’t be able to think about getting a job in Redbury or anyplace. Not now. Father won’t be able to manage without you.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll have to.’ Lydia lowered her voice with her words and looked towards the door. ‘While you were upstairs changing,’ she said, ‘Mother said something to me.’

  ‘When I was upstairs? What are you talking about?’

  ‘On the night when she was so badly burned. Father went for the doctor and you and I were here with her. You went upstairs to change out of your nightdress –’

  ‘Yes . . . what about it?’

  ‘While you were gone Mother said something.’

  ‘What? Said what?’

  Lydia took a deep breath and looked again towards the door. Then, her voice falling to little more than a whisper, she said, ‘She couldn’t speak very well, but she said to me, “He didn’t mean it.” She was talking about Father, of course.’

  ‘But what – what did she mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it was to do with Father and the lamp.’

  Ryllis put her hands to her cheeks, her blue eyes wide. ‘Oh, Lyddy . . .’

  Lydia stood for a moment or two in silence, then said firmly, ‘But it does no good to guess at things, to conjecture. We have to put it behind us. Whatever happened, it must have been a – it must have been an accident.’

  Ryllis returned to Barford the day after the funeral, and following her departure Lydia felt that she was going around in a daze. Not only was there her grief over her mother, but she also had to face her father, at which times she could not help but wonder what had been behind her mother’s words.

  Nothing, however, was said between them for some days, until one evening when he came into the kitchen to find her sitting silent and alone, her head bowed, the tears damp on her cheeks.

  ‘I know how you’re feeling,’ he said gruffly. Then a long pause went by and he added, ‘We must . . . help one another.’

  She could not bring herself to speak, nor to look at him, and, gazing down at the floor, merely gave a brief nod.

  ‘I came to find you,’ he said after a moment. ‘I wanted to give you this.’

  She looked at him now, opening her eyes and raising her glance to him. He was standing before her, holding something. Lying on his palm she saw her mother’s watch, a little gold half-hunter that she had rarely carried, but had always treasured.

  ‘You must have it,’ he said. ‘She’d want you to have it.’

  ‘Oh, Father . . .’

  As she moved to take it he drew his hand back again and held the watch up before his eyes. For a moment Lydia could see it reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.

  ‘I gave her this,’ he said. ‘The day after she promised to marry me. We went into Redbury together and bought it. She was so thrilled, so excited.’ He carefully opened the watch, looked closely at the face for a second or two, then held it to his ear, cocking his head slightly as he listened. ‘It has a whispering little tick,’ he said. He held it out again at arm’s length. ‘Yes, take it. She would want you to have it. I too.’

  He laid the watch on the open palm of her hand and then bent her fingers over it. Lydia felt the pressure of his fingers on hers for a moment, then lowered her hand. As she did so he turned away, and she saw the slump of his shoulders, the drooping of his head.

  ‘Father,’ she said, ‘are you all right?’

  He did not turn to her, and she could not see his face, but she heard his quick, indrawn breath, an
d then his words, gruff in his throat:

  ‘I did it.’

  ‘Father –’

  ‘I did it,’ he said again. ‘I threw the lamp. She didn’t drop it. I threw it.’

  Lydia could feel her heart beating in her chest. She did not speak. She did not know what to say. Then he turned to face her, and she could see the glisten of tears in his eyes as he gazed into her own.

  ‘It hit the table,’ he said. ‘It hit the table and – and just – just exploded. I didn’t mean it.’ He put his hands up to his face and bent his head. ‘I was in such a temper – such a rage. It happened in a second. Like a coward I – I led the doctor to think that she’d – dropped it, the lamp, but she didn’t.’

  Lydia said, ‘Oh, but – but it was an accident.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It was an accident.’ He lowered his hands and added, looking off towards the darkened window, ‘I can see the images in my mind all the time. I can’t get rid of them.’

  He turned away from her then, and without another word went from the room. Lydia watched him go, the little watch clasped warm in her hand.

  *

  The May morning was pleasant and warm, and Ryllis had enjoyed an errand to the village post office. Not only had it given her the opportunity to be out in the spring air, but it had also taken her away from the house for a while. Now, however, she was on her way back to The Laurels, and her little time of freedom would soon be over.

  A part of her way took her beside a small thicket where rooks nested in great numbers, and suddenly, as she passed beneath a tree, she was startled by something falling close to her shoulder. She jumped back a little in shock, thinking that perhaps something had been thrown at her. She looked down to see what it was, and there on the ground near the tree’s roots she saw a baby bird. After looking at it for a moment, she bent, peering closer. The bird was a rook, obviously having come from one of the many nests above.

  ‘What’s wrong? Is anything the matter?’

  She started at the voice, and turned to see a young man standing a couple of yards away. She had not heard his approach. He was of middle height, with brown hair and dark eyes, and looked to be around eighteen or nineteen. He wore a cap, with a tweed jacket and dark corduroy trousers.