Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 35

  On the day of Emily Davis's funeral, while her mother was shivering in Beech Green church, Susan was pounding her typewriter in an airless top-floor office. She sat immediately below a large sky-light, which would not open, and was hotter than she had been all the summer. She had elected to work through her lunch hour, as the letters upon which she was engaged were urgent. An apple and a glass of tepid water from the cloakroom tap were all that she had eaten during the day, and by the time she arrived at Earls Court station she was almost too tired to walk to the flat.

  Everywhere seemed filthy. A hot breeze raised the dust, swirling pieces of paper across the pavements. Dogs lay panting in the scanty shade of porches. Children in bathing suits lolled on the steps of houses, too hot to play. Men, stripped to the waist, sat at open windows, their arms dangling across the sills, to catch what little air there was. Querulous babies cried in stuffy prams, turning their wet heads this way and that to try to ease their wretchedness.

  The traffic rumbled and roared continuously, like some snarling monster. To sit in a moving vehicle was misery on a day like this. To sit in a stationary one, in a traffic jam, was more than human flesh and blood could endure. The blaring of horns added to the din.

  Susan stripped, and had a tepid bath, then lay, exhausted, upon her bed. She must have fallen asleep for the telephone bell roused her. Bemused, she struggled from her bed to the sitting-room. For once, it was mercifully empty.

  Her mother's voice sounded reassuringly near.

  'And how are you?'

  'Terribly hot.'

  'Here too, dear. Thunder, I think. Mrs Smith is getting on with the suit and says will you get a yard of black petersham for the skirt top, and do you want a zip or buttons?'

  'Buttons. I'll get them.'

  ' Right. Now the next thing. Mary Bell is having a baby at Christmas. Isn't that nice?'

  Susan forbore to say that Mary had told her this some time before, so early, in fact, that Susan had felt it was tempting fate to mention it.

  'And Aunt Bessie's asked us to lunch on Sunday, so bring a frock, dear. You know how she feels about trousers.'

  'If it's as hot as this, I'll probably go nude.'

  'Yes, well—I thought I'd let you know. And do you still want those two cushions? If not, they can go to the Scouts' jumble sale.'

  'Can I tell you at the week-end?'

  'Of course. And the last thing. I've been to a funeral this afternoon at Beech Green. Now, there's a place to get cool! That church is like an ice-well.'

  'Anyone I know?'

  'Miss Davis. Your old teacher at Springbourne.'

  'I'm sorry. Poor old dear—but I thought she'd died years ago. She must have been a hundred.'

  'Eighty-something, I believe. She'll be missed. She was always so kind.'

  'She was indeed,' agreed Susan. The pips sounded peremptorily.

  'Well, we'll see you on Friday night, dear. At the station. Goodbye.'

  'Goodbye,' said Susan, putting the sticky receiver back in its cradle.

  She must make a note about the petersham and buttons, and get them tomorrow in her lunch break. And the cushions? She looked about her, at the depressing airless room, and the broken couch which, she thought, the cushions might make more bearable.

  To hell with the cushions! Why should she bother to make the place look decent! No one else did. She'd fought a losing battle long enough. She wished she need never set eyes on the dreary place again.

  She went to the window and tried for the hundredth time to open it. A sash cord broke under her onslaught, but the window remained firmly closed, sealed tightly by the paint.

  Panic seized her. She could have smashed the grimy glass at that moment, in her frantic longing for air. Oh, to be on the downs at Springbourne, to feel the wind lifting one's hair, or to feel the cold rushing breeze as the swing flew up and down from the beech tree in the garden. If you swung high enough, you could see over the hedge to the village school across the way.

  The village school! And Miss Davis! Susan rested her hot forehead against the grimy window pane, and stared unseeingly at the traffic pounding below.

  Miles and miles away. Years and years away. And now Miss Davis was dead. A different world—a quiet, happy world of light and air and sunshine—or so it seemed, thought Susan, looking back.

