Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 33

  'And you want me to take your place?' queried George jokingly.

  'Well now, who knows? You keep it in mind, George. You might do a lot worse than try your luck in the States. Plenty of scope there for a chap like you.'

  George did not give much thought to the conversation. His present mode of life was full enough, and besides he doubted if his mother would, approve of a son going so far away.

  Mrs Lamb was a strongly possessive woman, and hard times had made her calculating as well. With the wages of both John and George she managed fairly easily. She had an eye for a bargain, went shopping regularly in Caxley market on Thursday afternoons, and took advantage of every cheap line offered by the shops. The thought of losing either son's contribution to the housekeeping was a nightmare to her, although she was better off than many of her neighbours.

  At that time, John was courting a local girl, and having considerable trouble with his mother on that account.

  'I've nothing against her,' said Mrs Lamb, mendaciously.

  'Except her being in existence at all,' thought John privately, but keeping quiet for the sake of peace.

  'But can you afford to get married? Where are you going to live? She's welcome here, but I don't suppose this place is good enough for her.'

  'It's not that, mother—'

  'I'm quite prepared to take second place, hard though it is. I haven't had an easy time, as well you know. Bringing up two boys all alone, with mighty little money, is no joke. Not that one expects any thanks. Young people are all the same—take all, give nothing.'

  This sort of talk nearly drove John Lamb mad at times. He saw quite clearly that self-martyrdom pleased his cantankerous old mother. He also saw the cunning behind it. As long as she could stave off the marriage, the better off financially she would be.

  Things came to a head when his girl delivered an ultimatum. Her younger sister became engaged, and their wedding day was already fixed. This galvanised the older one into action. It was unthinkable that young Mary should steal a march on her!

  'Well, do you or don't you?' demanded John's fiancee. 'If we have to live here for a bit, I don't mind putting up with your mum as long as we know we're getting a house of our own, in a few months, say. But if you can't leave your mother, then say so.'

  'Don't talk like that,' pleaded poor John, seeing himself between the devil and the deep sea.

  'I'm fed up with waiting. If you don't want me, there's another man who does. He's asked me often enough.'

  'Who's that?' said John, turning red with fury.

  'I'm not saying,' replied the girl, a trifle smugly. As it happened, John Lamb never did discover who the fellow was. Could he be mythical? John often wondered later on.

  But the upshot was that John's wedding was arranged very quickly, and a double celebration took place in Caxley that autumn, much to the delight of the brides' father whose pocket benefited from 'killing two birds with one stone,' as he put it bluntly. As the poor fellow had four more daughters to see launched, one could sympathise with his jubilation.

  The atmosphere in the Lamb household, between the time of the girl's ultimatum and the wedding, was unbearable. Old Mrs Lamb went about her Post Office duties with a long face, and had the greatest pleasure in confiding her doubts and fears to all her customers. Most of their sympathy went towards John and his wife-to-be.

  'Miserable old devil!' was the general comment. 'I wouldn't be in that girl's shoes for a pension! If John Lamb's got any sense he'll clear out and let his old mum get on with it.'

  It was at this unhappy stage that George began to think seriously of Wilbur's suggestion. He began to dread his return home, as he cycled back from Caxley each evening. Sometimes a brooding silence hung over the kitchen. Sometimes his mother was in full spate—a stream of self-pity flowing from her vigorously.

  'How I shall manage I just don't know,' she complained one evening. 'It's bad enough keeping three of us going with what little comes in. When there's a fourth to feed, it'll come mighty hard.'

  George's pent-up patience burst.

  'Maybe there'll be only three after John gets married. I'm thinking of leaving Howard's.'

  There was a shocked silence.

  'Leaving Howard's?' shrieked his mother. 'What's this nonsense?'

  'I'd like to go to the States. Got an opening there.'

  This was not strictly true, but George was enjoying his mother's discomfiture.

