Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 25

  John felt that some progress was being made.

  'What had you in mind?'

  'Well, naturally, as she's my only sister, my first thought was to invite her here.'

  'That's very generous of you, mother. But do you think you are up to it?'

  Ada sighed heavily.

  'We all have to make sacrifices at times like this. And no doubt Dolly would appreciate it.'

  'I'm sure she would be most grateful.'

  'But then—I don't know. It would be such a complete change in her way of life, wouldn't it? And we're so far here from the shops and things. Have you considered having her at your house? She is your godmother, you know.'

  John, though taken aback at this surprise attack, rallied well.

  'Out of the question,' he replied swiftly. 'No spare room, for one thing, and then I think Aunt Dolly would find the children too much for her.'

  'Humph!' snorted Ada, thwarted. A short silence ensued.

  'If she did leave Beech Green, I think she would get a very good price for the cottage,' said John at last. His mother's love of money was as strong as his own. He could have found no surer way of diverting her attention.

  'Would she now?' said his mother speculatively. 'How much should you think?'

  'Somewhere in the region of five thousand.'

  Ada nodded slowly.

  'She'd need some of that to see her fixed comfortably for the rest of her life, of course—' Her voice trailed away.

  'Naturally, naturally,' agreed John hastily. 'Properly invested it should bring in a nice little sum for the next few years.'

  He cleared his throat fussily.

  'How old is dear Aunt Dolly now?' he asked in a would-be casual tone.

  'Eighty-four,' said Ada shortly.

  'She's made a will, I hope?'

  'I believe so. I know if she went first, the house was to be Emily's.'

  'Really?' John sounded startled. 'And now what happens?'

  'I'm not sure, but I've an idea it might go to a niece of Emily's.'

  It was John's turn to sigh.

  'Ah well, she must do as she likes with her own property, of course, but I do hope she isn't making a mistake. Well, mother, how do you feel about inviting her here? Would you be happy about it?'

  'I must think it over. I'm sure poor Dolly would enjoy the greater comfort she'd get here, and she'd have company, of course, but it would mean a lot of extra work. Not that I'd mind that—I've worked all my life—but I shouldn't like to place a burden on Alice.'

  'Of course not,' agreed John. 'You think it over, my dear, and give me a ring, before you write to Aunt Dolly.'

  He kissed her cheek and departed, leaving her to her thoughts.

  ***

  Five thousand, thought Ada. It was worth keeping in the family. She reviewed the situation anew. There were arguments for and against inviting Dolly to 'Harada'. She pondered on the problem in the gathering dusk.

  At last she came to a decision. She would write to Dolly expressing sympathy, and telling her that she could make her home in Caxley should she wish to do so. Then, in all truth, she could tell her friends that she had invited Dolly to live with her, and any money would be wisely invested for her maintenance. John would see to that.

  She went to her writing desk and wrote swiftly in her large, bold hand.

  Dear Dolly,

  I was most distressed to hear about poor Emily and hasten to send my deepest sympathy.

  You can guess how worried I am to know you are quite alone now. Should you care to come and stay here with me, you know you would be most welcome. For a short visit, if you prefer it, to see how you like it here, but with a view to living here permanently, I mean.

  The back bedroom is very comfortable, although it is facing north, and the little box room next door could be turned into a snug little sitting room, if you like the idea.

  I know you wouldn't want to be idle, and Alice and I would welcome your help in running the house.

  Do think it over. I know John would be very happy to give you any help in disposing of your furniture and so on, if the need arises.

  With love from,

  Ada.

  She glanced at the clock. If Alice hurried, she could catch the last outgoing post at the main office in the High Street.

  She stuck on a stamp with an energetic banging, and called imperiously for Alice.

  When she was safely dispatched on her hurried errand, Ada rang John to tell him what she had done.

  He was a trifle annoyed that she had written without consulting him again, but he was resigned to his mother's highhanded and impetuous methods.

