by Jess Foley
As she stood there he opened his eyes and smiled at her. She returned his smile and asked softly:
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I wasn’t asleep. We were waiting for you to come upstairs, Jacko and I.’
She moved to the chair and sat down. In spite of the haggardness of Ernest’s face, the ravages wrought by his illness she could see there now a kind of calm; it had been growing since the moment she had found him again, since that moment when she had run to his side on the garden path, had held him in her arms. It was as if he had found a kind of peace.
‘I’m sorry I let you worry so about me, Blanche,’ he said.
‘Ernest – please don’t talk. Please rest.’
‘No, I must talk to you. I didn’t write because – well, because I’d promised you that I would send for you. I was so sure that I’d be a success – that it would only be a matter of time before everything was the way I wanted it to be. And I thought that when I had everything prepared I could write and – and if you still wanted to you could join me. It didn’t work out, though. Nothing worked out the way I hoped it would, the way I expected it to.’
‘Ernie, it doesn’t matter anymore. Don’t talk, please. Please rest.’
‘I can rest later. I have to talk to you now. Don’t stop me. There isn’t much time.’
‘Oh, Ernie –’
‘It’s all right, Blanche. I’ve known for some while now – that’s why I came here. I wanted to see you before I – while I still could. Though at times I thought I’d never make it. At last, though, I got to Hallowford and after asking around a bit I found where Mrs Callow lived in her little cottage. She told me where you were.’
As Blanche sat there Ernest continued to talk. She urged him several times to be silent and rest, but he would not and went on, his words a never-ending stream, tumbling over one another in his feverish effort to say to her everything that was on his mind. She heard from him about his early efforts to make good on his first trip to the mills of Bradford and Leeds, of the hardships that abounded there, the squalid living conditions for the thousands who had poured into the towns in search of prosperity. She heard of his eventual disillusionment and subsequent enlistment in the army and going out to the Transvaal. He spoke a little of his experiences there, of how, shortly before the war had ended, he had been shot in the arm and then had become sick with dysentery, returning to England in a weakened condition. ‘I couldn’t come to you then,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t come to you when I was in such a state. When I came back to you I wanted to be whole and healthy – and have something behind me. I wanted to be able to offer you a home – not the squalor and the – the misery that I found.’
He gazed at her, his hollow eyes burning into hers. ‘It’s what I told you before, Blanche – it all comes down to poverty. It destroys everything in the end. It will take the strongest person and wear him down, break him down. It makes rogues of good men. It destroys everything in its path.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid for you, Blanche.’
‘Hush, hush, Ernie.’
As Blanche spoke there came a knock at the door and Lily was there, having returned with a bottle of medicine from the doctor. Blanche thanked her. When the door had closed again behind the maid Blanche poured out a little of the medicine and gave it to Ernest. As she set down the spoon he said, taking up his earlier theme:
‘I’m afraid you’ll let it happen to you too, Blanche. And believe me, it can – and so easily. You start to go through bad times and you think things will be better. Tomorrow will be better, you say. But tomorrow isn’t better. Tomorrow’s often worse. And in the end you look back on your life and you see nothing but a string of – of empty yesterdays – and each one had been invested with hope. And in the end it’s all ashes. You mustn’t let it happen to you, Blanche. I told you before – you must make things happen for you. You must. Don’t accept whatever life cares to offer you; you have to reach out and take what you want. I learned that. Too late. Don’t let it happen to you, too. You won’t, will you?’
‘No, Ernie, I won’t.’
‘There’s a good girl.’ He smiled, turned and looked down to his side where Jacko lay. ‘And there’s a good old boy, too,’ he said. ‘Ent that right, Jacko?’
At the tone, at the words, Jacko rose, lifting his cold nose to meet Ernest’s hand that reached down to him. After stroking the dog’s head for a moment or two Ernest laid his hand back on the coverlet. ‘I think I shall sleep now for a while,’ he said. Then, frowning, he added, ‘Where are you going to sleep?’
