No Wings to Fly

by Jess Foley

  ‘No,’ Lily said again, ‘I’d never want to keep the baby. Never.’

  Chapter Nine

  It had rained heavily during the night and the ground was sodden. The December sky was grey through the bare branches of the rowan tree. Moving about its foot a hopeful blackbird turned over the saturated leaves in a search for food.

  It was just after twelve. The house was quiet. Miss Balfour had driven out to visit one of her old friends who was ill in bed with influenza. Mrs Nessant, the cook, was occupied in the kitchen. Mary was somewhere in the house busy at her cleaning. Lily sighed and leant back in her chair, her hand unconsciously moving to the slight swell of her belly. Through the window she could see the blackbird busy beneath the tree; he was there most days.

  She was seated at the small writing table in the sewing room. The room being small, it took relatively little fuel to keep it warm, so was a well-used spot in the house when the weather was cold, not only for sewing but for any task that did not require a great deal of space. Lily found it a comforting place, and for most of the morning she had sat working at the sewing that had come from the Corster draper. Now, having completed work on the lapels of a velvet jacket, she had spent some minutes writing a short letter to Tom. She had not heard from him in several weeks, and although he was not much of a one for regularly corresponding, she had been expecting to hear something from him before now.

  As was her wont since arriving at the house seven weeks ago, she spent several hours each day alone, but she did not feel her solitude adversely. For the most part she was kept well occupied, not only with the sewing for the Corster draper, but also making garments – sewn, knitted or crocheted – for the expected baby.

  She saw Miss Balfour usually only at breakfast and then at dinner in the evening. Sometimes she would also take tea with her in the drawing room. At all their meetings, Miss Balfour kept her distance, volunteering little about herself, and showing little curiosity about Lily beyond her health and her sewing work. While Lily would have liked their conversations to have been a little less reserved and cool, she was relieved that the woman did not ask too many questions. Not once had she asked Lily about the father of the child she was carrying, and how Lily would have responded had such questions come, she did not know.

  There were times in the quiet of her room when she lay unable to sleep, feeling hatred for Haskin and what he had done to her. His assault had changed her life. Not only had it caused her to give up the man she loved, but it had left her expecting a child. She thought again of Miss Balfour speaking of the one or two young women who had expressed a wish to keep their newborn babes. There was no chance of that happening where Lily was concerned. She did not want the child she carried or anything to do with its upbringing. She had no feelings of love for it and could not for a moment dream that any would manifest themselves.

  Many times, too, she thought of Joel. Did he ever think of her? If so, did he think of her with bitterness? She tried to picture him at his studies, imagining him as she had never seen him in actuality, leaning over his desk, frowning over the work before him, long legs bent under him, mouth set in concentration. Perhaps he had forgotten her and never gave her a thought. But she could not truly believe that to be the case. After all, he had said he loved her, and even a love that had not lasted must leave a few scars.

  ‘The second post just arrived, miss. This came for you.’

  Disturbed out of her reverie, Lily turned as Mary came into the room with a letter in her hand. When the maid had gone again, Lily looked at the handwriting on the envelope and saw that it was from her father. She regarded it with mixed feelings. Whilst she was so glad to hear from him, she did not want any of the coldness that often accompanied his letters, a coldness that came with a lingering, unspoken blame.

  She opened the envelope, took out the two folded sheets of notepaper, and read:

  Compton Wells

  11th December 1866

  Daughter,

  I’m hoping this finds you well, and that you are escaping the flu. I’m afraid your little sister has the sniffles, and is a little bad-tempered as a result. But your mother and I are as well as can be expected.

  I hope you’re getting on all right and are doing your work as you should. I hope too that you fully appreciate the great kindness Miss Balfour is bestowing upon you, and that you suitably show your gratitude. Perhaps when this is all over you can make a new start and begin to make something of your life. Though I have to tell you, with regard to your future, that it will have to be forged somewhere other than in Compton. I can make no pretence but must tell you that your mother is not willing to have you home again.

