It had been a difficult day. Sarah suddenly felt very tired as she looked round the schoolroom

Fleur sat up and looked round the room. Plush velvet and gilt-framed pictures all around her made her shudder slightly. Her gaze travelled to the portrait of her late father-in-law which hung above the fireplace. He looked severe, his gaze stern and disapproving. Fleur shivered. Would her dear Roderick lose his indulgent ways and grow into his father’s unforgiving likeness one of these days, she asked herself, hoping against hope that this would not be the case.

For the only thing that kept her here, in this gloomy house, where her sister-in-law seemed to be almost in permanent residence and where Roderick could speak of little else but coal mining, were his unswerving efforts to please her.

She took a mirror from her purse and studied her reflection for a moment, trying to convince herself that she had lost none of the youthful prettiness that had won her a rich husband.

She sighed. It was clear that she would have to use more of what she called “a little artifice”. Perhaps her sister-in-law was right when she said that she needed to discard dresses of sprigged lawn with lace collars for something more befitting a woman of her age.

Concerned

The door banged again and her husband’s voice echoed through the hallway as he called to Mrs Goudie, the housekeeper, to ask about the evening meal. Fleur put away her mirror and hastily rearranged herself in a reclining position, stirring only when Roderick leaned over her and tenderly kissed her brow. She smiled up at him. “Another migraine, I’m afraid,” she said faintly. “Perhaps we should send for the doctor.” Colonel Grant was concerned. “No need for that,” was the hasty reply. “It’s the weather, I think. This constant rain is so very depressing. Your sister crashing about the place isn’t helping. I need the sun on my face, even for a little while.”

At the mention of his sister, Colonel Grant’s expression had changed.

“Bunty isn’t the most graceful of women, Fleur, but she has a generous heart and she’s spirited, which tends to bring out the best in people. Why, even Mrs Goudie has a smile on her face when Bunty’s in residence.”

Fleur sat up. The conversation was drifting away from her chosen purpose. She reached out and grasped her husband’s hands.

“They say that winter will come early this year, Roderick.” She shivered slightly. “I can feel it already. And you will have a great deal to do come winter, my love. It’s harder for the miners then.”

She took his hands in hers and smiled a tremulous smile. “There’s just time for us to go to London for a few days to refresh us.” She turned imploring eyes on Roderick. They were swimming with tears. His surrender was swift.

“I thought you said that you wanted to feel the sun on your face, my darling Fleur. London will be as gloomy as this if winter is approaching.”

She held her breath as she held his gaze. “Paris, perhaps, as a diversion from the weather,” he conceded. Fleur had the sudden tempting vision of new dresses.

“We could pause in Paris, but there will still be warmth in the sun in Venice. It’s such a pity that you cannot spare the time to take me there. Venice is so very romantic, don’t you think?”

At dinner, Fleur had recovered from her migraine and was in good humour. As Bunty delivered a tirade about Rushforth, the new pit manager, whom she judged “shifty”, Fleur picked daintily at her food, waiting till Bunty paused for breath before she spoke.

“I’m very glad that you’ve decided to stay on a bit longer, Bunty, because dear Roderick has suggested that we go to Venice before winter sets in. We might pause in Paris for a few days, of course.”

Bunty glanced at her brother. “It seems you’ve found the perfect cure for a migraine, then,” she remarked. As usual, he missed the irony of her remark, and beamed at his sister.

“It’ll be a short holiday. We’ll be back before you’ve noticed that we’ve gone.”

Bunty gave a curt nod and applied herself to her meal. If only her brother wasn’t such a very nice man, she reflected.

Difficult

It had been a difficult day. Sarah suddenly felt very tired as she looked around her new schoolroom, which had seemed so neat and orderly that morning and now, a few hours later, bore signs of the chaos wrought by her pupils.

It had been a miserable day, with dark skies and a constant downpour. There was a trail of muddy footprints across the floor, pairs of boots steaming gently on the fender, a fire which was threatening to fill the room with smoke and a draught from the back door which had been left open when Abie Mackin had decided that he’d had enough of lessons for the day.

Benjamin, Abie’s three-year-old brother, had helped himself to a box of brightly coloured wooden counters and was playing with them on Pate’s hearthrug.

His last raid on Miss Bunty’s wardrobe, now the schoolroom’s cupboard, had left its contents tumbled, its doors swinging open. In the front row, a child had fallen asleep, his head slumped wearily on his arms.

Sarah clapped her hands. “Everybody sit up straight and fold your arms. If you sit nice and quiet, I’ll tell you a story before you go home,” she said to the children brightly.

The sleeper slept on and Benjamin left his playthings on the rug and disappeared towards the back door in search of his brother, but the rest of the children did as they were told and waited expectantly.

Sarah’s story ended with the words: “And they lived happily ever after.” The girls smiled; the boys looked rather doubtful.

Action

“Time to go home. Let’s make a line and march out like soldiers,” Sarah said, knowing that she was ending the school day early, but that she would need the time to tidy up the room, mop the floor, bank down the fire and look again at the Wee School’s register. The distant drumbeat of miners’ boots as they came off shift had long since died away.

Daniel would be home. At the thought, she was galvanised into action.

“I waited back tae help, Mistress Morrison.” Rachel, the eldest of the Mackin children, stood uncertainly by the door. “That’s if you let me.”

Sarah smiled at her. “Of course, Rachel. It was very kind of you to think of it.” The little girl smiled and pushed up her sleeves. “Right, then. Whit’s first?”

Before Sarah knew it, her helper had taken charge, clearing up the mess and sorting out the cupboard.

“Ye need a key for this, Mistress Morrison.” She tapped the wardrobe door. “There’s a keyhole here but nae key.”

As they got on with everything, Rachel kept up her chatter and stream of suggestions. She lingered on as Sarah banked up the fire.

“If I’m your helper, will ye let me stay, Mistress Morrison?” she asked uncertainly, shifting from one foot to the other.

More tomorrow

This story was originally written specially for The People’s Friend, which published it under the title The Life We Choose. There’s more fiction in The People’s Friend every week, available from newsagents and supermarkets at £1.30.

Artwork: Andrew Lloyd Jones