Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Read online

  The affair of Manny's marrow had amused them. Mr Finch's threat of keeping in the whole school did not. He was a man who kept his word, and Edgar and his school-mates had too many activities to attend to after school to welcome any restriction of their liberty.

  It was with relief then, as well as amusement, that the bigger boys saw little Emily Davis step out to take her punishment.

  'Got some spunk that little 'un,' one boy had commented, as they filed out.

  'All them Davises have,' said another. It was something which Edgar was to find out for himself years later.

  Emily Davis did not cross his path again for some time. He saw her occasionally about the village, usually in the company of Dolly Clare, but she meant nothing to him. He was busy on the farm, and his only relaxation was the cricket which he played on summer Saturday afternoons whenever the work on the farm allowed.

  But one autumn evening, when the beech trees were ablaze on the road to Caxley, and the blue smoke of autumn bonfires drifted through the village, Edgar encountered Emily.

  It had been a good harvest that year, and Edgar had taken a wagon laden with sacks of wheat to Caxley Station. When the wagon was empty, he had reloaded it with sacks of coal, ready for the winter, and set off on the return journey. He was pleasantly tired after the heavy work, and looking forward to an evening meal and early bed.

  Perched high on the plank seat at the front of the wagon, he had a fine view of the surrounding countryside.

  The fruit trees in the cottage gardens were weighed down with apples and plums. In one garden, a cottager was bent over his rows of bronze onions, turning the tops for final ripening. In another, a woman was tending a bonfire of dead pea-sticks and dried weeds. Everywhere there were the signs of the dying year, and the nutty fragrance of autumn hung in the air.

  'Soon be Harvest Festival,' said Edgar aloud to the massive haunches of Daisy, the old cart-horse, moving stolidly along between the shafts. She snorted in reply, and shook her shaggy head. She was a companionable animal, and liked the sound of a human voice.

  The thought of Manny's marrow, destined never to be the centre-piece of a Harvest Festival, flashed back to Edgar. It was the first time he had remembered it for years, and he savoured the memory now, as Daisy descended the steep hill leading to distant Beech Green.

  At the bottom, there was a sharp bend, and as Daisy rounded it, she pulled suddenly to one side.

  'Whoa there!' said Edgar, startled. 'All right, old girl!'

  On the verge, at the side of the road, knelt Emily Davis beside a bicycle. Her small hands were black, her hair dishevelled, and her hat hung from a spray of yellowing hawthorn in the hedge.

  'What's up then?' asked Edgar, leaping down.

  'The chain's come off,' said Emily.

  'Here, you hold it upright,' ordered Edgar, 'and I'll have a go.'

  Emily struggled to her feet, and did as she was told; Daisy wandered towards the grass and browsed happily, tearing great mouthfuls and munching noisily.

  'Funny thing,' said Edgar. 'I was thinking about you.'

  'Honest?' said Emily surprised. 'What about me?'

  'Manny's marrow.'

  Emily flushed and looked disconcerted.

  'Oh that!' she said discomfited. 'I try and forget that. It was a mean trick really, but that boy got my dander up.'

  'You did all right,' said Edgar robustly. He lifted the back wheel from the gritty road and spun it swiftly.

  'This chain's pretty slack,' he observed. 'Tell you what. You climb up with me and we'll put the old grid on the back. Can't do much to that chain without some tools, and if you ride it like it is, then ten to one it'll be off again in a hundred yards.'

  'Thanks,' said Emily. He watched her climb up to the front of the wagon, as nimbly as a monkey despite her long skirt. He heaved up the bicycle, lodging it securely between two sacks of coal, and clambered aloft beside her.

  'Come up, Daisy!' he commanded, and the old horse left her meal reluctantly and clip-clopped steadily towards home.

  'Where've you been then?' asked Edgar, making conversation.

  'Caxley. At evening class. You have to, you know, while you're a pupil teacher.

  'D'you like it?'

  'Teaching? Yes, I do—better now than when I started. Are you still with your father?'

  'Yes. And I'll stay that way, I reckon. I'll take over the farm gradually, I expect, when he gets past it. Not that there's any sign of that yet. He's a tough old party, thank God.'

