Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Read online

She rose, and dressed as quietly as possible, but no matter how lightly she trod, the ancient floor boards creaked and squeaked, and the staircase was equally noisy as she crept downstairs.

  She opened the windows and doors, letting in the fresh morning air scented still with stocks and damp grass. It was Dolly's favourite time of day, when the world was cool and quiet, and the day was full of hope.

  She fed the purring cat which rubbed about her legs, and then set the breakfast table. Next she filled the kettle and switched it on. To have an electric kettle which boiled within five minutes, was still a wonder to Dolly Clare, who well remembered the lengthy process of lighting the kitchen fire and waiting for the black iron kettle to boil above it.

  She thought she heard a sound above. Emily might be stirring. She made the tea, and found an unusually pretty porcelain cup, given long ago to her mother, for Emily's tea.

  The tea was just as Emily liked it, not too strong and with only a little milk. The steaming fragrance whetted Dolly's own appetite as she bore it upstairs.

  She tapped upon the door, but there was no answering call. The cat, which had followed her upstairs, hoping for a comfortable bed, mewed by the closed door.

  'I've brought some tea, dear,' called Dolly, opening the door.

  Emily was turned away from her, her face towards the window, and the bed-clothes drawn round her motionless figure.

  Dolly put the cup carefully upon the bedside table, and walked round the foot of the bed to survey her sleeping friend.

  She knew, before her trembling hand touched Emily's cold forehead, that she had been dead for some hours.

  ***

  Slowly, Dolly descended the staircase and fumbled her way to a chair. Suddenly, the full weight of her eighty-odd years seemed to crush her. Her heart fluttered in her breast like an imprisoned bird. Her head throbbed dully, and she rested it upon the table before her.

  She lay there, felled by the blow, for ten minutes or more. Gradually, her heart quietened and she raised her head. Tears, of which she had not been conscious, had made a damp patch upon the polished surface of the table, and when she raised a hand to her cheek she found it wet with tears which still were running.

  She let them flow unchecked, while her strength slowly returned. There was much to be done, but the day was still so young that few people would be astir. For this Dolly was thankful. Her private grief would be unseen, and the last services, which she intended to render her friend, could be undertaken alone.

  Dolly Clare had seen death many times in her long life and had prepared her parents for their last journey. She did not flinch from the practical duties which must now be done.

  Still trembling, but with quiet courage, she filled a bowl with warm water, collected snowy linen cloths, and returned to the bedroom.

  An hour or so later, she locked the house, and walked along the lane to the school house where her friends Mr and Mrs Annett lived.

  The leaves were beginning to fall, bright as new pennies on the surface of the road. The mist had gone, and the warmth in the sun was welcomed by Dolly's thin blood.

  There was no telephone at the cottage. It was too expensive an item for the two old friends to install. A public call box was nearer than the Annetts', but Dolly disliked the idea of transmitting her news whilst someone might be waiting outside, an interested witness to her grief.

  The school house was peaceful, for the headmaster had just gone across to his duties and was at that moment taking morning prayers, and the two children of the house were also at school.

  Mrs Annett took one look at the tall figure, the tear-stained face, and the ineffable air of grief which surrounded the old lady.

  'Emily?' she asked swiftly.

  Dolly Clare nodded, her lips quivering.

  'Sit down, and I'll fetch coffee,' said practical Mrs Annett. But Dolly preferred to follow her hostess into the kitchen. Now that the first shock was wearing away, she felt the need for company.

  'I wondered if I might use your telephone,' she said diffidently. 'I should ring Doctor Martin, and then I must make the funeral arrangements.'

  'We'll do all that,' said Mrs Annett swiftly. 'Now drink your coffee, and I'll send a message over to the school.'

  'You mustn't disturb the time-table,' replied Miss Clare, years of school discipline coming to her aid. But she was overborne.

