Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 11

  She and Emily loved it from the start. Their spirits rose as they turned the bend and approached the church and school. It was almost three miles to walk each morning, but the two little girls were quick to find lifts with obliging carters and tradesmen, and rarely had to walk both ways in the day. Dolly, who had been so frightened by the size of Bella on the day of the move from Caxley, now treated these great-hearted horses with affection and complete trust as she scrambled up from shaft or wheel hub to her high perch beside some good-natured driver who had taken pity on the two young travellers.

  In all weathers, riding or walking, they traversed the familiar road. They looked out for the first wild flowers of spring, the pink wild roses that starred the summer hedges, and the bright beads of autumn berries. They watched the birds building nests, and could tell to a day when the eggs would hatch. They knew where a badger lived, and where a white owl would appear as they plodded home on a murky winter afternoon. Those three miles grew as familiar and as well-loved as the faces of their mothers. There was always something new, something beautiful, something strange, to find daily, and the two children learnt as much from their close scrutiny of banks and hedges as they did in the busy classroom at Fairacre school.

  As Dolly and Emily neared the end of their schooldays, in the early part of Edward VII's reign, they found that one or the other was frequently called upon to walk from Mr Wardle's room to the infants' room next door in order 'to give a hand', as Mr Wardle always put it, to the teacher in charge.

  They were now called monitors, and with one or two other children of fourteen, undertook a number of daily jobs in the running of the school. Numbers thinned after the age of twelve, for those who could pass an examination in general proficiency were allowed to leave, and farmers were eager to employ these young boys now that labour was difficult to obtain. This meant that those over twelve who were left behind were often lucky enough to get closer attention from their headmaster. Mr Wardle looked upon Dolly and Emily as promising pupil teachers of the future, and gave them every opportunity of learning the rudiments of the job under his roof.

  Both girls enjoyed their time with the babies. Miss Taylor, a wisp of a woman with two protruding front teeth which were the only outstanding feature of an undistinguished appearance, was glad to delegate some of her duties.

  'You take the little boys, dear,' she would say to Dolly, 'and you can manage the girls, Emily, while I hear the big ones read.'

  And so, to a background of young voices chanting round the teacher's desk, Emily and Dolly would squat on low chairs by their charges and show them how to write capital letters on their slates, holding small hot hands within their own while wet slate pencils traced uncertainly the mysteries being explained.

  Sometimes, when Miss Taylor wanted peace in which to mark sums or tidy cupboards, Dolly would perch on the high chair before the class and tell them one of the stories about naughty Tom which had once delighted little Frank. It warmed her heart to see the joy with which the children listened, and the company and affection of these babies did much to soften the blow of Frank's death.

  It was no surprise to the girls when one afternoon Mr Wardle asked them to stay behind to talk about training as pupil teachers. It was a golden June afternoon with the weathercock on St Patrick's ablaze in the sunshine against a clear blue sky. Their schoolfellows' cries died rapidly in the distance, for hay-making was in progress and the children were racing to join their fathers and big brothers in the meadows.

  Emily and Dolly stood demurely in front of Mr Wardle's great desk, eyeing the massive brass ink stand and the array of pens.

  'Well, would you like it?' asked Mr Wardle after he had outlined the training involved.

  'I think I should,' said Emily hesitantly. Her grey eyes were clouded with concentration. A wisp of dark hair cleaved to her damp forehead. Volatile and exuberant by nature, Emily was pondering earnestly on her ability to stick to a course for four years and then to the profession to which it led. She liked children, she liked the idea of teaching them, but would she tire of it? She raised perplexed eyes to Mr Wardle's lively blue ones.

  'You'll like it more every year,' promised Mr Wardle, seeing the child's doubts. 'You'll make a very good teacher in time.'

  He turned to Dolly questioningly.

