Lynne Francis - Sarah’s Story - An emotional family saga that you won’t be able to put down

His words echoed those of her grandmother, who had warned her never to use this route, tempting though it was as a short cut, for the very same reason. She faltered in her stride. How could she know whether or not he was the very same vagabond whom he was proposing to guard her against? She turned and regarded him.

‘And where are you from, if I might make so bold as to ask? Are you from these parts, or a stranger here?’

The man chuckled. ‘My name is Joe Bancroft. Today I am just passing through but I’ve spent enough time here in Nortonstall to know that the canal dwellers do have a fondness for this track here, using it to get them most directly into town, and they be, for the most part, company ’twould be the wisest for you not to keep.’

By this time, he had fallen into step beside her and, reassured by his manner, she had allowed him to keep pace with her until the track widened out. Here, a path struck out over the fields, climbing up towards Nortonstall, and she felt quite safe to take it alone. It was an open track and her progress along it would be visible for miles, not hidden as they were right now between two high hedges laden with May blossom.

He’d talked about all manner of things as they’d walked, about the hedges and the birds and the creatures hiding within, and she’d reached the end of their journey together knowing no more about him than she had at the start, nor he of her.

‘I thank you for your company but I must leave you now and make haste. My grandmother will be vexed.’

‘We must hope not,’ Joe said. ‘I, too, thank you for your company. I daresay I’ll not be able to pass this way again without remembering you.’ He smiled, a rich and joyous smile.

Sarah, rather taken with the thought, smiled back.

‘Might I know your name?’ Joe asked.

‘Sarah,’ she replied, all at once reluctant to part but turning to climb the stile nonetheless. ‘Sarah Gibson.’

‘Well, Sarah Gibson, I hope our paths may cross again, if not here then in t’near neighbourhood.’ And with that Joe tipped his hat to her and strode off.

Sarah, almost cross that he hadn’t offered to hand her up, mounted the stile, jumped down on the other side and retrieved the basket that she had pushed beneath, before striking out up the hill. She looked back once and could just make out the top of his hat as it passed between the hedgerows. A melodious yet jaunty whistling drifted up to her, causing her to smile again. Joe Bancroft appeared to be a man of the greatest good humour, something that his very presence seemed to spread and share. She rather hoped that she would see him again, and soon.

After that first encounter, Sarah had arrived home to Hill Farm Cottage breathless and flushed, easily accounted for to her grandmother, Ada, by her fear that she was very late and might have caused her to worry. She described at great length how she had wandered further afield than usual and discovered lungwort and comfrey, waxing lyrical about the great quantities there and promising to return for more at the first opportunity.

She made no mention of her route home by Tinker’s Way, nor of her encounter with Joe Bancroft. That was something to be kept to herself, a memory to savour in private moments when no one else was around. Having examined the chance meeting from every angle, Sarah concluded that it was something she must repeat, despite having no way of knowing how this could be achieved. As it was on Tinker’s Way that she had first seen Joe, she decided that it was to Tinker’s Way she must return, risking the wrath of her grandmother if her disobedience were to be discovered.

Sarah had lived in Hill Farm Cottage, along with her grandmother Ada, for as long as she could remember. Sarah’s mother, Mary, had lived there too for a while. Mary had married a weaver from Northwaite, William Gibson, who – having made himself unpopular for one reason and another at the local mill – had been forced to look further afield for work, in Manchester. He left behind his wife Mary, along with Sarah and her two younger sisters Jane and Ellen. He sent home what he said he could spare from his wages each week but, even so, without additional financial help from Ada the family wouldn’t have survived.

Ada’s role as a herbalist gave her some status in the village, and a little wealth; enough to afford the rent on the cottage. It was a little way out of Northwaite but was big enough to house them all and to provide a garden for Ada to grow the herbs she needed. The distance from the village meant that Ada paid a lower rent, but it was a disadvantage for the less able of her patients, who struggled to make the journey. So, from an early age, Sarah had been employed to deliver remedies to them as necessary.

Ada cut a stern figure despite her diminutive size, dressing all in black in honour of her long-dead husband, Harry Randall. When Sarah was small, the approaching rustle of Ada’s bombazine dress had filled her with dread for she always feared that she was about to be caught out in some behaviour considered worthy of punishment. In later years, Sarah got to wondering whether Ada’s joy had died along with Harry, for she smiled little and scolded a good deal.

It was partly this that made her eager to offer to run errands for her grandmother, so that she could leave the cottage and its frequently strained atmosphere. She learnt very quickly that if she was swift in the execution of the errand she could dawdle her way home, stopping on the bridge over the brook to look for minnows or sticklebacks darting about in the shallows or, in spring, to watch fluffy young ducklings quack anxiously after their mother as she shepherded them on an outing. And if she loitered in the doorway of Patchett’s, the baker’s, she would often be rewarded with a treat.

‘Been out delivering for your gran again? You’re a good girl. You must be hungry – here’s a morsel for you.’ Mrs Patchett, the baker’s wife, would wipe her floury arms on her apron and beam, handing over a roll that she said was misshapen, or a sweet tart where the pastry had caught and burnt a little round the edges. The one thing the treats had in common was that they were all somewhat larger than a morsel and Sarah would eat them quickly on the last stretch of her journey home, taking care to wipe her mouth on her sleeve and to lick her fingers to remove the evidence.

As Sarah grew a little older, Ada sent her on errands beyond the immediate village and she quickly came to know her way around the countryside and to delight in exploring it. By this time Mary had left her mother’s house, taking the two little girls with her to join her husband in Manchester. Sarah, aged ten, was left behind to act as her grandmother’s companion.

Sarah wasn’t entirely sorry at this turn of events. Her grandmother and mother clashed constantly and Sarah’s loyalties were torn. Although she found her grandmother formidable, she was at least consistent. You knew where you stood, and you knew to expect punishment if you did wrong. Sarah’s mother was harder to fathom. At times she was emotional, gathering her three children to her and telling them how much she loved them all. At other times she was cold and cruel, denying them food for childish misdemeanours. Or worse: Sarah had found her sister Ellen shut in the cellar one day when she chanced to go down there to find jars for the ointments her grandmother was making. Ellen, her eyes saucer-like with terror, could barely explain what she had done to deserve this and Sarah was unable to discover how long she had been down there. Ellen spent the rest of the day clinging to Sarah’s skirt while she worked.

Mary returned quite late that day, unusually flushed and looking happier than Sarah had seen her in a while. That evening, harsh words passed between Ada and her daughter and within the week Mary was gone, taking Jane and Ellen with her. Sarah discovered that the household was a calmer place without her mother, although she missed Jane and Ellen terribly. Now she had no companions to spend her days with, and her distance from the village meant that she made no close friends there. She thought she ought to miss her mother, too, but since her grandmother had been such a strong presence throughout her formative years all went on much as before, although perhaps a little more quietly. If Sarah was missing affection in her life she didn’t notice, it having been in short supply before.