‘Running off?’ she said. ‘I’m not running off.’
‘Perhaps I was wrong in my choice of words.’ A moment, then he added, ‘Are you sure there’s no other reason for your going to London? Apart from your general intention – of making something of your life, I mean.’
‘Of course there’s no other reason – although my friend Jane is there.’
‘Is there no reason apart from that?’
‘Louis,’ she said, feeling her irritation growing, ‘why are you asking all these questions? I’m leaving tomorrow; can’t we just enjoy the drive? Please?’
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘your Mr Gilmore’s in London, isn’t he?’
She stiffened slightly. ‘So?’
He turned to her, his expression bland. ‘It just occurred to me, that’s all.’
‘It didn’t just occur to you.’
‘Abbie – Abbie, stop sounding so cross. Why are you being so prickly today?’
‘Well, perhaps I have reason to be – prickly, as you call it. For one thing, you appear to be impugning my reasons for going to London.’
He pulled the mare to a halt at the side of the road and turning to her said, ‘I’m not trying to be disagreeable, but – well, just tell me one thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Has your Mr Arthur Gilmore got anything to do with your going up to London?’
Her nostrils flared in growing anger. ‘Louis,’ she said, ‘I’d be glad if you’d turn the carriage round and drive me back. Would you mind?’
‘Abbie, don’t be angry. Can’t we talk without your getting so cross all the time?’
‘Please – turn the carriage round.’
‘Abbie, calm down . . .’
He reached over to touch her hand, but she snatched her arm away. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘– if you won’t drive me back then I’ll walk.’ She made as if to get out of the carriage, but he said quickly, ‘No, no. Stay where you are.’ Then, shaking the reins, they started off again.
Later, at the entrance to School Lane he brought the carriage to a stop, jumped down and helped her down onto the road.
‘I’ll walk with you to the cottage,’ he said.
‘No, that’s all right, thank you.’
‘You’re still angry with me. Please. You’re going away tomorrow; we can’t part like this.’
She looked up at him now. His expression was earnest. After a moment she put out her hand. ‘No, we can’t. Let us part friends.’
He took her hand. ‘I hope you mean it. It’s what I want – if we have to part at all.’ She moved to withdraw her hand, but he held on to it. ‘Don’t go to London tomorrow,’ he said.
‘What? Not go? Of course I must go. It’s all arranged.’
‘You can write to your employers. Tell them you’ve changed your mind.’
She stared at him. ‘Why on earth should I do that?’
‘Please – stay here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I care for you. Very much.’
I don’t want to hear these words, she thought, and turned her face away. She had a sudden picture of him as he had been at the fair that day. She heard again the music of the hurdy-gurdy and saw herself sitting with him beside the stream. Other images flashed through her mind. She saw him firing at the target, saw Beatie holding her teaset.
‘I must go in,’ Abbie said. ‘I still have so much to do.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ She shook her head distractedly. She could not meet his eyes. ‘I’m just not good company this evening.’
‘Perhaps that’s my fault. Obviously I’m not the one to bring out the best in you. Perhaps your Mr Gilmore will have better luck.’
She stared at him for a moment or two in silence, then, turning, set off along the lane.
‘Abbie . . .’
Louis’s voice came to her as she strode away, but she did not falter, and she entered the cottage without looking back.
That night she climbed into her schoolhouse bed for the last time.
Lying there in the dark, she knew a sense of frustration and disappointment – when she should have felt excitement at the knowledge that in the morning she would be embarking on a new life. But Louis’s words kept coming into her mind:
Has your Mr Gilmore got anything to do with your going up to London?
He had no right to say such things. It was none of his business and in any case it wasn’t true. Besides, Arthur was not just any young man: they had been engaged to be married. Why did Louis have to complicate things so – not only with his references to Arthur and questioning her motives for going to London, but telling her that he cared for her. There were times in the past year when he had proved himself such a good friend. Why could he not remain so? Though she could not say why, anything other – deeper – than friendship where he was concerned left her feeling unsettled and uneasy. Aloud into the dark she muttered, ‘Oh, Louis, why do you have to start upsetting things?’ As she lay there the thought came to her that once she had left Flaxdown she and Louis would never meet again. He was a part of her life that was now about to come to an end. With the thought a little stab of sorrow and loss touched her, but then she told herself that it was better this way. He was a part of the past and must remain so. A clean break with the past – that was what was needed. It must make no difference to her, the fact that he cared for her, that she would miss him. Their relationship was over. In less than a day they would be more than a hundred miles apart.
