by Jess Foley
After a moment more she took up her pen again. She was writing to Ryllis, having that morning received a letter from her. Sadly, her sister seemed no happier in her situation. If anything she was even more unhappy. She had written to say that Thomas was still working in London, and could not say how long he would continue so. He had returned home to Barford only once since his departure in mid-August, and that had been for a very brief visit, during which he had seen Ryllis for not more than an hour. As for his letters, he rarely wrote at all, Ryllis said. He had never been one for letter-writing, but even so she had expected more than the three or four she had received.
When Lydia had finished she addressed the envelope and sealed the letter inside. She had been able to offer no comfort, and did not see how she could do so. She had never had positive thoughts where Ryllis and Mr Thomas Bissett were concerned, and could not see things changing for the good in the near future. She could only say to Ryllis that she hoped things would work out, and exhort her not to be too low in her spirits. She could not tell her that as far as she could see, the writing was on the wall, and there would be no joy in the outcome.
Pushing the letter to Ryllis aside, she took up her pen and began to write again, this time to her father.
How difficult it was to know what to say. Although Ryllis had managed to be at the wedding in Redbury, her father had refused to attend. In fact, he had not spoken to Lydia, nor written her a word, since she had told him of her intention to marry.
‘You’re going to be what?’ he had said.
‘I’m going to be married. This coming week.’
She had gone to Capinfell to see him and give him her news, though dreading the moment that she would do so. She had not been surprised at his reaction. He had stared at her, frowning, his mouth open.
‘When did you say? This coming week? But you haven’t known anyone long enough to think about taking such a step.’
She had kept silent at this, trying to think of words to say, words that would not heap more fuel upon the flames.
‘Is it someone you’ve met in Redbury?’ he had said. ‘It must be. There’s no one here in Capinfell I could think of in a hundred years.’
Then it was that she had told him that her bridegroom was to be Alfred Canbrook. He had been stunned, and continued disbelieving. ‘How can it be? The man is as old as I am. Has he been calling on you in Redbury? Is that the picture?’ He had spoken in a low voice, but the flesh around his mouth was bloodless with anger. ‘I expected better from you, Lydia,’ he had gone on to say. ‘For you to go and ally yourself with a heathen – I’m bitterly disappointed in you – but you always were one to go your own way.’ He was hurt too – that Lydia should have taken such a step without even consulting him. ‘Which church are you to be married at?’ he asked. Her reply that she was to be married not in a church but at the register office in Redbury had been the last straw. He had turned his back upon her, refusing to say another word.
And this was how the situation with her father had remained. She believed that he would come round in time, but at the moment his silence was painful and she wanted it ended as soon as possible.
Now, in her letter to her father she wrote that she was well, and hoped that he was also. She went on to say that she wished he would visit them soon, and assured him that he would always be welcome. Also, she said, she and Alfred would like to visit him in Capinfell when it was convenient.
When the short letter was finished and sealed in its envelope she got up from her seat. As she did so the dog lifted his head, looking at her expectantly.
‘Yes,’ she said to him, ‘I’m going out to the post box. Are you coming along for the stroll?’
Tinny rose at once, tail wagging, and then followed Lydia to the door. Moments later, her hat on her head, and her cape around her shoulders, she and the dog left the house.
She posted the letters in the box in the churchyard wall and then, with a word to the dog: ‘Shall we go and see your master? See if he needs a hand in the shop?’ continued on. It was after six now and the late afternoon was fading. For a short while they walked beside the slow-flowing river. The water was as clear as glass, and the long tendrils of water weeds waved languidly in the current. On the bank the elderberries were rich upon the stems.
Some little distance on they left the river footpath and branched off to take the short road that led into the town. It took just fifteen minutes to reach the market square and the shop.
The eyes of Alfred and his assistants looked up as she went in, her entrance causing the bell to ring, and Alfred smiled at her over the shoulder of the woman he was serving. When the customer had gone, Lydia told him that she had come out to post letters and had decided to take a longer stroll.
With Tinny in the back room out of the way, Lydia took off her hat and coat and set herself to help in serving. The shop would not close until eight o’clock, and business was fairly brisk. Lydia had got into the habit over the last two weeks of coming to the shop and helping out where she could, and as she learned, so she was becoming more efficient.
At last eight o’clock came round, the Closed sign went up on the door, and the counters and other displays were covered with their cotton drapes to keep out the dust. The assistants wished Lydia and Alfred a good evening and left for the day. Not long afterwards Alfred himself was ready to leave, and soon he was locking the door behind them and they were starting through the square.
‘What did you do with yourself today?’ he asked as they walked side by side, Tinny trotting two paces ahead.
Lydia replied that she had worked on some sewing and mending, and in the afternoon had written letters to her father and Ryllis.
‘Still no word from your father?’ Alfred asked.
‘No, nothing.’
‘You’ll hear,’ he said. ‘You’ll hear before too long.’
