Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 27

  Emboldened, the two girls pressed their noses to the classroom windows and gazed at the interior. To Jane it seemed like a dolls' school after the enormous building in which she taught. She caught a glimpse of a large photograph of Queen Mary as a young woman, wasp-waisted in flowing white lace, with pearls in her hair.

  The desks were long and old-fashioned, housing five or six children in a row. But there was nothing old-fashioned about the stack of new readers on the piano—Jane was using the same series herself—and she noted, with approval, the children's large paintings, the mustard and cress growing in a shallow dish, and the goldfish disporting themselves in a roomy glass tank, properly equipped with aquatic plants.

  The playground was large, and shaded by several fine old trees. Elder bushes, turning their creamy flowers to the sun, screened the little outhouses which were the lavatories.

  It all seemed cheerful and decent, a kindly spot where one could be happy, and could work without heart-break.

  When Jane returned, she applied for the post and was accepted. Later that summer she met her headmistress-to-be for the first time.

  She was in the playground carrying a tear-stained five-year-old in her arms. She kissed it swiftly before putting it down, and advanced to meet Jane. It gave Jane quite a shock. Would Miss Jolly do that?

  'I'm so glad you can come and help us next term,' said Emily Davis, holding out her hand.

  And, as Jane held the small warm brown one in her own, she felt that, at last, she had come home.

  10. The Flight of Billy Dove

  THERE began then for Jane a period of great happiness and refreshment which was to colour her whole life.

  To begin with, she stayed with the hospitable Bentleys, for the first few weeks of the autumn term, until she could find suitable lodgings nearer the school. After so much ill-health and strain, it was wonderful to be taken into the heart of such a cheerful family, and Jane thrived.

  The bicycle ride to school and back brought colour to her cheeks, and an increased appetite. In those first few weeks of mellow autumn sunshine, Jane began to realise the loveliness of the countryside.

  Harvest was in full swing, and the berries in the hedges were beginning to glow with colour. The cottage gardens were bright with Michaelmas daisies and dahlias, and the children brought sprays of blackberries and early nuts for the classroom nature table. Sometimes Jane received fresh-picked field mushrooms which the children had found on the way to school, or a perfect late rose from someone's garden.

  She revelled in the bracing air of the downs and, encouraged by her headmistress, took the infants' class for nature walks round and about the village.

  She found the children amenable and friendly. They might lack the sharp precocity of her former town pupils, but their slower pace suited Jane perfectly. Facing a class of eighteen, after forty or fifty, was wonderful to the girl. There was so little noise that there was no need to raise her voice. She could hear each child read daily—a basic aim she had never been able to achieve before—and found the children's progress marvellously heartening.

  Of course there were snags. The chief one was the range of ages. The youngest was not yet five; the oldest—and most backward—nearly eight. But Jane was used to working with groups, and found that discipline was no bother with so few children who were mostly of a docile nature. Relaxed and absorbed, Jane's confidence in her own abilities grew steadily, and she became a very sound teacher indeed.

  Emily Davis played her part in this process. Jane found her as quick and energetic as Miss Jolly had been, but with a warmth of heart and gentleness, both lacking in her former headmistress.

  Emily was like a little bird, Jane thought, with her bright eyes and brisk bustling movements. The children loved her, but knew better than to provoke her. They knew, too, that a cane reposed at the back of the map cupboard. No one could remember it being used, but the bigger boys, who occasionally assumed some bravado, were aware that Miss Davis was quite capable of exerting her powers, if need be, and kept their behaviour within limits.

  Emily's high spirits were the stimulus which these children needed. Mostly the sons and daughters of farm labourers, they were unbookish and inclined to be apathetic.

  'Don't forget,' said Emily to Jane one playtime, as they sipped their tea, 'that most of them are short of food, and quite a number go cold in the winter. Times are hard for farmers and their men.'

  'But they look well enough,' observed Jane.

