Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (10 page)

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.

T
HE
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.'

He presented the little girls with a Union Jack made by their grandmother so that they could hang it from the porch on Jubilee Day. On this occasion he had not brought his wife, for he had pedalled over on his old penny-farthing cycle, an archaic vehicle to which he was much attached. Dolly and Ada watched him remount after tea, and waved the flag vigorously after his retreating figure.

The day itself dawned clear and shining. 'Real Queen's weather again,' people cried to each other as they bustled about. Household chores were done quickly that day to leave time for the preparations for the afternoon fun. In the grounds at the manor long trestle tables were spread with new lengths of unbleached calico for tablecloths, and on these were dozens of dishes of buns and lardy cakes, sandwiches and pies. Maids fluttered back and forth from the house bearing great trays of cups and saucers, tea urns, jugs, spoons and all the paraphernalia of rural junketings.

Dolly and Ada were beside themselves with excitement. All the schools had a holiday, and it was a thrill to wear one's best white frock with one's best black stockings and nailed boots. Their pink and blue sashes were freshly pressed, and Mary had tied hair ribbons to match upon her daughters' curls.

Dolly felt very sorry for one family who sat opposite her at the long tea table. They had recently lost their mother, and all the four children, even the youngest who could scarcely toddle, were clad in deepest black. From the crepe bows which decorated their black hats to the toecaps of their heavy boots the gloom was unrelieved. Even their hands were encased in black cotton gloves which they did not remove even when eating. Under the brilliant blue sky, among the laughter and sunshine, they perched like four little black crows in a row, silent, and suffering the heat in stolid endurance.

After a colossal tea, one of the daughters of the house sang patriotic songs, accompanied by her sister, at the piano which had been wheeled out upon the grass from the drawing-room. Applause was polite but not very enthusiastic, and everyone, including the Misses Evans, was relieved when the real festivities began with the sports.

The Clare family did well, for Francis won the men's wheelbarrow race with the eldest Davis boy in the barrow whilst he did the pushing, and later still, Ada tore splendidly across the field in the girls' hundred yards, sash flying, nailed boots pounding, to win by a short head from the butcher's daughter. Dolly came second in the obstacle race, but was beaten by Emily Davis whose wiry skinniness negotiated ladder rungs and wriggled under tarpaulins with amazing dexterity.

Francis received half a crown, but Ada was delighted to have six yards of the unbleached calico which had recently covered the tea tables. It made stout pillow cases for the family which lasted for many years, and was considered by all to be a practical and most welcome prize.

At the end of the long golden day the little family made its way home. Young Frank slept in his wicker perambulator, and across the bottom was lodged the roll of calico. The lane was warm and scented with honeysuckle from the sun-baked hedges, and the smell of hay, lying ready to be turned when the labourers returned to the fields next day after the holiday, mingled with the other summer scents.

Tired Dolly, clinging to the pram for support, thought she would never forget such a wonderful day. 'Nothing ever happens in Beech Green,' she had heard people say. No one could say that now, was Dolly's last thought, as her dizzy head burrowed into the pillow beside Ada's. It was the most splendid thing that had ever happened in her young life.