  17. Snowdrops at Springbourne

  SUSAN had known Miss Davis and the village school for as long as she could remember. The Warwicks had moved to Springbourne when Dudley Warwick was appointed to be manager of the Caxley branch of his bank, a few years after the war.

  The house was a comfortable and solid building, put up between the wars. The first owner had made a fine garden, and the Warwicks, who were keen gardeners themselves, were glad to find mature trees and hedges, settled pathways and well-tended flower beds, when they took over.

  Susan was born at Springbourne, and her earliest memories were of her afternoon outings in the pram. The school was less than a quarter of a mile away, and the children were usually setting off for their homes, after school, when Mrs Warwick and Susan returned from their walks.

  Miss Davis was often at the gate, seeing off the children safely, and always had a word with Mrs Warwick and the child. Emily's hair was greying by this time, but her eyes were as dark and sparkling as ever they were. They reminded Susan of the bright glassy eyes of her much-loved toy monkey. There was a humorous twinkling look about them both, which the child found irresistible.

  At five years old she went to the school herself. It was the autumn term, and the beech tree in the garden was already beginning to drop leaves as bright as new pennies.

  She was happy from the first day, for several of her friends were there, and she knew that home was only a short distance away.

  As so often happens, the newcomer picked up measles as soon as it appeared in the village. She had it more severely than most, and Doctor Martin insisted that she stay at home for the rest of the term.

  'It's not a thing to take lightly,' he told Mrs Warwick, who privately thought that the old man was making a mountain out of a molehill. 'It goes in cycles. At the present time, it's very severe. We don't want complications. She can go out, well-wrapped up as soon as she is out of quarantine, but I don't want to risk any further infection.'

  Susan chafed at the delay in returning to school, but revelled in the short walks she took with her mother when she had recovered.

  She loved to collect flowers and stones, or any other lovely treasure which she came across in the hedges or fields. In those few weeks was born the deep love of natural things which was to stay with her for the rest of her days.

  When she returned to school after the Christmas holidays she seemed perfectly fit, but Mrs Warwick noticed that she still tired easily if she took too much exercise. Miss Davis promised to keep an eye on the child.

  One morning in February, Miss Davis came into the infants' room and told them that they were going to have a treat.

  Mrs Allen, the farmer's wife, who was also one of the school managers, had invited them to her garden to see the snowdrops. They grew in vast drifts in a small copse at the edge of the garden, and thicker still in a dell near the house which had once been a sawyer's pit, many years earlier. The garden was famed in the Caxley area for its profusion of snowdrops, and the children were excited at the thought of an outing to such a lovely place.

  There was much bustling in the school lobby as the young children buttoned coats and wrapped scarves round their necks. The infants' teacher was left in charge of Miss Davis's class, while the headmistress shepherded her little flock through the village to the farm.

  It was almost a mile distant, but the sun shone and their spirits were high. A thick frost still sparkled on the grass verges and the bare twigs, but some golden catkins told of spring at hand, and a blackbird sang from a thornbush as boisterously as if it were April.

  Mothers at their dusting waved and called to them as they passed, and tradesmen gave them a friendl
y toot on their horns as they went by. Altogether, it was a glorious occasion, made even more splendid by the knowledge that normally they would have been closeted in the schoolroom.

  Susan skipped along with the others joyfully, but was glad when the farm gates came in sight, for her legs had begun to ache. Miss Davis, noticing, offered to carry her, but Susan would have none of it. However, she held Miss Davis's warmly-gloved hand, and was secretly glad of this support.

  The snowdrops were so unbelievably white and pure, so numerous and so far spread, that the children fell silent in wonderment for a moment. Susan thought how like snow they were—not only in their whiteness, but also in texture. There was something crystalline in the drooping heads, delicate and opaque in the morning sunlight. The greyishgreen spears of leaves set off the purity of the flowers perfectly. It was an unforgettable sight.

