No Wings to Fly

by Jess Foley

  The table was set near the window, and from her vantage point Lily looked out over the back yard and up the path of the rear garden. It was the old familiar scene, part of her very first memories.

  Today, the October scene before her spoke of the ending of summer. In the border beside the small lawn the nasturtiums and the roses were still bright, but the vibrant shades of the green foliage were fading. The leaves of the distant tall elm were already turning yellow. Autumn had arrived and was not to be turned away. She observed it dispassionately. Perhaps in other years it might have brought a momentary melancholy, but not this time; she was already so steeped in unhappiness, and a mere dying of the summer barely touched her mind.

  The house was still. There was not a sound. She sighed into the quiet. She felt lost. She had been back in Compton Wells for three days now, and was completely without anchor, without direction, without any knowledge or hint of what was to be. She only knew that things could not continue as they were. That had been made clear to her at the start. ‘I wouldn’t bother to unpack much if I were you,’ her stepmother had said. ‘You won’t be staying long.’

  Mrs Haskin’s letter had preceded Lily’s return to her home, so when Lily arrived, all was known. And if her stepmother had been cold to her in the past, it was nothing to what she was following Lily’s return from Whitton. Since Lily’s arrival, Mrs Clair had spoken to her only when it was absolutely necessary, added to which, she had given instructions to Dora not to speak to her at all. ‘I mustn’t talk to you,’ Dora had said. ‘Mammy said I mustn’t.’ And then: ‘Did you bring me anything, Lily?’ Tom had been given the same instruction as the child, and, like her, was given no reason for the injunction. Of course he ignored it, and talked to Lily whenever they had the chance to be alone.

  ‘But, Lil, what have you done?’ he had asked her soon after her return. ‘Nobody’ll tell me. They won’t even talk of it, and they treat you in such a cold manner.’

  ‘I can’t speak of it,’ she had said. ‘Not yet. Someday. In the meantime, just – just believe that I’m not a bad person. I haven’t done anything wrong. Believe me, I haven’t.’

  As for Mr Clair, since her return on Wednesday not one single word had he directed at his daughter, and this was the most affecting of all.

  She sighed into the quiet. Before her on the little table lay her writing slope, and beside it the letter that she had received that morning, forwarded from Mrs Haskin in Whitton. It was from Joel. He had written:

  The Hazels,

  Greenbanks Road,

  Corster

  28th September 1866

  Dear Lily,

  I have heard nothing from you. All the time in Paris I looked for a letter, but there was not a word. Is something wrong? As you see from my address, I am now back in England. I had so hoped that there might have been a chance for us to meet again in Whitton before I resume my studies. Sad to say, that now looks unlikely, as I leave for Cambridge on Monday next. However, you can write to me there at Clare College. Please – let me hear from you.

  With love,

  Your

  Joel

  For many minutes she sat bent over the table, unable to think of a single word to write. Then, at last, urging herself to action, she dipped her pen and wrote:

  Compton Wells, Wilts.

  6th October 1866.

  Dear Joel,

  As you will see, I am no longer residing at Whitton, but have come back to my family home in Compton Wells.

  I received your earlier letter from France, and have now just received your letter from Corster. I am sorry that it has taken me so long to write back. With such great delays, you must be wondering at the cause.

  It gives me no pleasure to do so, but I have to tell you that this will be my first and last letter to you. I did say to you during our meetings that I could not see any future for us together, and this is what I believe. We are oceans apart, I said, and truly I can see no means of our ever bridging that gulf.

  I am sorry to say it, but I cannot continue my friendship with you. I know I said certain things which may have led you to believe I cared for you, but you know as well as I that people say things in the heat of the moment which are not true, and which in later, cooler, moments they regret. I’m afraid this has been the case with you and me, and the time has come to disabuse you of any hopes you might have had where I was concerned.

  We two shall not meet again, but I wish you happiness, and hope that you meet someone who deserves to have you for a friend.