  'It was all very peaceful,' said Dolly. 'I'm sure it was just as Emily had hoped to go. We'd had a perfect last day together, and she went to bed rather tired, but very tranquil and happy.'

  'I'm thankful to hear it,' said Mrs Annett, watching the old lady's frail hands twist and turn in her lap, far more poignant than any spoken expression of grief.

  'I'm thankful for everything,' replied Dolly soberly. 'Our lives have been bound together for so long that we both dreaded prolonged pain and disability for each other. Emily was spared that.'

  She rose to go.

  'Do stay, please.'

  'If you don't mind, I'd sooner be alone. I shall feel better at the cottage, and if you will be so very kind and make all the arrangements I shall be so grateful, my dear. Tell Doctor Martin I shall be waiting for him. No doubt he'll be along after surgery.'

  Mrs Annett insisted on walking back with her. She saw her safely installed in her armchair, promised to call again during the day, and returned to make the telephone calls from the school house.

  'I wonder,' she thought, as she rustled through the dead leaves at the roadside, 'how long she will survive poor Emily?'

  The day passed for Dolly as if in a dream. Doctor Martin, that wise old friend, called in the latter part of the morning. He made his examination, noted the tidy body, the brushed hair and the clean linen enfolding Emily's thin frame. This, he knew, was Dolly's handiwork, and his respect for the old lady's courage grew deeper still.

  He surveyed Dolly now as he put his certificate upon the mantel-shelf. Her face showed the ravages of grief, but she was as calm and dignified as ever.

  'Any good advising you to stay with your sister for a bit?' he queried.

  'No good at all,' answered Dolly, with a small smile. 'This is my home. I need it more than ever now.'

  'Very well,' said, the doctor. 'Go to bed early, and take two of these pills to make sure that you'll sleep.'

  She gave him a quizzical look, but did not take the pills from him.

  He put them beside the paper on the mantel-shelf.

  'Stubborn girl!' he said. 'Well, there they are, anyway. I promise you, they wouldn't hurt a two-year-old.'

  'I'll take them if I can't sleep,' said Dolly. 'You're very kind to me.'

  'You wouldn't like me to run you along to the Annetts?'

  'No, indeed. I must stay here until Emily is taken into Caxley.'

  She put her hand upon his arm, and smiled at him.

  'My dear, I'm not in the least frightened. Only sad—and then only selfishly, because I shall miss her so. For her, I don't grieve. She always hoped to go first, and I'm glad things fell out so rightly for her. But I must stay with her until she goes. You understand?'

  The doctor nodded, patting the frail hand upon his coat sleeve, then went his way. She might be old, she might be frail, but she had a strength of spirit which out-matched his own, and this the doctor recognised.

  In the afternoon, the great black car arrived from the Caxley undertaker's, and four dark-clad men carried Emily down the little staircase and out into the mellow September sunshine. Mute, dry-eyed, Dolly watched them go.

  Neighbours called, unhappy and diffident, seeking to help and to offer sympathy. Dolly met them all with sweetness and dignity, but refused to be led from her cottage. Compassion she appreciated: companionship, as yet, she must refuse.

  At last, as the sun sank behind the downs, she found herself truly alone. Who would have thought that so much could have happened in the course of twenty-four hours?

  This time yesterday, she and Emily had walked back from the oak tree to the shelter of their shared h
ome. She thought of that evening—aeons ago, it seemed—when they had knitted and talked, and shared the company of the crackling fire and the purring cat.

  It was another world—but Death had shattered it. She took a deep breath, and walked to the window.

  The rooks were flying home. The downs were deep blue against the gold of the sunset. Emily's stocks were already beginning to scent the evening air, and in the distance Dolly could hear the coughing of the one afflicted sheep.

  Life went on. No matter what happened, life went on, inexorably, callously, it might seem, to those in grief. But somehow, in this continuity, there were the seeds of comfort.

  Dolly returned to the table, took out writing paper and began to draft an entry for The Caxley Chronicle.

