Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Read online

  May angels guard us while we sleep,

  Till morning light appears.

  Amen.'

  She sang desperately, longing for the angels to be on guard on the homeward way. After all, she reasoned, her parents and Ada could guard her while she slept. Far better to have some assistance, heavenly or otherwise, to withstand Manny's attentions.

  If the older Davis boys accompanied her, then Manny did not dare to approach, but more often than not they joined forces with others of their age and vanished on their own ploys in the woods and fields. Emily's presence was a comfort, but no real safeguard from attack. She put up a good fight, using fists, feet and even teeth if necessary, but Manny's bulk could easily overpower her.

  Not that Manny took to fighting very often. His methods were more subtle. He was cunning enough to realise that parents would dismiss tale-telling about teasing on the way home. Actual physical harm—a bruise or scratch—might bring a furious parent to his door.

  His ways were sly. He would tweak off a hair-ribbon, and hold it too high to be reached by a tearful little girl dreading a mother's wrath. He would threaten the two with stinging nettles. Once, on a hot summer's afternoon, he stirred a wasps' nest, deep in the bank, sending an enraged swarm to follow the girls whilst he escaped over the fields to his house.

  He had managed to collect a number of filthy and blasphemous epithets which would have made his devoted parents' hair rise, had they heard him using them. Dolly and Emily found them shocking, and said so. Manny, needless to say, was only encouraged by his success, and used them all the more.

  All in all, Manny Back was a menace to Dolly's happiness and, short of telling tales, which she had no intention of doing, there seemed to be no way in which she could take action.

  But Emily did.

  A day or two after the incident of the wasps, and while her arm still smarted with the stings, Emily vowed vengeance.

  'It's not fair!' she said indignantly to Dolly. 'Not fair!'

  'But what can we do?'

  'I've thought of something to pay him back.'

  'Oh Emily,' quavered Dolly, 'it will only make him worse.'

  Emily's face took on a look of grim determination, but her eyes sparkled.

  'I'll teach him,' said Emily.

  'What will you do?' asked Dolly fearfully.

  Emily surveyed her timorous friend.

  'I shan't tell you,' she announced, 'because you'd be upset, and maybe tell your mum.'

  'I wouldn't!' shouted Dolly, much hurt by this slur on her integrity.

  'Well, all the same, I'm keeping it to myself,' said Emily, a trifle smugly. 'You'll know in good time.'

  She began to laugh, and danced dizzily about the playground, her dark plaits bouncing. Dolly, recognising defeat, watched her friend rejoicing in her secret, and trembled for her future downfall.

  It was the custom at that time at Beech Green School, for the boys to cultivate a large kitchen garden.

  It was worked communally, under Mr Finch's keen eye, and the vegetables were bought very cheaply by the boys. By the side of the communal patch lay a narrower strip, divided into a dozen or so small plots, for any boy who wanted to till a little garden of his own, providing his own seeds or plants.

  Manny owned one of these, and had devoted the entire plot to the growing of marrows. Perhaps it was the affinity between the bulbous marrows and his own stoutness which made Manny's marrows grow so remarkably well. They certainly throve, and Manny plied them with manure and rainwater and watched them swell into sleek striped maturity.

  The pick of the crops from the school garden went to the Beech Green flower show in September. The school had a special display, and it was considered a great honour to have something on show for parents and friends to admire. Manny was determined to put in his largest marrow.

  There was one in particular which was his pride. It was dark and glossy, with a sheen on it like satin, and it was destined to be a perfect beauty. Beside its splendour, its striped brothers looked positively peaky although, in truth, they were very fine specimens as marrows go.

  Early in its life, Manny had taken a stout darning needle and scratched his name neatly along its side.

  MANSFIELD BACK it said, in tidy capitals, and as the weeks passed the letters grew larger and plainer as the marrow increased in girth. Manny had no doubt that it would be chosen for display, and the thought of his signature emblazoned there for all Beech Green to see and admire gave him the keenest satisfaction.

