Saddle the Wind

by Jess Foley

  ‘Oh, Blanche,’ he said, ‘it’s been worth the wait, seeing you again.’

  When she had made tea they sat together talking of this and that, and throughout the conversation it was clear that there had been no lessening of his interest in her.

  Why, he asked, had she not answered his letters when he had written from Sicily? She replied evasively that she had been concerned with other matters and that she had not expected to see him again. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, smiling, ‘you didn’t want to see me again.’ But no, she assured him, that had not been the case at all.

  He asked later if he might call again that evening and take her out to dinner. She agreed with very little hesitation, finding herself glad of the opportunity for some diversion, for the chance to be released for a while from the dullness of her routine.

  There was another reason for her acceptance of his offer, a reason which, though increasingly present in her consciousness, was brought nearer to the surface of her mind that same evening. Having got ready early for Alfredo’s visit, she had gone to the drawing room to sit and talk to Marsh for a few minutes. She had told him earlier that she would be out for dinner, adding that Pastore was in town and was coming to take her out. He had made no comment but had simply nodded and said that he hoped she would have a pleasant evening. Now, sitting there in a little silence that had fallen she had become aware that he was speaking to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning to him. ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘It’s not important.’ Smilingly, he added, ‘You were miles away.’

  ‘Was I?’ Under his scrutiny she turned away.

  ‘Blanche,’ he said, ‘is anything wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’ She gave a little laugh and shook her head. ‘No, nothing at all. What could be wrong?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing wrong.’ Getting up from her chair, she moved to the door. ‘I must go and finish getting ready.’

  In her room she sat on the bed. Marsh’s words had touched a nerve, forcing her to acknowledge, albeit tacitly, the reality of her preoccupation. The reason for her preoccupation was that her period was late – and usually it was so regular …

  She sat there for a few moments longer then, dismissing the threatened nightmare from her mind, got up and smoothed her dress and touched at her hair. As she did so she heard from below the ring of the front doorbell. Alfredo was here. She picked up her coat, her bag. She was worrying about nothing. It would all come right in a day or two. Lots of women were late for no real reason at all. It happened all the time. In a day or two she would find that she had been fretting for nothing. With a few final admonishing words to herself she gave a last look in the glass and went from the room.

  To her surprise she found that she enjoyed the evening very much – far more than she had expected to. It turned out to be more than the temporary diversion she had looked for; Alfredo proved a very attentive, thoughtful and amusing companion, and in his company the time passed swiftly and she found that she was able to forget, for long periods at a time, the problem that threatened to preoccupy her mind.

  When he escorted her back to Almond Street that night he thanked her warmly for a pleasant evening and asked if they could meet again the following day. If she cared to they could go to the theatre, he said, and afterwards for some supper. Blanche said she was agreeable, and when he leaned forward and lightly kissed her she made no attempt to draw away. Straightening, he said:

  ‘I’ve thought of you so much since we last met, Blanche. I couldn’t understand why you hadn’t written; I so hoped you would.’ Then, smiling, he said: ‘Anyway, that’s all over now. I hope this time to persuade you to see things my way. I haven’t got much time in which to do so, but I’m hopeful. My feelings towards you haven’t changed at all.’

  The following evening was fine and warm and Blanche was ready soon after he arrived. In the cab he had hired they drove to the theatre where they saw and enjoyed Barrie’s The Admirable Crichton. Afterwards they went for supper at an hotel.

  When Pastore had given their orders the wine waiter poured champagne. Pastore looked at Blanche over the rim of his glass, smilingly toasted her, drank and then said:

  ‘I have to leave for London tomorrow. But I shan’t be gone long. I can be back by Thursday afternoon.’ He looked into her eyes for a moment then said, ‘Is there any point in my returning, Blanche?’

  She did not know what to say. ‘Point?’ she said. ‘I – I don’t understand.’

  ‘Of course you understand,’ he said. ‘You understand very well what I mean. I’m talking about us, Blanche – you and me.’ He reached out, laid a hand gently on hers. ‘Tell me you’d like me to come back.’

