as the procession, speeding up now, began to cross the meadow toward the little wood on the other side of the river known as Foley’s Wood, the ribbon snapped as I thought I recognised the walk of the dark figure who had now gone to the head of the group.
I thought it was my father’s walk.
I watched till there was nothing more to see. Then, in my dream, I went back to bed, and finally to sleep. In the morning when I woke I found my hair untidy round my face. I got up and went to the window, and there on the window ledge was a piece of broken ribbon.
C HAPTER N INE
Consequences
I was very quiet the next day.
Partly this was because I was upset about what I had overheard the previous evening – upset and uncertain. I was even more upset over what I had seen – if I had seen it. On thinking it over it seemed to me that the snapped ribbon proved little. In any case, I knew very well that if I told anybody what I had seen, or thought I had seen, they would have said ‘You’ve been dreaming.’ Even Miss Roxby would have said that. And such a dismissal of my testimony would have been entirely plausible.
Even now I do not know that I saw it.
In any case, who could I tell who was a powerof any kind in the household? Miss Roxby or someone in the servants’ hall would have been the best I could come up with, and I knew what their response would be.
If Miss Roxby noticed my quietness the next day, she did not comment on it. She was very good like that: sympathetic to my moods, but not demonstratively so. We went about our daily round as usual, and of course I did not ask her about Robert the footman.
But a screaming imperative was gaining force within me: I had to know about Uncle Frank. In any case, Miss Roxby was not the obvious person to ask about that, being cut off for much of the time from the body of the house. Failing members of my own family – or, rather, my heart failing at the thought of asking Aunt Jane or my father – I finally decided to ask my friends in the below-stairs part of the house.
‘I haven’t seen Uncle Frank today,’ I said to Mrs Needham, in the afternoon, when preparations for dinner were under way in the kitchens.
‘Oh?’
‘Is he still in the house?’
‘I couldn’t say I’m sure. Nobody ever tells me how many there will be for dinner, if it’s just a family dinner.’
‘Well, I know that. The waste in this family is shocking.’ I turned to Mr McKay, who was pottering around in his intensely dignified way. ‘Do you know if Uncle Frank is still at Blakemere, Mr McKay?’
‘Ah … I think not. I rather think he left the house either last night, or very early this morning.’
‘You must know if his bed had been slept in.’
A silly comment. Mr McKay drew himself up.
‘On the contrary, that is not something that comes within my sphere of inquiry … You are getting rather old, Miss Sarah, for coming into the kitchen – or below stairs generally.’
‘I didn’t know there was an age limit,’ I said, with some of my old pertness.
‘A child may go anywhere, but a young lady generally keeps herself to her own part of the house. Lady Fearing herself seldom or never comes here – only at Christmas, in fact, to thank the staff for their work over the years, and to distribute gifts.’
‘It’s nice of her to distribute gifts,’ I said, ‘but I can’t see why she celebrates Christmas at all. Jews don’t believe in Christ.’
This was in no way pejorative, merely ashowing off of a recently acquired piece of knowledge. I knew perfectly well that Grandmama was a Christian. I was not, in fact, diverted from my inquiries, and I meditated who else I might ask. Mrs Merton, the head housekeeper, was so fantastically discreet and remote that she was out of the question, but I thought I might ask one of the maids. I meandered through the baronial wastelands of the Blakemere servants’ hall and kitchens until I spotted Bertha, about some arduous but useless task in a
I thought it was my father’s walk.
I watched till there was nothing more to see. Then, in my dream, I went back to bed, and finally to sleep. In the morning when I woke I found my hair untidy round my face. I got up and went to the window, and there on the window ledge was a piece of broken ribbon.
C HAPTER N INE
Consequences
I was very quiet the next day.
Partly this was because I was upset about what I had overheard the previous evening – upset and uncertain. I was even more upset over what I had seen – if I had seen it. On thinking it over it seemed to me that the snapped ribbon proved little. In any case, I knew very well that if I told anybody what I had seen, or thought I had seen, they would have said ‘You’ve been dreaming.’ Even Miss Roxby would have said that. And such a dismissal of my testimony would have been entirely plausible.
Even now I do not know that I saw it.
In any case, who could I tell who was a powerof any kind in the household? Miss Roxby or someone in the servants’ hall would have been the best I could come up with, and I knew what their response would be.
If Miss Roxby noticed my quietness the next day, she did not comment on it. She was very good like that: sympathetic to my moods, but not demonstratively so. We went about our daily round as usual, and of course I did not ask her about Robert the footman.
But a screaming imperative was gaining force within me: I had to know about Uncle Frank. In any case, Miss Roxby was not the obvious person to ask about that, being cut off for much of the time from the body of the house. Failing members of my own family – or, rather, my heart failing at the thought of asking Aunt Jane or my father – I finally decided to ask my friends in the below-stairs part of the house.
‘I haven’t seen Uncle Frank today,’ I said to Mrs Needham, in the afternoon, when preparations for dinner were under way in the kitchens.
‘Oh?’
‘Is he still in the house?’
‘I couldn’t say I’m sure. Nobody ever tells me how many there will be for dinner, if it’s just a family dinner.’
‘Well, I know that. The waste in this family is shocking.’ I turned to Mr McKay, who was pottering around in his intensely dignified way. ‘Do you know if Uncle Frank is still at Blakemere, Mr McKay?’
‘Ah … I think not. I rather think he left the house either last night, or very early this morning.’
‘You must know if his bed had been slept in.’
A silly comment. Mr McKay drew himself up.
‘On the contrary, that is not something that comes within my sphere of inquiry … You are getting rather old, Miss Sarah, for coming into the kitchen – or below stairs generally.’
‘I didn’t know there was an age limit,’ I said, with some of my old pertness.
‘A child may go anywhere, but a young lady generally keeps herself to her own part of the house. Lady Fearing herself seldom or never comes here – only at Christmas, in fact, to thank the staff for their work over the years, and to distribute gifts.’
‘It’s nice of her to distribute gifts,’ I said, ‘but I can’t see why she celebrates Christmas at all. Jews don’t believe in Christ.’
This was in no way pejorative, merely ashowing off of a recently acquired piece of knowledge. I knew perfectly well that Grandmama was a Christian. I was not, in fact, diverted from my inquiries, and I meditated who else I might ask. Mrs Merton, the head housekeeper, was so fantastically discreet and remote that she was out of the question, but I thought I might ask one of the maids. I meandered through the baronial wastelands of the Blakemere servants’ hall and kitchens until I spotted Bertha, about some arduous but useless task in a
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