  'Their cheeks are pink,' answered Emily. 'If you live on the downs you soon get weather-beaten. And by the end of the summer they are nicely tanned. But look at their bodies when they strip for physical training! You'll see plenty of rib cages in evidence. There's just as much poverty in the country as in towns. The only thing is it's not quite so dramatic, and fewer people see its results.'

  There were such families at Springbourne, Jane soon discovered. She saw too how Emily coped practically with the situation, supplying mugs of milky cocoa during the winter to those who needed it most. Those who did not run home for their midday meal brought sandwiches, for this was before the coming of school dinners. One family, in particular, was particularly under-nourished. When the greasy papers were unwrapped, they were usually found to contain only bread with a scraping of margarine.

  Many a time Jane saw Emily adding a piece of cheese to this unpalatable fare, and apples from her store shed. It was all done briskly, without sentiment, and in a way which would not make a child uncomfortable.

  It was small wonder, Jane thought, that Emily Davis got on well with the parents. There were exceptions, of course, and one incident Jane remembered for years.

  It happened just before Christmas one year. Emily had arranged a school outing to a Christmas pantomime, put on by amateurs, in Caxley. A bus was hired, and the fare and the entrance fee together would cost five shillings. Parents could join the party, and there was a good response, despite the fact that five shillings seemed a great deal of money to find just before Christmas.

  The fact that several Thrift Clubs would be paying out about that time may have accounted for the enthusiasm with which Emily's venture was received. The money came in briskly until only young Willie Amey's contribution, and his mother's, were outstanding.

  The day before the outing, Mrs Amey appeared, in tears. Asking Jane to keep an eye on both classes, Emily took the weeping woman over to the school house and heard the sad tale.

  'That beast of a husband,' Emily told Jane later, 'took the ten shillings from the jug on the top shelf of the dresser, where she'd hidden it—or thought she had, poor soul—and drank the lot at the pub last night.'

  'What will happen?'

  'I shall put in the money for them,' said Emily shortly, 'and I'll see Dick Amey myself. He'll pay up, never fear!'

  Jane gazed at Emily in trepidation. Dick Amey, she knew, was a big, burly, beery fifteen-stoner. Jane was afraid of him under normal circumstances. Provoked, he could be dangerous, she felt sure.

  'But he's such a great bully of a man,' said Jane tremulously.

  'And like most bullies,' said Emily forthrightly, 'he's a great coward too. I shall square up to him tonight.'

  She went about her duties as blithely as ever that afternoon, but Jane was the prey of anxiety. She said goodbye to her diminutive headmistress that afternoon, wondering if she would see her unscathed next morning.

  She need not have worried. Evidently Emily had put on her coat and hat as soon as she thought Dick was home, and had climbed the stile, crossed a field to his distant cottage, and tapped briskly at his door.

  His frightened wife stood well back while the proceedings took place.

  Emily had come straight to the point. Direct attack was always Emily's motto, and she got under Dick Amey's guard immediately.

  'About as mean a trick as I've ever heard of said Emily heartily. 'But the money's in for both of them and they're going to enjoy the show. That's ten shillings you owe me. I'll take it now.'

 
Dick Amey, flabbergasted, demurred.

  'I ain't got above two shillun on me,' protested Dick.

  Emily held out her hand in silence. His wife watched in amazement as he rooted, muttering the while, in his trouser pocket and slammed a florin into the waiting palm.

  'When do I get the rest?' said Emily.

  'You tell me,' growled Dick.

  Emily did.

  'A shilling a week at least, till it's done,' said Emily. 'You keep off the beer for the next few weeks and you'll soon be out of my debt.'

  Jane heard of this memorable encounter from Mrs Amey herself, long after the event. It must have looked like a wren challenging an eagle, thought Jane. But, no doubt about it, the wren was the victor that time.

  ***

  Jane found permanent accommodation in a tiny cottage on Jesse Miller's farm at Springbourne.