  'I will,' said the child steadily. She might have been taking her vows, thought the schoolmaster, both touched and amused by the calm assurance with which she declared herself. It was strange that on this occasion the more timid of the two should be so confident. With a flash of insight, he recognised in that moment, that he was in the presence of someone who would become a much greater person than he would ever be, and he felt unaccountably humble.

  'You're a born teacher,' he said quietly, and turned the key in his desk drawer to bring the interview to a close.

  Together the three emerged into the dazzling sunlight.

  'Tell your fathers that I have spoken to you about this,' said Mr Wardle, 'and ask them to come and see me. Meanwhile, think it over well. You don't want to spend your whole life regretting a decision. Take plenty of time to make up your minds.'

  He watched their figures dwindle into the distance. The heat waves shimmered across the lane, blurring the outlines of their pale print frocks and wide straw hats. One of them, he thought, half-closing his eyes against the brightness, has given her mind to it already—and her heart and soul too. He only hoped that she would find as much happiness as he had himself.

  Strangely moved and elated, he crossed the shade of his garden and entered the school house.

  In the following September the two girls returned to Fairacre with the status of pupil-teacher. This meant that they helped Mr Wardle and Miss Taylor, and under their guidance prepared and gave lessons occasionally, generally making themselves useful. Twice a week they went into Caxley for evening classes, and occasionally they attended an extra class, or a demonstration lesson by a qualified teacher, on a Saturday morning.

  Both girls were excited by their promotion. They enjoyed the trips to Caxley, and knew that they were luckier than most village children in continuing their education after the age of fourteen. To be sure, the work expected of them was fairly simple—Arithmetic, English, Geography, History and Nature Study—only a little more advanced than Mr Wardle's final lessons with his top class, but it was stimulating to see different pupils and to be taught by a variety of men and women.

  Francis and Mary were pleased with Dolly's choice of career. Their shy one, it seemed, was blossoming. Mary helped Dolly to lengthen her skirts and to dress her soft hair in a top knot in a manner suitable to her new dignity. Emily's dark braids were now worn wound about her head, and the two girls spent much of their time adjusting each other's hair pins. The conversation on the way to Fairacre these days dealt with fashions rather more than education.

  They both longed for 'low shoes' instead of the stout laced boots which they were still obliged to wear. The Misses Evans, also in their teens, were lucky enough to wear shoes with straps every day of their lives, and on high days and holidays, so Dolly heard, they had real silk stockings to wear with them. They surveyed their own cotton-clad legs, terminating in the loathsome boots, with acute disfavour.

  On the evenings that they went to evening classes they eyed the young women of Caxley, who appeared to their unsophisticated eyes as positive fashion plates. Sometimes a carriage would rattle past, bearing a beautiful lady, on her way home from a tea party, wearing one of the delicious large Edwardian hats smothered in tea roses and with clouds of veiling tied beneath the chin. Dolly and Emily gazed with wonder. Would they ever be able to have a hat as adorable as that?

  Getting to Caxley was a problem. Mr Wardle took them in on Tuesday evenings when he went to play chess with an old friend, and brought them home again. He owned a small governess cart, and it was a tight squeeze to get even such slim people as Dolly and Emily into it with sturdy Mr Wardle taking up more than half the room. On Thursday evenings they re
lied on the corn merchant's waggon which had been delivering goods in the Beech Green area all day, but this arrangement had its drawbacks, for the driver was a slow, ambling fellow, and the girls were in a ferment of anxiety until they were dropped at the Institute in Caxley High Street. They returned home in style on Thursdays, for one of the women teachers, the daughter of a prosperous grocer in the town, had the use of her father's carriage and spanked along the lane to Beech Green when the lessons were over.

  It was Ada who was responsible for solving this problem of transport in an indirect way. Growing prettier every year, with bright bold eyes and burnished hair, Ada had many admirers. The young men of Caxley were frequent customers at the general draper's where she worked, calling in to finger ties or to try on one of the dashing new straw boaters, while their eyes wandered over die pretty assistant. It was no wonder that old Mr and Mrs Clare grew anxious about this wayward grandchild. Despite their protestations, Ada came home later and later in the evening, and they felt powerless to control her. They spoke plainly to Francis about it one Sunday when they spent the day at Beech Green.

