Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  He sat in silence for a while, and then got into bed. Sarah lay back on the pillow. He didn’t lie down beside her immediately, though, but sat up. ‘We’ll have her back, shall we?’ he said at last, ‘– Blanche.’

  ‘But – why, Ollie?’

  ‘I – I think we should.’

  ‘No, Ollie – leave her where she is for the time being. She’s doing some good there – and apart from that she’s better off.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh, yes. How can you doubt it? Staying up at the house – having the best of everything. Of course she’s better off.’

  He gave a little sigh. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  He blew out the candle then and lay down, and Sarah moulded her body to his back, arms around him, nestling into his warmth. After a time they slept.

  Chapter Six

  One fine Sunday morning in that October of 1881, Sarah, as she often did after washing the breakfast dishes, took the children out into the fields for a walk. She had suggested to Ollie that he accompany them, but instead he had gone up to Hallowford House to work. Lately he had taken to giving up a good deal of his spare time in order to work up at the house for extra money or to do odd jobs for the neighbours, often giving up his painting time in order to do so. She had not asked him why, though she was curious.

  Now, nearing the cottage again towards the end of their walk, Sarah observed the children. How fast they were growing. Agnes, three years old that summer, had just started school, while Arthur had had his sixth birthday only a few days ago. Ernest would be ten years old in a fortnight and in the new year would be leaving school to start work.

  She looked at Ernest. A tall boy, he was high-spirited – and clever, too – like Mary having a quick mind. Though while Mary had an artistic, creative bent, Ernest was more analytical. He was fascinated by the whys and wherefores of everything in the countryside about him, and was never happier than when observing some particular animal or bird or conducting some simple little experiment with plant life.

  Sarah recalled how a few days previously she had heard him telling Arthur that one day he would be a doctor. And hearing the enthusiasm in his voice she had realized with a sinking heart how trapped they all were by their situation. There would never be the money to send him to any doctor’s college or anything like that. There wouldn’t even be enough to apprentice him to a carpenter or glazier or any other tradesman.

  From Ernest, Sarah’s glance moved on to Mary who skipped along at Agnes’s side. Eight years old, she spent every spare moment she could find with her stubs of pencils and chalks, drawing on any odd scrap of paper she could find. She was the only one of the children who seemed to have inherited Ollie’s talent, and as a result Ollie gave her as much help and encouragement as he could.

  The reason for Ollie’s doing extra work up at Hallowford House and for the neighbours was revealed one November night a few weeks later. The children were in bed and Ollie had just come in from doing overtime up at the house. As he sat down, obviously tired from his labours, Sarah asked him what was the purpose behind it all – for certainly none of the extra money was coming her way for the management of the household. At her question he looked at her in silence for a moment then said:

  ‘It’s for Mary.’

  ‘Mary?’ She frowned, not understanding.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sarah,’ he said, ‘haven’t you seen how the girl can draw?’

  ‘Well, yes, but –’

  ‘She’s got such talent,’ he broke in. ‘Such talent. It’s far out of the ordinary, believe me. If you think I have ability – well, Mary’s got so much more.’

  Sarah had never really thought that much about Mary’s artistic ability, seeing it only as a developing interest that took up more and more of her time. That Ollie had been viewing it with such seriousness took her by surprise.

  ‘But what’s Mary’s drawing got to do with your working overtime,’ she said, ‘and doing all these odd jobs?’

  ‘– I’ve got hopes for her.’

  ‘– Hopes?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I never really had a chance to do anything with my ability – such as it is – but it’s going to be different for her. I want her to have the chance to make use of it. That’s why I’m doing the extra work. And any extra cash I can get I’m putting on the side. Then, when I’ve got enough I shall go into Trowbridge and open an account in the post office. I’ll add to it regularly. And the money’s to stay there, no matter what else might happen. The money’s for her. Then perhaps when she’s older there’ll be enough to enable her to have some training – to study with the right people. She’s going to have the chances that I never had, I’m determined on that. And if she doesn’t it won’t be for want of effort on my part.’

  ‘But Ollie – how can a girl make a career in painting? It’s hard enough for a man; but for a woman …’

  ‘It can happen.’ There was no doubt in his voice. ‘If she’s got the talent then it can happen. When the time comes I shall make the necessary inquiries and find out the best way to go about things.’

  Sarah sat silent for a few moments, then she said, ‘Ollie – you’ve got other children too. What about their chances in life? Ernest – he’s a clever boy. He deserves an opportunity. And Agnes and Artie. They might not be quite as bright as the others – it’s early to tell – but they deserve their chances too, don’t they?’

  ‘Of course. And if it’s possible they shall have them – Ernest and the others. You tell me where we can find the money and we’ll send them all off to university or wherever.’ He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. ‘Sarah, it’s impossible, you know that. My God, it’s going to take every effort to try to make sure that Mary gets some sort of a start – and even then I can’t guarantee that I’ll be successful. But if we are able to scrape together enough to give just one of them a chance then shouldn’t we do that? Isn’t it sensible to give one of them a chance rather than deny them all? If we deny Mary any opportunity that comes along it’s not going to help the others, is it?’