  ‘Oh – Alfredo … please – let’s not get too – too serious.’

  ‘I am serious,’ he said. ‘I’m very serious. I haven’t got time for your English games.’

  The waiter brought the soup. When he had gone again Alfredo said:

  ‘Well? What do you say?’

  When she did not answer he raised one eyebrow and gave a sardonic smile. ‘Blanche, you’re toying with me. Don’t, please.’ Then, leaning towards her, he said softly:

  ‘I love you, Blanche. I want to marry you.’

  She had known what he would say; had been expecting it. Shaking her head she said, ‘You move so quickly, Alfredo. I can’t keep up with you.’

  He raised a hand. ‘Don’t give me an answer now. As I said, I have to go to London tomorrow, but I can be back by Thursday evening or late afternoon. I shall ask you again then. So, please – give my question very serious thought, I beg you. If your answer is no then I promise I will accept it and you’ll never hear from me again; I’ll never bother you again. If your answer is yes – and I do so hope it is – then I’ll get a special licence and we’ll get married and leave for Sicily at once.’

  Blanche took a breath, opening her mouth to speak, but he gently touched a finger to her lips.

  ‘No, don’t say anything right now,’ he said. ‘Tell me on Thursday. For now –’ he gestured to the soup before her, ‘eat your supper.’

  Pastore was to leave for London by an early afternoon train the next day. Blanche, however, was not thinking of his departure or of his final injunction to think carefully on his proposal. Preoccupied with her problem, she found herself over and over counting the days. And the more she thought about it the more certain she became that she must be pregnant. She could think of no other reason to account for the time.

  Next day, Monday, meant that a week had gone by. Her certainty grew stronger.

  She spent the morning in her room, sitting in her armchair by the window, mending her clothes while Jacko lay at her feet. He had seemed slower than ever in climbing the stairs to her room.

  The day was very bright with a warm sun, and after a light luncheon which she ate with Lily and Mrs Warrimer in the kitchen she carried a cup of tea and a book out into the back garden. There she made herself comfortable on a garden bench set beneath the spreading arms of an old apple tree in the middle of the lawn. Jacko, having followed her, lay down in the tree’s shade.

  Blanche had begun reading H. G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds, but her preoccupation made concentration difficult, and she found her attention continually wandering. Among the leaves above her head the wasps buzzed as they ate the ripening fruit. Idly she watched as a male blackbird chased his brown-feathered offspring from his home territory, and as the younger bird repeatedly returned, only to be driven away again each time. Lily came from the kitchen with a basket over her arm and moved to the kitchen garden beyond the lawn and the flower beds. As she went past the lawn Blanche heard her call out: ‘No, we’ve got nothing to give away, thank you very much, so get away with you.’

  Turning, following the direction of Lily’s voice, Blanche craned her neck and saw through the screen of the low-hanging apple leaves that the object of Lily’s annoyance was another of the wandering tramps
who called at intervals in the hope of getting money or work. She could just see him beyond Lily’s shoulder; a poor wreck of a creature, an old man who had hobbled up the garden path from the lower gate that backed onto the lane. Unkempt and unshaven, he stood uncertainly on the gravel path, hat clutched in his right hand. Lily flapped a hand at him as if she were shooing away some bothersome animal. ‘Go away, go away,’ she cried out. ‘Go on or I’ll set the dog on you.’ At her words Blanche immediately thought of the time when she and Gentry had been approached by the young man outside the hotel, of how she had been shamed at her own past reactions. Now, quickly putting down her book, she got up from the seat.