  After the show, the school's produce was carried to the church for Harvest Festival which always took place on the Sunday following the show day. With any luck, thought Manny, his marrow would be placed in the porch, or perhaps below the pulpit, there to dazzle the eyes of the devout.

  Later still, the produce would be taken to Caxley hospital, there to be devoured by properly-grateful patients. The thought of his marrow being assailed by a sharp knife, plunged into boiling water, and finally eaten, gave Manny acute pain. He turned his mind from the marrow's ultimate fate and concentrated instead on the glory which was to be his.

  One evening, just as dusk was falling, a small figure might have been seen, entering the school garden through a hedge at the rear. It advanced stealthily through the gathering gloom and knelt down among Manny's marrows.

  A small hand, bearing a penknife, lifted the vine-shaped leaves beneath which the prize beauty lay hidden. For three or four breathless minutes, dreadful work went on in the silent garden.

  Then, back through the hedge crept Emily, revenged and unrepentant.

  A week of heavy rain followed, and Manny had no need to pay much attention to his marrow bed. It was some ten days later that he went to water the beauties and, as he was in some hurry, on that occasion, he did not disturb the leaves which covered the prize exhibit. The dark glossy end protruded like the polished barrel of a cannon. At this rate of growth, it should be the largest marrow in the whole show, let alone on the school stall. Manny's spirits were jubilant.

  Four days later, whilst he was digging with his fellows on the communal patch, two breathless children rushed up to him.

  'Seen yer marrer, Man?'

  Manny looked at them with distaste. There was a gloating excitement about them which made him apprehensive.

  'What's up with it?'

  'Someone's bin and written on it.'

  'I know that,' said Manny huffily. 'I scratched my name on it weeks ago.'

  'It ain't just yer name,' retorted one of the boys. He waved his arm expansively, beckoning the group to come and see for themselves.

  Mr Finch had gone into school for a few minutes leaving the boys to get on alone. Carrying forks and hoes, the boys now drifted across the private plots.

  The more vociferous of the two discoverers knelt down by Manny's marrow and lifted the leaves aside.

  There, plain for all to see, were die words:

  MANSFIELD BACK

  and below, in smaller capitals the one word:

  BULLY

  Grins split the faces of the watching boys as they observed Manny's face. It changed from pink to scarlet, then faded to a greyish pallor. And then, to everyone's horror, Manny burst into tears.

  'And what,' said Mr Finch, returning, 'is the meaning of this? Get back to your work.'

  'Please, sir,' said the vociferous one, 'somethinks happened to Manny's marrer.'

  Mr Finch's sharp eye fell upon the tearful owner.

  'Let me see, boy.'

  Snuffling, shaken with sobs, Manny parted the leaves and displayed the outrage. Mr Finch looked stern. He then bent down to finger the added word BULLY.

  'Done recently,' he said. 'Within the last week or two.'

  He straightened up and surveyed the little crowd around him.

  'Well, come along, boys,' he said peremptorily. 'Own up now. You are the only people to come in this garden. Who's to blame?'

  There was an unhappy silence and much foot-shuffling. Manny's sniffs grew more frequent.
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  'Blow your nose, child,' snapped Mr Finch. Manny unfolded a beautifully clean handkerchief and did as he was bid.

  'At once, boys. Who's done this mean thing to Manny?'

  'I never,' said one quaking red-head, known as Copper-knob.

  'Not me,' whispered several more.

  Mr Finch's experienced eye travelled over them all. There seemed to be very few guilty looks among them.

  'Who's away today?'

  'Only Jim Potts, sir. He never done it.'

  'And how do you know what Jimmy Potts done? Did?' Mr Finch snapped, correcting himself briskly.

  Silence fell again. Mr Finch's moustache was bristling, a sure sign of danger.

  'File into school as soon as you have cleaned your tools and put them back,' ordered the headmaster. 'We'll get to the bottom of this.'

  Twenty minutes later, after ruthless interrogation, Mr Finch had to admit to himself that the mystery was unsolved. He could only be certain of one thing. These boys, for once in their lives, were innocent.

