Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (21 page)

One sunny evening she had arranged to meet Emily at the empty cottage to help her measure the floors for lino and rugs. Edgar's farm lay beyond Springbourne, in a wide valley, hidden by the swell of the downs from the villages of Beech Green and Fairacre, and hard by the larger farm of Harold Miller. As Dolly Clare pushed her bicycle up the steep chalky path from Beech Green she thought of the varying fates which war had brought to the men of that district. While Arnold lay dead, and Edgar broken, Harold Miller went from strength to strength, and had just been commissioned on the field, she heard, at Thiepval. He would be a gallant fighter, she felt sure, remembering his tough smiling face as she had seen it last as he drove Iris comrades to Caxley in the brightly painted farm waggon. How many more would come back with just such honours, she wondered? And how many would share Edgar's and Arnold's fate? Accompanied by such pensive thoughts, she rode down the other side of the downs and made her way to the cottage.

The door was open, but there was no welcoming cry from Emily. Dolly stepped in and saw her sitting, dazed, upon a wide window-sill. In silence Emily handed her a letter. Dolly read it slowly in a shaft of evening sunshine which fell through the little window. The only sounds were the fluttering of a butterfly against the pane and the distant bleat of sheep on Edgar's farm. It said:

Dear Em,

I don't know how to tell you. I don't expect you to forgive me. But I can't marry you. There is a nurse here who looked after me all the time. I love her very much and we are getting married as soon as we can. I have tried to tell you before, but never managed it.

Em, I am sorry, but you will meet someone much better than me. I don't deserve you anyway.

Your loving,
Edgar.

Stunned, Dolly slid on to the window-sill beside her friend and put her arms round her. She held Emily's head against her shoulder. They sat in dreadful silence, while Emily's slight frame shook with sobs, and her tears made a warm wet patch on Dolly's print blouse.

After a time, Emily straightened up and looked dazedly about the room. She folded the letter carefully, tucked it into her wide belt, and stood up. She dried her eyes, smoothed her hair, and went from the empty room through the front door.

Dolly followed her, torn with grief and fearful for her welfare. The evening sun had turned everything to gold, and glinted on the key in Emily's hand.

Dolly watched her close the door of the house which was to have been her home. She turned the key resolutely in the lock and thrust it, with the letter, into her belt. Then she looked steadily at her friend. Her clear grey eyes were swollen with crying, but were as brave as ever. They ht with sympathy as they observed Dolly's stricken state, and she came to her friend and kissed her soundly.

'It's her house now,' she said firmly. 'Edgar's made his choice. I'll abide by it.'

Without a backward glance she mounted her bicycle and the two friends rode slowly, and with heavy hearts, back to Beech Green.

Dolly often thought, later, that Emily's lot was far harder than her own. She was fated to live for the rest of her life within a mile or two of Edgar and his wife, cloaking her feelings before all who knew the sad story. Public knowledge of one's affairs is a factor of village life which can cause annoyance. Sometimes it can cause tragedy, but sometimes it can be a source of strength. The sympathy which flowed to Emily, as a result of Edgar's marriage to another, did not show itself in words, but she was conscious of much kindness and was grateful for it.

Dolly never forgot Emily's reaction to this blow, and the turning of the key upon her hopes with such swift resolution. She had come to terms with the situation as decisively as she had so many years ago, when she had heard of Queen Victoria's death and saw in it a comfort to little Frank Clare, in a world unknown. It was her acceptance of fate, which Dolly admired. She seemed to bear no rancour towards Edgar, and refused to discuss his future wife.

'What use would it be,' she said one day to Dolly, 'to try and hold Edgar against his will? I don't want a marriage like that.'

But not many women, Dolly thought, would have felt that way. Some people wondered if Emily Davis were heartless, and if her love for Edgar had waned during the long months of waiting. But Dolly knew it was otherwise.

In the years that followed, Emily never passed the house that might have been her own, if she could help it. She would walk a mile further, along a winding lane, rather than take the steep path beside the cottage, and when, by chance, she and Dolly came across Edgar one day, resting beneath the sycamore tree where she had said good-bye to Arnold, Emily's sudden pallor told more than words, and the look in her eyes reminded Dolly of the stricken gaze of some dying animal. As she knew only too well, time would bring merciful relief from pain, but it would never cure the cause.

***

The visits of Ada and her children did much to cheer them all at this time. John Francis, Dolly's godchild, was a rampageous two-year-old when his sister was born, and Mary and Francis were the most indulgent grandparents.

Ada drove over in a smart governess cart from Caxley whenever she could spare time from the business. Harry seemed to be enjoying the war. He was fighting in Italy, and wrote cheerful letters home about the lovely country, promising to bring Ada there for a holiday when the war was over. His opinion of his Austrian enemies was low, and of his Italian comrades in arms not much higher, but he gave Ada to understand that Harry Roper was equal to coping with all difficulties. In truth, Harry quite liked his freedom again. His naturally buoyant spirits had been kept in check by Ada who had seen that any excess energy was harnessed to the business. Now he had a free rein, and Harry was to look upon his years with the army as one of the happiest times of his life.

