Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Read online

  Of all the shops, Dolly dreaded most the butcher's. The headless carcases, split down the middle to disclose heaven knew what nameless horrors in their sinister depths, were frightening enough. The poor dangling hares, with blood dripping from their noses to the sawdust on the floor, were infinitely worse. To see them flung on to the butcher's block and to watch his red hands wrenching the skins, with a sickening tearing sound, from their bodies was even more terrifying to the child, and the final awful tugging to release the head had once caused her to be sick upon the sawdust, thus bringing upon herself the wrath of her mother and the butcher combined.

  But the most appalling experience, which happened all too frequently, was the purchase of half a pig's head. This useful piece of meat was very cheap and very nutritious, and Mary Clare often bought it for her family. Dolly watched, with fascinated horror, the whole head placed upon the butcher's block. The eyes, small and blue in death, seemed to look at her. There was something pitiful and lovable about its round rubbery nose and the cock of its great waxen ears. When the butcher, chatting cheerfully the while, raised his cleaver, Dolly squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her milk teeth, remaining so until the ominous thudding had stopped. She had never been able to keep her eyes closed long enough for the butcher to weigh, trim and wrap the meat, and so endured each time the ghastly sight of that cloven head, brains, tongue and grinning teeth exposed by the butcher's onslaught.

  Mary, delighting in her purchase and making plans for several meals from it, never knew the repugnance which little Dolly felt. The child could not go near the basket which held this horror, shrouded in newspaper, and was careful to walk on the other side of her mother on the return journey. For Dolly, this was only the beginning of her misery. The pig's head would float, she knew well, in a basin of brine for hours to come, on the floor of the scullery, and every movement would set it swivelling slowly, while one blue eye cast a cold malevolent beam from its watery resting-place.

  'Don't pick at your vittles,' Mary would say two days later, when she placed a plate of boiled pig's brain before her younger daughter. 'Look at Ada gobbling up hers! You be a good girl, now, and clean up your plate.'

  'That's right, my little love,' Francis would say jovially. 'Thousands of poor children 'ud give their eye teeth for a plateful of brains like that. Why, I wager there's plenty down the marsh would like 'em!'

  For all unhappy little Dolly cared, as she pushed the revolting things about, the marsh children could have them. Memories of the butcher's shop, the strain of living with half a pig's head in the house, and meeting the reproachful gaze of that one fearsome eye, completely robbed Dolly of any appetite. Her parents' concern was an added burden, yet how could she explain her revulsion?

  And so the pigs' heads continued to appear and to cast their shadow over young Dolly's existence. It was small wonder that shopping in Caxley High Street presented so little attraction for the child in her early years.

  Although Dolly's heart sank when her mother slammed the gate and turned left towards the town, it rose with equal speed if she turned to the right, for that way lay the fields, woods and gorsy common land which were becoming so dear to her. That way led to her grandparents' home. Most visiting was done on a Sunday, when Francis was free.

  During his enforced idleness, and as soon as he could hobble as far, it had become a habit for the young family to spend Sundays with the old people.

  'At least they'll get a good feed,' old Mrs Clare had told her husband. 'That baby don't appear too strong, for my liking; and it takes Francis out of himself to leave that chair of his now and again.'

  'Don't overdo it,' advised her husband. 'They don't like to feel they're having charity, that pair, and good luck to 'em. Besides, they won't want Sundays booked here for the rest of their lives. Invite 'em as much as you like while things are bad—but you ease up a bit when our Francis is back at work.'

  By the time the little girls were four and six, the Sunday visits were occasional treats. One particular Sunday remained vividly in Miss Clare's memory.

  It was a day of high summer. The family set off clad in their Sunday best. Francis wore the dark suit which he had bought for his wedding, and Mary's lilac print was drawn back into a bustle showing a darker mauve skirt below. Three rows of purple velvet ribbon edged the skirt, and on her head was a neat straw hat with velvet pansies to match the underskirt. Both frock and hat had been a present from her generous employers at the time of her wedding, and were kept carefully shrouded in a piece of sheeting on working days. Dolly thought her mother looked wonderful as they set off, and told her so.