  And nothing, Sarah found, would move him from his new obsession – for that was what in her eyes it became. He scrimped and saved in every possible way, and every spare penny and farthing he could find went into the old, cracked, earthenware jar that he kept on the chest in the bedroom. It was Mary’s money.

  While Ollie worked on the gardens up at the house and did other odd jobs that came his way Sarah continued with her laundry work, at the same time making regular visits to see Blanche. She never stayed very long on such occasions, though, feeling somehow that she was intruding in the running of the nursery. During the time she was there, however, she played with Blanche and talked to her. At other times she took her out in the perambulator – which was what she preferred – either taking her down to the cottage or around the lanes. At those times she felt that the child was hers again.

  Early one Sunday afternoon in mid-December there was a knock at the front door. In the kitchen Sarah and Ollie looked at one another. They weren’t expecting visitors, and particularly anyone who would use the front door. Sarah, after answering the knock, returned to tell Ollie that Mr Savill was there to see him.

  ‘Mr Savill?’ Ollie looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes, I’ve shown him into the front room.’

  ‘What does he want? Did he say?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘Ollie, is there something wrong? Something you haven’t told me about?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  While the children gazed at him, Ollie went into the scullery and washed his face. Then, after running a comb through his hair, he went into the front parlour.

  Conscious of the room’s coldness as he went in, he saw that Mr Savill, wearing his coat, was standing before one of the paintings. At Ollie’s entrance Savill turned and smiled at him. Ollie automatically raised his hand to his forelock
. ‘Will you sit down, sir?’ he said.

  Savill shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Farrar. I shan’t be long. I hope you don’t mind my calling …’

  ‘No, sir, not at all.’

  Turning, Savill gestured to the paintings on the walls. ‘I’ve come to see you about your pictures,’ he said.

  ‘My pictures … ?’ Ollie gazed at him.

  ‘Yes – I saw them back in September – when I called on your wife. I thought I’d like to see them again if you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not.’

  Savill cast his eyes around the room. ‘Have you any others?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. There’re some more upstairs. Would you like to see them?’

  ‘If it wouldn’t be any trouble …’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll get Ernest, my eldest boy, to give me a hand – if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes …’

  Back in the kitchen he hurriedly whispered to Sarah the purpose of Mr Savill’s visit and then called Ernest to him. Together then they began to bring some of the remaining paintings from upstairs. After some minutes a number of other pictures had been added to those already in the front room – the additions being set to lean against the furniture and the lower walls. That done, and with his job completed, Ernest backed out of the room, leaving the gentleman and his father alone.

  Ollie stood nervously watching while Savill surveyed the pictures. The older man looked at them for what seemed a very long time, in the end returning to one of the paintings that Ollie had brought downstairs. ‘This is a very fine picture,’ Savill said.

  The canvas showed the scene of a river bank in early summer. Much of the view was in a shadow, cast by the leaves of weeping willows and other foliage that hung over the water. A warm, bright sun was evident by its brilliance on the higher leaves and the way it dappled the water and the grass in the foreground. In the cool shade sat two children, a boy and a girl. The figure of the boy as he sat holding his fishing rod was deeply shadowed, while the top of the girl’s blonde hair was caught by the sunlight as it poured through breaks in the foliage above.

  John Savill stood before the painting, studying it intently. ‘It’s really beautiful,’ he said. He turned to Ollie. ‘It is all your own work … ?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Ollie said. ‘Indeed it is.’

  Savill smiled. ‘I’m sure it is. It’s just that – it’s hard to accept somehow.’ He studied Ollie. ‘Where is the talent?’ he asked. ‘Is it in your hands? In your head?’

  Ollie shrugged. ‘I reckon it’s in my head, sir. I used to feel that if I lost the use of my hands I’d just have to use my feet.’

  Savill smiled again, gave a little nod and turned back to the painting.

  ‘Is it for sale?’ he asked.

  Ollie stared at him. ‘For sale, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Is it?’

  ‘– Well, yes, sir, I suppose it is …’

  ‘Good. How much are you asking for it?’

  Another silence. Ollie shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve never given it any thought …’

  ‘Well – would you like to give it some thought? And then when you’ve made your decision let me know.’

  Ollie excitedly gave Sarah the news as soon as John Savill had left the cottage, but for all their discussion he couldn’t settle on a price to ask for the painting.

  He had still come to no decision the next day when, at work on one of the herbaceous borders in the front garden of Hallowford House, he heard Mr Savill call his name. Turning he saw Savill coming towards him from the gates astride a chestnut mare. As Ollie straightened and touched his cap Savill brought the animal to a halt and said, ‘Well, Farrar, did you decide how much you want for the painting?’

  Ollie shook his head. ‘No, sir …’

  ‘What’s the problem then?’

  Ollie helplessly spread his hands. ‘Sir, I’ve never sold a painting properly before. I just don’t know how much to ask for it.’

  Savill was silent for a moment then he said, ‘Listen, I want to give you a fair price for the picture. What do you say to two guineas?’