‘Mama says you’re going out, Miss Morris. Is that so?’ Florence Hayward, eight years old, stood beside her sister Mabel, nine, in the doorway of Abbie’s room. They were as alike as two peas, each with small, bright, dark eyes, and dark curls framing their round, rosy cheeks. Standing at the mirror, Abbie smoothed her coat, touched at her hair and made a final adjustment to her hat. Her glance caught that of the smaller Hayward girl in the glass and she nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right, Florence.’
‘Where are you going to?’ Florence asked.
Her sister Mabel spoke up at this. ‘Florrie, Mama says you’re not to ask so many questions.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Mabel,’ Abbie said. ‘It’s no secret. I’m catching the train into the West End of London.’
‘Whereabouts in London?’ This again from Florence.
‘To Victoria – then I shall get a cab to St James’s Park.’
‘Mama says,’ said Mabel, ‘that you’re meeting your friend there.’
‘Yes, that’s correct. Her name is Jane. We’re from the same village in Wiltshire. We haven’t met for rather a long time and I’m very much looking forward to seeing her again.’ Abbie moved to the window and looked out onto the drive and the front lawn, immaculate and green in the early April sunshine. The house was a tall, early-Victorian building, standing halfway up Bedford Hill. To the right at the hill’s foot was the village of Balham proper, while at the top spread the green stretches of Tooting Bec Common. ‘I’m not likely to need an umbrella, am I?’ Abbie asked vaguely, then shook her head, answering herself. ‘No, I think not.’
‘Can we go with you?’ Florence asked. ‘I’d like to go into town. And Mabel would too.’
‘I’m sorry, Florence,’ Abbie said. ‘Not this time.’
‘Maybe some other time?’
‘Maybe some other time.’ She smiled at them. ‘We’ll see.’
She had been two weeks now in the Hayward household, and was getting to know her young charges. After several days when they had set out to test her, they had proved to be fairly agreeable children, reasonably well behaved, and not greatly taxing – and in any case she was not exactly a novice when it came to handling children.
Glancing at the clock she saw that it was almost two thirty. She moved back to the glass for a final check, then picked up her bag and crossed to the door. With Mabel and Florence following her down the stairs she stepped into the hall just as Mrs Hayward appeared from the drawing room.
‘You’re off now, are you?’ the woman asked, her hands fluttering to her hair.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Mrs Hayward was a small, rather plump woman in her mid-thirties, with a round face and dark curls. Abbie could look at her and see exactly what her two daughters would look like when they had matured – though they appeared not to be like her in their personalities. Perhaps, she thought, they took after their father in that respect; though she could do no more than guess; Mr Hayward spent so little time at his home that she had only seen him on a few occasions.
That the girls were unlike their mother in their ways, however, was all to the good as far as Abbie was concerned. Mrs Hayward seemed to be incapable of relaxing. She always appeared to be harassed by one thing or another – whether it was her daughters, her servants, or the general vicissitudes of her rather humdrum life. She was one of those women who, no matter how uneventful their lives, always manage to find it a strain. Perhaps, Abbie thought, it was not so surprising that Mr Hayward spent so much time away from home, for surely he could find little there in the way of relaxation.
Now Mrs Hayward’s flickering smile fought with a frown as she said to Abbie, ‘You won’t be late back, will you?’
‘No, I shan’t,’ Abbie replied. ‘I’ll try to get here between six and half past.’
‘Good. I shan’t be able to manage the girls without you. They’re such a handful.’
Looking from Mrs Hayward to the two quiet little girls, Abbie wondered briefly how Mrs Hayward would have coped had she had two boisterous sons to raise – perhaps a couple of boys cast in Eddie’s mould.