‘Don’t you worry about me. I shall be all right. If I need a bed there’s a spare one. But I shall stay here.’
He smiled. ‘I won’t insist that you don’t. It’s so good to have you near.’
‘Blanche …’
And she was awake. Suddenly. Sitting in the chair she had thought that she would not sleep, could not sleep. But towards morning sleep had come and she had drifted off. And now Ernest was calling her name and she was awake, alert again.
She was at his side at once, sitting on the bed, arms reaching out, wrapping him in her embrace, for the first time in their lives the stronger in the situation. As she held him she became aware of Jacko moving about the room, prowling in a circle, like some phantom shape in the dim light of the oil lamp’s tiny flame, lost, impotent, making little whimpering cries.
‘Blanche …’ Although she was so close Ernest called out her name as if she were far away.
‘Blanche …!’
And there was alarm in his voice. Her name on his lips was a hoarse, gargled cry. ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ she murmured. She stroked his hair as she held him, weak as a child in her arms, while she felt the sweat of his forehead wet and clammy against her chin. ‘I’m here, I’m here.’ She could hear the phlegm rattling in his throat as he sucked in the air. He gasped, called to her again:
‘Blanche …’
‘Yes, Ernie, yes. I’m here.’
‘Oh … oh … oh …’ Little sighing cries, like those of a lost child; a child waking to find his mother close, the nightmare over. She could hear the sudden sound of relief in his voice. ‘Ah, Blanche, you’re here …’
‘Yes – I’m here, Ernie. Always …’
‘Yes …’ And then, suddenly: ‘Remember – what I said, Blanche.’
‘Ernie –’
‘Don’t – let it – happen to you.’
For a moment she could not think what was he talking about, but then she recalled his earlier admonishings. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I won’t.’
She held him in silence for some moments, listening while his breath struggled in his raddled lungs. After a while, his voice a hoarse whisper, he asked her to get him some water. Releasing him, she turned to the small bedside table and took up the jug. In the moment that she did so he spoke to her again:
‘Blanche – quickly – hold me. Hold my hands.’
Setting down the jug so quickly that the water slopped over onto the table she spun at the sound of his voice, bending to him, reaching out for the hands he raised before him. His eyes were closed. As her hands touched his she felt within each of them a little flicker of life, acknowledgements of her touch. I won’t let you go, Ernie, a voice cried defiantly in her head. I won’t let you die. I won’t, I won’t. But his hands in hers were already still.
On Thursday morning, with the skies heavy with the promise of rain, the coffin containing Ernest’s body was conveyed to Bath and placed in the coffin van of a train bound for Trowbridge. In one of the carriages sat Blanche, George Marsh beside her.
Dry-eyed now, Blanche sat numbly gazing out at the passing scenery and the stations through which they passed – Bathampton, Limpley Stoke, Freshford, Bradford-on-Avon. On arrival at Trowbridge she stood silently by while the coffin was taken from the train and loaded onto a waiting hearse. When the two wreaths had been placed on the coffin – one from herself, one from George – she and George climbed into a carriage, which then set off to follo
w the hearse along the winding road to Hallowford.
At St Peter’s church the hearse and carriage came to a halt and Blanche and Marsh alighted onto the grass verge. As the bearers lifted the coffin to carry it to the graveside Blanche left Marsh’s side and stooped in the grass to pick a handful of daisies.
A little later she stood at George Marsh’s side while the coffin was lowered into the earth. Reaching out, she opened her fingers and let the small white flowers fall onto the coffin. It was over.
The rain came on in a heavy downpour as they drove back to Trowbridge station, lashing the windows of the carriage and distorting the view of the woodland, the fields and the heathland. Blanche had travelled the route so many times over the years. She would never travel it again.