  The girls had been sent out with a message while the problem was talked over. Francis was greatly perturbed.

  'She'll have to live here,' he said firmly. 'Ada's our child, and we must see to her. 'Tisn't right that you should be bothered with her feckless ways at your time of life.'

  'We'll see if Mrs Evans can have her there to work,' promised Mary. 'There's no way for her to. get to Caxley every day, and maybe she's better in the village.'

  The old man looked dubious.

  'She won't take to it kindly, that I do know,' he said. 'And, to be fair, the girl's doing well at the shop, and they want to keep her.'

  'Well, she can't get there,' said Francis, 'so that's that.'

  'Your father and I,' said old Mrs Clare, 'have been thinking about that. You tell them, my dear,' she nodded to her husband.

  'If you're agreeable,' said Mr Clare, 'I'd like to buy both girls one of these new safety bicycles apiece. They may as well have their little something now, when they need it, as wait for me to go to my grave and then get a pound or two. What'd you say, lad?'

  'I'd say,' said Francis, with feeling, 'that they're two real lucky girls, and Mary and me'd be proper thankful to you.'

  Mary was looking a little apprehensive.

  ''Tis real kind of you,' she said earnestly, 'but—but d'you think they'd be safe? I mean, Caxley's a busy place. They might get knocked down, or run into something if they couldn't manage the machines—'

  Francis broke in upon his wife's misgivings.

  'I'll see they learn to manage 'em before they goes to Caxley,' he assured her. 'You tell 'em the good news when they comes in, dad, and watch their eyes sparkle! You'll get plenty of kisses for this!'

  'I don't want kisses or thanks,' said the old man, although he looked pleased at the thought, 'but they're good girls, and I'm glad to do it for them.'

  And so it came about that once again Ada and Dolly shared a bedroom and set off each morning on their marvellous bicycles, one to Caxley and the other to Fairacre; and on Tuesdays and Thursdays Dolly rode proudly into Caxley to the evening classes, independent of lifts and free to come and go whenever she liked.

  Only Emily was sad, and that sadness did not last long, for Mrs Evans remembered an ancient bicycle propped in an outhouse and lent it to the girl for as long as she needed it. Pedalling along together, the wind playing havoc with their insecure coiffures and their long skirts, the two friends felt that life could hold no greater joy.

  Francis Clare was delighted to have both his daughters at home again. His gay Ada had always been his secret favourite, and he was glad of her boisterous presence for Mary's sake.

  Since the death of Frank, Mary had become much quieter. She rarely spoke of the child, and shrank from any mention of him by Francis. It was only to be expected, Francis told himself at first. The wound was still fresh and any attention to it gave pain. But as the years passed it seemed unnatural to Francis to remain so silent about the tragedy which had smitten them both so cruelly.

  Every week Mary made her way to the grave and put fresh flowers upon the pathetically small green mound. She went alone, and this hurt Francis. She chose her time, when Francis was at work, and when he remonstrated gently with her, the tightening of her lips and stricken look in her eyes were enough to silence him. If only he could thaw her, he told himself, if only she would speak of her grief, then it could make things so much easier for both of them. As it was, he dared not hurt her more, and could only hope that the passing of time would bring them both comfort.

  Ada's good spirits lightened the little cottage and Francis rejoiced in her vivacity. What if the boys did look at her in Caxley? Who could blame them? Ada had her head screwed on the right way, thought Francis, and knew how to behave herself. It was only right that she should attract young men at her age, and with her pretty ways. To tell the truth, he was half in love with her himself, seeing again the beauty that had been Mary's in years gone by.

  So he comforted his wife when she wondered if the)' should be stricter with their lively first-born.

