Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Read online

  And then, there was always someone with time to spare. His maiden aunts seemed to be able to drop whatever they were doing to play shops with him. When Grandma's sight began to fail, one or other read out the items of news from the daily paper with real kindliness, it seemed to the child. No one seemed cross, or in a hurry, or resented serving the old lady, although no doubt there were times when they found her as tiresome as George Smith's grandchildren and poor Elaine Burton found their ancient relatives.

  Of course, the burden had always fallen hardest on the unmarried daughters, and still did, for that matter. And then, so much depended on the old people's attitude to life. If they could keep busy, and avoid self-pity, it was half the battle against depression.

  His grandmother, he remembered, always made herself responsible for the midday meal. She spent the morning preparing it, and the rest of the day planning for the next day's menu. She did little else in the house, but this one important chore eased the strain for everyone and, above all, gave her the inestimable reward of knowing she was useful.

  He took out a match, struck it, and drew his pipe into life. Through the blue clouds, he gazed at the view spread out below him. The spire of Beech Green church pierced the surrounding trees, and his thoughts turned to his last visit there, when Emily Davis had been buried.

  Now, there was a family which had managed its life well, he mused! When he first met them all, most of Mrs Davis's family were out in the world, and Emily went out to her teaching at Springbourne each day, but returned at night.

  Every Sunday there seemed to be a family reunion. Sons and daughters from Caxley brought over their children for Sunday tea, and news was exchanged. They were a lively collection, Doctor Martin recalled, and there was plenty of laughter in the tiny cottage.

  Perhaps that was the secret of happy family life—or one of the secrets. Nowadays people didn't seem to have time to laugh. All too busy rushing from place to place, like scalded cats, mused the old doctor, stirring the tobacco in his pipe bowl with a match-stick.

  The Davises travelled very little. Poverty had its rewards sometimes. If one had to remain in the same place, then one made one's pleasures there. Certainly the Davis family created their own delights. They gardened, and saw the results of their labours in the fine string of onions hanging in the shed, the sack of home-grown potatoes, the jams and jellies ranged upon the kitchen shelf. They knitted and they sewed. Doctor Martin remembered the beautiful dolls' clothes which Mrs Davis made each Christmas for her granddaughters' presents. He had admired tucks and feather-stitching on the minute petticoats—work which no modern parent would bother to do—but which would be prized by the owner of the lucky doll, and give pleasure too to the needlewoman.

  The little cottage overflowed with the results of their handiwork. The walls were papered by one son, the paintwork done by another. Rugs, cushions, chair-covers, all were made at home, and most of their clothes, too, were hand-made. It was a way of life which had endured for centuries, but which was now fast vanishing.

  Doctor Martin recalled one of his favourite characters who had lived in the eighteenth century and kept a diary. Parson James Woodforde, although a fellow of New College, Oxford, did things with his own hands just as the Davises did. He brewed his own beer, he salted pigs, he kept his house to rights, he pruned and dug in his garden, as well as visiting his parishioners and serving the church. He had a great deal in common with the country folk of Doctor Martin's earlier memories, and his sense of family duty was as keen. He was concerned about Brother Jack, the black sheep of the family, and considerate to his niece Nancy who lived with him.

  The latest over-worked word 'involved' came into the old doctor's mind. Those earlier people really were involved. Emily Davis, a good daughter, cared for her mother until her death, and did it cheerfully, just as she did her duty towards the many school children who passed through her hands.

  She had been a wonderful person—perhaps the finest character in that fine family. One did not meet many quite as selfless these days. That perhaps was one of the causes of Emily's strength.

  She was completely devoid of self-pity, unlike poor Elaine Burton and George Smith.

  She shouldered responsibility bravely, unlike Mrs Barber who thought that the school alone should tell her daughter the facts of life.

  She had an unswerving sense of justice, based on her Victorian upbringing of recognising right from wrong. It may have been too rigid a code, but it produced some good steadfast people who engendered those old-fashioned virtues of respect and duty.

  Doctor Martin looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was time he moved on. His pipe was almost finished, and he had day-dreamed long enough. He must blame Emily Davis for much of it!

  He wished he could tell her so. She would have enjoyed the joke. She always did.

  He switched on the engine and drove gently down the hill to Beech Green.

  20. Two Old Friends

  AS Doctor Martin slowly descended the steep, winding hill, he caught a glimpse of the tall figure of Dolly Clare moving about in her garden. On impulse, he drew into the side of the lane, and made his way up the garden path.

  Miss Clare was cutting a few late roses, and she held them up for the doctor to admire.

  'For Emily's grave,' she told him. 'Now that all those lovely funeral flowers have gone, it is beginning to look rather bare.'

  The doctor nodded. He approved of the way in which Dolly Clare talked so lovingly, and yet so calmly, of her dead friend.

  'Mr Willet is going to plant a low bush of red roses for me on the grave. There won't be a headstone. Emily always set her face against any sort of permanent memorial.'

  'She left her own memorial,' commented the doctor, 'she'll never be forgotten.'

  Dolly smiled at him.

  'Come inside. I've something for you.'

  She led the way into the little cottage. It was as fresh and shining as ever. A vase of flowers stood on the polished table. The curtains stirred gently in the breeze from the open window. There was a delicious smell of something baking in the kitchen. It was quite apparent that Dolly Clare, old and bereft though she was, was still self-reliant, and still revelling in her independence.

  'Do sit down,' she said, 'while I put these in water. I shall go up to the churchyard this afternoon, after my rest.'

