Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 7

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  The Davises were not the only new friends. Francis and Mary Clare blossomed in their country surroundings, and the neighbourliness which they had missed so sorely in Caxley now seemed doubly dear.

  The family had for so long been thrust in upon itself. The next door neighbours at Caxley, cross and aged, had been ever present in Mary's thoughts, and Dolly and Ada were often scolded for making a noise that might penetrate the thin dividing wall. Fear of strangers, and particularly of 'the marsh lot', kept country-bred Mary from making many friends in Caxley. Francis's illness and their pinching poverty were other factors in 'keeping themselves to themselves'.

  Back in the country again, fellows of a small community, Mary and Francis felt their tension relax. A move is always an excitement in a village, and by the end of the first long day the family had met more than a dozen neighbours, some prompted by kindness, some by curiosity, who had called to welcome them.

  Within a few weeks Francis had the cottage garden dug and planted, and found he had already promised to exhibit something in the local autumn flower show which was to be held at Fairacre. Mary, to her surprise, found that she had been persuaded to join the Glee Club, run on Friday nights by the redoubtable Mr Finch in his schoolroom.

  'Us makes our own fun,' Mrs Davis said to Mary. ''Tis all very fine for the gentry to go to Caxley in their carriages for a ball at the Corn Exchange, but us ordinary folk, as goes on Shanks's pony, gets our fun in the village.'

  And Mary, with her two little girls safely at school all day, and a husband back at work, was only too ready to join in the simple homely fun of which she had been starved for so long.

  Dolly and Ada took to the village school like ducks to water. They had been well drilled at Caxley and found that the work here was well within their grasp. Their classmates were somewhat impressed by the two new girls who had experienced the superior instruction of a town school, and Dolly and Ada felt pleasantly distinguished.

  The smaller numbers made school life much less frightening for timid Dolly, and gave Ada greater scope for her powers of leadership. In no time she was the acknowledged queen of the playground, and had all the younger children vying for her favours, and the thrill of 'playing with Ada'. Mr Finch, who hid a genuine fondness for children beneath his pompous veneer, was glad to have such a bright pupil among his scholars, and Mrs Finch, who had some difficulty with discipline, was relieved to find that Dolly was as sedate as she was hardworking.

  But the greatest joy for Dolly in this happy new life was the discovery of the infinite beauties in the natural world about her. That first glimpse of Beech Green and the realisation that she had found her real home, was repeated daily in a hundred different ways. The walk to school took about a quarter of an hour, and revealed dozens of enchanting things.

  In that first spring, Dolly discovered that a bed of white violets grew on the left-hand bank just before the farm gate. They were well hidden by fine dry grass, but their heady scent betrayed them, and the child exulted in the pure whiteness, enhanced by the spot of yellow stamens lurking in its depths, of each small flower. Almost opposite grew a rarer type of violet, almost pink in colour, which was much sought after by the little girls of Beech Green. Dolly soon grew wise enough to keep the news of its flowering to herself.

  Nearer the school, the lane was shaded by elm trees which grew upon steep banks. Here Dolly found a pink and fleshy plant, which Mr Finch told her was toothwort. It was unattractive, and reminded Dolly of the pink pendulous sows in the farmyard as they lumbered about among their squealing young. But it had its fascination for the town-bred child, and she felt proud to see it put on the window-sill at school, neatly labelled by Mr Finch's own pen.

  There were terrifying things too to encounter on the walk to school. Behind the farm gate, just beyond the violet bed, a dozen grey and white geese honked and hissed, stretching sinuous waving necks, and menacing the child with their icy blue eyes and cruel orange bills. Dolly shouted as bravely as the other children when the geese were safely barred, but sometimes the gate was open, and the geese paraded triumphantly up and down the lane. Then Dolly would scramble up the steep bank, over the roots of the elm trees and the toothwort, and try to gain the safety of the cornfield beyond, while the geese stretched their great wings and ran, hideously fast, creating a clamour that could be heard a mile away.