At Balham Station Abbie took the train to Victoria and from there walked along Buckingham Palace Road, past the Palace itself and on to Birdcage Walk. A few yards along she came to a stop. She did not have to wait long. Just three or four minutes after her arrival she turned and saw Jane coming towards her. With a little cry of pleasure she hurried forward, while at the same time Jane quickened her own steps. A few seconds later they were clasping one another in a warm embrace.
‘Oh, Abbie,’ Jane said, ‘it’s so good to see you again!’
‘And you!’ Abbie said. ‘And you haven’t changed a bit.’
They drew back, looking at one another and then, linking arms, strolled away. They went into the park where beside the lake they found a vacant bench and sat down.
‘Oh, Jane,’ Abbie said happily, ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks. Ever since I made my decision to come here.’
‘I’ve been looking forward to it too,’ Jane said. ‘It’s a shame we couldn’t arrange it earlier – but as you’ll learn, when you’re in service your life is not your own.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Abbie said. ‘I’ve learned that already.’
‘Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound so good. Do I infer that you’re not altogether happy with your situation?’
‘I expect I’ll get used to it in time. I hope so, anyway.’
‘What are your girls’ names?’
‘Florence and Mabel. Oh, they’re no trouble.’
‘Is it their father who’s the problem?’
‘He’s hardly ever there. No, it’s Mrs Hayward. She’s such a fusser. And I don’t seem to get any time to myself. She always wants something done. She has maids, of course, but if it’s to do with the girls or anything that personally concerns herself she calls on me. I never expected such a loss of freedom. Teaching in school was very different.’
After a while they decided to go in search of some refreshment and from the park they made their way to the Strand. Near Trafalgar Square they found a teashop where they sat down at a table and ordered tea and pastries. As they waited for the waitress to bring their order Abbie said, ‘So, what has been happening to you outside of your work? How is your social life?’
‘My social life? Oh – it ticks along, I suppose.’
‘You make it sound very unexciting. Is there no one special? You haven’t mentioned anyone in your letters for some time now.’ With a chuckle Abbie added, ‘You must make an effort. At this rate we’ll both end up old maids, and we can’t have that.’
‘No,’ Jane said, smiling, ‘that would never do.’
Abbie said nothing for a few moments, then, taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Jane, I – I want you to tell me what you think. Tell me as a friend, I mean.’
‘What about . . . ?’
‘As you’re aware, you’re not the only person I know in London. I do have another friend here.’ A pause, then she went on, ‘You realize that I’m talking about – about Mr Gilmore. You remember him, don’t you?’
Jane nodded. ‘Yes – of course . . .’ She looked suddenly very perplexed. ‘Abbie –’ she began, then stopped.
‘Yes, of course you remember him,’ Abbie said. ‘You came to his house when I was staying there the Christmas before last. Anyway, I – I wrote to him. Telling him I was coming to London.’
The waitress appeared with a tray and began to set out the tea and pastries. When she had gone Abbie continued, ‘I hesitated before writing, I don’t mind telling you. I mean – not knowing whether I was doing the right thing. I still don’t. But after all, we were engaged to be married and it was only through circumstances beyond our control that we – I was not able to go through with it.’
Jane, eyes lowered, poured the tea. She handed Abbie a cup. Abbie sipped from it, then went on, ‘Well – he wrote back saying he looked forward to our meeting. And I wrote again last Tuesday, telling him that I was getting settled in. I haven’t heard back yet, but I expect to very soon.’ She looked down into her cup, then raised her eyes to Jane. ‘Do you think I’m being terribly foolish?’ She gave an awkward little laugh. ‘Not to mention somewhat forward?’
When Jane did not answer, Abbie said, ‘What do you think? Tell me what you think.’
Mechanically stirring her teacup, Jane said, ‘Well – I don’t know. What is it you’re hoping for? What do you hope to get out of it – eventually, I mean?’
‘Oh, Jane, when you put it like that it sounds so – I don’t know – so calculating. But after all, it’s not so long since – since we ended our engagement. Just over a year, that’s all. And – he truly cared for me, Jane. He really did.’ She looked keenly at her friend. ‘I suppose I want to find out if he still does. Care for me, I mean.’ She looked at Jane’s downcast face and said, frowning, ‘What’s up? Is something the matter?’