Free Saddle the Wind by Jess Foley Page B

gazed at it for long moments then moved on a step to look at the next picture. It depicted a harvest scene, the workers, men, women and children, gathering up the stooks and placing them in rows. The scene was drenched in sunlight. Savill could almost feel the sticky, almost airless, heat of the day. Who could have done such work, he wondered – and then his eye caught the signature, written small in the lower righthand corner:
Oliver Farrar
– and beside it:
1879
. He turned to the woman.
    ‘Your husband,’ he said wonderingly, and shook his head. ‘They’re done by your husband. I had no idea he had such talent. They’re beautiful.’
    At his words he saw pride in her eyes. She smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll tell him what you said when he comes in. He’ll be pleased.’
    He turned and gave his attention to the paintings again, looking at them one by one as he moved slowly around the small room. There were nine of them altogether, landscapes, still-lifes, portraits, and studies of figures in domestic scenes.
    ‘When does he find the time to do them?’ he asked.
    ‘At the weekends – on his time off on Sundays. Just about any spare minute he can find.’
    ‘Does he sell them?’
    She raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Sell them, sir? How would he do that?’
    ‘Well – I should think he’d be able to. And perhaps for quite considerable sums.’
    ‘– Really, sir?’
    He nodded. ‘I would think so. I don’t know. I’m no expert, but I should think he could take them somewhere. To the city. To Bath or somewhere – or even up to London. There must be somebody there who would be interested.’
    She smiled. ‘It needs time and money to go traipsing off like that, sir.’ Then she added: ‘Though it doesn’t stop him – not selling them, I mean. I should think whatever happened he’d still go on painting. It’s all he thinks about.’
    Savill thought again of the time he had gone to talk to Oliver Farrar in the garden, and suddenly, now, he could understand him better. If a man had such a thing as this inside him – this talent eating away at him with no real outlet for it, it wasn’t to be wondered at if he gave the air of having things on his mind apart from gardening.
    After a moment Savill prepared to leave and the woman opened the door. He thanked her, said he hoped he hadn’t taken up too much of her time.
    She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, sir. There’s a while yet before my other children get back from school.’
    ‘D’you have to go and meet them?’
    ‘No – Mrs Hewitt, my neighbour, will do that when she meets her own boy.’
    ‘I see.’ He hesitated on the threshold of the room. ‘Did I understand from what you said earlier that one of your children is in bed?’
    She nodded and glanced upwards. ‘Yes, my little boyArthur. You met him the other day when I was up at the house.’
    ‘Yes, I remember … Is he ill?’
    She nodded. ‘He has asthma. He’s had it since he was a baby and – well, I’m afraid he’s not – not as strong as the others.’
    ‘I see. He’s been having some bad attacks lately, has he?’
    ‘Yes, he has.’
    ‘Have you had the doctor to him?’
    ‘Yes. But he’s never able to do much.’
    ‘Which doctor do you have?’
    ‘Dr Harmon.’
    ‘I don’t want to interfere,’ Savill said gently.
    ‘It’s all right, sir.’
    Her voice sounded overly bright. It didn’t convince him, though. She might be strong and proud, he thought, but where her children were concerned she was very vulnerable.
    When John Savill had gone Sarah got the baby ready, left her in the makeshift pen and went upstairs to the children’s bedroom. There Arthur lay in the half-light that came in through the thin curtains. As she bent over the bed he smiled up at her.
    ‘Hello, Artie,’ she said softly. ‘Did I wake you?’
    ‘No, I was awake.’
    ‘How do you feel now?’
    ‘All right.’ He nodded his head on the pillow.
    In spite of his assurance she could hear the