  'Has Queen Victoria got a hat like that?' she wanted to know.

  'Dozens of 'em,' laughed her mother, flattered nevertheless by the child's admiration.

  'Not as pretty,' maintained Dolly stoutly. Her own clothes did not give her as much pleasure. Her two petticoats, laceedged drawers and white muslin frock had been so stiffly starched that it had been necessary to tear them apart before arms and legs could be inserted. Now the prickly edges dug into her tender flesh, and she knew from experience that the lace on her drawers would print strange and uncomfortable patterns on her thighs from the pressure against grandma's horsehair sofa. Tucked under one arm she held Emily, wrapped in a piece of one of her own old shawls. She was the least welldressed of the party, but not in her mistress's eyes. She was heavy, too, and Dolly was obliged to hitch her up every few yards.

  But these minor discomforts were soon forgotten in the joys of the walk. They crossed a stile and made their way across a meadow high with summer grass. Some of the bobbing grasses stood as high as Dolly herself and she saw, for the first time, the tiny mauve seeds quivering at the grass tips. Ox-eyed daisies and red sorrel lit this sweet-smelling jungle that stretched as far as the small child could see. Above her arched a sky of breath-taking blue where two larks vied with each other in their outpourings.

  In the distance the six bells of Caxley parish church chased each other's tails madly. A warm breeze, scented with the perfume from a field of beans in flower, lifted Dolly's hair, and she became aware, young as she was, of her own happiness in these surroundings. Sunlight, flowers, Mother, Father, Ada, and dear Emily were with her. Here was security, warmth, love and life. Nothing ever completely dimmed that shining memory.

  At grandma's house there were different joys. There was an aura of comfort and well-being here which the child sensed at once. The furniture was old and solid, unlike the poorer machine-made products in her own home. The old couple had inherited well-made pieces from their families, and the patina of a century's polishing gleamed upon the woodwork. These sturdy chairs and chests had been made and used long before the commons were enclosed and their self-supporting owners became poor men. The difference in the two homes was eloquent testimony to the revolution which had split a nation into classes. Although the young Clares might consider themselves fortunate when they compared their way of life with that of 'the marsh lot', yet the fact remained that they were as poor. Francis's parents were the last inheritors of an older England where a man might live, modestly but freely, off his own bit of ground.

  After the greetings and the Sunday dinner were over, the grown-ups settled back to rest and talk and the two children were told to sit up to the table to play.

  'I'll take off your sashes, so they don't get crushed,' said their mother, undoing Ada's blue and Dolly's pink ones. It was good to expand, free of their bindings. The sashes were eight inches wide and four or five feet long. Made of stout ribbed silk, they were considerably restricting when tied tightly round a wellfilled stomach. Dolly watched with relief as her mother rolled them up, smoothing them on the table to take away the wrinkles.

  Ada was given a picture book, but Dolly had her favourite object to play with—a square tin with pictures of Queen Victoria on each side. It had been bought at the time of the sovereign's golden jubilee, the year before Dolly's birth, and had held tea then. Now it was grandma's button box, and Dolly was allo
wed to spill out the contents across the table and count them, or form them into patterns, or match them, or simply gloat over their diversity of beauty.

  There were big ones and tiny ones. Buttons from coats and caps, from pillowcases and pinafores, from bonnets and boots, cascaded across the table. There were buttons made of horn, bone, cut steel, jet, mother o'pearl, linen and leather. Dolly's fingertips, as well as her excited eyes, experienced the gamut of sensations roused by handling the variety of sizes, textures, colours and shapes which were held in the bright button box.

  As she bent over her treasures, scraps of conversation floated to her from the grown-ups.

  'Found a house yet, my boy?'

  'Not that I can afford, Dad.'

  'You won't find anything much cheaper than your own, I'd say. Take my advice and stay on a bit till you've built up the work again.'

  'Things aren't too good. Straw's scarce.'