On the train bound for Bath she sat gazing out unseeing from the rain-washed window of the railway carriage. Apart from the grief in her heart she was aware of a feeling of anger. Her mother and father, Mary, Arthur and Agnes … and now Ernest. All gone. And Ernest was right, she said to herself. It was the poverty that did it. It destroys everything in the end, Ernest had said. It will take the strongest person and wear him down, break him down. And he was right. All those stunted, withered dreams – like flowers trying to grow in some city street, starved of soil and sunlight. Her father with his talent for painting – destroyed by poverty – his dreams left to atrophy for want of nutriment – and which lack had also destroyed the others. And now Ernest, cast out by a society that had used the best of him and discarded the rest. It’s what I told you before, Blanche – it all comes down to poverty. His words rang in her mind, echoing over and over … She saw him as he had been all those years ago, a tall, chestnut-haired young man with straight, strong limbs and steady grey eyes, taking Marianne and herself for rambles through the woods and over the hills. All the promise, gone. And then her imaginings would bring him back to her as he had been at the end – broken, and disillusioned with life, and with nothing left to live for. I’m afraid for you, Blanche. I’m afraid you’ll let it happen to you too.
‘No, Ernie, I won’t.’
George Marsh turned to her and she realized she had spoken the words aloud. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, giving him a little smile. ‘I’m all right.’
But to herself she silently repeated her vow: I won’t, Ernie. I won’t.
In her room in the house on Almond Street Blanche changed her clothes. Standing before the mirror she laid her spread hands over her belly. It had been ten days now, and she knew with an unwavering certainty that there was a child growing within her; she had no doubt of it whatsoever. Gentry’s child.
Just after six-thirty Alfredo Pastore arrived at the house. George Marsh himself answered his ring at the bell and showed him into the library, after which he went upstairs and informed Blanche of her visitor’s presence. Blanche, though expecting Alfredo’s appearance at some time, was not quite ready for him. Telling the visitor that she would be down in a few minutes, Marsh poured glasses of sherry for them both and as they drank he spoke briefly of Ernest’s arrival and subsequent death, and of his burial that morning.
When Blanche herself appeared ten minutes later Marsh excused himself and left them together. Pastore at once went to Blanche, reached out and took her hands.
‘Mr Marsh told me about your brother, Blanche. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.’
She thanked him.
The stilted conversation that ensued lasted for some minutes and then he said:
‘What I came to say, Blanche – the answer I came back for –’ He shrugged, at a loss. ‘How can I ask you now – without appearing insensitive?’
She gazed at him for a moment then turned to the window and stood gazing out over the street.
‘It’s all right, Alfredo,’ she said without looking at him. ‘Life has to go on, hasn’t it? Such things happen, but life has to go on.’
She thought of the child growing inside her. She had already made up her mind.
He stepped forward. ‘I’m glad you understand … You see – I have to return to Palermo in a matter of days. I was hoping, that you would – would return with me. But now …’ He shrugged again. ‘Is it – possible?’
‘My brother’s gone,’ she said. ‘Nothing I could do could help him.’
‘If you would –’ He took from his pocket a piece of paper. ‘In the hope that you would agree I – I’ve taken out a special licence. We could be married very quickly.’
Blanche did not answer. He added:
‘I know how you’re feeling now, Blanche, but you’ll get over your grief and I can make you happy, I know I can. If you’ll give me the chance.’
She turned to him, seeing the chance he offered. And what were the alternatives? They were too depressing even to contemplate. I’m afraid for you, Blanche. I’m afraid you’ll let it happen to you too. No, Ernie, no. But it was not only herself now, anyway, to be considered. Soon she would have a child to think of as well.
With a little shake of her head she said, ‘There’s nothing for me here anymore, Alfredo. I’ve nothing to stay in England for.’ She gave him a grave smile. ‘So if you want my answer, then my answer is yes.’
Blanche and Alfredo, as man and wife, left for Palermo four days later. On the afternoon before their departure Blanche, much concerned about Jacko, who was refusing to eat or drink, had gone to seek him in his kennel in which, since Ernest’s death, he had taken to hiding away. Usually on going to him, when she would try to coax him to eat or drink something, he would simply raise his head and gaze back at her out of the confined, shadowed interior of his shelter and then lay his head on his paws again.