  She started to say to Lily that she would deal with the matter, but as she began to speak she heard a strange, almost unearthly sound coming from her right. Startled, she turned and saw that it came from Jacko. She watched as he got to his feet while he emitted the sound again, a loud, lingering howl, followed by a plaintive, whimpering, drawn-out cry, that seemed to go on and on. And both she and Lily, frozen in their actions, watched as the dog, moving unsteadily but very swiftly on his stiff old legs, started across the grass, whimpering as he went. Standing amazed, Blanche watched as Jacko moved across the garden, pushing heedlessly through the shrubbery, ploughing through the flowers of the herbaceous border, body jack-knifing as his violently wagging tail bent his body double, as he moved towards the stranger on the gravel path. And she saw the stranger crouch to meet him, reaching out to him. And she watched as Jacko, giving out yelping, delirious cries of ecstasy, found Ernest again, at last.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Several hours had gone by now since Ernest’s return. Although he had insisted that he was all right, Blanche, weeping, had quickly seen, to her horror, that he was in fact close to collapse out there on the garden path, and together she and Lily had supported him, helping him into the house. Somehow they had got him up the stairs and into Blanche’s room where they had assisted him onto the bed. Lily then had gone from the room, saying that she would help Mrs Warrimer to prepare some food for him.

  Blanche and Ernest were alone then – alone except for Jacko who stood close by, watching intently, eyes never moving from Ernest’s face. Blanche pulled off Ernest’s boots and, sitting at the side of the bed, gazed at him while at the same time she had fought to stem the flood of her tears.

  ‘Blanche … Blanche … Dear Blanche. Don’t cry …’ His hand had moved towards her on the coverlet and she had reached out and laid her own hand over it. And her tears had continued to flow, spilling over in a flood of joy at his return and from grief at his condition.

  Through her tears she gazed at him as he lay on the bed, propped up against the pillows. So many, many times over the years she had imagined their reunion. But it had never been like this. In her mind’s eye it had taken place against the background of some imaginary house; where, she did not know, but there was a prosperous look about its sunlit exterior. And Ernest’s appearance showed that prosperity also, and she saw him always as a happy, healthy, young man, smartly dressed, laughing as he moved towards her.

  And how different was this reality. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had kissed her on the cheek – that kiss of goodbye – that night in Colford not much more than three years ago. Now his body looked thin, gaunt and emaciated, while beneath his days’ old beard his face had a disturbing pallor that was relieved only by the unhealthy red of the skin that was stretched over his cheekbones. There was something wrong with his left arm, too, she had been swift to notice; the elbow joint moved stiffly and he appeared to have only limited use of the fingers of his hand.

  ‘Oh, Ernie, love,’ Blanche said, ‘where have you been all this time? I’ve been so worried about you.’

  ‘Oh – various places. Bradford mostly.’

  ‘Is that where you’ve come from now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Walked.’

  ‘You walked? All that way?’

  ‘Ah, it was that or stay where I was. And I – I wanted to see you, Blanche.’ He paused for a moment then said hoarsely, the tears shining in his eyes, ‘You know, Blanche, this isn’t the way I planned it at all. I intended –’ His words broke off in a spate of coughing that brought sudden sweat standing out on his brow. Pulling a ragged handkerchief from his pocket he spat into it, looked for a moment at the blood there, then closed it in his fist and lay back again, exhausted.

  ‘Rest, Ernie. Rest – better not try to talk.’

  Weakly he smiled at her. ‘But – I got so much to say.’

  ‘Later. Say it later. There’ll be time. Rest for a while and get your strength back.’

  Lily came to the door soon after with a bowl of soup. To Blanche’s relief he ate most of it. There was no question, though, but that he was very ill, and after another spate of coughing that again left him sweating and gasping for breath, Blanche asked Lily to run for the doctor.

  Dr Quinn, the Marsh family doctor, was out on calls, Lily came back to report, but added that he would come as soon as he could.

  Before the doctor appeared George Marsh returned from the shop and Blanche wept while she told him of Ernest’s arrival. Then, between them, he and Blanche helped Ernest to bathe, after which Ernest asked for a razor to shave. But the effort exhausted him so that George took the task over. When Dr Quinn eventually arrived just before seven, with apologies for his tardiness, Ernest was lying sleeping between the sheets of Blanche’s bed.

