Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 13

  Meanwhile, Ada's love affair gave Dolly food for thought. After his interview with the publican, Francis tried patiently to get some sense from his defiant daughter.

  'I've told you and told you,' said Ada obstinately. 'We're going to get married whatever anyone says.'

  'But what if he doesn't want to?' queried Francis. 'Takes two to make a marriage, and he ain't bothered to come and speak to me about it yet, has 'e?'

  'Looks to me,' commented Mary, in support, 'as if you're throwing yourself at him. That's no way to go into marriage, Ada.'

  'Why should he come here to be picked over and found wanting?' demanded Ada belligerently. ''Twon't do no good to either of us, as far as I can see.'

  They could get no further with her in this mood. Francis was perplexed. He disliked the idea of pursuing this young man, but if he refused to come and see him then he supposed he must make some effort to find out the fellow's intentions if Ada's happiness was involved.

  'Dammit, Mary!' he sighed to his wife. 'Girls is a darn sight more trouble than boys when it comes to wedding 'em.'

  He waited a fortnight, but nothing happened. Ada continued to see the young man, and short of locking her in her room, Francis felt he could do nothing about it. At length he went again to Caxley and had an uncomfortable session with the publican, his wife and their son.

  The young man was ill at ease, but assured Francis that he wished to marry Ada. Harry Roper did not impress Francis. He was thickset, with a surly expression, and had the heavy, dark, good looks which would soon coarsen with corpulence. Francis was amazed that Ada was attracted to him.

  There was no doubt, however, that she would be well provided for. Jack Roper, the publican, also had an interest in a nourishing market garden, and he proposed to set up the young couple in a small greengrocery business in the town as a wedding present. So far, he knew, Harry had failed to remain in any job for longer than a year. Marriage, and a business of his own, he hoped, would settle his son permanently. At twenty-five he should have sown all his wild oats, and it was time he turned his attention to domesticity and the raising of a family. The Ropers, for their part, liked the lively girl who seemed so determined to marry their son, and felt sure she had the power and energy to direct both her husband and the business.

  The Ropers were invited to the Clares' cottage. The two families exchanged civilities, the engagement was announced, and the marriage arranged for the autumn. Mary seemed pleased with matters, but Francis had a heavy heart. It was not what he wanted for his best-loved child.

  There was a triumphant excitement about Ada, throughout the weeks before the wedding, which Francis found distasteful.

  'She feels she's got the better of us all,' he confided to Mary. 'But what does that matter if she's not truly happy herself? And do that young Harry really want her?'

  It was Mary's turn to calm fears this time.

  'Our Ada's always known what she's about, and she's chose a solid fellow as'll see she's always comfortable. He loves her all right, never you fret,' she added casually.

  Francis was not completely convinced, but this matter-of-fact attitude of Mary's gave him a little comfort. Presumably women knew best in these affairs.

  But when he stood beside his glowing Ada before the altar, his misgivings returned. She looked so radiant, so young and so trusting in her white lace frock, standing beside that dark stranger whom he disliked. Behind her stood Dolly, pale and demure in blue, the only bridesmaid.

  Francis gave Ada away, feeling as though part of his heart had gone too, and all through the wedding breakfast, which was held in 'The Crown', he felt cold and wretched. With the rest of the party he waved goodbye to the young couple as they drove off in a carriage to the railway station, and was ashamed to find that tears blurred his final view of them.

  It was Mary who remained dry-eyed.

  Dolly and Emily had just finished their four years' pupil-teaching at this time. Little Miss Taylor at Fairacre School now retired, and Mr Wardle suggested that Dolly might like to carry on. She was appointed as infants' teacher that September, and continued to cycle from Beech Green daily. Emily heard of a post, some miles away at a village on the south side of Caxley, which appealed to her. An aunt lived in the village and would put her up, and she would be teaching children from twelve to fourteen, which was what she had always wanted.