  'There's safety in numbers, my love,' he said. 'Ada won't do anything silly. She may be a bit flighty. What girl at seventeen isn't? But she'll make some young man a good wife, you'll see.'

  He spoke fondly, thinking of the years immediately ahead when Ada would still be a daughter in his house, with the possibility of marriage far ahead in the future. He did not see the flicker of doubt that passed across his wife's face.

  CHAPTER 13

  WHILE Ada enjoyed the bustle of life in Caxley High Street, and felt her spirits lift as she skimmed on her bicycle towards the town, Dolly found quiet satisfaction in the remote tiny world of Fairacre.

  The school's setting was sheltered and peaceful. In those days rough turf surrounded the building, with a stone-flagged path leading to the road, and another to the school house. In summer this little green was white with daisies, and the bigger girls showed the younger ones how to make daisy chains with a pin, or a sharp thumb nail. Later, plantains sent up their tough stalks and knobbly heads, and the children used to pluck these and play 'knocking heads off' with skill and energy.

  The writhing roots of the clump of elm trees provided more amusement for the babies, who contrived houses and shops in the spaces, and a steep bank which sloped into a field below the trees provided numerous slides in wet or dry weather.

  On the grass, under the shade of the trees, stood a bucket of water. This was replenished daily by Mr Wardle, from his own well, and was the only drinking water for the school.

  'Tastes a bit funny in the afternoon,' Dolly Clare heard one child say to another.

  'Ah! But mornin's it's lovely!' replied the other fervently, obviously grateful for small mercies.

  It was Dolly's duty to watch the children during the dinner hour. In the summer, they sprawled on the grass with their hunks of bread with a bit of cheese or bacon to help it down. Sometimes a few radishes or lettuce leaves were added to the meal, when they were in season, and in the autumn plenty of fine apples, plums and nuts were carried to school in the children's dinner bags. Washed down with a swig from the tin mug standing by the 'old bucket', it all tasted good to country children.

  In the winter the desks were dragged forward nearer the blazing fire, and the children ate their meal with one eye on a large kettle which lodged on a trivet. Dolly and Emily made cocoa for them all, ladling a spoonful into the cups brought from home and adding a wobbly stream of boiling water from the heavy kettle. There was no charge for this, for years before, in the bitter winter of 1881, the managers had decided to provide this beverage from their own purses, and the kindly custom continued. A jug of milk was sent over daily from the farm near the church, and brown sugar was kept in a great black and gold tin which had come from China years before, to find an alien home at Fairacre. For many of the children the cocoa was the most nourishing part of their
meal, for times were still hard for the agricultural labourer, and bread formed the major part of the contents of the school satchels, Dolly noticed.

  School began at nine, and ended at four, so that for most of the year Dolly and Emily cycled home in the light. Only at the end of the Christmas term and the early part of the Spring one, when the oil lamps were lit from a long taper and shed meagre pools of light upon the children's heads below, were Dolly and Emily obliged to fix lamps to their bicycles and pedal through the dark lane behind the two wavering beams.

  Dolly found the work absorbing. By nature she was methodical, cool-headed and patient. The children responded to her quiet ways with trust and affection. But it was for Emily that they showed most enthusiasm. Her quick wits, her humour, and her ready laugh made the children too excitable for Mr Wardle and Miss Taylor's liking. When Emily took a class into the playground to play 'Cat and Mouse' or 'Poor Jenny Sits A-Weeping', the shrieks would penetrate the stout schoolroom walls, and Mr Wardle, intercepting sly grins among his pupils, would stalk forth to call for stricter discipline outside.

  'Ticked off again!' Emily would sigh, as they cycled home. 'I wish I could keep them as quiet as you do, Dolly.'

  'They can do with livening up,' answered Dolly. 'I think they're kept a bit too meek indoors, and then they get wild as soon as they get outside. But, there you are, that's how Mr Wardle wants it, so we must do as we're told.'