  They were allowed, by kind Mrs Allen, to wander about freely and to pick a small bunch each. What is lovelier than picking flowers, especially when they are the first after so many dark months of winter? The earth was moist and fragrant beneath the trees, and here and there the tiny leaves of the honeysuckle showed the first brave touches of spring.

  When they had had their fill of these joys, the children walked back along the drive to the farm kitchen. On the way Mrs Allen picked ivy leaves to put with each bunch. Susan thought the dark glossy leaves, mottled like marble, were a perfect contrast to the white beauty of the snowdrops. Every year, she promised herself, she would have just such a February nosegay to remind her of this wonderful morning.

  Beyond the back garden of the farm, a row of calves pressed against the low hedge. Their shaggy heads hung over it inquisitively. Their beautiful eyes, heavily fringed, gazed solemnly at the children, who gazed back just as solemnly.

  The ground fell away gently into the distance, and then rose again to the swelling flanks of the downs, scarcely visible in the morning haze. To Susan, the distance seemed vast. She was suddenly conscious, for the first time, of the infinity of space about her, as she stood on the little hill in the shelter of the farmhouse.

  The calves' breath floated up like steam, in the forefront of this picture, from their shiny wet noses. Far away, the farm dog must have seen the children, and began to race down the slope of the distant hill towards them.

  At first he was a dim black shape moving swiftly towards his home, but as he drew nearer Susan thrilled to the sight of his splendid movement as he stretched his legs as rhythmically and as proudly as a racehourse. His ears flapped, his white teeth were bared in a grin of ecstasy, and when he finally reached them, he was so warm and panting, so full of vigorous life and spirits that Susan felt her own strength and excitement rising at the sheer joy of being alive on this tingling day of early spring.

  They went into the great farm kitchen, after much shoewiping supervised by Miss Davis.

  There on the table stood two steaming jugs of milk and an array of mugs and glasses. There was also a yellow china bowl filled with ginger biscuits.

  As she sipped her milk among her chattering companions, Susan was conscious of the sudden contrast between this warm room, full of colour and conversation, and the great empty airiness outside. Both were lovely, one in its cosy domesticity, the other in its limitless mystery.

  Her physical tiredness made the child more sensitive to her surroundings than usual, and she suddenly became aware that, for her, she must always have both worlds—each was necessary and complementary. One was her nest. The other was the place in which she stretched her wings, and soared, as effortlessly as the lark outside, into a different dimension.

  When elevenses were over, and the mugs had been put into the sink, and the beautiful ginger biscuits had all been eaten, the children thanked Mrs Allen individually and shook hands with her, as Miss Davis had told them to do earlier. When it came to Susan's turn she felt that such formality could only express part of her feelings. She put her arms round Mrs Allen's ample waist and gave her a loving hug, when the official handshake was over.

  By the time the little crocodile had reached the end of the farm drive, Susan's legs refused to carry her further, and she looked up at Miss Davis in despair.

  'My legs ache,' she began, but did not need to add any more, for Miss Davis swung her up on to a high bank and sat down in front of her.

  'A piggy-back for you, Susan. Up you get!'

  The child gratefully put her arms round Emily's neck. Her teacher's dark wiry hair tickled Susan's face, but this was pleasurable.

  She enjoyed jogging along, her cheek against Miss Davis's scarlet coat. Below her the children bobbed along, their bunches of snowdrops clasped carefully in their gloved hands. Their breath rose in silver clouds, as they clattered along in their sturdy country boots, and reminded Susan of the adorable calves standing against the background of mistily distant hills.

  There was something wonderfully reassuring and comforting about Miss Davis's small strong body which bore her along so steadily. Emily had given many a piggy-back to younger brothers and sisters, as well as her own pupils, and had the knack of carrying a child in a way which gave most comfort to them both.