‘But it upsets me, this estrangement.’
‘I know it does, but he’ll come round. Give it time.’
When Samuel Halley returned home from work early on Saturday afternoon he found Lydia’s letter waiting for him. Of course he recognised her handwriting at once. After reading it through he put it up behind the clock on the mantelshelf. She had written to him several times over the past weeks. He had not answered any of her letters.
Guy Anderson caught the train from Redbury that Saturday afternoon. He got off at Merinville and went outside the station to where the local fly-driver waited with his cab. After ascertaining that the cab was available, Guy said he wanted to go to Capinfell and, further, that he wished to go to the house of the Halley family. The driver replied as he unhitched his horse that he was not familiar with the names of the residents of Capinfell, and added, ‘But it’s a small place, sir, and I don’t doubt you’ll find your party without too much trouble.’
Guy climbed aboard and they set off. He had never been to Capinfell before, and the road leading to it was also unfamiliar to him. They drove between fields stripped bare by the harvest, and through some areas where the stubble had been burned. He took in little of the scenery they passed by, however; he was preoccupied with his own thoughts. Lydia had been on his mind so much lately, increasingly, to the point where she had haunted him in the days and had tapped into his dreams at night.
He had not written to her as he had told her he would, and his guilt and regret had grown with the passing time. Over all those weeks in Italy he had kept close to him his late father’s exhortations – and those of his mother – and had tried to put Lydia out of his mind. For part of the time such action had not been too difficult. For one thing, he had been frantically busy. First, following the death of his father, there had been the funeral to arrange, and after that had come the far from easy task of disposing of the textile business. What should have been a comparatively simple matter had proved problematic and had dragged on and on before its eventual resolution.
At last, though, everything had been settled, and Guy had left Florence to return to Redbury,
there to take up the directorial reins of the newspaper that had been his father’s great love. Apart from the business that had required his attention, his mother too had needed him. After Mr Anderson’s burial in Florence his widow had returned alone to Redbury, and there had settled into a depression that Guy, on his later return, had almost despaired of banishing.
And always, since his return, at the back of his mind was Lydia.
He spent his days in his office at the newspaper, continuing to learn in his new role. So much responsibility had come to him in just a few short weeks, and he would go to bed at night with his brain teeming with the things he had to do, and lessons to be learned. There had been no word of Lydia, and no word from her either. It was as if she were some spirit that had briefly illuminated his life and then fled again, leaving only the faint shadow of where her presence had once been.
He could not live with the situation continuing as it was, however. He was not content to accept her having gone out of his life. Before long he had called at the house in Little Marsh Street, and there he had seen Mrs Obdermann. On enquiring for Lydia she had told him that the young lady was no longer lodging there, and that she had no idea where she might be. He could, she suggested, make enquiries at Seager’s department store, where Miss Halley had been working, and might be working still for all she knew.
So he had gone to Seager’s, and eventually had spoken with someone in the employment office, who told him that Miss Halley had left the company some weeks before. No, the clerk added, they could not say where she had gone.
And so it had come down to his trip to Capinfell, and he had come here this Saturday afternoon to find her and, if possible, put his mind at rest.
Soon after entering the village of Capinfell, the cab-driver pulled his horse to a halt outside the premises of the local fly-driver. ‘This is the man who’ll know, sir,’ he said to Guy. ‘If’ e don’t I don’t reckon nobody will.’
After Guy had thanked him and paid him off he looked into the stable yard of the fly-proprietor’s house. There was no sign of anyone there, so he knocked on the door. It was opened after half a minute by a middle-aged woman wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at him questioningly. ‘Yes, sir?’
He was sorry to trouble her, he said, but did she know of a family named Halley residing in the village? She nodded at once, saying, ‘Oh yes, indeed, sir,’ and went on to describe the house and give him the address. Stepping into the entrance to the stable yard she stood and pointed off across the green. ‘I don’t know who as you’m wanting, sir,’ she added, ‘but I think it’s only Mr Halley’ isself biding there now. I think both’ is daughters have gone off.’
His heart sank a little at her last words, but he thanked her and set off across the green.
It took a very short time to get to the house, a humble-looking cottage at the end of a lane. The front door was reached via the side yard, and he stepped across the cobbles and rapped with the knocker.
At first there was no answer, and he began to fear that his journey had been for nothing, but then the door opened to reveal a man in his fifties with thick grey hair and steel-rimmed spectacles. He looked at Guy from top to toe and then said merely, ‘Sir?’ holding the door only half open, as if keeping it ready to close again at short notice.
‘I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Guy said, touching at his hat, ‘but would you be Mr Halley?’
‘And who wants to know, may I enquire?’ the other said.
‘My name is Anderson, Guy Anderson,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve come from Redbury this afternoon –’
‘Yes? And you wanted to see me?’ Mr Halley now opened the door a little wider.
