by Jess Foley
‘Well, let’s hope so, and I hope he’ll be close by – for your sake.’
With her words, Miss Elsie went through onto the landing. Lily heard the click of the latch as the door closed, and then all was silence again.
After a moment or two she sat down at the desk and took from the drawer some writing paper and an envelope. Then, with the newspaper beside her, she set to writing her letter in answer to the advertisement. When it was done she made a copy for her records, then wrote out the envelope. Minutes later it was sealed and stamped.
That task done, she took Tom’s letter from her bag and read it again. The address of the London hotel he had given was quite unfamiliar to her. She did not know how long he might have been there – but this was typical of the situation where his time in London had been concerned. She had heard from him only very infrequently since he had gone to the capital. For one thing he had never stayed at one address for any length of time, and in some instances he had written without including an address. Now, though, things were going to be different: he was coming back to his roots. Even now, he was on the way.
She sat back in the chair. The smell of Miss Elsie’s cigarette hung in the air. The only sound she could hear was the sweet song of a blackbird, coming from the branches of the rowan tree. Her feelings were a mixture of emotions. In spite of her joy at hearing from Tom again, she had a feeling of melancholy at the uncertainty of her position. Coming back to the present out of her reverie, she took a pair of scissors from a pot on the desk, cut out the advertisement from the newspaper, then dropped the discarded remains into the waste basket.
There were various books and ledgers collected on the shelves beside the desk, some standing on their ends, and others in small piles. Her eyes wandering around the room, she idly scanned the contents of the shelves – and then found her gaze held.
The sudden focus of her attention was one particular volume that lay in the middle of a small stack, a volume holding her with its strangely familiar appearance. It was fairly large in size, with a brown binding, part of which, along the spine, had come loose.
She sat there with her eyes fixed upon it, aware, for some unknown reason, that it held a significance for her. And then it came to her: it was the volume in which Miss Elsie had written at the time of Georgie’s going. She could see it again as it had lain open on the table in the drawing room; see it again as Miss Elsie, the cleric and she, Lily herself, had gone to it and written on its pages.
For some seconds Lily continued to sit there, her eyes on the ledger, and then she reached out, lifted it down and laid it on the desk.
A moment later she was lifting the cover, and as she turned the pages she saw that the ledger held records and details of factors and events in Miss Elsie’s life, the entries entered in her familiar sloping hand. Each entry was dated, the first pages going back several years. Lily’s eyes took in a variety of accounts; notes on employees at the house, the maids and the gardeners; the purchase of a new cob for the trap, and repairs to the trap itself. She found details and information relevant to the painting of the house’s exterior, and here and there notes on the Villas and their tenants.
It was not long before she found herself looking at a series of entries concerning the young women who had come to Rowanleigh for their confinements. She read their names and ages, and home addresses, and the brief details that were given of the births of their babies. There, too, were entries dealing with the infants’ adoptions.
Several pages on, she came to an entry concerning herself.
As she sat looking at the page before her it seemed that everything around her was stilled. Even the blackbird had, for a spell, paused in his singing. In the silence she sat bent over the ledger, staring down at the page.
In Miss Elsie’s angular script she read her own name, her age, her address, and the name of her father. There too was given the date of her arrival at Rowanleigh and an approximate date of the expected birth of her child.
She turned the pages, reading more notes on the Villas in Corster, others dealing with repairs to the roofs, and a brief entry concerning Miss Elsie’s illness, and Lily’s nursing of her.
And then, on a page headed with the date 3 May 1867, she read of her own confinement, and the birth of her son:
‘Lily Mary Clair, delivered safely of a boy. Mother doing well, but baby, though well-formed, presently rather sickly and needing careful tending. No cause for alarm, however, and with his mother is in good hands.’
For some seconds Lily sat riveted by the written words, almost holding her breath. Then, becoming newly conscious of her act of prying, she turned the page. And there she saw – the momentous event reduced to a few lines on the paper – the act of her son’s being taken away. There was the name of the cleric, and of the plain-looking woman who had accompanied him and who had taken the baby into her arms and walked with him out of the door. There too were the signatures of herself, and Miss Elsie and the Reverend, Mr Iliffe.
She sat there for long seconds, gazing down at the page, her eyes scanning and rescanning the lines, almost as if she were willing them to tell her more. Then, with a sigh, accepting that there was nothing more to learn, she turned the leaf. To her surprise the next entry also concerned herself. Under the date: 3 July 1867, Miss Elsie had written: ‘It is three weeks since the infant was taken, and sorry to say that LC is taking it quite badly. However, still early days yet, and given time she will find acceptance.’
There was a piece of paper lying on the open pages, a small folded sheet. Lily took it up, unfolded it and read what was written.
And as she read it through, her breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to pound in her breast. In a round, careful hand, was written:
The Vicarage
Church Lane
Redfern, Corster
24th June 1867
Dear Miss Balfour,
Further to our business concluded at Rowanleigh on the 12th, the Rev Iliffe has asked me to inform you that all has proceeded satisfactorily in the placement of the Child. He was delivered to Happerfell safely on the same day, since which time Mr Soameson has reported that he is settling in well, and is providing much joy.