  In your letter you asked after your brother, remarking that you have had no word from him recently, that your last letter has gone unanswered. Your last letter to him is lying here still unopened. I must tell you that your brother has gone, almost two weeks since. He went off for work at his usual time in the morning, but never returned home that evening. When I later made enquiries at the farm they said he had not turned up for work that day. We have heard nothing from him since. In the event you’re so disposed, I would advise you against wasting sympathy on him. He had a good home here, and he has chosen to turn his back on it, no doubt thinking that other pastures are greener. He’ll find out the truth soon enough, I daresay, and will be more than ready to come on back with his tail between his legs. Thomas has been the greatest disappointment to us. Your mother always said that he’d never amount to anything, and she’s been proved right. Indeed, with my two elder children having brought me such grief, I can only pray that my daughter Dora will show herself to be of better stuff.

  Your loving

  Father

  Lily gave a sigh. Nothing had changed where her father and stepmother were concerned, though in truth she had not expected it to, and in addition it had now been made clear to her that she was no longer welcome in the family home. How hurtful were her father’s words. But so be it, she said to herself, she would make her own way; and her future was never in Compton in the first place.

  Saddening as the letter was, what was more disturbing was the news of Tom’s disappearance. She would wait. She would wait and he would write to her, she was sure of that.

  The days of winter dragged on. Christmas and New Year’s day had come and gone, causing little more than a ripple in the routine at Rowanleigh. The annual scourge of influenza had come early and severely this winter, and many were becoming affected.

  Lily seemed to be cocooned in the house, not only by the snow that had lately fallen, but by the lack of contact with the outside world. She had heard again sparingly from her father at Christmas, but of her brother Tom there had been no word.

  Sitting at the table in the sewing room, she sighed. Her back ached slightly, and she put a hand to it and stretched. She was in her fifth month now. Beyond the window the garden was bleak and colourless. Touches of the snow still lingered on the iron-hard earth around the lawn’s borders. The sun hung low in the sky, pale and watery, giving no hint or promise of warmth. The blackbird had not been in evidence for several days. How long and drawn-out the winter seemed, and spring still so far away.

  The house was very quiet. She had worked for hours at the sewing that had come from the draper, but had put it aside for a while in order to read a little. From Miss Balfour’s well-stocked library she had taken a history of the American War of Independence. Fascinating as the story was, though, she found it hard to concentrate, and eventually put it aside too. That morning had seen a visit from the local midwife, Mrs Toomley, a jolly, sharp-faced little woman in her fifties who, under the watchful eye of Miss Balfour, had come in and bustled around, feeling and prodding Lily and asking her questions in connection with her condition. She had gone away declaring herself well satisfied with Lily’s progress, adding that she would be visiting again soon.

  Into the quiet of the room came the faint sound of activity from the hall where Mary was brushing down the stair-carpet
, singing as she worked. She alone had come in today. Mrs Nessant had not put in an appearance as her elderly mother had come down with the influenza and the cook had remained at home to care for her. Lily looked at the clock on the mantel and saw that the time was just coming up to four o’clock. Miss Balfour was out of the house, having gone into Corster to collect the rent on two small houses she owned there. She was expected back soon.

  Lily remained in the sewing room for a while longer, then rose from her seat and went down to the kitchen. There she took up the basket of vegetables that Mr Shad had left and began to prepare them at the old pine table. With Mrs Nessant absent, Lily was expected to help with the cooking, When she had finished she set the table in the dining room. That done, she went back to the sewing room where she worked with her needle until the light was gone. Shortly afterwards she heard the closing of the front door, marking the fact that Miss Balfour was back.

  Dinner that evening was an even quieter affair than usual. Miss Balfour seemed subdued and ate very little, in the end pushing her unfinished plate aside. When Lily asked politely if she was well, the woman frowned and put a hand up to her head. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache,’ she said. ‘I hope I’m not coming down with the flu. We don’t need that in the house – especially with you in your condition.’ A few minutes later she had laid down her napkin, made her excuses and gone up to her room.