  DAVIS: On September 20th, at Beech Green, Emily, aged 84. Funeral 2.30 p.m. Beech Green, Saturday, September 25th.

  She looked at it carefully, checking the notice for any mistakes as meticulously as she had corrected her pupils' work for so many years.

  She put it into an envelope, stamped it, and put it on the window sill for the postman to take in the morning.

  The house was deathly quiet. She looked about her automatically before mounting the stairs. Doctor Martin's two pills remained untouched, and she ignored them now. She had no heart to warm milk for herself, as she usually did at this hour, and could not trouble to put on a light.

  In the darkness she ascended the stairs, comfortless and friendless. She undressed, shivering, and crept into her cold bed.

  She had never felt so alone and forlorn, and the night stretched before her, black, bleak and hopeless.

  Could she go on, she asked herself? Without Emily?

  3. Manny Back's Marrow

  WITHOUT Emily!

  The words still beat in Dolly Clare's mind as the dawn broke, and she rose thankfully, glad to leave behind the wretchedness of a sleepless night.

  She went about her early morning tasks automatically. She felt unusually weak and, grief apart, realised that lack of nourishment was partly the reason. She had been unable to eat the day before. Now she boiled an egg for herself, and cut a thin slice of brown bread and butter for her breakfast. She must look after herself.

  There was no trace of self-pity in this observation. Sensible, as always, Dolly now faced the fact that she was quite alone, and if she wished to maintain her independence, which was so dear to her, then she must take care of herself, both in body and mind.

  Emily was in her thoughts constantly during the day. Memories of Emily came flooding back. Small incidents, long forgotten, swam into her consciousness, as if to compensate her for the loss of Emily's physical presence.

  The name itself had been dear to her for as long as she could remember, for the first Emily in Dolly's life had been a heavy, cumbersome, rag doll, stuffed hard with horse-hair, and much battered about its painted face.

  It had been Dolly's companion from babyhood. The doll Emily was lugged about the little house in Caxley where Dolly was born, bumped upstairs, thrown down them, taken in Dolly's high wicker-work pram on the shopping expeditions in Caxley High Street, and accompanied her young owner to bed each night.

  When Dolly was six, the family moved to Beech Green, to the cottage in which she was to live for the rest of her life. Of course, Emily was put into the waggonette which carried their furniture. But a dreadful misfortune occurred on the way.

  Emily, who had been propped up in an armchair, the better to see the passing landscape on this great adventure, was jogged by the rough road, fell out, and lay for many days hidden by bushes.

  Young Dolly was heart-broken. Even her joy in the new home was dimmed by this catastrophe.

  Francis Clare, her father, who was the local thatcher, discovered Emily at last and, full of relief, handed her back to his tearful daughter.

  But, somehow, Emily had changed. Rough weather had faded her beauty. Her paint was washed away here and there, and the battered face had become more battered still, so that there was a sinister wryness about Emily's looks which chilled Dolly's ardour.

  It was true that Emily was still looked after. She was dressed carefully, and put to bed at night time, but now she slept in a doll's bed and not in her mistress's. Emily had changed, and Dolly mourned for the old Emily she had loved and lost.

  Doubly heartening was it then to encounter the second Emily—the small dark girl with eyes as bright as a squirrel's, who took timid Dolly under her wing and made sure that no school bully approached her charge. From that first meeting the friendship had flourished, growing in strength as the years passed.

  Dolly was always the quieter of the two. There was a tomboy element about Emily, encouraged no doubt by her lively brothers who dared her to face exploits which she would not have essayed on her own. It was a high-spirited family, dominated by their mother, a busy little Jenny-wren of a woman.

  Dolly found the boys' society overwhelming at first. At home, there was only Ada, her senior by two years, as playmate. She was a sturdy headstrong child, with a healthy beauty which Dolly envied. Ada was soon elected as queen of the school playground. For her, the boys were creatures who must pay homage.