I am,
Your obedient servant
L. Cannon (Miss)
Lily sat staring at the letter. So he was living in Happerfell. Her son, her boy, was living in Happerfell. Georgie – he was so close. He was living so close by. Her eyes moved from the name of the village to take in the name of the man that was written there: Soameson.
She continued to gaze at the letter in her hand, taking in its few, though dynamic, details, and then folded it and laid it back on the page. As she did so she heard from below the faint sound of Miss Elsie’s voice. Quickly she shut the ledger and returned it to its place on the shelf. Moments later footsteps sounded on the landing and then the door was opening and Miss Elsie was standing there.
‘So,’ she said, ‘did you get your letter done?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Lily picked up the envelope. ‘All ready to go in the post.’
‘Good. Well done.’ Miss Elsie pressed her hands together. ‘So – now – come on down and let’s have some dinner.’
That night Lily lay wakeful, turning in her bed and opening her eyes to look into the dark of the summer night. For so long she had wondered where the child had gone. Now she knew. He was just a few miles away, living with his new family, regarding two people whom she had never met as his father and mother; and not even aware that she, Lily, even existed.
Still with no reply to her letter to Little Wickenham by Friday evening, Lily concluded that the advertiser was not interested. She was relieved to find, however, that there were two positions being advertised in that day’s Gazette. One was in the village of Upinshall, and the other in Seston, and that evening she sat in her little room and wrote off in reply to both advertisements. She posted the letters on the way to Yew Tree House the next morning.
She had more on her
mind, however, than the finding of a suitable post, vital as it was. All through the week there had stayed at the forefront of her thoughts the words she had seen written on the letter in Miss Elsie’s ledger. She could not banish them, and throughout that morning they came back to her, again and again.
As the time wore on she found it more and more difficult to keep her mind on her work. Even as it was, Saturday mornings were never the best of times with her pupils, for they were always conscious that the teaching day was short and their leisure time near, and there was always a certain lack of concentration. This morning, though, the lack of concentration was Lily’s, and when twelve-thirty came and she said goodbye to the girls, there was no doubt in her mind as to what she would do.
From Yew Tree House she made her way straight to the station and there caught a train to Corster. On arrival, she alighted and after a wait of some twenty minutes boarded a train that would take her to Pilching. From there it was a short journey by fly to Happerfell.
She had never had occasion to go to the village before, though she was familiar with its name. Now, being let down in the centre by the carriage driver, she paid him his fare and stood and looked about her. Not only did she wonder on her best course of action, but she also questioned the very fact of her being there.
Then towards her came an elderly man, walking with the aid of a stick. He caught her eye as he drew alongside, and smiled at her. ‘You looks a bit lost, miss,’ he said. ‘Can I ’elp you in some way?’
‘Well – thank you,’ she smiled in return. ‘I was wondering where I might find Mr Soameson.’
‘Mr Soameson, the Scotsman, eh? Ah, well, that’s no problem. He lives at The Gables.’ He raised a hand and pointed off along the street. ‘Just up to the right there, in Bourne Way. Only take you a minute.’
Lily thanked him and set off. Keeping to the footway, she came soon to the turning indicated, and halted at the corner. The street to her right curved, so that the far part of it was out of her sight beyond a screen of foliage. She stood there, uncertain as to whether to continue. It was not too late to turn back.
Then, after a long hesitation, she stepped forward.
She followed the road for some yards around the bend before she came to The Gables.
Standing back behind a wide, green lawn, it was a fairly large house of three storeys, with white-painted walls, and the gables that gave it its name. It stood partly hidden from view by two oak trees that cast their rich shadows over the grass. A gravel drive curved across the lawn, connecting with the front porch, while a second drive, bordered by a privet hedge, led up beside the house.
At the foot of the drive she stood and stared. The windows showed nothing beyond their dark opacity. There was no sign of life, but she knew they were there, the people. And her son too. Yes. He was there also, somewhere behind those walls, those windows. She became conscious of the beating of her heart, and conscious also of how conspicuous she would appear to any casual passerby. And what was she doing there? she asked herself. What did she hope to achieve? She was being a fool; her behaviour was that of a madwoman, some lunatic obsessive. Leave, she urged herself. Leave now, and don’t come back.
As the words went through her brain, she caught a glimpse of movement at the side of the house and, looking over, saw the slight figure of a young girl, a maid in apron and cap, approaching from the rear of the building. Lily turned away, hovered there for a moment longer, then started back the way she had come.
On Tuesday, returning to her room in Roseberry Cottage after teaching the Acland girls, she found a letter waiting for her from the advertiser in Little Wickenham. It thanked her for her application, but said the post had been filled. It did not come as a great surprise; having not heard sooner, she had already resigned herself to being passed over. On a note of comfort, she reminded herself that there were still the advertisers in Seston and Uppinshall to give her their consideration.