On this particular afternoon she called his name but got no response at all, not even the flicker of an eyelid. Crouching lower, reaching in and touching him, she realized that he was dead.
When she left Bath the next day with Alfredo she saw Jacko’s death as the breaking of her last link with the past.
PART FIVE
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘Has Daddy gone, Mama?’
Adriana’s voice came from the open doorway as Blanche sat before her dressing table.
‘Yes, darling. He’s just left.’
‘I looked for him but I couldn’t find him. He didn’t say goodbye. What time will he be back?’
‘– I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘I wanted to talk to him.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Blanche could guess what it was about. Confirming Blanche’s belief, Adriana said:
‘I want to talk to him about Betta.’
Blanche said nothing. Adriana went on:
‘He’s always going away these days.’
‘Yes – but I’m afraid he has a lot on his mind right now.’
Adriana nodded, sighed, then: ‘Why was he shouting so?’
Avoiding giving an answer, Blanche said, ‘– Oh, was he?’
‘Very loudly.’ Adriana gazed at her. ‘Are you nearly ready to leave?’ Her tone now was a little impatient. She was wearing her coat and hat and carrying a paper bag given her by the cook: scraps of bread for the ducks.
‘In a moment, darling.’ Blanche’s tone gave evidence of her preoccupation as she turned her face to catch the light. As she did so her eyes were drawn to Adriana’s reflection beyond her shoulder as the child came towards her across the room.
Coming to a stop at Blanche’s side, Adriana looked at her mother in the mirror. Blanche, her own eyes upon her, saw the child’s expression change to one of concern.
‘Mama, what happened?’ Adriana said. ‘Your face is swollen.’
Blanche covered her upper cheek with her hand to hide the swelling there, the emerging bruise. ‘It’s nothing, my dear. I just had a – a little accident.’
Adriana shook her head in an imitation of adult resignation and hopelessness. ‘You’re always having accidents lately.’
‘– Yes, I’ll just have to be more careful in the future.’
With her
powder puff Blanche gave an additional light dusting to her cheek, then took out her loose hairpins and secured her hair where it had come loose. The growing strain of the past five years had taken their toll, showing now behind the smile she gave to Adriana, and in the tension that lay behind her eyes as they moved back to take in her own reflection, the weariness in her sigh as, gazing at herself, she gave a final touch to her hair and let her hands fall in a little gesture of resignation and despair.
‘Are you nearly ready, Mama?’
‘Almost.’
Her eyes moved back to the child. Adriana was four-and-a-half now, small and thin-legged, a little bird of a child. The blue of her eyes was Blanche’s own, but the set and shape of them Gentry’s; Gentry’s too the glossy black of her pigtails and heavy lashes.
In a sudden demonstration of love, and her own need for closeness, affection, Blanche wrapped Adriana in her arms and hugged her. The child suffered the embrace for a moment then said, ‘Mama, are we going?’
‘Yes, we’re going right this minute.’
Blanche released her and got up from her seat. When she had put on her own hat and coat she and Adriana left the room and started down the stairs. They met Betta, Adriana’s nurse, on the way up. The plain face of the eighteen-year-old girl was puffed with weeping, while her eyes showed such sadness that Blanche could hardly bear to look at her. We make a good pair, Blanche said to herself. Last night the girl had pleaded with her; did she have to go? she had asked. Was there nothing that the signora could do? Blanche, though, had been able to say nothing that was of any comfort.
Blanche went on down the stairs. Reaching the hall she was not surprised to see Edgardo, Alfredo’s valet-cum-butler, emerge from an ante room near the front door. How he always managed to be so close never ceased to surprise her. In his early fifties, he was a short, lean, swarthy man. Now as Blanche and Adriana crossed the hall his already bent body bent further in the faintest bow, a gesture touched with an insolence that was echoed in the touch of his mouth and the lift of his brows. In his heavily accented English he said, ‘The signora wishes something?’