  They jogged along peaceably. The air was growing chilly as the sun slipped down behind the downs.

  'Do you go to Caxley much?' asked Emily, pulling her jacket round her.

  'Next trip'll be to the Michaelmas Fair,' said Edgar. He looked at her suddenly. She'd grown into a nice-looking girl, small and neat, with dark hair piled untidily on top of her head. True, she had a black grease mark from the bicycle chain on one cheek, but it didn't detract from her charms, to Edgar's appraising eye.

  'What about coming with me?' urged Edgar. Emily turned wide grey eyes upon him.

  'Well, I was going with Dolly and my brother Albert,' she began uncertainly.

  'Tell you what,' said Edgar. 'Dad'll let me have the little cart, and I'll pick you three up. How's that?'

  'That would be lovely!' said Emily, glowing with pleasure. 'You say what time and we'll be ready waiting.'

  'Good,' replied Edgar. 'Let's say half past six. I'll be there.'

  They drew up at the end of the lane where the Davises lived. Their thatched roof was visible a few yards down the road.

  Edgar jumped down and released the bicycle from its lodging place.

  'I'll wheel it down for you,' he offered. 'Old Daisy'll wait for me.'

  'No, don't you bother,' said Emily hastily. 'It's no distance. Albert'll be home now, and I'll get him to make the chain safe. And thank you very much, Edgar, for the lift, and for helping me.'

  'No trouble,' said Edgar. 'I'll look out for you on Saturday week then.'

  'It will be lovely,' said Emily, giving him a dazzling smile. My word, thought Edgar, she's getting quite a beauty, is little Emily!

  She waved goodbye, and set off down the lane. Edgar watched her until a bend in the road hid her from sight.

  'That's a real nice little maid,' observed Edgar to Daisy.

  Daisy snorted in agreement and quickened her pace, advancing towards her stable and a good feed. There had been enough dallying—that was her opinion.

  6. Edgar and Emily

  OLD Edgar put a peeled potato carefully in the saucepan and straightened his legs in the sunshine. He had been to many Michaelmas Fairs since that one with Emily over half a century ago, but it was that particular occasion which stayed so clearly in his memory.

  How slowly the days had passed after that first encounter with Emily on the road from Caxley! He had been surprised by the strength of his desire to see her again, and looked forward eagerly to the Saturday evening.

  It had gone well, right from the start, he remembered.

  His father had given permission willingly for the little cart to be used on the Saturday evening, and had come upon his son, during that afternoon, polishing the brass work on cart and harness with unusual industry. The long black cushions, buttoned and horse-hair stuffed, which ran along each side of the cart were dusted, and the bottom of the cart swept clean.

  'Who's the girl?' asked Edgar's father, with a smile.

  'I'm picking up Albert Davis and Dolly Clare,' said Edgar, trying to sound casual, and failing utterly.

  'And who's to be your lady for the evening?'

  'Well,' said Edgar, studying a brass stud closely, 'Emily Davis is coming too.'

  'Look after her then,' replied the old man. 'I like the Davises. You treat that girl right, mind.'

  'Of course, dad,' said Edgar shortly. The old man continued on his way.

  The three were waiting for him at the end of the lane where he had dropped Emily after the bicycle incident. She wa
s dressed in a bright scarlet coat, which showed up her dark hair to advantage. What Dolly wore, Edgar had no idea. His eyes were only for Emily.

  The roundabouts and swingboats were close by the statue of Queen Victoria in the market square at Caxley. She looked faintly disapproving, standing there among the cheerful vulgarity of the fair.

  Naphtha lights flared, music blared away, children screamed as they careered round and round on the galloping horses, and the stall-holders shouted their attractions with lungs of brass.

  The din was unbelievable. After sampling all the side-shows, and having taken two trips on the roundabout and switchback, Emily begged to be allowed to stand still for a few minutes to calm her whirling senses. Dolly and Albert were high in a swing-boat above them.

  'Come down to the river for a minute,' said Edgar, leading the way, and Emily was glad to obey.