  'You'll do no such thing,' declared Mrs Lamb, recovering her usual matriarchal powers. 'You've got a good job with Mr Howard, and you're a fool to think of throwing it up.'

  'I could do the same work in New York and get twice the money. Besides I want to see places. I don't want to stick in Fairacre all my life. If I don't go now, when I'm free, I'll never go. I'll be like old John here, married and stuck here for life.'

  'And what's wrong with that?' demanded his mother. She looked at her younger son's rebellious face, and changed her tactics.

  'And doesn't your poor mother mean anything to you?' she began, summoning ready tears. 'The sacrifices I've made, for you two boys, nobody knows. I've skimped and saved to feed and clothe you, and what do I get? Not a ha'p'orth of gratitude!'

  She mopped her eyes.

  'I only hope,' she went on, raising her eyes piously towards the ceiling, 'that you two never find yourselves unwanted by your family. A widow's lot is hard enough without her own flesh and blood turning against her!'

  'Now, mother, please—' began soft-hearted John, who could always be moved by tears.

  But George was made of tougher stuff.

  'Any children of mine will have a chance to do as they want in life,' he told his mother stoutly. 'What's the sense in keeping them against their will? We all have to leave home sometime. I'm thinking about it now. That's all.'

  'And what about the money?' said Mrs Lamb viciously.

  George looked at her steadily.

  'Let's face it, ma! That's all you're worried about.'

  His mother turned away pettishly, but not before George saw that his shaft had struck home. He followed up his advantage.

  'I'll get better opportunities in America. After a bit, when I've got settled, I'll probably be able to send you a darn sight more each month than I give you now in a year.'

  An avaricious gleam brightened his mother's eye. Nevertheless, she clung to her martyrdom.

  'And how do we manage until you make your fortune?' she asked nastily.

  'As other mothers do,' said George. 'I'm going to talk to Mr Howard. He'll understand how I feel. I shan't let him down, but I intend to go before long.'

  Knowing herself beaten, Mrs Lamb rose to her feet, reeling very dramatically.

  'I shall have to go and lie down. All this trouble's made my heart bad again.'

  John took his mother's arm and helped her upstairs in silence.

  Sitting below, at the kitchen table, George heard the bed springs creak under his mother's eleven stone.

  John returned, looking anxious.

  'D'you mean it?' he asked. 'Or are you playing up our mum?'

  'I mean it all right,' replied George grimly.

  As luck would have it, he came across "Wilbur next day, and told him how things stood. Would he mind asking his father what the chances were for a young man in the trade?

  Wilbur threw himself into George's plans with a wholehearted zest which gave the boy encouragement when it was most needed. He was now quite determined to leave home. He would stay until John's marriage, but as soon as that was over he hoped to get away.

  He did not intend to approach Sep Howard until he had heard from Wilbur's father. If he was discouraging he might just as well stay a little longer with Howard's, finding lodgings in Caxley. Whatever happened, he was not going to stop at home.

  For one thing there would be little room for him when John married. For another thing, he foresaw that there would be trouble between the two women, and he was going to steer clear of that catastrophe.

 
But for all his determination, George suffered spells of doubt, particularly at night.

  Lying sleepless in his narrow bed, he watched the fir tree outside the window, as he had done since he was a little boy. The stars behind it seemed to be caught in its dark branches, as it swayed gently, and reminded him of the Christmas tree, sparkling with tinsel, which he and John dressed every year. He would miss Fairacre, and his home. There would be no sparrows chirruping under the thatch, close to his bed-head, in New York. There would be no scent of fresh earth, or the honking of the white swans as they flew to the waters of the Cax.

  And was he treating his mother roughly? In the brave light of day, he knew that he was not guilty. At night, he became the prey of doubts.

  There was, too, so much to consider. Suppose he hated America when he got there? Could he ever save enough for the return passage? He knew no one there—not a soul. Here he knew everyone, and they knew him, and his mother, and his forefathers.