  Most of the schoolchildren had gone home by the time Mr Finch's class were dismissed.

  'We'll see about this after prayers first thing tomorrow,' announced the headmaster. 'You may dismiss. But I want you to stay behind, Manny.'

  The schoolroom was very quiet as Mr Finch asked a few searching questions. He had heard rumours about Manny's behaviour, but had had no definite evidence of bullying. What he learned from Manny's faltering replies gave him some sympathy with the unknown malefactor. But justice must be done, and would be done in the morning.

  Manny, still tearful, made his solitary way homeward, leaving Mr Finch to think about the incident.

  What a simple way of getting one's own back, thought the headmaster, as he locked up the cupboards! Manny would be powerless to hide the incriminating word. Any attempt to disguise it would ruin the marrow's beauty. Oh, yes, this was indeed a subtle blow!

  Nonetheless, thought Mr Finch, the culprit must be punished. To deface Manny's marrow, on which so much loving care had been lavished, was a cruel trick.

  The next morning the whole school remained standing after prayers and heard the sorry tale. There were a few titters which Mr Finch quelled instantly. It was pretty plain that Manny had few supporters.

  'Will the boy who did this despicable thing come forward,' said Mr Finch, his eye raking the back rows where the tallest and oldest pupils stood.

  'At once!' thundered Mr Finch. 'Or the whole school stays in this afternoon until we get to the bottom of this!'

  From the front row, where the smallest children stood, the neat figure of Emily Davis emerged. Her dark head was on a level with the headmaster's watch chain. Her clear grey eyes looked up into his astonished face.

  'I cut the word,' said Emily. Her voice was steady.

  There was a stir of amusement in the ranks behind her.

  'Silence!' roared Mr Finch, and there was.

  'Go to your classes,' he ordered. 'And you, Emily Davis, will come with me.'

  He led the way into the lobby where the children hung their clothes. Dolly Clare watched Emily's small figure following the headmaster's portly one, looking like a diminutive tug following a liner. What would happen to her in the privacy of the lobby? Dolly trembled for her friend.

  She need not have suffered so. Mr Finch was a just man and, after hearing Emily's side of the story, he realized that there had been provocation.

  Emily's punishment was to have no play for a week. Whilst the others rushed about the playground, she was to stand by the headmaster's desk contemplating the fearful ends of those who took the law into their own hands. Alas, it was a lesson which Emily Davis never completely learned in life, and injustice was always quick to prick her into action.

  As for Manny Back's marrow, it was never displayed. A lesser giant from his marrow bed gained third prize, and with this he had to be content. Dolly Clare and Emily Davis were not molested again by the biggest boy in the school, on their homeward journeys. Mr Finch saw to that.

  Years later, looking back on the incident, Dolly Clare wondered if they had not underestimated Mr Finch's sense of humour which was so successfully hidden under his stern manner.

  For could it have been coincidence alone that caused the headmaster to read the story of David and Goliath at assembly next morning?

  4. Wartime Memories

  IT was not only Emily's keen sense of justice that Dolly Clare remembered, as she moved slowly about the cottage, trying to accustom herself to the numbing sense of loss. Emily had always had courage in abundance.

  It had needed courage to step forward and confess to the crime of defacing Manny's marrow. It had needed courage to stand by the headmaster's desk, dry-eyed, whilst the rest of the school played outside in the sunshine. But, to Dolly's mind, Emily's courage was supreme when she faced the darkest hour of her life as a girl in her twenties.

  Dolly and Emily, as they grew up, made very few friends. The furthest they went from home was Caxley, where they went to evening classes as part of their teacher-training, or sometimes to shop for things which were unobtainable at the village stores.

  Most of the young men had been known to them all their lives, had shared desks with them at the village school, and stirred them no more than a brother would. No one could accuse either Emily or Dolly of being flirtatious: many, in fact, thought them too prosaic and unromantic. Certainly, the flamboyant novelettes, so beloved by some of their contemporaries, did not interest them, and older women, gossiping by the village pump, looked sourly at the two friends when they passed.