  After the tumult of the market square, the riverside was cool and quiet. A little breeze rustled the autumn leaves, and Emily welcomed the refreshing air on her hot face. They leant companionably, side by side, on the bridge, and watched the placid Cax slipping gently along below them, gleaming dully like pewter in the night light. Somewhere nearby, a splash told of a moorhen or water-rat going about its business. The distant racket of the fair was muted and the native sounds of water and trees in harmony made the age-old music of the night.

  Emily sighed happily.

  'Enjoying yourself?' asked Edgar, putting one hand on hers as it rested on the wooden rail.

  Emily nodded, and did not remove her hand.

  Emboldened, Edgar put his disengaged arm round the red coat.

  'Emily—' he began urgently, but Emily wriggled away.

  'Oh, Edgar, don't spoil it!'

  'What d'you mean—spoil it? I was only going to say, won't you come out with me again soon?'

  Emily came to rest again, and looked down upon the Cax for a time before answering.

  'I'd like to, Edgar, I really would. Only—'

  'Only what?'

  Emily turned to face him.

  'Only this. I don't know if you take out lots of girls—but—well, I don't want to be one of a lot. That's all!'

  Edgar laughed, and put his arm round her again. This time she did not wriggle away.

  'Oh, Emily! You're a plain speaker, and no mistake. I can tell you truly—if you're willing to be my girl, then you won't have no others to worry about. You're the only one for me.'

  'But, Edgar, don't say that! How d'you know how you'll feel in a month or so? We hardly know each other.'

  'I know how I feel well enough,' said Edgar soberly.

  'Well, I don't.'

  'You'll get to know,' said Edgar comfortably. 'What about coming to the dance next week?'

  'Thank you,' said Emily, in a small voice.

  Edgar bent to kiss her cheek, but Emily, shying away, caused him to land a rather wet one on her brow.

  They laughed together, and Emily moved away.

  'Let's go back,' she said. 'We haven't tried the swing-boats yet.'

  Together, hand in hand, they returned, like happy children, to the bustle of the market square.

  Theirs had been an easy courtship, thought Edgar, looking back. There were no lovers' quarrels, no misunderstandings and no parental obstacles to overcome.

  That auspicious Michaelmas Fair was in 1913, and throughout that winter and the following spring the young lovers were happy making plans for a wedding the following year.

  'Better be October,' said Edgar practically. 'Have the harvest in nicely by then.'

  'So I take second place after harvest!' quipped Emily, teasing him.

  'As a farmer's wife, you always will,' replied Edgar. 'You know that without being told.'

  Emily spent her evenings crocheting yards and yards of lace to edge tablecloths and towels. She still taught at Springbourne school during the day, and most of her earnings now went on linen for her bottom drawer.

  Dolly Clare and Arnold Fletcher were also engaged, and the four friends had many outings together. Edgar grew less shy as their social circle widened, but there were one or two people whom he disliked and with them he had great difficulty in making conversation.

  Dolly Clare's sister Ada was one of them. She and her husband Harry Roper ran a thriving greengrocery business in Caxley, and she invited the four to supper on several occasions.

  There was a boldness about Ada which Edgar found highly distasteful. He hated boastfulness and pretence, and in the Ropers' establishment he found both in abundance. What Harry Roper called 'ambition' or 'getting on in the world', Edgar, with his solid country background, called 'doing down your neighbour', or 'cutting a dash'. Edgar felt fairly sure that Harry was not above using some doubtful methods of making a quick profit—all in the name of good business—and he did his best to avoid mixing with Ada and Harry.

  Luckily, Emily was as distrustful of the two as Edgar himself.

  'She was always top dog at home,' Emily told him, 'though Dolly's worth ten of her. She did some pretty mean things at school that I could tell you about, but won't. I never took to her.'

  In the early summer of 1914, Ada's first baby was born, and Dolly was delighted to be godmother to John Francis.

  It so happened that Emily and Edgar encountered Ada in Caxley one Saturday afternoon, pushing the baby in a very fashionable pram. Of course, they stopped to admire him.

  The child was plump and pink, his dark head resting on a pale blue satin pillow decorated with lace and ribbons. He was asleep, and in his mouth was a dummy.