  Susan never forgot that welcome ride. The experiences of that shining morning culminated in the new bond forged between teacher and pupil as they made their way together through the village.

  Standing listlessly at the stubbornly-shut window of the flat, Susan noticed once again the small Negro girl sitting on the kerb opposite.

  She was clad in a grubby elasticised white bathing suit. Her bare feet were thrust into a pair of silver evening sandals which might have been her mother's, so large were they. She rose to her feet lithely, and began to teeter along in the grotesque shoes, looking, for all the world, Susan thought, like Minnie Mouse.

  Suddenly her amusement changed to pity. There she was, poor child, about the same age as she had been on that far morning of sparkling light and infinite airiness, but doomed to spend the day in a noisy prison of stone and brick. It was all wrong! No child should be forced to endure this claustrophobic squalor!

  For that matter, no one—child or adult—should have to endure such conditions.

  The memory of the snowdrops, the memory of Miss Davis, the memory of the calves and the emptiness beyond their endearing heads, flooded back to Susan. Why not go back?

  She knew in her heart that these two worlds still existed side by side—the small and the limitless. Too long she had suffered from being penned. It was time to find her true self again, and for that she must have space and air and beauty.

  It could be done. She could give in her notice tomorrow, telephone to her mother and ask if she could come for a week or two's holiday. She knew how joyously she would be welcomed. Who knows? She might find that job in Caxley after all.

  But that was in the distance. All that mattered immediately was to escape—to put her affairs in order, in this swarming filthy ant-hill she had once thought so glamorous, and to find quietness and space for the survival of her body and mind.

  Perhaps that had been the secret of Miss Davis's strength, she thought suddenly. She went at her own pace, and had time to relish all the lovely natural things in Springbourne and thereabouts. And when the occasion arose, that happiness, fed by inner serenity, could succour the weak and give, as Susan could so poignantly recall, strength and heart to those who needed it.

  She went into the bedroom and began to pack in readiness for a longer stay at home than usual. She was not going to make up her mind one way or the other. No doubt London would pull her back before long, just as Springbourne tugged her now with an urgency her starved spirit must obey.

  But she would go forward with her immediate plans. Her spirits rose as she moved about her work in the sultry heat. Soon she would be out on the windy hills above Springbourne, where the small happy ghost of Emily Davis had beckoned her.

  Her mind raced ahead. She saw herself at the booking office in the deafening and dirty London terminus. Aloud, she rehearsed the word
s:

  'Single to Caxley!'

  18. Doctor Martin's Morning Surgery

  A WEEK or two after Emily's funeral, Doctor Martin sat in his surgery at Beech Green, awaiting the first of the clay's patients.

  The morning was warm and rather close for October, and the windows looking on to his garden were wide open. A bed of mixed roses stood immediately below the windows, and in the quietness the doctor could hear a blackbird busily scrabbling the earth for worms. Now and again a delicious whiff of the roses' scent wafted into the room, giving the old man much pleasure. His love of roses grew greater as the years passed.

  He glanced at the silver clock on the mantelpiece. Ninethirty. Time he opened shop, he told himself.

  He smoothed his grey hair and opened the door into the little waiting room. Not many today, thank heaven. Fine weather cut his queue by half. It was in January and February that extra chairs had to be put in the waiting room.

  'Good morning! Good morning!' said Doctor Martin cheerfully.

  'Good morning,' replied his sufferers, with varying degrees of joy.

  Doctor Martin consulted his list.

  'Mrs Petty?'

  A stout young woman rose, carrying a toddler, and followed Doctor Martin into the surgery. She was, in fact, Miss Petty, but the birth of Gloria, who now accompanied her, accounted for the change to a married title.

  The Pettys were a large family, originating in Caxley. They ran to fat, were short-necked and inclined to respiratory diseases. They were also good-tempered, happy-go-lucky and quite incapable of keeping to any diet prescribed by their various doctors for weight reduction.