  'Well, we'll have to wait and see now, won't we?' was all he found to say.

  But as he put the receiver down, he had a strong feeling that Aunt Dolly's cottage would never be his.

  He was right.

  Two mornings later, he called to see his mother, who handed him Dolly's reply in silence.

  My dear Ada,

  Your kind sympathy is very much appreciated. I miss dear Emily more than I can say, as you may imagine, and because of that I am doubly grateful for your kind suggestion of sharing your home with me.

  It is a very generous gesture, Ada dear, and I have thought about the matter seriously. However, I am determined to stay here, where I am so happy, and I am lucky enough to have good neighbours who will always help me, I know.

  Perhaps John would bring you out to tea one day when things are more settled, and I can thank you both properly for all your concern for my welfare.

  Your loving sister,

  Dolly.

  'That's that then,' said John, returning the letter. They both sighed. John for the loss of a dream; his mother with secret relief.

  8. Did Emily Tell?

  ADA'S relief was genuine. There would have been many drawbacks to Dolly's presence in the house. Perhaps the most irksome would have been the constant nagging query in her own mind: 'Did Dolly know?'

  What was this guilty memory which worried Ada so unduly after so many years? And what part did Emily Davis play in it?

  It was the age-old story of a boy and a girl, and it all began when Ada went, as a young girl, to live with her grandparents in Caxley.

  She had a job in a flourishing draper's shop in the High Street, and her bright good looks and flirtatious ways brought many a young man into her department.

  She had many admirers, and among them was the younger son of Septimus Howard, whose baker's shop stood in the market square.

  Leslie Howard was dark, gay and a lady-killer. He worked hard with his father and brother Jim, and drove a smart baker's cart on the rounds outside Caxley. Leslie Howard was known well in the neighbourhood. He was a great favourite with the young of both sexes; a charmer who had inherited the dark looks of his gipsy mother.

  The older generation, particularly those sober chapel-goers who respected his father Sep Howard, shook their heads over Leslie's goings-on, and warned their daughters about trusting such a flighty-minded young man. If anything, this increased Leslie's fascination in their eyes.

  It was not long before bold Ada caught Leslie's eye, and he took to meeting her as soon as the shop closed. Ada was careful to say nothing about the meetings to her aged grandparents, but, of course, in a town of Caxley's size, the word soon went round.

  In the meantime, however, the two young people enjoyed each other's company. Sometimes, Leslie made an excuse to take the baker's cart out in the evening, on the pretext of a forgotten delivery. He would pick up Ada, waiting in a quiet lane, and they would spend a blissful few hours before returning.

  They attended several local dances held in the Corn Exchange. They were both fine dancers, and grew accustomed to much open admiration on the floor.

  It was on one of these occasions that Ada's quick temper betrayed her. Another market square family, the young Norths, were present at the dance. Bertie North had brought his younger sister Winifred, whose pale blue frock and silver ribbons were more
splendid than any other gown to be seen at the dance.

  Leslie turned his attentions to his old friend Winnie, and danced with her far more frequently than Ada thought suitable. It was true that kind-hearted Bertie had taken pity on her, but Ada, becoming crosser as the evening wore on, decided that Bertie was simply patronising her.

  Her anger grew. The Norths were a prosperous family. The father, Bender North, had a thriving ironmongery business in the square, and Hilda North, his wife, could afford to dress well and to see her children beautifully clothed.

  Ada considered the family 'stuck up.' In those days of class consciousness, she felt that the Norths were above her. The Howards were poorer, and with Leslie she felt comfortable. Bertie's good clothes and gentle manners made Ada feel rebellious and discomfited.

  It was the beginning of the end of the affair between Leslie and Ada, but although they rarely met after the dance, there was a strong personal bond between them. They both possessed outstanding vitality, and the attraction they felt for each other did not grow less by being pushed underground.