  The two friends, who had seen each other daily for most of their young lives, missed each other sorely. They promised to write once a week, and they met occasionally in Caxley or whenever Emily managed to get home for a week-end. Without Emily and Ada, Dolly felt quite forlorn for several weeks that autumn.

  But the interests at Fairacre and its school grew more absorbing as the months passed. Mr Wardle and his wife left the village, a year after Dolly began her teaching, and a new headmaster, called Mr Hope, came to live at the school house. He was a shyer, cleverer man than his predecessor, one who loved animals and flowers, and who wrote poetry with some skill and feeling.

  Dolly liked him, and his vague young wife. They had one daughter, Harriet, a child of outstanding beauty and intelligence. All three, Dolly thought, had charm and uncommon sympathy, but she missed the Wardles' splendid invigorating presence, the hearty good humour and the drive which was essential to stimulate the native laziness of the Fairacre children. She hoped that Mr Waterman's methods wouldnot be repeated.

  At first, all went well. Despite his delicate appearance and gentle ways, Mr Hope had the ability to catch the imagination of the children. He was more aware of the progress of the world than Mr Wardle had been. For Mr Wardle, Fairacre and its immediate environs offered all that was needed in interest and amusement. Mr Hope soon made his older children conscious of the exciting changes about them.

  He told them about aeroplanes and the pioneers who flew them. He conjured up visions of air travel in the future for his open-mouthed, and slightly disbelieving, pupils. With a poet's flair for words he described the great icy wastes at the farthest Poles of the earth, whose mystery and beauty were just becoming known and explored by brave men. He told them of Peary and Shackleton and of Scott, and he made his country children realise that adventure was still to be found.

  In advance of his time, the schoolmaster recognised the power of topical news, and photographs from the papers were pinned on the walls to encourage an interest in matters of the day. He was adroit enough, too, to relate these national events to their own small world, whenever possible, and Dolly listened to him one April morning as he pointed out the splendours of a mighty new liner.

  'And Mr and Mrs Evans at Beech Green are going to sail in her,' he told them. 'When they come back I shall ask them to come and tell us all about it.'

  Dolly had heard that the Evanses were going abroad from Mr Davis, who was their gardener.

  'Taking poor Miss Lilian,' he said, 'to see some famous doctor over there. They say he may be able to cure her. Cuts a bit out of your brain, he does, and many a poor soul's found his wits again that way.'

  Dolly thought it was brave of the Evanses, to go so far, and hoped that the proposed operation would be successful, for Miss Lilian grew more pathetic yearly, and it was common knowledge that her ageing parents feared for her future when they had gone.

  A few days later Mary Clare was delighted to find a picture postcard on the mat. The postman rarely called at the little cottage, and a picture was far more exciting than a plain envelope.

  She held it up for Dolly to see at the breakfast table.

  'I call that real nice of Mrs Evans. Written just before they sail, she says, and she's never seen anything so lovely before. Hopes we are well, and Miss Lilian sends her regards.'

  Mary put the card face upward beside the bread board and peered closely at it.

  'You can see the name quite clear,'she said excitedly. 'Titanic!'

  ***

  Three days later the village heard the news. The names of the Evans family were not on the list of survivors. It was a stunning blow.


  Mr Hope took down the picture of the ill-fated ship, but could say nothing to the children at that time. He was as stricken as they were at the horror which had come so close to them.

  The house stood with its blinds drawn for three weeks. The eldest son, known to the neighbourhood as 'Mr Bertie', then moved in with his wife and young family. With him came two or three servants who had been in his employ in London.

  Mr Davis gave the Clare family the news.

  'There's a new chap coming to be head gardener,' he told them. 'Seems a nice enough young fellow, if you like 'em with red hair, which I don't.'

  'And what's happening to you then?' enquired Francis.

  'Three times a week,' said Mr Davis, 'and it suits me. Getting a bit long in the tooth these days, and the family brings us in a bit. We'll manage.'

  He made his way to the door and then turned to Dolly.