  The geese were frightening enough, but even more disconcerting was Mabel, who lived in a cottage half way to school. She was a grotesque, misshapen figure, almost as broad as she was tall, the victim of some glandular disease which was incurable at that time. Mentally she was aged about six, although she had been born thirty years earlier, and she played with a magnificent doll all day long. In the winter Mabel was invisible to Beech Green, for she was closely, and lovingly, confined in the stuffy little house by her doting parents. But during the warm weather the pathetic stumpy figure sat in a basket chair placed on the front path. From there she watched the neighbours go by as she nursed the expensive doll.

  'Them poor Bells,' the villagers said, with genuine sympathy, ''as got enough to drive them silly theirselves with that Mabel. Got to be watched every minute of the day! But don't 'er mother keep 'er beautiful?'

  Cleanliness was a much-prized virtue in Beech Green, and Mabel was held up as a shining example of Mrs Bell's industry. The poor idiot was always clothed in good quality dresses, covered with a snowy starched and goffered pinafore. Her coarse scanty hair, as bristly as that which grew upon the pigs' backs in the farmyard nearby, was tied back with a beautiful satin ribbon. Her podgy yellow face, from which two dark eyes glinted from slanting slits, was shiny with soap, and her fat little legs were always encased in the finest black stockings, with never so much as a pinpoint of a hole in sight.

  To Dolly's terror, Mabel took an instant liking to her, and would waddle to the gate, holding up the doll and uttering thick guttural cries of pleasure. Dolly's first impulse was to run away, but her mother had spoken to her firmly.

  'You can thank your stars you weren't born like Mabel, and just you be extra kind to that poor child—for child she is, for all her thirty years. No flinching now, if she comes up to you, and you let her touch you too, if she's a mind to! She's as gentle as a lamb, and the Bells have enough to put up with without people giving their only one the cold shoulder!'

  And so Dolly steeled herself to smile upon the squat unlovely figure behind the cottage gate, and sometimes put a violet or two into that thick clumsy hand, and admired the doll with sincerity. She never saw Mabel outside the house or the garden, and never understood one word that fell from those thick lips; but when, in three or four years' time, the child mercifully died, she missed her sorely, and could only guess at the loss suffered by Mr Bell, and still more by Mrs Bell, whose clothes line had fluttered daily with the brave array of Mabel's finery.

  Looking back later, to those early days at Beech Green, Miss Clare was amazed to think how many subnormal and eccentric people there were among that small number in those late Victorian days. There were many reasons. Inbreeding was a common cause, for lack of transport meant that the boys and girls of the village tended to marry each other, and the few families there became intricately related. Lack of skilled medical attention, particularly during childbirth, accounted for some deformities of mind and body, and the dread of mental hospitals—sadly justified in many cases—kept others from seeking help with their problems. Certainly, when Dolly first went to live at Beech Green, there were half a dozen souls in the neighbourhood who were as much in need of attention as poor Mabel.

  There was the boy who had epileptic fits, who sat in the desk next to Ada, and was looked upon with more affection than distress by his classmates, as the means of enlivening Mr Finch's boring lessons. There was old Mrs Marble, who gibbered and shook her fist at the children from the broken window of her filthy cottage near the school, and who would certainly have been ducked in the horsepond had she had the misfortune to have been born a centu
ry earlier. There was a very nasty man who delighted in walking about the woods and lanes with his trousers over his arm, frightening the women and little girls out of their wits, but excused by the men as 'only happening when the moon was at the full, poor fellow.'

  Then there were the three White children, abysmally slow at lessons, but with tempers of such uncontrollable violence that the whole school went in terror of them. How much of this vicious frenzy was due to mental disorder, and how much to their parents' treatment of it, was debatable. It was the custom of Mr and Mrs White to lock their refractory offspring in a cupboard under the stairs where, in the smelly darkness among the old shoes and coats that hung there, they were allowed to scream, sob, fight, pummel the door, and exhaust their hysteria before being let out again, some hours later, white and wild-eyed and ready to fall into their nightmarehaunted beds.