  'Heads too full o' book-learnin' to find them a husband,' said one, when the girls were out of earshot.

  'They'll find themselves on the shelf, them two,' agreed another.

  'Too hoity-toity to go out with my Billy as asked 'em to the fair,' added a third. 'Gettin' above themselves with all this teaching nonsense.'

  Jealousy was at the root of such remarks. Most of their daughters were in service at twelve years old, or soon after, and to see Dolly and Emily aiming at higher things aroused maternal resentment.

  It was not that the two girls were blind to male attractions. They discussed the pros and cons of the young men around as keenly as the other girls of their own age, and probably more wisely. But, whereas most of the girls talked of nothing else but their conquests and their intention of marrying, Emily and Dolly had many other equally absorbing interests. The children they taught, the books they read, the lovely natural things around them which gave them constant joy, engrossed them quite as much as the thought of marriage. Luckily for them, their work was fascinating, not something to escape from, as it was for so many of their over-worked young friends, at the mercy, very often, of dictatorial employers. If Emily and Dolly married, as they calmly assumed that they would do some day, then it would be for a positive cause, not as an escape from tedious or intolerable conditions.

  It so happened that the two friends became engaged within a few weeks of each other. Dolly Clare was attracted, at first sight, by the tall young man with red hair who came to be under-gardener at the big house at Beech Green. His name was Arnold Fletcher, and his home was in Norfolk.

  There was something exciting about this young man from far away. He was quicker and gayer than the friends of Dolly's youth, and the mere fact that he found his new surroundings stimulating made Dolly look at the old familiar places with a fresh eye. He shared Dolly's love of books and music, and he brought with him a breath of the salty wind which blew so refreshingly about his native Norfolk. Their engagement was considered an excellent thing, even by the most curmudgeonly of the village folk.

  Emily's choice was a local farmer's son. His name was Edgar Bennett and his father and grandfather had been tenant farmers at Springbourne, a neighbouring village, for many years.

  Edgar was as tall as Dolly's Arnold, but his colouring was pale. He had ashen-fair hair, and the clear grey eyes which so often go with it. He was a quiet, gentle fellow, and the genera
l feeling was that Emily's drive and vivacity would 'put some life' into him.

  He was the eldest son and it seemed likely that he would carry on the farm when his father gave up. Two younger sons were in business in Caxley, and it looked as though Emily would live eventually in the sturdy four-square Georgian farm house set in a hollow on the flanks of the downs.

  But to begin with, the young couple were to make their home in a cottage near the boundary of the Bennetts' farm and that of Harold Miller who owned the Hundred Acre field hard by the Clares' cottage.

  Dolly and Emily planned to have their weddings in the autumn of 1914. By that time, Edgar would have helped to bring in the harvest and there would be a break before winter ploughing began.

  But these plans were made in the spring, a few months before the outbreak of war with Germany shattered their hopes.

  'Better postpone it,' said Arnold to Dolly sadly.

  'We'll all be back by Christmas,' said Edgar to Emily, consoling her.

  The two young men went to Caxley to enlist, one bright August day, waving from a farm wagon, crowded with fresh-faced country boys going on the same errand.

  Dolly and Emily were heavy-hearted, but saw the sense of a postponement of their plans. Far better to continue steadily with their teaching while their men were away. Everyone said it would be over before long. Perhaps a spring wedding would be better still?

  They were false hopes indeed. Far from being over by Christmas, as the confident had boasted, it was quite apparent, by that time, that the war could drag on indefinitely.

  In February, when the year was at its coldest and most cheerless, Dolly came home from school one day to find a tear-stained letter from Arnold's parents, telling her that they had heard of his death in action. Dolly's first reaction was complete disbelief.

  Someone as loving and alive as Arnold could not possibly be snuffed out like a candle flame! This was some cruel mistake. It could not be right.