  And that, thought young George, thumping his pillow, was what was wrong! He felt stifled in this closed little world. He must get away to live, to breathe, to be—simply—George Lamb, a man on his own, not just a son, a grandson, a workmate or a neighbour—but someone in his own right!

  The letter from Wilbur's father was lengthy and full of good sense. There were plenty of openings. He gave him a rough idea of wages to be expected, and the cost of living. He pointed out certain difficulties a country-bred boy might find in a foreign town, and prejudices which might have to be overcome.

  On the second page he came to his proposition. In a few months' time his assistant was leaving to take over a new restaurant which Wilbur's father was opening. If George's references were completely satisfactory (this was underlined heavily), he would consider taking him on when the vacancy occurred. If, at the end of a month, either of them wanted to end the arrangement, well—fair enough. There were plenty of caterers in New York who would give a steady young man a chance.

  Until he found suitable lodgings he was very welcome to stay with Wilbur's family. Any friend of Wilbur's—and so on.

  George's spirits rose as he made a note of the address. He would write as soon as he had talked with Sep.

  ***

  The frail old man listened attentively to the boy's tale. He had lived in Caxley all his life, and knew something of Mrs Lamb's possessiveness. He knew, too, that young George would prosper wherever he went. Rarely had he had such a promising pupil. He was a lad brought up on hard work, ambitious and adventurous and with a strong sense of justice. It was this last, Sep surmised, which had sparked off his revolt.

  He advised the boy to talk of the matter, yet again, with his family. He told him that he would be able to give him excellent references, and he suggested that his own solicitor, Mr Lovejoy of Caxley Market Place, might find out more about the proposed job and his employer, so that the affair could be put on a business-like basis.

  Within a month it was almost settled. If only his mother would bow to the inevitable, thought George! He would go so much more cheerfully if she gave the venture her blessing, but she continued to play the martyr.

  It was at this stage that Dolly Clare and Emily Davis entered the scene. They had called together in the late afternoon to buy stamps. Dolly Clare, who had been button-holed many times to hear about Mrs Lamb's woes, hoped that they would escape this time, but it was not to be.

  Emily Davis had not heard the tale first-hand, Mrs Lamb noted with satisfaction, arranging her face into the drooping lines of suffering widowhood.

  'And so, off he goes, in a few weeks' time, whatever happens, I suppose,' continued Mrs Lamb lugubriously, after ten minutes' brisk narration of George's unfilial actions.

  'They're all the same, Miss Davis, aren't they? No thought for their parents. Everything taken for granted. What happens to us old folk, don't matter. They must do as they want, no matter who's hurt by it'.

  'You don't expect him to stay here all his life, do you?' said Emily, smiling.

  'John will,' replied Mrs Lamb.

  'Then you are very lucky,' responded Emily. Mrs Lamb began to look even more disgruntled than usual. It was a fine thing when your own generation turned on you!

  'I wouldn't mind so much,' said Mrs Lamb, changing her ground, 'if he was going to someone we knew. But to be thrust among strangers! Well, it's hard for a mother's heart to bear, I can tell you. To think of my boy, alone and friendless in that wicked city—'

  'No worse than London, I expect,' said Emily mildly. Mrs Lamb ignored the interruption.

  'With all its temptations—and we all know what those are for a young man! No, I wouldn't say a word against this trip,' went on Mrs Lamb, waxing to her theme, 'if I thought there was anyone there he could turn to, if he was in trouble. Just one, just one single person! It's all I'd need to set my mind at rest.'

  'That's easy,' said Emily. 'I've a brother in New York. I'll give you his address.'

  She put down her handbag and reached for a pen and paper. Mrs Lamb's jaw dropped. Here was a blow!

  At that moment, she heard the sound of George's bicycle being lodged against the wall. The door burst open and there stood the young man, wind-blown and boisterous.

  I'm just telling your mother,' said Emily, still writing busily, 'that I hope you'll look up my brother in New York. He's a policeman there. Been there nearly twenty years. He's married with four children. He'd love to see you. This is his address.'