  'Keep your eye out for that young chap,' he said, with mock solemnity. 'You can't miss that hair. Just like a sunset it is.

  He opened the door and was gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  IT was strange, thought old Miss Clare, that the Titanic disaster in the spring of 1912 had brought such unexpected happiness in its wake.

  Although, at this time, she was almost twenty-four years of age, she had remained remarkably untouched by love. There were several reasons for this. By nature she was reserved, and in company she was an observer rather than a participator. Ada's tempestuous marriage had made her cautious, and circumstances did not throw many young men across Dolly's path. At home she found that her parents grew more dependent upon her for company, and she herself, tired after a day's teaching and the long cycle ride, was very content to stay at home during the evenings.

  She had not been conscious of any gap in her life. Her work, gardening, reading, helping her mother with household affairs and writing to Emily, kept her occupied and happy at the cottage. She took part in the life of both villages, helping with socials and jumble sales, fetes and church bazaars, and considered her life completely satisfying. She was all the more surprised, therefore, to find how overwhelmingly easy it was to slide into the state of love within a few weeks of Arnold Fletcher's arrival at Beech Green.

  They first met when the young man called at the cottage with a message for Francis. Dolly was weeding, squatting down with her back to the gate, and did not hear him approach. She was startled by his voice, and struggled to her feet, much hampered by an old sack which she had pinned round her for an apron.

  'You should kneel to weed,' said the young man, smiling upon her. 'It saves your back.'

  There was no doubt about who he was. The bright auburn hair, which flamed above his pale bony face, identified him as the Evanses' new gardener. His eyes were of that true dark brown which is so rare in English faces, and they looked very kindly on Dolly's discomfiture.

  After that he came often. He had an easy friendliness which disarmed Dolly immediately, and she felt happy in his company from the first. They found that they had much in common. His knowledge of plants and trees was deep, and unlike many gardeners, he was equally interested in wild growing things. He was an avid reader and a cricketer. Beech Green found him a reliable slow bowler and a swift-running fieldsman, and by the end of May he was playing regularly for the team.

  Both he and Dolly enjoyed music and Arnold took great pride in a new phonograph which he sometimes brought over to the Clares' cottage. After much adjustment a hollow nasal voice echoed through the little room: 'This is an Edison Bell record,' and after a short rushing noise, the music would begin. It all seemed miraculous to the listeners, and Dolly first became acquainted with Handel and Bach, whose music she was to love throughout her life, by way of Arnold's phonograph.

  It was soon common knowledge in the neighbourhood that Dolly and Arnold were 'going steady', as the villagers said. There was general approval.

  'About time that girl got settled,' said Mr Davis to his wife. 'Won't have time for much of a family if she leaves it much longer.'

  'Nonsense!' snorted Mrs Davis. 'Who wants to begin a family at eighteen like I did? Dolly's got plenty of sense—and plenty of time too. I shouldn't want to see her with a long string like ours.'

  'But I thought you liked 'em!' answered Mr Davis, somewhat affronted by this sidelong attack.

  'Case of have to!' commented his wife shortly, pushing him to one side as she bustled by with a steaming saucepan. Mr Davis wisely held his tongue. No point in adding fuel to the fire, he told himself.

  Francis and Mary both seemed pleased, but Dolly sensed that her mother's approval was not whole-hearted. Latterly, Mary's mariner had been strange. She was at an age when women are the prey of moods, and Dolly had tried to be understanding. She guessed that, unconsciously, Mary clung to her last remaining child, and it was this that caused her mother to be cool at times with the young man. Nothing was ever said, and the matter was small enough to be ignored. In any case, Dolly was so deeply happy that troubles could scarcely affect her.

  They became engaged later that year. Arnold took Dolly to Caxley where he bought a delicate little ring which she had seen in the jeweller's window and adored at first sight.

  'But it's a regard ring, Dolly,' protested Arnold. 'I feel more than regard for you!'

  But that was the ring which she wanted, and as she turned it upon her slim finger admiring the ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby and diamond which spelt out its message, she felt that no one could be so happy.