  Lily Clair

  She read through the tissue of heartless lies once more, then took an envelope, and addressed it to Mr Joel Goodhart, Clare College, Cambridge, and sealed the letter inside. She affixed a stamp, then put on her bonnet and cape and left the house. She must waste no further time. The post box was situated only two hundred yards away, set in the old church yard wall, and on reaching it, she held the letter in the slot, suspended, reluctant to let it go. She knew that the parting of her fingers would spell the end of the dream. But it had to be. She no longer had any choice in the matter; that had been taken from her on that August night. What Joel would think of her on reading her cruel words, she would not dwell upon, and she thrust any hint of such conjecture from her mind. As for her feelings for him, she could not afford to consider them, not even for a moment. She must not. They must be consigned to the past, they must be locked away, never again to see the light of day.

  She realised that she was gripping the letter tightly. She took a breath and, briefly closing her eyes, she opened her fingers and let the letter fall.

  Before she set off to return home, she went into the church yard and stood beside her mother’s grave. It looked well kept, and in the old earthenware pot that was set into the earth were some white roses. It was Tom’s work, she knew. Needing comfort, she stayed there for several minutes, and then moved to an old wooden bench set beside the gravel path and sat down. In the branches of a nearby yew tree, jays and mistlethrushes picked at the scarlet berries. A peacock butterfly came dancing over the headstones and lighted on the arm of a small marble angel. Lily continued to sit there in the October sunlight. She had no wish to return home; she had no wish to be anywhere at all. After an hour she rose and started back.

  Inside the house she entered the kitchen and saw her father’s hat on the chair by the clock. She stood still, listening for some sound from above, but there was nothing. After she had hung up her bonnet and cape she stood for a few moments undecided, then went out into the yard and started down the garden path.

  She found him in the small scrap of orchard, stretching up to a sprawling elder tree, picking its berries. She stood in silence on the grass, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. As she did so, she thought of that other day, three years past, when they had picked the blackberries together. Even now the brambles were festooned, the blackberries heavy on the vines.

  After a few moments she took a step forward and said softly, ‘Father . . .’

  He hesitated for a second, then resumed picking the elderberries and dropping them into a basin.

  ‘Father,’ she said again. ‘Say something to me, please. Don’t subject me to this awful silence.’

  He continued with the berries, hands moving carefully from branch to basin. Then he said, without turning, ‘These are the last. They’ll make fine jelly, and if we don’t take ’em now the pigeons’ll get ’em.’

  ‘Father . . .’

  He dropped another handful into the basin, then halted in his movements, gazing ahead into the foliage of the tree. ‘Oh, Lily,’ he murmured. His voice came out in a little broken sound.

  ‘Father –’

  ‘Oh, girl, if you knew what this has done to us.’ When he turned to her she could see his eyes glistening with unshed tears. With an angry gesture he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘You can’t imagine what it was like, getting Mrs Haskin’s letter. To bring this upon your family – after the way you’ve been raised. How c
ould you do such a thing?’

  ‘Father –’ she began, but he overrode her.

  ‘What does he have to say about it – the man?’

  When she did not reply, he went on, ‘Susan Haskin said his name’s Joel, and that he’s from a comfortably-off family. Which ain’t such good news. Rich man’s son getting involved with the servant girl – it’s the oldest story in the world, and never one with a happy ending. What did he say when you told him?’

  ‘I haven’t told him.’

  ‘He doesn’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mrs Haskin said she believes he’s in France.’

  ‘He was. He’s back in England now.’

  ‘Then you must write to him, at once. You got an address?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then he’s got to know. He’s got to do the right thing by you. And if he won’t marry you, then he’s got to help in other ways. He’s got to see sense over this, and if he doesn’t, then I’ll make him see sense meself.’

  ‘Father, it’s finished with him,’ she said. ‘It’s over. I’ll never see him again.’

  ‘But he’s got to be told. He can’t just get off scot-free. He’s got to be told.’

  ‘No. No, please. It’s got nothing to do with him.’

  He frowned. ‘What d’you mean? You’re not making sense.’

  ‘Father – it wasn’t him.’

