Sarah’s Story: An emotional family saga that you won’t be able to put down. Lynne Francis
sight. He gestured to the ground beside her.
‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Why yes,’ said Sarah, arranging herself as prettily as she could and hoping that the dappled shade under the trees was showing her to her best advantage.
Joe loosened the red neckerchief from around his neck and used it mop his forehead.
‘’Twill be a right hot ’un today, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Yon herbs will be after wilting.’ He nodded in the direction of Sarah’s basket.
She hastily pushed the basket further into the shade with her foot and just managed to stop herself from saying, ‘Yes, I must get them home to my grandmother,’ which was the first thing that had sprung to mind. For she had rehearsed a second meeting with Joe over and over in her head, and in her imagination the conversation flowed freely. She now found herself tongue-tied, with not a single sensible thing to say to this man.
Joe leant towards her and she shrank back a little. ‘What hast thou done to thy hand?’ he asked and, reaching out, he took Sarah’s small hand in his. She was aware of the calloused roughness of his skin as he gently opened out her fingers, turning her hand back and forth as he examined the raised and reddened areas. Then he lifted the sore fingers to his lips and blew on them with extreme gentleness. Sarah, who had been half expecting him to kiss them, was startled. The sensation was both soothing and cooling, and something else entirely. Joe kept his eyes fixed on hers as he repeated the action. This time he finished by kissing the tips of her fingers.
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