  Ollie was briefly tongue-tied. He would never have dreamed of asking so much. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘I reckon that’d be fine.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, then perhaps you’d be good enough to bring the picture up to the house this evening. I’ll pay you then. Come as soon as you’ve finished work, will you?’

  Ollie hurried back to the cottage after work that evening and while he washed, shaved and changed, Sarah carefully wrapped the painting in paper and a blanket – which latter she gave instructions should be brought back again. Then Ollie, with Ernest equally neat and tidy at his side and the wrapped picture beneath his arm, set off up the hill.

  Going through the yard to the back of the house they were asked in and shown into the library to wait. When the maid had gone Ollie carefully placed the painting on the carpet, leaning it against the corner of an easy chair. Turning to Ernest he found the boy looking back at him with wide eyes, silently communicating with his glance the wonder of their surroundings. Ollie was equally overawed. Neither had ever before been inside a house of such grandness, and they gazed around them, trying to take it all in.

  On the highly polished floor lay a wide carpet with an Eastern-looking design. There was a large, polished desk with a leather top on which pens, pencils, papers and ledgers were neatly placed, while on either side of the huge fireplace in which crackled a log fire was an elegant bureau bearing fine porcelain ornaments. And the books. Ernest had never seen so many books and he stood and stared at them. The shelves all around the room were full of them, row upon row upon row.

  They were still looking about them when the door opened and John Savill entered. He smiled at Ernest and then said to Ollie:

  ‘Good, you’ve brought the picture.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ollie took up the painting, unwrapped it and placed it on the carpet again. For some moments John Savill just stood there looking at it – until Ollie began to think that perhaps he was changing his mind and wasn’t going to take it after all. But then Savill, giving a smile and a nod of satisfaction, brought a purse from his pocket and took from it some coins.

  ‘Two guineas, I believe was the price …’

  ‘– Yes, sir, thank you …’

  ‘Thank you, Farrar.’ John Savill placed the coins in Ollie’s palm. ‘The painting is to be a Christmas gift,’ he added. He looked back to the picture. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure I’ve made an excellent choice.’

  As they neared the foot of the hill on their way back Ernest pointed over to the high chalk cliff that rose up at the back of the cottages. A few villagers had gathered there.

  ‘Something’s happened, Papa,’ Ernest said and, leaving Ollie’s side, he ran to where the little group stood together at the foot of the cliff. Known as the ‘Cut’, that part of the cliff had the appearance of having been formed by some giant spoon that had scooped out the chalk of the cliff’s side and base.

  Joining Ernest a minute later, Ollie saw the object of the onlookers’ gaze. In the hollow beneath the towering bank five black-faced Suffolk sheep lay dead, the blood from their mouths running out and starkly staining the chalk on which their broken bodies lay. Arkham, another of the tenants from the lane cottages, came to Ollie’s side and told him that a stray dog had run amok among Savill’s sheep and driven five of them over the precipitous drop.

  The sight of the dead sheep lying there was like a sudden cloud across Ollie’s particular sun. He touched Ernest’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said, turning from the sight, ‘– let’s go on home.’

  Entering the lane moments later he thrust the memory of the incident from him. In his pocket the sovereigns and the shillings were real and hard.

  Chapter Seven

  That Christmas was one of the best the Farrars had ever known. Not only did the extra money make a great diff
erence as regards the things they could buy, but the happening itself had brought to Ollie a feeling of well-being that he had not known for a long time.

  A week later, on Monday, January 2nd, Ernest started work as assistant stockman for Harker, a Hallowford farmer. His hours were long, and he could have earned more by working in one of the Trowbridge factories, but he preferred the open air.

  The following day Sarah was in the kitchen ironing when there came a knock at the front door. Quickly she straightened her apron and smoothed her hair. On opening the door she found herself facing a tall, elderly man in a well-cut coat. He took off his hat to her and, after ascertaining that she was Mrs Oliver Farrar, handed her a card and introduced himself. His name, he said, was James Heritage, and he wished to enquire as to when he might be able to see Mr Farrar. When Sarah said that Ollie was out at work and wouldn’t be back till just after six o’clock the man said he would call again just after six-thirty if it was convenient. Yes, she said, of course. As he was about to turn away she asked: ‘Could you tell me, sir, what you want to see my husband about … ?’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ he smiled. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell him that I own an art gallery in Bath, and that recently I’ve seen one of his paintings, and that I was most impressed with what I saw. Most impressed.’ He paused then added, ‘And who knows – if Mr Farrar is agreeable we might be able to do some business together.’

  He went away then and Sarah was left to try and calm her growing excitement and try to get on with her work.

  A little while before Ollie was due back she stopped work, changed out of her old clothes and put on her best dress. A few minutes later when he came in he looked her up and down and asked, ‘What’s the matter? Why are you all dressed up?’

  ‘Quick, Ollie,’ she said, ‘you must get changed too. We’ve got a visitor coming in a few minutes.’ Giving him Heritage’s card she told him of the man’s visit. ‘He’s coming to talk to you about your paintings,’ she added.

  Ollie stood there gazing at her in surprise. She shook her head impatiently.