  As Mary was so busy the next morning, Lily prepared breakfast for herself and Miss Balfour, but Miss Balfour did not appear. Lily ate alone, and when she had finished she went to Miss Balfour’s room and knocked on the door. After a moment there came a call to come in and she turned the handle and entered. Miss Balfour lay in bed, the gloom of the room only lightened by the pale light that crept in beside the edge of the curtain.

  ‘You didn’t come down for breakfast, ma’am, and I wondered about you,’ Lily said.

  ‘No.’ Miss Balfour’s voice was little more than a croak. Her grey hair was held tight to her head with a close-fitting cap. ‘I don’t want anything.’ She coughed. ‘I ache all over, and I’ve got this awful catarrh and cough. I think I must have that dratted flu.’ She coughed again, partly raising herself up off the pillow, then sank back down.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like just a little something? I could get you a lightly scrambled egg, or some porridge.’

  ‘No, I don’t want anything.’ She paused. ‘I keep shivering. I can’t seem to keep warm.’

  ‘I’ll get you another blanket,’ Lily said, ‘and light the fire.’

  Miss Balfour thanked her. ‘I don’t think I shall be getting up today,’ she said.

  Two days passed, and Miss Balfour remained in bed, uncomplaining but showing no inclination to move, and telling Lily and Mary all the while, ‘Don’t fuss, don’t fuss.’ On Sunday morning, however, under Lily’s tentative persuasion, she agreed to have the doctor, and Mr Shad went off to summon him. Dr Hanbury, a slight man with spectacles and a thin beard and a thin voice to match, called just before three that afternoon. After seeing Miss Balfour he said to Lily, who waited in the hall, that he would send his boy round with some medicine. ‘This influenza,’ he added, ‘it’s a most virulent strain, and we don’t want it to turn to pneumonia.’ Taking in Lily’s obvious condition, he gazed at her for a moment then said, ‘What about you? Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  ‘We don’t want you coming down with it as well. When is your baby due?’

  ‘In May, sir.’

  ‘Well – you must look after yourself.’

  A while later the doctor’s boy came to the back door with a little package of medicine. Mary took it in and handed it to Lily. There was a bottle of quinine and some phenacetin powder, both of which had to be mixed with water. Lily did what was required and carried the medicines upstairs and stood by while Miss Balfour swallowed them. Later, she made some cabbage soup and tried to tempt Miss Balfour with a little, but she wanted nothing of it.

  In spite of extra blankets and the fire being well banked, Miss Balfour shivered. Dr Hanbury, calling again the next day, recommended to Lily that a goose grease or mustard poultice on the chest might help, as well as camphorated oil applied to the neck. After he had gone, Lily asked Mr Shad to ride to the butcher and the chemist, and when he had returned with the goods, she warmed up the grease in a basin, and carried it upstairs along with the oil and some pieces of flannel. Informed of the doctor’s recommendations, Miss Balfour at first would have none of it, but after a little persuasion she reluctantly agreed to the camphorated oil. When it came to the goose grease poultice, however, she refused point blank.

  Gently, Lily massaged into the woman’s neck a little of the camphorated oil, and then laid around it a piece of flannel. When she had finished she went down to the kitchen and heated the soup, then, back upstairs again, held the bowl while Miss Balfour took a few spoonfuls. Afterwards, as Lily settled her back, and straightened her pillows, Miss Balfour said haltingly through her dry lips, ‘You shouldn’t . . . be doing this. It’s not your job.’

  ‘It’s all right, ma’am,’ Lily said. ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘Trouble or not . . .’ Miss Balfour panted for breath, ‘you should be keeping well away. You don’t want to catch it in your condition, and you could, so easily.’

  ‘I’m all right. I’m strong.’

  ‘It isn’t a matter of being strong. Mary can help me.’

  ‘Mary’s got other things to do. Especially with Mrs Nessant being away.’