  It had been empty for some time, but was in good repair, for the Millers were always careful of their property.

  It consisted of a living room and kitchen, with two small bedrooms above. The place was partly furnished and Jane had the pleasure of buying one or two extra pieces to increase her comfort. The rent was five shillings weekly, and the understanding was that if Jesse Miller needed it for a farm worker sometime, then there would be a month's notice to quit.

  She was now a near neighbour of Emily's, and frequently spent an evening with her headmistress and old Mrs Davis who now lived with her. Emily's father had died some years before and it had taken much persuasion to get her mother to leave the family cottage at Beech Green where she had reared her large family. But at last she consented, and had settled very well with Emily.

  The two had much in common. They were both small, energetic and merry. Jane found them gay company, and often looked back, in later years, upon those cheerful evenings when the lamp was lit and stood dead centre on the red serge tablecloth, bobble-edged, which Mrs Davis had brought from her old home.

  They knitted, or worked at a tufted wool rug, and chattered nineteen to the dozen. The schoolhouse living room had an old-fashioned kitchen range with a barred fire and two generous hobs on which a saucepan of soup, or a steaming kettle, kept hot. It was all very snug, and Jane was always reluctant to leave the circle of lamp light to make her way home along the dark lane, following the wavering pool of dim light from her torch.

  Often, she went to Caxley to see the Bentleys, for Richard Bentley, an older brother of her college friend, became increasingly attentive. He owned a little car and worked in a Caxley bank.

  As the months passed, he came to fetch Jane from the cottage more and more frequently. When they became engaged, Emily Davis was the first to hear the news.

  She was genuinely delighted, though not surprised, and kissed young Jane soundly.

  'And don't have a long engagement,' urged Emily.

  'But we must save some money,' protested Jane, laughing at her vehemence.

  'Don't wait too long. I did, and I lost him.'

  Her face clouded momentarily and, for the first time, Jane realised that this cheerful little middle-aged woman must once have been young and in love, and then terribly wounded.

  It was the first she had heard of the affair, although she learnt more later.

  'I'm sorry,' she said, taking the older woman's hand impulsively. 'I had no idea.'

  'Well, it's over and done with,' said Emily, with a sigh. 'But take my advice. Marry soon.'

  The two planned to marry in the spring of the next year, and at Easter 1939, Jane was married from her parents' house in London.

  After the honeymoon, they settled at the Springbourne cottage, intending to move nearer Caxley when something suitable came on the market. Jane had resigned her teaching post, but still saw a great deal of Emily and her pupils.

  When war broke out in September of that year, young Richard Bentley, who was in the Territorial Army, went off to fight.

  Jane resumed her job as infant teacher at Springbourne School, and went to Caxley Station, with her headmistress, to collect forty or so evacuee schoolchildren who were to share Springbourne school for the duration of hostilities.

  The war years had a dream-like quality for Jane Bentley. At times, it was more of a nightmare than a dream, but always there was this pervading feeling of unreality.

  Had there ever been such a golden September, she wondered, as that first month of the war?

  Day after day dawned cloudless and warm. Thistledown floated in the soft breezes. Butterflies, drunk with nectar, clung bemused to the buddleia flowers, or opened and shut their wings in tranced indolence upon the early Michaelmas daisies.

  It was impossible to realise that just across the English Channel terror and violence held sway. At Springbourne one might have been swathed in a golden COCOON as the harvest was gathered and the downs shimmered in the heat haze.

  Of course, at Springbourne School there was unusual activity as the newcomers settled down, amicably enough, with their native hosts.

  Two teachers had accompanied the evacuees, one young, one middle-aged.

  The middle-aged headmistress was a tough stringy individual with a voice as rough as a nutmeg scraper. She had run a Girl Guides troop for years, played hockey for her county and had the unsubtle team-spirit approach to life of a hearty adolescent.

  She was billeted with Emily in the school house, and the two got on pretty well, both appreciating the other's honesty and concern for their charges. Miss Farrer, Emily discovered, was a whirlwind of a teacher, and a strict disciplinarian.