  ‘What?’ There was astonishment in his tone. ‘It wasn’t him?’ Then outrage came. ‘Are you saying you’ve been seeing more than one man?’

  ‘No,’ she burst out, ‘it wasn’t like that.’ And now her tears welled up. ‘Father, I’ve done nothing wrong. I swear to you. Joel and I – we did nothing wrong together.’

  ‘Then – then who?’

  She paused for a breath, then whispered, ‘It was – Mr Haskin.’

  Silence met her words, and there was no sound but for her muffled weeping. Her father stood gazing at her while the basin tipped in his hand, spilling some berries into the grass.

  ‘Are you telling me that he – he took advantage of you?’ There was cold disbelief in his voice. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  He continued to gaze at her, then slowly shook his head. ‘I never dreamt, in all my days, that you’d turn out to be such a disappointment in my life.’

  ‘Oh, but Father – ’

  He did not let her finish. ‘Such a disappointment,’ he said. ‘And that you should lie in this manner just makes it so much worse. How could you do such a thing? Lie about a man, in order to save your own reputation and this ne’er-do-well you’re protecting. Roger Haskin is my oldest and most trusted friend. The most trustworthy man you could ever hope to meet. That’s why we sent you there. We sent you to a place where we knew you’d be safe and not exploited in any way.’ His expression was a mixture of anger, puzzlement and hurt. ‘I don’t understand how you can say such a thing of a good man. May God forgive you, for I can’t.’ He looked down at the half-empty basin in his hand, as if suddenly becoming aware of it, then upended it and watched the remaining elderberries fall. ‘You had a whole life ahead of you, and you’ve thrown it all away.’

  She said nothing, but stood with head bowed, the tears cooling on her cheeks.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can’t have it here, the baby – you realise that, don’t you?’

  She did not speak, did not move.

  ‘No, you’ll have to go away till it’s over. If you’re set against involving this man who’s responsible, then so be it. Your mother and I have already talked it over, and during the next few days we’ll decide on where you’ll go.’

  The days dragged by, while Lily worked in the house, rarely going further than the front gate. When she volunteered to go to the butcher’s or the post office her offer was coolly declined. It was as if her stepmother did not want the local neighbourhood to be reminded of her presence. Tom, observing it, was distressed. ‘I can’t bear to see it,’ he said. ‘The way they treat you.’

  ‘Don’t be upset,’ Lily told him, ‘it won’t go on for much longer. I shall be going away again soon.’

  ‘Where?’ he said. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t yet know where, but it’ll be very soon.’

  ‘Why are you going?’

  ‘I – I can’t talk about that.’

  He was bewildered. ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. A good few months.’

  ‘But you’ll come back and visit, won’t you?’

  ‘Not for a good while.’

  ‘Maybe you won’t ever come back. Maybe this time you’ll go for good.’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’

  ‘If you go away, we shan’t ever be together again, Lil.’

  ‘No, Tom, you mustn’t say that.’

  ‘D’you think we shall, then?’

  ‘One day. You wait and see.’

  He sighed. ‘Oh, I wish I wus going with you. Sometimes I think I’ll never get away from here.’

  While Lily remained in the relative seclusion of the house, her father and stepmother set about making the arrangements that would eventually take her away again. Aware of it, and waiting, she thought she would not be so sad to leave. Her life as she had known it was finished, and although the future lay uncharted before her, this present limbo where she was treated almost as an outcast was unbearable. Then, one evening, just under three weeks after her return from Whitton, she was told that the arrangements were complete.

  Supper was finished, and as soon as the dishes were cleared away and washed and dried, Mrs Clair turned to Tom and suggested that it was time he was off to bed. He went at once, saying his goodnights and leaving Lily and her father and stepmother sitting in the tense quiet of the kitchen. Lily, guessing that something was to be said, could see the awkwardness in her father’s demeanour as he prepared himself to speak. Wasting no time in prompting him, Mrs Clair looked up from her mending and hissed, ‘You’d better get on with it, then, or we’ll be here all night.’