  *

  The next morning Miss Balfour’s condition was even more alarming. Bending at her bedside Lily saw the perspiration standing out on her brow and saturating the hair at her temples. She would have nothing to eat, and would take only a few sips of water.

  Dr Hanbury came again that afternoon, and at his request Lily went with him to Miss Balfour’s room. With his stethoscope he sounded Miss Balfour’s chest and remarked that it was still heavily congested. ‘You must keep giving her the quinine,’ he said to Lily, ‘and applying the goose grease poultices.’

  ‘She won’t have the poultice, sir,’ Lily said.

  ‘Not have the poultice? But she must.’ He looked down at Miss Balfour as she lay with her cracked lips parted, breathing heavily. ‘You hear that, Miss Balfour? You must have the poultice. This is no time for being shy. You’re very sick, and if you won’t let this young lady do it, then I’ll have to send round a nurse – and heaven knows they’ve got enough to do already.’

  When the doctor had gone, Lily heated the goose grease in a basin and then took it upstairs along with some pieces of flannel. This time, Miss Balfour ceased to object and, though with obvious misgivings and no little embarrassment, gave herself up to Lily’s ministrations. By the light of the lamp Lily drew back the bedcovers and pushed Miss Balfour’s nightdress up to her shoulders, exposing her pale, large-boned body and small breasts. All the while Miss Balfour kept her eyes closed and never spoke a word. Lily got the basin of warm grease and, scooping some up into her hand, gently spread it over Miss Balfour’s chest, above and between her breasts. Once it had been smoothed in, she took pieces of flannel and laid them over the grease, gently pressing them in place. When she had finished, she pulled Miss Balfour’s nightdress down and drew up the bedcovers. Still Miss Balfour spoke no word.

  When Mary arrived the next morning it was apparent at once to Lily that the girl was sick. In between coughs, the maid told her that she had a fever and had hardly slept the previous night. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Lily told her. ‘You should be in bed.’

  ‘Oh, but how’ll you manage without me, miss?’ Mary said. ‘What with the missus being ill and Mrs Nessant bein’ away.’

  Lily looked at her with a shake of her head. ‘Go on home, Mary,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage. Go on home and don’t come back till you’re well. The cleaning and washing will have to go hang, and if I need anything from the shops Mr Shad will get it. Go on – put your bonnet and ca
pe back on and go home.’

  When the maid had gone, Lily gave Miss Balfour her medicine, and then prepared for her a little dish of eggs and milk, of which Miss Balfour took a few spoonfuls. Afterwards, Lily applied a fresh poultice and then helped Miss Balfour – now so weak – to get out of bed to use the commode. ‘I never dreamt,’ Miss Balfour said hoarsely as Lily helped her back into bed, ‘that I’d rely on another for such needs.’

  On the evening of the next day, Lily went upstairs to give Miss Balfour her medicine and found her tossing and turning in the bed while muttering disjointed phrases in her dry, cracked voice. After Lily had calmed her and persuaded her to take her medicine, she sponged her brow and neck. ‘You’re so good to me, Aggie,’ Miss Balfour murmured brokenly, her head resting against Lily’s arm. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  *

  Miss Balfour’s delirium only subsided when she lapsed into a coma.

  Lily found her unconscious when she went upstairs to give her her medicine the next morning. She spoke to her but there was no response, and there was no flicker of animation in the still face. When Lily took up the woman’s hand it remained seemingly lifeless. Downstairs, heedless of the cold, she ran out into the yard, calling for Mr Shad. Minutes later he had saddled up the cob and was riding off for the doctor.

  Dr Hanbury arrived just after three and at once went up to the bedroom where Miss Balfour lay, moving not a muscle in her stupor. He lifted her eyelid, sounded her chest, and gave an unhappy sigh. With this form of the disease, he said, the influenza poison sometimes affected the brain. He pushed his spectacles up on his thin nose. ‘We can only hope,’ he said, ‘that she’ll come out of it in a few days.’