  'Ah, there's not the wheat grown. Old George Jackson, shepherd to Jesse Miller, was in here this week. He's got more sheep than ever before. He gets twelve shilluns a week, he tells me, and two pounds Michaelmas money. He's not doing so bad.'

  'And gets it regular, too,' said young Francis, with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

  The women talked of clothes and bed-linen, meals and children. They seemed, to Dolly, to talk of nothing else, unless it were of illness and death, and then it was in low tones meant to keep such things from attentive young ears.

  At last the time came when the buttons must be swept from the table back into the jingling tin. Dolly followed the two women into the kitchen and watched the preparations for tea.

  Bread and butter at grandma's was quite different from that at home, for here the bread was cut very thin and buttered very thickly. Home-made plum jam could be spread upon the second slice, too—the first must be eaten plain—whereas at home one either had bread with butter on it or bread with jam, never both. Fingers of sponge cake followed the bread and butter, the top sparkling with a generous sprinkling of sugar.

  The children had milk to drink from mugs with a pattern of ivy leaves round the rim, but the grown-ups had tea poured from a huge brown tea-pot which wore a snug buttoned jacket to keep the tea hot.

  Grandma's tea was kept in a shiny wooden tea-caddy with a brass lion's head for a handle on the lid. When this was lifted, Dolly saw first two bowls filled with sugar, each settled securely in a hole. At each side of the caddy lay a long polished lid with a small black knob. When these were lifted they disclosed the tea, China on one side, and Indian on the other. This tea-caddy was an unfailing joy to Dolly, and when later it came into her possession she treasured it as much for its intrinsic beauty as for its associations.

  After tea the little girls' sashes were re-tied, their hair combed and their hands and faces washed upstairs in grandma's bedroom. The thick eaves of the thatch jutted out beyond the windows and made the room seem dark, despite the golden evening.

  Then came the moment which was to stamp this particular Sunday as a day of perfection as clearly as the morning walk through the meadow had done.

  The old lady opened a drawer in the chest by the bed and took out a piece of red flannel.

  'For Emily,' she said, giving it to Dolly.

  The child unfolded the material slowly and with some bewilderment. It proved to be a cloak with a hood, exactly the right size for the doll.

  Dolly was speechless with joy. She could do nothing but throw her arms round her grandmother's knees and press her flushed face against the black silk of the old lady's Sunday frock.

  'Well, what do you say?' said Mary with increasing asperity. But Dolly could say nothing. With trembling hands she unbound the shawl from Emily' heavy body and dressed her in her new finery. She looked even lovelier than her mother had looked that morning, and far more splendid than Queen Victoria on the side of the button box.

  'I made it out of my old petticoat,' said grandma, as they descended the steep stairs. 'There wasn't enough for the children, and I thought Dolly'd like dressing-up her Emily.'

  Farewells were said and kisses given. Still no words came from Dolly, overwhelmed with good fortune, but the ardour of her kisses was gratitude enough for the old lady.

  Dolly carried the resplendent Emily all the way home, and Francis carried them both for the last part of the journey. Windows and roofs were turned to gold by the sinking sun. The drop of water in the white stone by the gate gleamed like a jewel. From the height of her father's comfortable shoulder Dolly looked down upon the rose-bush, its flowers as bloodred as Emily's new cloak.

  The scent brought memories of the bean-flowers' fragrance and the smell of crushed grass in the summer meadow. The ox-eyed daisies, the red sorrel, the rose-bush, and the pansies nodding on her mother's bonnet, seemed to whirl together in a dazzling summer dance.

  Dizzy with happiness, dazed with golden light, at last Dolly found her tongue.

  'Lovely,' she sighed, and fell instantly asleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  SOON after that golden day, Dolly started school. Ada had been attending the church school at the northerly end of Caxley for over a year, so that the younger child had heard about teachers and classes, sums and slates, and marching to music.

