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

Later, Sarah could barely imagine what had come over her. Her lips had parted involuntarily but she did not speak. She felt as though her insides had turned to liquid – a liquid that was charged with fire.

‘Well, Sarah Gibson,’ Joe said, ‘what are you doing out here, a young girl like you, roaming alone again? Anything could happen to you.’ He said it teasingly, but as he spoke he let go of her hand, setting his free hand on her neck and gently drawing her face towards his. Her eyes were locked with his as he kissed her, at first gently and then deeply. She did not know what to make of the feelings that this created within her; the fire had turned to ice, then fire again. When he let her go she wanted both to have him kiss her all over again, and to run away.

Joe sat back and studied her. ‘Well, well, Sarah Gibson. You’re a one and no mistake.’ He took her hand again and sucked her fingers almost absent-mindedly, looking perturbed all the while.

Sarah, who was now feeling that their encounter had not gone at all as she had intended, snatched her hand away and scrambled to her feet, uttering the words she had repressed earlier.

‘I must get back to my grandmother.’ She indicated the basket of lungwort. ‘She’ll be needing this.’

Joe got to his feet too. ‘Let me walk along of you.’

‘No, no,’ Sarah said. ‘I must hurry.’ She picked up her basket and ran down the hill, feeling unaccountably close to tears. As she turned to mount the stile from the field to the footpath she saw Joe standing just where she had left him. His bright waistcoat made a vivid splash of colour in the shade of the trees and he raised his hand in farewell. He called out and Sarah wasn’t sure whether she had heard it correctly, but she thought he’d said, ‘Goodbye, Sarah Gibson. Until tomorrow.’

The meeting had not played out according to plan at all, Sarah thought as she made her way home. In her often-imagined version, he had begged to accompany her on her walk and been solicitous and reverential towards her. Her cheeks burnt with indignation. How dare Joe Bancroft act in such a forward manner towards her? And what did he mean by ‘Until tomorrow’? She had no intention of seeing him ever again.

An hour later, with the lungwort delivered to Ada – who had given her granddaughter a sharp look on registering both the clothes she was wearing and her flushed demeanour – Sarah was consumed with longing to see Joe again. The memory of his kiss had returned to her and she shifted restlessly as she tried to settle to the sewing tasks that had piled up in the workbasket. She longed to head out into the sunshine again and roam across the fields where she could explore her thoughts. Inside the house she felt stifled, but she knew she must stay there and act as normally as possible. Her grandmother must not suspect that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

‘There’s a man at the gate, Sarah. We’re not expecting visitors, are we?’

Ada’s tone was querulous. She’d had a bad night, in pain from the rheumatism that plagued her hands and feet at different times of the year, and she wasn’t in the mood for the niceties that a social visit would demand. Sarah peered out of the window over her grandmother’s shoulder and had to suppress a gasp.

Standing at the gate, cap set at a jaunty angle, a bright-red neckerchief tucked in the neck of his canvas shirt and wearing a different waistcoat, but no jacket in recognition of the warmth of the day, was Joe Bancroft.

‘I’ll go and ask him what he wants,’ Sarah said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll send him on his way.’

Without waiting for her grandmother’s response, she opened the door and marched down the path. Joe swept his cap from his head with a flourish and bowed at her approach.

‘Good day, Sarah Gibson. I was just passing by and thought to ask whether you or your grandmother had need of help? Aught to be fixed around the house or garden?’ The expression on Joe’s face was one of guileless friendliness.

‘How did you find me here, Joseph Bancroft?’ Sarah was quite fired up. ‘It’s most forward of you to call on me at home in this way.’ She was almost spluttering with indignation at his behaviour.

Sarah had quite forgotten how she had sought out Joe the previous day, as well as how she had been longing to see him again ever since. Now, concerned that he had tracked her down in her own home, she felt quite wrong-footed. Joe, who seemed mildly amused rather than put out by her greeting, was looking over her shoulder.

‘Those roses there –’ he pointed at Sarah’s favourite crimson blooms ‘– would they be the ones scenting your cheeks yesterday?’

Sarah’s blush was as crimson as the rose petals. She was caught out in her vanity and embarrassed by it. But Joe’s face had changed in an instant. He spoke low and urgently.

‘Sarah Gibson, I must see you again. I’ve not been able to get thee from my mind the whole night through. Meet me tomorrow at the edge of Tinker’s Wood.’

Sarah shook her head, half turning as she heard her grandmother open the door.

Joe spoke again. ‘I must go away awhile tomorrow night. But first I must see you.’

‘Sarah, come away back inside.’ Ada’s tone was sharp and Sarah turned at once to go in.

‘Tomorrow. At midday. I will wait,’ Joe said.

Sarah turned back in time to catch Joe doffing his cap to both her and Ada, before he assumed his air of jaunty insouciance once more and went on his way, whistling.

‘What did he want?’ Ada demanded as soon as Sarah stepped over the threshold. ‘He looked nothing better than a tinker. I hope we’ll not be robbed in our beds tonight.’

Sarah’s mood switched quickly once more and she felt rage welling up inside her at her grandmother’s words. How could she refer to Joe in this way, as a tinker and a potential thief? She did her best to remain calm, however, determined not to reveal that she had any prior acquaintance with Joe.

‘Oh, he just wondered whether we had any jobs around the house or garden that required a man’s hand. He was most polite in his manner. I don’t think we have anything to fear from him.’

Sarah busied herself with folding laundry, hoping that she had allayed her grandmother’s worries, all the while prey to violently mixed emotions. Despite her cross words to Joe, she knew without a doubt that she would try to meet him at Tinker’s Wood the next day. When he had said that he’d been unable to get her from his mind the whole night through, a thrill had run through her. No one had ever said such a thing to her before. It was a secret, and she must keep it to herself, yet it gave her a delicious feeling of power.

She wished her sisters still lived there with her – she would have shared Joe’s words with them and asked them for their help. The laughing and giggling this would have provoked would no doubt have irritated Ada but, as it was, she had no one to turn to – and no one to help her effect her plans. At midday the next day her grandmother would expect Sarah to be at home, preparing their meal, not heading off over the fields to a secret assignation.

Although Sarah tried very hard to apply herself to the tasks set by her grandmother for the remainder of that day, her concentration was woefully lacking. While transferring the herbal distillations to smaller containers she overfilled the bottles, allowing the liquid to pour over the sides unchecked and so earning a scolding from Ada. She let the potatoes boil dry while preparing the midday meal, being too busy staring unseeing out of the window to notice anything amiss until a smell of burning snapped her out of her reverie. Sent out to gather may blossom from the hawthorn hedge bordering the garden she wandered off and came back empty-handed after an hour, having been distracted by watching a weasel hunting baby rabbits in the field beyond.