  George held out his hand gratefully, and studied the slip.

  'This isn't far from Wilbur's father's place from the look of it,' he said. 'I'm very grateful, Miss Davis.'

  'Well,' said Emily, with a hint of mischief in her voice, 'your mother said she wouldn't mind you going one bit, if there were someone there you knew. So now you are settled.'

  Mrs Lamb's face was a study in suppressed wrath. Her heavy breathing boded no good to George when the ladies had left, he knew well. He could have laughed aloud at the situation. This had taken the wind out of the old girl's sails all right!

  'I'll write to my brother to tell him you are on your way,' promised Emily. 'How lucky that I called in! It must have been meant, mustn't it, Mrs Lamb? Good luck, George. I'm sure you're doing the right thing!'

  Eyes sparkling, Emily Davis followed Dolly Clare through the door.

  'Doing the right thing,' echoed Mrs Lamb, when the couple were out of earshot. 'That Emily Davis! Always was too fond of interfering in other people's business.'

  'It pays off sometimes,' said George, tucking the address in his pocket-book.

  He had such a grin on his face that for two pins his mother would have reached up and boxed his ears, but she forbore.

  She would keep her recriminations for that meddlesome Emily Davis next time she saw her, the hussy!

  'You look pleased with yourself,' said one of George's regular customers, offering a dollar bill. 'Had good news?'

  'Not really. Heard of a death actually.'

  'Gee, that's sad! Sorry I spoke.'

  'That's all right. She was a very old lady—over eighty.'

  'Don't suppose she's many friends left to mourn her then. Not at that age.'

  'You'd be surprised,' said George, handing over the change. 'You'd be surprised! Emily Davis has got a lot in common with our John Brown.'

  'Our John Brown?' echoed the man, puzzled.

  'Sure. The chap whose body lies a-mouldering in his grave.'

  'And whose soul goes marching on?'

  'That's the lad. Emily Davis is right beside him, take my word for it.'

  The customer nodded and made his way to the door. These English guys had the screwiest ideas, no matter how long they'd lived in a decent God-fearing country, he told himself.

  16. Heatwave in London

  THE day of Emily's funeral was quiet and grey. No breeze stirred the leaves or rustled the standing corn beyond the churchyard yew trees. Only a wren, hopping up and down the stairway of the hedge, added minute movement to the scene.


  The church at Beech Green was small and shadowy. It was also deathly cold, despite the warmth outside. The congregation shivered as they waited for Emily to make her last journey up the aisle.

  Dolly Clare sat in the front pew with several of Emily's nephews and nieces. Doctor Martin, who had attended both friends, sat behind her with Mr and Mrs Willet beside him.

  Other Fairacre friends were nearby. There were relations and friends from Caxley, and a great many from Springbourne. But very few were Emily's contemporaries, for she had outlived the majority of them.

  Among those from Springbourne was Daisy Warwick, whose husband was a bank manager in Caxley. She represented Springbourne Women's Institute, on this occasion, for she was the President of that branch. But she was also there on her own behalf, for she had been very fond of Emily Davis, and grateful to her for the care and affection she had shown to her only daughter Susan.

  Daisy Warwick contemplated her well-polished shoes as she waited, and wished she had put on a thicker coat to withstand the bone-chilling damp of the church. Her fore-arms, protruding from the three-quarter length sleeves of the sober grey coat which had seemed the most suitable garb in her wardrobe, were covered with gooseflesh, and her hands grew colder and colder inside her gloves.

  This would not do any of them any good, she thought practically; particularly poor old Miss Clare, and the vicar, Mr Partridge, who served the parish of Beech Green as well as Fairacre, and had recently returned from hospital. At least he was warmer waiting outside for the coffin to arrive.

  At that moment, the sound of the bier's wheels on gravel was heard, and the congregation rose as the voice of Gerald Partridge fluted the unforgettable words at the west door.

  'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'