  He did as he was told and looked about him. It was obvious that Dolly was busy sorting out Emily's effects, for a large suitcase, propped open, was filled with clothes, and on the little bureau by the window were some trinkets which the doctor recognised as Emily's.

  Dolly Clare returned with the roses in a vase and put them on the window sill.

  'Coffee?' she asked.

  The doctor shook his head.

  'Not for me, Dolly. I'm getting up an appetite for lunch. It's curried lamb today, I'm told.'

  Dolly laughed, and crossed to the bureau.

  'As you see, I'm sorting out Emily's things, and I've practically finished. The nieces and nephews were remembered, of course, but she asked me, several times, to give you this as a little remembrance of her.'

  She brought over to him a silver pocket-watch on a silver chain.

  'It was given to her brother when he retired. He left it to Emily, and she always kept it on the little table by her bed. It's an excellent time-keeper. She hoped you would find a use for it.'

  The old doctor was too moved to speak for a moment, as he turned the beautiful thing in his hands.

  'How generous of her,' he said at last. 'I shall always treasure it, Dolly. Always.'

  He undid his jacket and patted his waistcoat.

  'Help me to put it on now, Dolly. It's going to be my constant companion.'

  Miss Clare helped him to thread the chain through a buttonhole, and the doctor put the watch very gently into his pocket. He stood up and surveyed himself in the mirror on the wall.

  'Do you know, Dolly, I've always wanted a pocket watch, and never felt that I could indulge myself. Thi
s is doubly welcome—a remembrance of dear Emily, though she would be remembered well enough without it, as you know—and something I've always longed for.'

  Miss Clare smiled.

  'It would have pleased Emily so much to know you like it,' she told him. She turned to the bureau and held up a gold locket for the doctor to see.

  'I wish I had found this earlier,' she said seriously. 'I should have put it in the coffin with her.'

  She handed it to the doctor. It contained the portrait of a young man in uniform. He studied it for some moments, then looked questioningly at Dolly.

  'Edgar,' she nodded. 'The only man she ever loved. Sometimes we used to say we'd both been unlucky in love. After all, we both lost our lovers—but we were wonderfully blest with all the affection we had from the children at school and all the friends about us here. It helped a lot, you know.'

  'You both deserved happiness,' exclaimed the doctor.

  Miss Clare sat down in the armchair by the fire.

  'I was so touched by the dozens of letters I had. Some from as far afield as India and Australia—mostly from old pupils who had read the news, in The Caxley Chronicle or in letters from home. And then there were a great many from people I scarcely Knew—Jane Bentley, for instance, who taught with Emily many years ago, and Daisy Warwick. She wrote so kindly about Emily's care of her daughter.

  'And the flowers, as you know, were unbelievably lovely. I'd no idea that Emily was so widely known. Even Mrs Pringle sent a beautiful heart made of Michaelmas daisies.'

  'Well, that really is a tribute to Emily,' agreed Doctor Martin, laughing.

  'And so many little kindnesses to me too,' went on Dolly. 'Mr Willet brought me a marrow—which I can't look at, incidentally, without remembering Manny Back, and Emily at her most mischievous. And I've been given enough fresh eggs by kind neighbours to keep me in omelettes for weeks.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' said the doctor. 'Mind you eat them, and look after yourself.'

  He rose, and looked down at his new watch-chain proudly.

  'I can't tell you how much I appreciate this,' he said soberly.

  'This is a typical gesture of Emily's, generous and practical. I shall wear it always.'

  He turned at the door.

  'I'll call again, Dolly. Don't get over-tired. What are you doing for the rest of the day?'

  'Finishing my sorting. I'm thoroughly enjoying looking through the old school photographs. I've recognised several Pringles and Billy Dove, and a host of others.

  'Then I shall take the roses up to Emily's grave, and also plant a clump of snowdrops which I've dug up from this garden. Emily always loved them, and I went with her several times to see them at Mrs Allen's farm. What a glorious sight! Emily used to reckon it was one of the high-lights of the winter.'

  'You're going to be busy I can see,' commented Doctor Martin. 'Well, better to wear out than rust out, as my old grandmother used to say.'

  He waved goodbye, and Miss Clare watched him drive along the lane into the distance.

  That evening, as dusk was falling, Dolly Clare took her accustomed walk at the edge of Hundred Acre Field, behind her home.

  All her little duties were done, and she felt free to enjoy the evening air before settling by the fireside.

  She reached the oak tree, and stood very still, watching three fine pheasants searching for acorns at the foot of the gnarled old trunk.

  Above her the rooks were flying homeward. The great field before her, gleaming with gold when last she walked there with Emily, was now freshly ploughed, the furrows dark and glistening. Within a few days the seed would be planted and she would watch, alone now, the first tender blades appear, then the ripening crop and, finally, its harvesting.

  The comforting cycle of the seasons continued unchanged—the sowing, the growing and the reaping.

  Dolly Clare turned, and made her way homeward with a grateful heart. Life went on, and was still sweet.

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  MISS READ is the pen name of Mrs. Dora Saint, who was born on April 17, 1913. A teacher by profession, she began writing for several journals after World War II and worked as a scriptwriter for the BBe. She is the author of many immensely popular books, but she is especially beloved for her novels of English rural life set in the fictional villages of Fairacre and Thrush Green. The first of these, Village School, was published in 1955 by Michael Joseph Ltd. in England and by Houghton Mifflin in the United States. Miss Read continued to write until her retirement in 1996. In 1998 she was made a Member of the Order of the British Empire for her services to literature. She lives in Berkshire.

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