  Ada heard of his subsequent marriage to Winnie North with secret envy, although by that time she too was married to Harry Roper, and was the mother of a baby son.

  Leslie came into Ada's life again during the 1914-1918 war. She met him, quite by chance, one bright October evening as she walked along the tow path by the gently flowing Cax.

  Baby John was safely in bed, looked after by a little maid-of-all-work who lived over the shop with Ada. Harry was serving in Italy, and from his boisterous letters seemed to be happy in the army.

  Ada was bored and lonely. She worked hard in the shop all day, but when she had locked its door, and she had shared a meal with the little maid and kissed young John 'Goodnight', she took a brisk walk before darkness fell. Partly she felt the need for exercise and fresh air, but even more strongly she needed to pass away the long hours of evening time.

  In war-time in Caxley, there were very few social occasions. With the young men gone, there were no dances or socials—nothing to give Ada the stimulus she loved.

  She had a wardrobe packed with pretty clothes, for Harry was a generous husband, but no occasion to wear them. There were long ankle-length gowns trimmed with lace insertion and rows of diminutive buttons. There were smart fitted coats with fur at the hem and frogging across the front. There were several muffs to match the coats; and in a separate cupboard stood a dozen or more beautiful hats, some trimmed with feathers, or laden with silken flowers, or edged with fur or swansdown. Perched above Ada's bright gold hair, well-skewered with hat pins for safety, they crowned Ada's beauty with added glory. She mourned the fact that in war-time there were so few times when she could dazzle Caxley with such finery.

  She met Leslie face to face as she took her walk along the tow-path, and her heart leapt at the sight of him. He looked even more dashing than usual in uniform.

  He held out both hands, and she put hers into them. They stood looking at each other, without speaking for a full minute.

  Beside them the Cax gurgled. A few leaves fluttered down upon its silky surface and were borne away. The dry reeds whispered as the slow current moved them, and nearby a moorhen piped to its mate.

  'Ada,' said Leslie, at last, very low, 'I've been longing to see you again.'

  'I've missed you,' replied Ada simply.

  She turned to walk beside him. It was as though no rift had ever occurred between them. In that one short minute, they were once again in complete accord.

  'I've ten days leave,' said Leslie, matching his step to hers. 'Can I see you again?'

  'I usually come here for a walk about this time,' said Ada.

  Neither said a word about wife or husband. There were no enquiries about their respective families, no polite small talk about the town or general matters.

  Both knew instinctively that the feeling between them was too strong to be denied, and time was short. To be in the presence of the other was all that mattered.

  For the next few days, Ada lived in a state of feverish excitement which she found difficult to conceal. She met Leslie each evening, sometimes by the Cax, sometimes in a quiet lane where prying eyes would not see them.

  Leslie's leave ended at the weekend, and he persuaded Ada, with very little difficulty, to go away with him on the Saturday before he reported to his unit on the Sunday night.

  'But Winnie?' said Ada, speaking at last of his young wife.

  'She thinks I have to be back on Saturday. We can go to Bournemouth. No one knows us there. I know a decent hotel.'

  Ada's heart leapt. Here was excitement, a change from stuffy Caxley and the dreary round of keeping the shop going. The thought of the neglected gowns in the wardrobe, now to see the light of day again, made her eyes sparkle.

  Leslie kissed her swiftly.

  'We can go on the morning train, travelling separately until we change at the junction, in case there are any old codgers who might tell tales.'

  They laughed together. They were like two children, plotting mischief. To neither of them occurred the possibility of wrong-doing or disloyalty to their partners. They were perfectly matched in selfishness and animal vitality.

  The plan worked smoothly. Ada left little John with his doting grandparents, on the pretext that an ageing aunt of Harry's wanted to see her in Sussex, and she felt that she must make the journey for Harry's sake.

  As arranged, Ada made her way to the head of the platform, assiduously avoiding looking at the further end where a soldierly figure waited, his eyes, apparently, gazing down the line.