‘Well, sir, in actual fact I’ve come in the hope of seeing Miss Lydia Halley. Your daughter, I believe, sir.’
A little pause. ‘That’s correct.’
‘I enquired for her at her past lodgings in Redbury, and also at Seager’s store where she used to work – but I was unlucky in finding her. So, I’ve come to Capinfell –’
‘And may I ask the nature of your business with my daughter?’
‘Well. . . I’m a friend. . .’
Halley nodded. ‘And what did you say your name is?’
‘Guy Anderson.’
‘Well, Mr Anderson, I’m afraid I’ve got to disappoint you. My daughter no longer lives at home. Neither of my daughters lives at home.’
Guy had been prepared for this by the woman at the fly station. ‘But – Miss Lydia,’ he said, ‘can you tell me where I can get in touch with her?’
‘She’s living in Merinville now,’ the answer came. ‘She’s married.’
Guy could scarcely believe he was hearing right. ‘Married. . .?’
‘She’s been married over a month now.’
Still Guy could hardly take it in. ‘Your daughter Lydia,’ he said. ‘You say she’s married?’
‘I told you, over a month.’ The door moved an inch under the man’s hand as he drew the interview to a close.
With a faint look of bewilderment on his face, Guy took a step back. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’ He turned and went back through the yard. Before he had gone two paces he heard the sound of the door closing behind him.
The days passed into the deeper days of autumn. It had been several weeks now since Lydia had last spoken to her father, in spite of the fact that she had written to him again. The estrangement from him preyed on her mind. She was well aware of his faults, his shortcomings as a parent, but she wanted something better than this – this silence between them that seemed to have no promise of an ending. Eventually she told Alfred that she would go and see him. She would go on a Saturday, she said, to Cremson’s, and wait for him at the factory gate, to meet him when he got out of work.
When the day came she arrived at the factory with ten minutes to spare. She did not stand in full view outside, for she did not want to be waylaid by encounters with well-meaning former workmates. So she stood off to the side, hidden from the gates behind the wall of a house. There she waited, her heart beating a little fast.
At last she heard the whistle issuing from the factory building that signalled one o’clock, when work ceased for the weekend. She moved forward to take in the open factory gate, and saw the first of the employees emerging. Eventually her father would have to pass this way as he went to catch the coach that would take him back to Capinfell. She stepped back again into the grey shadow of the wall. The late October sun was pale and the breeze was unusually chill for the time of year. She drew the collar of her coat a little closer about her throat.
She watched the men and women streaming past her, their backs to her now from her vantage point, recognising several of those who had previously been her work-fellows. And then, after two or three minutes, her father walked past.
‘Father. . .?
As she called to him she stepped out into the street. He came to a halt some yards away and turned to the sound of her voice. She saw his mouth open as he almost framed her name, and then saw it close again, clamped shut, as if he could not bring himself to form a word.
‘Father. . .’ She moved towards him and came to a stop before him.
He spoke then. ‘What do you want?’ Frowning, no warmth, no affection in his face. Dressed all in black and grey, he wore his work-clothes, his trousers shabby, jacket a little frayed at the cuffs. Over his shoulder hung the old canvas and leather bag, scuffed and discoloured, that he had carried ever since she could remember. ‘What do you want?’ he said again.
‘Oh, Father – we – can we go somewhere and talk?’
‘Talk? Why? What for?’
‘Oh, please. I want to talk to you.’
‘I don’t know that there’s anything to talk about.’ He lifted a hand as if he would wave further words aside. ‘I’ve got to go and catch the coach.’
She moved a step closer to him. ‘Father, I need to talk to you.’ Still the factory workers moved past them, some calling out good
byes to Mr Halley, and some also with words of greeting for Lydia herself. She acknowledged them briefly, with vague smiles and distracted hellos, and kept her eyes for the most part on her father’s face.
‘I’ve only got a minute,’ her father said. ‘What do you want?’
‘There’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Oh?’
She shook her head, and gave a little groan. ‘Oh, Father, not like this.’ She realised with dismay that they had never been able to talk properly. She had longed for it on many occasions, but it was not his way. Whether meaning to or not, he had never allowed his daughters to get too close. ‘Can’t we take a little walk?’ she said.
‘The coach won’t wait all day,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get back. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Father,’ she said, a little note of passion in her voice, ‘don’t turn me away like this. I’ve come to tell you that – that I’m going to have a baby.’ She forced a smile that felt alien upon her mouth, reached out to him and grasped his upper arm. ‘You’re going to be a grandfather.’
He said nothing for a moment, and in the silence she thought for a split second that she could see the sudden glint of tears in his eyes, but then he was blinking and the shine was gone. Perhaps she had just imagined it. He shook his arm, only slightly, but it was enough to loosen her fragile hold, and she let her hand fall away. He hitched his bag more securely onto his shoulder. ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’ he said.