  Even the great ones of the village had their sufferings. The lady of the manor, Mrs Evans, whose visits to the school meant much curtseying and bobbing, had one frail chick among her six sturdy ones, and Miss Lilian was never seen without a maid or her governess in attendance ready to direct her charge's wan looks towards anything of cheer.

  As young Dolly soon discovered, Beech Green had its darker side, the reverse of the bright flower-decked face which charmed the newcomers. But it all added to the excitement of daily living. It gave the solemn little girl a chance to observe human frailties and quirks of behaviour, and gave her too an insight into the courage and good humour with which her fellows faced personal tragedy.

  These early lessons were to stand her in good stead, for before long she too would be involved in a family disaster whose repercussions were to echo down many years of her adult life.

  In welcoming all that life in Beech Green offered her, in both happiness and horror, the child unwittingly prepared herself for the testing time which lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE first intimation of the event which was to colour so many years of Dolly Clare's later life was her mother's visit to the doctor in May 1896.

  Mary Clare suspected that she was pregnant again, and she viewed the situation with mixed feelings.

  'Just got my two off to school,' she confided resignedly to Mrs Davis one morning, 'and then another turns up. All that washing again, and bad nights, and mixing up feeding bottles! Somehow I don't take to the idea like I did, but Francis is that pleased I haven't the heart to tell him it's not all honey for me.'

  'You waits till you has seven,' commented Mrs Davis cheerfully. 'Time enough to gloom then, I can tell you. Why, your two girls can give you a hand, and if it's a boy you'll be looked after proper in your old age!'

  Somewhat comforted, Mary Clare made her way, one Tuesday morning, to the converted stable in the manor grounds where Dr Fisher held his weekly surgery.

  'There's plenty to be thankful for,' she told herself, as she trudged up the broad drive between the flowering chestnut trees. 'Francis is as pleased as Punch, and he's in work again. And this place is far better to have a baby in than that Caxley hovel. It can lie in the garden, and I'll get the washing dry lovely with the winds we get here. And Mrs Davis is quite right about Dolly and Ada. They're big enough to help now they're eleven and nine.'

  Her usual good spirits asserted themselves, and by the time the doctor had confirmed her suspicions she was facing the future with more hope. It is always heartening to be an object of interest, and Mary looked forward to many a cosy chat with her new neighbours, as she returned to her cottage.

  Francis was jubilant when she told him that evening.

  'It'll be a boy this time,' he assured her. 'You'll see, my love. A real fine son to carry on the matching trade. The girls will be glad to hear the news.'

  'They'll not learn it from me for a few months yet,' replied Mary tartly. 'Time enough for them to know when I takes to my bed.'

  'If you don't want them to hear it from all the old gossips in the village,' warned her husband, 'you'd best tell 'em yourself before long.'

  'Well, we'll see,' said Mary, more gently, recognising the wisdom of her husband's remark.

  The baby was due in November, and the little girls were told one mellow September evening as they went to bed. Mary found it an embarrassing occasion and had steeled herself to it all day. She had rehearsed her short speech a dozen times, and delivered it with a beating heart and a pink face.

  'I got something nice to tell you two, my dears. A wonderful secret. God's sending you a little brother next November,' she said, with rare piety.

  At last it was out, and she waited, breathless, for the reaction. Dolly sat up in bed, open-mouthed but silent. Ada bounced unconcernedly on to one side and said nonchalantly:

  'Oh, I know! Jimmy Davis told me you was in kitten last June.'

  Mary's pink face grew crimson with fury.

  'The rude little boy!' she exclaimed, outraged. 'I'll see his mother hears of this, and gives him a good box side the ear, too! And I don't know as you don't deserve one, too, for listening to such rudeness!'

  Seething with righteous indignation, Mary left her daughters unkissed, and slammed the door upon them. Relating it later to Francis she found her annoyance giving way to amusement as he gave way to his mirth.

  'Looks to me quite simple,' laughed Francis. 'You wrapped it up too pretty, and Jimmy Davis put it real ugly, but one way or another, now they know. You go up and say good night to 'em and see how pleased they'll be.'

  By the time darkness fell, peace was made, and the thought of a fifth member of the Clare family brought much joy to the four already awaiting him.