  'Shall I take it out now he's asleep?' asked Emily, bending over the child. Ada gave her a cold glance.

  'No, thank you. I can look after my own baby, I hope.'

  'I'm sorry,' said Emily, discomfited. 'I know lots of babies use comforters, but our doctor told me that they can cause adenoids when the child's older. Lots of my children at school breathe through their mouths instead of their noses—and he says comforters may be the cause.'

  'Maybe he's a busybody,' said Ada pointedly. 'I must be getting along.'

  She swept away up Caxley High Street, and Edgar pulled a face at Emily.

  'You copped it then,' he remarked. 'And you know, you did ask for it.'

  'I don't care,' said Emily stubbornly. 'That baby didn't need it when he was asleep, and I don't mind betting he'll get adenoids, and probably protruding top teeth as well, if Ada lets him go on with it!'

  It so happened that the years were to prove that Emily Davis was correct. Needless to say, it did not endear her to Ada Roper.

  'The cheek of it,' she had said to Harry later that day. 'A spinster like her—telling a mother what to do with her own child! I fairly froze her, I can tell you. Adenoids indeed! She and that doctor of hers want their heads seen to!'

  Edgar and Emily were never invited to the Ropers' house again. They were not surprised—only mightily relieved.

  They had been happy days old Edgar mused, leaning back in his wooden armchair and closing his eyes against the dazzle of the warm sunshine.

  No one, least of all young lovers, bothered about the political happenings across the Channel. The course of the seasons rolled steadily onward. Ploughing, harrowing, drilling, planting—the long days in the fields and farmyard passed swiftly away, and their wedding day was only two or three months ahead. The two were as blithe as nesting birds, when the blow fell.

  War with Germany was declared on August 4, 1914, and within a month Edgar was training in Dorset with other young men from the Caxley area. He and Arnold Fletcher had leave at the same time in November, and both came to Beech Green to see their girls. For Arnold, it was the last time, for he was killed by a hand-grenade thrown into his trench near the Ypres Canal, one cold and cruel February day in 1915.

  The months which Edgar spent fighting in France were like a nightmare to him. Remembering them now, in the September sunlight, so many years later, they still seemed unbelievable.

  The constant noise, the habitual grip o
f fear, the stench of rotting corpses, the rats, the sea of grey mud broken only by the stark splinters of shattered trees, were so alien to the young Edgar's home background of quiet green beauty that he was in a constant state of horror and shock.

  Some men managed to keep up a stout heart, even addressing their dead comrades with cheerful badinage as they passed up and down the trenches. This ghastly bonhomie Edgar found callous and macabre. His gentle nature was crushed and appalled by the sights and sounds around him.

  When the gas attacks finally caused his collapse, and he was invalided out of the army, he returned to England with a thankful heart.

  A thankful heart, indeed, remembered old Edgar, stirring uncomfortably in his armchair, but a changed one too.

  What went wrong with his love for Emily in those dreadful months that followed? To say that his war experience had unsettled him was to make the whole affair seem too slight and uncomplicated. But, nevertheless, that was the root of the matter.

  Lying in his white bed at the Bournemouth hospital, he had gazed at the green trim lawns and the leafy trees, remembering his comrades in that grey, shattered landscape overseas.

  On some days the English soil trembled with the thunder from the distant guns in France. Edgar rolled his aching head from side to side in sympathetic anguish.

  It was as though his mind were split in two. One half was here, with his suffering body, in this quiet room with birds and flowers outside. The other half, writhing and tortured, still inhabited that nightmare world of dying men and hopelessness. Perhaps there was an element of guilt in poor Edgar's mind at this time. Other men were in danger. He was safe. But should it be so? He tortured himself with thoughts of Arnold Fletcher, and other young men who had been his friends at Beech Green, sharing his background, his work and his play—men who had ploughed, sown and threshed with him, batted and bowled on Beech Green's cricket pitch, shared his laughter and his hopes. Where were they now? And could he ever return, to face those who had loved them, seeing the sadness—and perhaps the resentment—in their eyes?