By the time Saturday morning came, however, there had been no word from either direction; nor had she found anything suitable on offer in that week’s edition of the Corster Gazette. She would find something in time, though, she told herself, besides which, she would place her own classified advertisement in the paper when she went into the town later to collect Miss Elsie’s rents.
That day also, Lily was fully aware, marked a fortnight since Tom had set off from London. He would have been back for well over a week now, she thought, and she would surely be hearing something from him soon.
Meanwhile, at Yew Tree House the twins were restless. They had been told the previous evening that they were to go away to school in Frome in September, and they were full of the news for Lily during the morning’s lessons. To add to their excitement they had also been informed that they would be taking a week’s holiday in Weston-Super-Mare just before going away to school. It was not surprising to Lily that they found it hard to concentrate on their work, but she had her own preoccupations, and in spite of her fondness for the girls she was relieved when at last the time came when she could get away.
After stopping at her lodgings for a cup of tea and a sandwich, she set off for Corster, and the Villas in Brookham Way. There she collected the rents and drank a last cup of tea with Mrs Callinthrop, who would soon be leaving. After wishing the old lady good fortune, Lily left the house to go back into the town centre.
Her way now took her through the market square and to the offices of the Corster Gazette, where she gave to a young, bespectacled clerk the paper on which she had written the wording of her classified advertisement. He took down the details and gave her a receipt for the fee. The advertisement would be in the next Friday’s edition, he told her, the eighteenth of August.
Back out in the sun, she moved on along the busy pavement while all around her the air was filled with the town’s noise: the rattle and rumble of the carriages, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the cries of the street traders. Sweepers were still busy in some parts of the square, clearing away the last of the detritus from the previous day’s produce and livestock market. At times she had to pick her way through the debris. On the south side of the square she bought copies of the Gazette and the Echo, and then stopped outside an ironmonger’s to buy a packet of pins from a ragged, middle-aged woman. She tucked the little packet down into her bag, along with her purse and the papers, and continued on her way towards the station.
As she drew near the entrance to the Victoria Gardens, she felt discomfort under her heel and realised that she had somehow picked up a stone. Moving to a vacant bench on the paved courtyard, she sat down and, as discreetly as she could, slipped off her shoe and shook out the small pebble.
With her shoe back on, she was about to rise from her seat, when she heard a voice at her elbow.
‘Lily . . . hello.’
Turning, looking up, she saw Joel standing there.
He had his back to the square. He wore a brown tweed suit with a black velvet collar, and carried a brown leather case. As she looked at him his hand reached up to touch at his hat’s brim and then adjust his cravat. Lily was so taken aback at seeing him there that for a moment or two she could not speak, then, conscious of her hard-beating heart, she gathered her wits as best she could, and gave him the trace of a smile and murmured a hello.
‘How are you, Lily?’ he said.
‘I’m well. I’m well, thank you. And you?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’m very well.’
All about them the people of the town went about their affairs, while he stood in silence, as if searching for words. Then he said:
‘May I sit down for a minute?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
She drew her bag a little closer to her, and he sat down on the bench a couple of feet from her side. She could see him clearly now without the glare of the sun at his back, and she could see a change in him. Slight though it was, it was there, wrought by the three and a half years since their last meeting. He was twenty-eight now, and the maturing of his yea
rs showed in his face. The softness about his cheeks had gone, and there was a leaner, more angular look about his features, the bones showing more strongly beneath his slightly sunburned skin.
All this she took in during a brief glance, and then looked away past the water trough, trying to assume an air of casualness, though every second aware of his gaze upon her, of his nearness once again.
‘Have you been well, Lily?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
On a nearby bench an old woman scattered some crumbs from a paper bag, and at once the sparrows were there, pecking about on the flags.
‘Did you take the governess post that you were offered that day?’ Joel said. ‘In Little Patten?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And did it work out all right?’
‘It did indeed. I’m still there, and very happy. Though it’s coming to an end soon, I’m sorry to say.’
‘Ah, that’s a pity.’
‘Yes. Unfortunately for me, my pupils are going off to school. They’re of an age now.’
‘I see. So you’ll be looking out for something else. Or have you already found a post?’
‘Not yet. I’ve written away to a couple of advertisers, and just now I stopped by the Gazette and placed an ad.’
He nodded. ‘Well – I’m sure you’ll find something soon.’
‘I hope so – or I shall be in trouble.’
‘Do you enjoy it? – being a governess?’
‘Yes, I do.’ She nodded to endorse her words. ‘I’ve only had the experience of my two pupils in Little Patten, but they’re good girls. Oh, yes, I like my work.’
‘Good. That’s good to hear.’
The conversation, stilted and awkward, and which was going nowhere, tailed off. Moments passed, then Joel said, ‘That was such a surprise – seeing you here.’
‘Yes – for me also.’
‘Are you often in Corster?’
‘I come in regularly every fortnight – on an errand for Miss Balfour.’
‘Ah, yes, your friend in Sherrell.’