  Amazingly, it was a boy. Mary's labour was grievously protracted, and the local midwife had been obliged to send for the doctor after hours of effort. Dolly and Ada had spent the night with the Davis household. Somehow two extra children fitted into the nutshell of a house with no difficulty, and they were thrilled to have a mattress on the floor of the girls' bedroom.

  At dinner time next day they were told that a brother had arrived and they could go and see him.

  'But mind you're quiet,' warned Mrs Davis. 'Your ma had a bad time with him and wants a good sleep.'

  They rushed homeward, and the midwife led them on tiptoe to their parents' bedroom.

  Pale, and appallingly tired, Mary smiled faintly at them from the pillows. Beside her lay a white bundle, containing what looked like a coconut from the Michaelmas fair. On closer inspection, Dolly could see the dark crumpled countenance of her brother, topped by a crop of black thatch. His eyes were glued together into thin slits, as though nothing in the world should prize him from the sleep that enfolded him.

  Dolly was seriously disappointed. She had imagined someone looking like Mabel's beautiful doll, very small but exquisite. But she sensed that this was no time to express her dissatisfaction, and smiled as bravely as she could at her mother before taking Ada's hand and making her way to the door. Before she put her hand on the knob she noticed that her mother had fallen asleep again, with the same desperate concentration as the baby beside her.

  That evening the two little girls returned to sleep at their own home. As soon as Francis came in he kissed them heartily, looking younger and more handsome than he had for many a year.

  'Ain't he a lovely boy then?' he said to them proudly. 'Ain't you two lucky ones, having a brother after all?'

  He led the way upstairs, and Francis bent over Mary and the baby. Mary looked less deathly pale, and smiled at the family, but the baby still slept, snuffling slightly in his shawl.

  'You're all over bits,' Mary admonished her husband, as pieces of chaff fluttered down upon the bed from his working clothes. He laughed, and plucked a long golden straw that had lodged in the leather strap around his trouser leg.

  'There you are, son,' he said, threading the bright strand through his child's small fingers. 'Get the feel of straw in your hand, and you'll grow up to be the best thatcher in England.'

  It was that small incident that gave young Dolly a glimpse of her
father's exultant pride, not only in his son, but in his work, and the new hope he now had of an assured future.

  The baby thrived and was whole-heartedly adored by the family and the neighbours. His most fervent admirer was Emily Davis. One might have thought that the child had seen enough of babies, but little Frank Clare seemed dearer to Emily than her own young brothers, and she pushed his wicker pram as frequently as his sisters did.

  By the time he was sitting up and taking notice of the world around him, the summer of 1897 had come and Beech Green was busy with preparations for the Diamond Jubilee of the aged Queen Victoria.

  The local lord of the manor, Mr Evans, had invited everyone to games and a mammoth tea party, and excitement ran high as the great day in June approached. Many people remembered the celebrations ten years before when the sun had blazed upon a nation rejoicing in a reign of fifty years. This time, they said, it would be better still.

  In the great world beyond Beech Green there was perhaps not quite the same fervour for the military pomp and processions as there had been at the Golden Jubilee. Many drinking men felt a growing distaste for imperialism, and distrusted jingoism', which they suspected inflamed a love of conquest for its own sake. This did not lessen the devotion to the Queen, who by now was an object of veneration to all her subjects. The majority of her countrymen had never known another monarch on the throne, and as the day of the Diamond Jubilee grew nearer, many tales were told of memorable events in her incredibly long reign.

  Dolly's grandfather, on one of his visits to see the new baby, brought the remote figure of the great Queen very clearly to the child's mind.

  'I was down at Portsmouth once, staying with my brother. August, it was, in the year 1875, and the royal yacht Alberta come over from Osborne one day. The Queen herself was aboard, and there was a shocking thing happened. Somehow or other a little yacht got across the Alberta's path and was run down. It sank in no time, and three poor souls was drownded. They told us the Queen was beside herself with distress, pacing up and down in the Alberta with the tears falling. Poor lady, she had a wonderful kind heart, and that were a sore and terrible grief to her.'