  Mr Clair tapped the dead ash from his pipe and prodded the bowl with his fingertip. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re going away. It’s all settled. Your mother and I have made the arrangements. It’s all done.’

  Lily waited but he said nothing further. She looked from her father to her stepmother, then back to her father again.

  ‘Where am I to go?’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to Sherrell, not far from Corster. There’s a lady there, Miss Balfour. You’ll be going to stay with her.’

  ‘Miss Balfour?’ Lily said. ‘Who – who is she?’

  Mrs Clair answered the question. ‘She’s a lady who’s dealt with a few girls in your situation before. Not that she advertises the fact.’ She shot a look at her husband. ‘Go on, tell her.’

  ‘You’ll stay with Miss Balfour,’ Mr Clair said, ‘and you’ll help her out in any way you can, while you’re able to, while you’re fit enough. As I understand it, you’ll do work for a local factory or do needlework. You won’t receive any wages for your work, but you’ll get your board and lodging, and she’ll see you over the birth of the child, and through its adoption.’

  ‘And if you think,’ Mrs Clair said, ‘that this is going to cost us nothing, you can think again. The lady’s not a charity institution. The bit of work you do for her won’t be enough to keep you, so we’ve got to pay her something too.’

  Mr Clair nodded. ‘Yes. Not a fortune, but we’ve got to pay her nevertheless. Even a shilling a week is a lot to find when times are hard.’

  ‘You don’t need to go into detail,’ Mrs Clair said impatiently. ‘It’s neither here nor there how much we pay. The fact is, the lady’s not doing it for nothing, and that’s all the girl needs to know.’

  ‘You won’t, of course, be coming home during your time,’ Mr Clair said.

  ‘Indeed not,’ said his wife. ‘You’re not even to show your face in Compton. We’re sending
you to Sherrell because it’s far enough away, so there’ll be precious little chance you’ll bump into somebody who knows you. But just because you think you’re out of the way, doesn’t mean you can go gallivanting around. You’ll stay close to the house and do as the lady tells you. If you don’t, there’ll be trouble. She won’t put up with any of your nonsense.’

  ‘Quite,’ Mr Clair said. ‘We want no complaints about your behaviour.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ Mrs Clair snapped. She jabbed a sharp finger in Lily’s direction. ‘And you can take that miserable look off your face. Think yourself lucky. Other girls in your situation get locked away, sometimes for years, in the asylum, or at best go to the convent.’

  Silence fell in the room. ‘What is to happen to me – afterwards?’ Lily said.

  ‘Afterwards?’ her father said. ‘After your confinement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well – you’ll have to find employment somewhere.’

  ‘Yes,’ her stepmother said. ‘Don’t go thinking you can come back here and expect to be kept.’ She tossed down the shirt she was mending and got up from her chair. ‘I’m going up to bed,’ she said to her husband. She stood for a moment with her mouth set in a thin line, then turned back to Lily. ‘You’ve brought disgrace on this family, and I’ll never forgive you for it.’ She continued to glare at her for a moment, then turned and without any further word crossed to the door and went out.

  Lily waited until the sound of her stepmother’s footfalls had faded on the stairs, then said to her father in a low voice:

  ‘When am I to go?’

  ‘On Saturday,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to the train.’

  The following morning Lily was out sweeping the path, when the old postman came by in his red jacket. Seeing her there, he wished her a cheery good morning and handed her a letter. It was addressed to herself and again had been redirected from the Haskins’ house at Whitton. It could only be from Joel.

  She opened the envelope, withdrew a single sheet of notepaper and read:

  Clare College, Cambridge

  19th October 1866

  Lily,

  I received yours of the 6th. As I had not heard from you for weeks, you can only imagine my happiness at receiving a letter from you. And if you can imagine that, you can also imagine the distress with which I read your words. I never thought to know such unhappiness at your hands, and if I had not the words from your own pen I would not accept them. But I have, and accept them I must, though I cannot believe for one moment that you are right in what you say. I ask you, therefore, to please reconsider your decision.