Saddle the Wind by Jess Foley Page A

had looked up as she entered, and put his sketchbook aside, and she had realized suddenly that his hair was neatly combed, that he was freshly shaven and that he had put on a clean shirt.
    She made tea for the two of them, and they sat drinking it, facing one another beside the range, talking of this and that. The conversation was awkward, though, both of them aware that they would be spending that night together. They spoke of the children’s school work, of Ollie’s painting and his work on the land, of Mr Savill and the folk up at the house. But no mention was made of what was uppermost in their minds, and Sarah began to fear that they had gone beyond some point of no return, beyond the point where they could relax again in each other’s company, and be close. And perhaps they would continue like this, she said to herself – except that as time went on they would grow even further apart. Then, moments after the thought had come toher mind, the desultory conversation dried up altogether and they were left sitting there, avoiding one another’s eyes and unable to think of anything else to say.
    Sarah felt she could weep. They had been so close once, and here they were like strangers meeting at the market. She stared at the range for a minute or two until, unable to sit there any longer, she got up, put down her cup and went out into the hall. There she stood in the silence, purposeless. After a few moments she opened the door to the little parlour and went in, closing the door behind her. Moving to the upright piano she lit the oil lamp on its top, sat down on the stool and lifted the lid.
    The piano was very old. It had been given to Sarah’s father in lieu of payment for some long outstanding debt when she was a child. She struck a chord. The instrument had been out of tune for so long.
    She began to play, softly, Mendelssohn’s ‘On Wings of Song’, a piece she had learned as a child. After a while she began to sing, her light contralto almost whispering in the little room:
    … Bear thee to regions enchanted,
Where joy fills the rapturous day …
    She became aware that the door had opened and closed again and that Ollie had come into the room. Self-consciously she broke off the song and turned to him with an awkward little smile.
    ‘Don’t stop,’ he said, moving to stand beside the piano.
    ‘Oh …’ She shook her head. ‘We’re both so out of tune these days – the piano and me.’
    ‘No, don’t say that.’
    They remained there, she sitting on the piano stool, he standing, looking down at her. She dropped her eyes beneath his gaze.
    ‘Sing “Comin’ Thro the Rye”,’ he said.
    It was a favourite song of his. Soon after they were married he had taken her to a concert at the old Trowbridge Town Hall where a soprano had sung the song. Ollie had never heard it before and, much taken with it, had tried to recall snatches of the words and the melody as they walked home. When they had got back to the cottage Sarah had sat down at the piano and, to his surprise and delight, had sung the song for him. ‘You know it,’ he had said, laughing. ‘How? How do you know it?’ ‘From my father, of course.’ ‘You didn’t tell me you knew it. You’ve never sung it before.’ She had shrugged, smiling up at him. ‘Well, I’ve sung it now.’
    Now she said, avoiding his eyes, ‘Oh – that old thing. No – I can’t …’
    ‘Yes, you can. Please …’
    ‘Oh – well – it’s so late, and the children …’
    ‘They’ll sleep through anything, you know that.’
    Making no reply she sat in silence for some moments, and then her fingers began to move softly over the keys. After a few chords she began to sing.
    Gin a body meet a body, comin’ thro the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body, need a body cry.
    She sang the song quite slowly, investing the words with the brogue she had learned from her Scots father.
    Ilka lassie has her laddie,
Nane they say ha’e I.
Yet a’ the lads they smile at me
When