  Dolly looked upon them differently. It was not long before she came to appreciate the humour and honesty, first of the Davis boys, and later of most of her male school fellows. Later still, when she began to teach, she found she had to guard against this secret sympathy with the boys' point of view. She liked their directness of response. If she had occasion to reprimand a boy, there was usually a posy brought the next day as a peace-offering, and then the whole affair was over.

  When a girl needed correction Miss Clare often found that the results were far more complex. There might be no sign given of resentment or guilt. Very often there was a show of bravado instead. But sometimes a mother would appear, with tales of nights spent weeping, or a daughter reluctant to attend school. Certainly, Dolly Clare soon learnt that boys and girls often react differently to the same treatment, and the Davis' household was a sound training ground for her future experience.

  All the Davises had a strong sense of justice and fair play. In Emily this quality was allied to an impish sense of humour which led her into many an escapade.

  The case of Manny Back was one of them. Although it had occurred more than seventy years ago, Dolly Clare recalled it clearly, and with amusement.

  Manny Back had been christened Mansfield Back by his loving parents because Mansfield was the town where their courtship had taken place. Manny was the only pledge of their union, and hopelessly spoilt.

  He was a big child. When Dolly Clare first met him at Beech Green School, he sat in one of the senior pupils' desks which had been moved to the junior section of the big schoolroom to accommodate his bulk.

  He was not bad-looking in a florid, massive fashion, and his clothes were superior to those of his raggle-taggle neighbours. In the latter years of good Queen Victoria's reign, large families were normal, and clothes were passed down from big brother to the next in line, or cut down from father's, for money was short and, in any case, thrift and ingenuity were looked upon as virtues. A neat patch here and there, or an exquisite darn, were signs of industry as well as poverty. There were plenty of both in Beech Green.

  But Manny, as an only child, fared better than most. His father was a boot-maker, and although he did not actually supply all the beautiful riding boots worn by the horse-riding gentlemen of the district, he was generally entrusted with their repair which he did very satisfactorily.

  His wife had been laundry maid in good service. Together they saw to it that their only sprig was well-shod and his clothes immaculate.

  As much care was lavished on the boy's diet, which was unfortunate for Manny. Whereas the village children carried a homegrown apple, a plum or two, or even a couple of young carrots or some radishes as the seasons supplied them, for their morning 'stay-bit', young Manny would produce a bar of chocolate or a slice of plum-cake for his.

  Like most
of his fellow-pupils, he ran home for his midday meal and there received much larger and much richer helpings than they could afford. The results were predictable.

  Grossly over-weight, Manny soon became the butt of his school-fellows' teasing. A strong streak of savagery runs through every child. Beech Green children, at the end of the last century, could be particularly cruel when roused. After all, it was only the toughest that survived in those days. Weaklings died in infancy, or soon fell prey to consumption, diphtheria and other diseases as yet unconquered by medical science. Those who remained were further toughened by a constant fight against poor food, poor housing, and the stark necessity of competing for work.

  Jealousy, no doubt, added to the children's dislike of Manny Back. It is hard to watch a luscious slice of cake vanishing into an already over-sized face when one has only the heel of a stale loaf to satisfy the gnawing pains of youthful hunger. It is hard to see one's fellow-pupil sitting at ease in warm well-fitting boots whilst the damp chill of worn-out soles enflame one's own chilblains.

  Manny took his teasing fairly well in the playground, but it was asking too much of human nature for the insults to be ignored completely. Consequently, he vented his outraged feelings on younger children on the way home.

  It was unfortunate for Dolly that Manny's house lay beyond her own and that she soon became one of his favourite victims. Fearful of violence, and bewildered by this surprising animosity, poor Dolly began to dread the passage homeward. She watched the great clock on the schoolroom wall with increasing agitation as the hands crept round to four o'clock.

  When they stood to sing their grace before leaving, Dolly's folded hands trembled.

  'Lord, keep us safe this night,

  Secure from all our fears,