  It sounded attractive, and though she dreaded leaving her mother, yet the thought of Ada's company was supporting. She was, too, beginning to look for more than the little house and garden could provide in interest. Her mother was usually too busy to answer questions or to tell her stories. Her father was much more of a playmate, but he was seldom there. With Ada away at school young Dolly was restless, and when, at last, she was told that she would be accompanying Ada, the child's spirits rose.

  She was dressed with particular care that first morning. Over her navy blue serge frock she wore a clean holland pinafore. With a thrill of pride she watched her mother pin a handkerchief to the pinafore, on the right side of her chest, conveniently placed for use in 'Handkerchief Drill Time' which, as Ada had explained frequently, came just before morning prayers and appeared to rank as rather more important. It made Dolly feel important, one of a fraternity, and she wore this emblem of enfranchisement with deep satisfaction.

  Her mother sat her on the table to lace her little black boots and tie the strings of her bonnet. The red bobbles on the tablecloth joggled as she wriggled in excitement. Ada, already dressed, jumped up and down the path between the open front door and the gate, looking out for Esther, an older girl, who took her to and from school. This morning she wanted to tell Esther that her sister was coming, and her mother too, and that Esther need not wait for them.

  Esther was a tall thin child, with a long pale face and prominent teeth. She looked perpetually frightened, as no doubt she was. Her father was a heavy drinker and violent in his cups. He was a ploughman, but at this time when so much arable land was being turned over to pasture, he had been put to sheep-minding, hedging and ditching, mucking out stables and cowsheds, and other jobs which he considered beneath him. Had he realised it, he was fortunate to have been kept in work at all by his hard-pressed employer. With the influx of cheap grain from the United States and Canada, prices for English wheat had dropped so disastrously in the last few years that he, and many like him, had turned to grazing in the hope of recovery. That, too, was to prove a forlorn hope within a few years, as frozen meat from Australia and New Zealand, and dairy products from Denmark and Holland poured into the country. It was small wonder that men who had spent their lives on the land now uprooted themselves and took their strength and their diminishing hopes to the towns. Others, like Esther's father, too stupid to understand the significance of the catastrophe, either suffered in bewildered silence, watching their families sink and starve, or sought comfort in drink or the militant succour offered them by the evangelical churches.

  Transition is always hazardous and distressing. The working people of rural England at that time were largely untaught and trusted the gentry's guidance. They witnessed the crumbling
of a way of life, unchanged for centuries, and distress, resentment and fear harried the older generation. The younger people saw opportunities in towns or, better still, overseas, and thousands of them left the villages never to return. Little Dolly, kicking her legs on the table as they waited for Esther, was to be a mature woman before English farming found its strength again, and by that time machines would have come to take the place of the men who had left the fields for ever.

  'We don't want you, Esther,' shouted Ada exuberantly from the gate, as the lanky child came into sight. Mary lifted Dolly hastily to the floor and hurried outside, much vexed.

  'Ada! You rude little girl!' scolded her mother. 'You come in, my dear,' she added kindly to timid Esther, 'and take no notice of Ada.'

  She picked up three small parcels, wrapped in white paper, and gave one to each child. Dolly and Ada knew that they contained a slice of bread spread with real lard from grandma's, and sprinkled with brown sugar.

  'There's a stay-bit for you,' she said, 'to eat at playtime. Mind you don't lose it, and no eating it before then, or the teacher will give you the cane.'

  Esther put hers carefully in the pocket of her shabby coat, but Ada thrust her own and Dolly's into a canvas satchel which had once been Francis's dinner bag, and now carried such provender, as well as books or a pencil, to school.

  'Stay by the gate while I gets my bonnet,' said Mary, lifting her coat from a peg on the door and thrusting her arms into it. Her everyday bonnet was kept on a shelf just inside the cupboard under the stairs. She tied it on briskly. The only mirror downstairs was a broken triangle propped in the scullery window for Francis's shaving operations, and Mary did not bother to waste time in consulting this. She shifted a saucepan to the gentler heat at the side of the hob, locked the front door, took Dolly's hand, and hurried schoolward.