  Soon afterwards, in the Christmas holidays, Dolly paid her first visit to London, on the way to meet Arnold's parents who lived in Norwich. She had been by train from Caxley to the county town on a few occasions, but to ride to Paddington was a real adventure, and to see the capital itself an even greater thrill. Very few of the older generation in Beech Green, and not many of Dolly's, had seen London, although they lived within seventy miles of it, for fares were expensive and there were very few holidays.

  She and Arnold went by horse bus from Paddington to Liverpool Street. Dolly was appalled by the number of vehicles, most of them horsedrawn, but some motor driven. The speed and dexterity with which the bicycles moved in and out of the traffic made Dolly shudder, and she found the noise worse than Caxley on a market day. The streets too seemed very dirty, and she was interested to see how necessary crossing sweepers were as they brushed a clear way across the road for the ladies to use.

  Dolly had never seen anything so enthralling as the ladies' fashions in Oxford Street. She admired the wide hats tied on with veiling, the net necklets held up with whalebone which gave their wearers a haughty appearance, and the long sweeping skirts, held gracefully to keep them from the dirt, above neat buttoned boots. The journey to Liverpool Street passed all too quickly.

  She was glad of Arnold's protection in that cavernous place of reeking smoke, hooting engines and hustling people, but once the sad poverty of the slums was passed she settled back to enjoy the different scenery of East Anglia. She never forgot her first sight of those wide wind-swept heaths and the magnificent avenues of the Norfolk countryside, with great clouds bowling in from the North Sea, moving like pillars of snow across the vast blue sky.

  Arnold's parents were welcoming. They lived in a small crooked road in the shadow of the ancient cathedral. Dolly liked them at once, and was taken on a tour of relatives who lived in the city, and who proved equally friendly. She and Arnold spent three happy days in Norwich, and she grew to love the place more with every hour that passed.

  When the time came to return to Beech Green, and the farewells were over, she stood at the train window and watched with regret the last of that lovely and lively city slide behind her.

  Arnold, amused at her pensive face, put his arm round her comfortingly.

  'We'll come again,' he promised. 'Lots of times.'

  But Dolly never saw Norwich again.

  Long engagements were common in those days, and Dolly felt no hardship in waiting for her wedding. It was an idylli
c time, she thought. She saved as much as she could from her small salary, and bought and made many things for her future home. Friends presented her with linen and china, and Dolly found much satisfaction in her wellfilled bottom drawer.

  Emily, who was also engaged, to the son of a local farmer, was as busy and as happy as her friend. The two girls had plenty to talk about now when they met, and despite the major distraction of their future husbands, the weekly letters still passed between them. There were things, Dolly discovered, that one could only tell to Emily, no matter how dear Arnold might be, and their shared school experiences made a constant bond.

  Fairacre School had its problems at this time which perturbed Dolly. In the January following her visit to Norwich, a tragedy had occurred in the headmaster's house.

  Harriet Hope, the only child, had died from the same disease which had taken little Frank Clare. She had been a child of such unusual vivacity and beauty that the blow was all the more cruel. Mr Hope and his wife could not face the village for a week after the funeral, and Dolly coped alone with both classes, glad of the extra work and responsibility which kept her from dwelling on the loss of the attractive child.

  When at last Mr Hope returned, he was a changed man. His vigour had gone, never to return, and his duties were undertaken mechanically. Worse still, he began drinking heavily, and frequently arrived in the schoolroom smelling strongly of liquor. It was not long before he began to make an excuse to leave the school soon after ten each morning, and could be seen making his way to 'The Beetle and Wedge'. He returned within half an hour just in time to mark the arithmetic he had set before his departure. But his marking pencil often wavered, and the smell of beer was most noticeable. It was small wonder that the older boys and girls winked and giggled at each other behind his back, and that the parents at Fairacre, torn between pity and indignation, wondered if they should report their schoolmaster to those in authority.