  Dr Quinn was a tall, lean man in his late fifties, with a seamed face and a direct glance. Standing in the hall, Blanche quietly told him of Ernest’s arrival at the house. Afterwards she led him up to the room where Ernest lay, then left him there while she went back downstairs to wait. A little while later the doctor went to Blanche where she sat in the library. His expression was grave as he stood before her.

  ‘Is – is he going to be all right, Doctor?’ she asked as she rose to him.

  He gestured to her to sit. ‘Please – sit down …’

  At his words Blanche sat back on the sofa; Quinn sat beside her, placing his leather bag near his feet. There was incredulity in his eyes as he said:

  ‘You told me that he walked from Bradford?’

  ‘So he said, yes.’

  With a little wondering shake of his head, he said, ‘Well, God alone knows how he managed it. He must have had some – inner strength driving him on or something – because it wasn’t his physical strength, that’s for certain.’

  Blanche gazed into his eyes, trying to read there the answers she sought. ‘Is he – going to be all right? He is, isn’t he?’

  Quinn placed a hand over hers. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. As I say – I don’t know how he got this far. He –’

  ‘But now he’s here he’ll be all right,’ she broke in. ‘I can look after him. I can make him well again.’

  ‘I’m sure if anyone could, then you could. But I’m afraid that – well, you must know the truth. I’m afraid that your brother – can’t live very long.’

  She flinched as if she had been struck. She turned her head away. The doctor said after a moment:

  ‘I’m sorry – but you have to know the truth. It would be wrong of me to try to give you any hope – when there is none.’

  She nodded. Quinn said:

  ‘I think he said he’s thirty-one.’

  ‘Yes. He’ll be thirty-two in October.’

  ‘This illness is a – dreadful thing. Do you have any other family?’

  ‘No. I’m all he has. He’s all I have.’ She turned back to face him. She could hardly speak. ‘Is there really no hope?’

  ‘I’m afraid the deterioration of his lungs is already so far advanced. To be truthful I don’t know how he’s held out for this long. And to walk all that distance. The wonder is that he got here.’

  ‘So it could be – any day?’

  He pressed her hand. ‘Or any hour, my dear.’

 
*

  Blanche showed the doctor to the front door, opened it and stood aside. She thanked him, and he gave a little nod and said that he would call the next day. In the meantime he would have some medicine made up; perhaps, he suggested, someone could return with him to his surgery to bring it back. At once Blanche called to Lily and asked her if she would accompany the doctor. Quickly, obligingly, the girl put on her coat and followed Dr Quinn out to the street where his motor car waited at the kerb in the early evening light.

  Having closed the door behind them, Blanche leaned back against it for a moment, like a runner pausing for breath. Then, with a sigh she stepped forward, moving towards the stairs. As she stepped onto the lower step George Marsh emerged from the dining room.

  ‘Blanche …’

  As he came towards her she avoided looking him in the eye, as if somehow he might see past her now calm exterior to the fear and desperation that lay so close below the surface.

  ‘The doctor’s just gone,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I heard him leave.’

  ‘He’s coming back tomorrow. Lily’s gone with him to bring back some medicine. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not.’ After a moment Marsh said, ‘What did Dr Quinn say?’

  Blanche shrugged, not trusting herself to speak at once. Then she said, ‘I won’t give up hope.’

  Marsh’s hand lifted, rested briefly on hers on the newel post. ‘I told you – if there’s anything he needs you have only to ask.’

  ‘I know – and thank you.’

  She turned then and went on up the stairs.

  Entering the bedroom, she softly closed the door behind her and moved to the bed. In the dim glow of the gaslight, Jacko, lying on the floor at the bedside as close to Ernest’s pillow as he could get, looked around at Blanche’s entrance and thumped the floor once or twice with his tail. Blanche bent to pat him gently on the head and then stood looking down at Ernest who lay with his eyes closed. She could see so clearly now the unmistakable signs of his sickness. But it wasn’t too late, she said to herself. He could be saved. He had not come all that way only to die. She would save him.