  Leslie had made his farewells to Winnie at home, begging her not to upset herself by saying farewell in public. Winnie, touched by his thoughtfulness, had agreed to his plan.

  The train arrived in a flurry of steam and smoke. Doors banged, porters shouted, the guard blew his whistle shrilly and waved his flag.

  At that moment, a small figure hurtled from the booking office, wrenched open the nearest third-class door, and leapt inside.

  Emily Davis had caught the train by the skin of her teeth yet again.

  She was on her weekly pilgrimage to see Edgar in hospital at Bournemouth. At this time, she was acting headmistress at the little school at Springbourne, for her headmaster was in the army, and as it happened, was fated never to go back to Springbourne. On his safe return at the war's end, he moved to a larger school, and Emily continued as headmistress in her own right.

  Running the school while he was away in the army was a heavy task for Emily, but one which she tackled with her customary energy. The hardest part was the journey back and forth each weekend to see poor Edgar.

  His progress was so pathetically slow. The gas attacks had affected his lungs, and a painful cough persisted. He seemed to live for the week-ends, and Emily travelled on Saturday morning and returned on the last train on Sunday.

  This meant that all her domestic work had to be fitted in during the evenings or very early on Saturday morning. The school house at Springbourne was small, but inconvenient. Water had to be wound up from a well in the garden. The bath was a zinc one which hung at the side of the garden shed, and had to be carried into the kitchen, there to be filled from hot saucepans and kettles bubbling on the kitchen range.

  Emptying the bath was almost as great a labour as filling it.

  Emily overcame all these difficulties effortlessly. After all, this was the way in which she had been brought up as one of a large and cheerful family. But she wished, sometimes, that Edgar were nearer, for the journey was tedious and involved precious money as well as precious time.

  On this particular morning, she changed as usual at the junction, and whilst she was collecting her hand luggage together, she saw Ada, exquisitely wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat, with a hat and muff to match, moving swiftly towards a waiting figure. They linked arms and, heads together, made their way to the waiting train.

  Emily recognised Leslie Howard. It was plain from their behaviour that they were completely
engrossed in each other.

  Emily hung back out of sight, and quickly climbed into an empty carriage at some distance from the couple. She did not want to embarrass them, and she also needed to mark some tests of the children's which she had brought with her in her bag.

  But as she put the ticks and crosses automatically against the answers, Emily's bewildered brain tried to take in the full import of this meeting.

  At Bournemouth she waited until the couple had gone through the barrier, and then gave in her ticket and made her way straight to the hospital.

  Edgar's eyes lit up when he saw her walking down the ward. She kissed him gently and let him tell her all his hospital news – what the doctor said that morning, what meals they had been given, the excitement of a visiting soprano who had made their heads ache with patriotic songs.

  Emily gave him the Springbourne news and the little presents of farm butter, brown eggs and late roses from his family. But she said nothing of Ada and Leslie.

  She stayed nearby in a shabby house which supplied bed and breakfast for a small sum. The woman was kind, but too busy to take much interest in her lodgers. There was nowhere to sit, and Emily was accustomed to walking along the promenade or looking at the windows of the shut shops on Sunday morning, until it was time to visit Edgar again.

  This Sunday morning was clear and sunny. The sea air was heady, the sea-gulls cut white zig-zags across the blue sky, screaming the while. Emily gulped down the salty air, revelling in the fresh breeze on her face. A bright October day had a flavour all its own. Here, by the sparkling sea, everything was extra sharp and beautiful.

  She went at a brisk pace, but presently slowed up. In front of her strolled Ada and Leslie. His arm was round her waist. Her head was almost upon his shoulder. They might have been a honeymoon couple. Passers-by looked at them fondly and with some sympathy. So many young men in uniform came here for their leave, and many of them never returned to England again. Let them enjoy life, said their indulgent smiles, while they can!