  The younger woman, Miss Knight, was a different kettle of fish altogether, and poor Jane, whose spare bedroom she occupied, suffered grievously.

  Molly Knight was one who thrived on emotion. She travelled from one dramatic crisis to another as a traveller in a desert moves from oasis to oasis. If the war could not supply enough material for sensation—and at that stage it was remarkably dull—Molly Knight created excitement from the little world about her. She was a mischief-maker, mainly because of this desire for sensation, and Jane found her particularly exhausting.

  'What can I do?' she asked Emily one day, in despair. 'I try to look upon it as my contribution to the war effort, but I really can't face Molly breaking into my room at midnight to tell me how atrociously the Germans are treating their prisoners, and giving me a blow-by-blow account of her reactions to some stupid piece of propaganda.'

  'I've been thinking about it,' replied Emily. 'If Miss Farrer's willing, I suggest they have your cottage, and you come here. How do you think that would work?'

  Jane, despite a certain reluctance to leave the cottage, fell in with this plan, and for some time the two establishments were thus constituted. It made things easier in every way.

  As the phoney war, as it came to be called, continued, a number of the children and their parents returned to London. One who did not, much to Emily's and Jane's pleasure, was a particularly attractive eight-year-old called Billy Dove.

  He was a red-haired freckled boy, quick and intelligent. There was no doubt in Emily's mind that he would go on to a grammar school in time.

  He was the only child of a quiet little mouse of a woman, and the two were billeted in a cottage not far from the school. The father was in the Navy, patrolling off the coast of Ireland, it was believed.

  Mother and son were devoted. Mrs Dove was a great knitter, and young Billy's superb collection of jerseys was much admired. She did not mix much with the other women, although Billy was popular with the other children, frequently organising their games.

  One day in late November the tragedy occurred. By now the weather had broken, and all day the wind had howled round Springbourne School and rain had lashed the windows. Playtime was passed indoors, in a flurry of well-worn comics on the desks among the milk bottles.

  By afternoon, a fierce gale was blowing, ferocious enough to satisfy even Molly Knight's passion for excitement.

  'Just look at the postman!' she exclaimed to Jane, as they watched the weather through the
rain-spattered window. 'He can hardly walk against it!'

  They watched him struggle up the path to Billy Dove's door, letter in hand. Water streamed from his black oilskin cape, and every step sent drops flying from his Wellington boots.

  The children were sent home at the right time, through the murky fury of the storm, with strict orders 'not to loiter'. Emily and Jane returned to the school house for tea, looking forward to a peaceful evening by the fire.

  But at eight o'clock, an agitated neighbour arrived to say that Mrs Dove was in a dead faint across her table, with her wrists dripping blood, and that young Billy was nowhere to be found.

  'You go and ring the doctor,' said Emily to Jane, 'while I run along to Mrs Dove.' They flung on their coats and hurried away on their errands.

  The scene at Mrs Dove's, though frightening enough, was not quite as horrifying as the neighbour's breathless description had led Emily to believe.

  There was blood upon the tablecloth, on the floor, and upon Mrs Dove's hand-knitted jumper, but the slashed wrists dripped no longer for, luckily, the poor woman's attempt at suicide had been unsuccessful. Emily had snatched up her mother's smelling salts on her way out, and now waved the pungent bottle before the pale face.

  The neighbour found some rum in the cupboard, and when, at last, Mrs Dove came to, she and Emily made her sip a little rum and hot water.

  'What ever made you do it?' asked the neighbour, bewildered.

  Emily shook her head. This was no time to torture Mrs Dove with whys and wherefores. They must bide their time.

  Although conscious, the woman said nothing, but sat, head sunk upon the bloodied jumper, in silence.

  But when the doctor arrived, she stirred and pointed to a letter which had fallen to the floor. He read it, and passed it to Emily, without speaking.