Ada was now a very prosperous matron. Dolly marvelled at her extensive wardrobe, the children's expensive toys and the lavish amount of food which she generously brought to her parents' cottage.

Francis gloried in his Ada's success. Mary seemed less enthusiastic. It was the children that roused her spirits. It seemed as if she became young again when they tumbled about the cottage floor or called from the garden.

For all Ada's ostentation and finery, which jarred upon Dolly, yet she was warmly welcome. Despite the differences in temperament, the two sisters were fond of each other, and the children were a strong uniting bond. Harry's absence meant that the family saw more of one another. It was a comfort to Dolly to share the responsibility of her parents' care, and she hoped that Harry's homecoming would not sever the ties which had grown stronger during the war years.

At the beginning of November 1918, a jubilant letter came from Harry Roper describing the taking of an island called Grave di Papadopoli in the middle of the river Piave. He had helped to build bridges over which the Italians poured to victory, splitting the Austrian army in two.

'Now the way's wide open,' wrote Harry exultantly. 'With Austria down in the mud, we make straight for Berlin!'

The war news from all quarters was as cheering as Harry's. Mutiny had broken out in the German Fleet at Kiel, the Americans had cut the German eastern and western forces by taking Sedan, and the Allies were pursuing the enemy on the Meuse. The news that Foch was meeting German delegates, to arrange an armistice, sent the hopes of everyone soaring. On November 11, Harry Miller of Beech Green, with five other local men, entered Mons with the victorious British army, while the bells of that shattered town played 'Tipperary.' Early on the same morning the Armistice was signed, and fighting ended at 11 a.m.

In Caxley the rumours flew round that Monday morning. Someone said that the news had been telephoned to the Post Office. Flags began to appear on buildings and the bell ringers hurried to the parish church. But no official confirmation was forthcoming, and it was decided to wait a little longer. The market place and High Street began to fill with excited crowds.

At half past twelve official confirmation of the Armistice was posted in Caxley Post Office and the town's suspense was over. The bells pealed out, the Union Jack was hoisted on the Town Hall and flags of all nations sprouted from roofs and windows. Monday's meagre war-time ration of cold meat was ignored while Caxley rejoiced.

At Fairacre Dolly heard the news from Mr Hope, during the afternoon. One of the children had brought a collection of French and Belgian postcards to show her. His father had sent them regularly—beautiful objects of silk with fine embroidery showing flowers and crossed flags of the Allies. Dolly was holding them in her hand when Mr Hope burst into the room.

'It's over!' he cried, his face alight. 'The war's over!'

The babies looked at him in amazement. They remembered no other kind of life. War had always been their background. His excitement was incomprehensible to them.

He called the school to attention, told them the news and then gave a prayer of thanksgiving. School ended early that day, and Dolly rode home through the grey November afternoon with much to think about. Rejoicing, for her, was tempered by Arnold's loss, but she felt overwhelming relief at the ending of suffering and slaughter.

Now the sons and lovers, the husbands and fathers, would come home again, and the village would have young men to work in the fields and to laugh in the lanes. Now the girls and wives and mothers would find happiness, glad to have someone to share the joyful responsibilities of home life.

But not all. How many cottage homes, Dolly wondered, mourned today when all the world was gay with flags and bells?

Over forty years later, old Miss Clare felt her eyelids pricking at the memory of that distant day. She knew now the price that the parish of Beech Green had paid.

Twenty-six names were carved at the foot of the stone war memorial, now weathered to a gentle grey. In the neighbouring parish of Fairacre seventeen young men had died, so that over forty men had been taken from the thousand people who made up the population of the two parishes. Miss Clare had known them all, and could never be reconciled to their loss. She honoured the high ideals of sacrifice and patriotism which had illumined the path of these young men, but the tragic pity of it all overcame her other feelings.

In the years that followed, poetry became a source of joy and comfort to Miss Clare, but the loveliest songs sung by the young war poets who were her contemporaries, moved her so swiftly to weeping that she could not bring herself to read them often. 'The heartbreak at the heart of things', as one of them wrote, was too poignant for Miss Clare's generation ever to forget.

In the heat of the June sunshine Miss Clare's old fingers strayed to the locket. She bent her white head to look at it. It was thin and smooth with years of wear, and its glitter had mellowed to a soft golden sheen. But inside, the dear face of Arnold Fletcher was still clear and unlined, and his bright hair had no touch of grey. For Arnold and his comrades would never grow old.

O
UTWARDLY
, Beech Green and Fairacre seemed to change little in the years after the war. Two bungalows were built on the road between the two villages, but no other new houses for some time. Most of the men returned to the villages, but some, unsettled by the last few years, took this chance of leaving the country and moving townwards.

Harold Miller was now in charge of the farm at Springbourne, as his old father had died during the war. He found himself so short of men that he decided to sell several of his outlying cottages, including the Clares'. Francis was given the first chance to buy it for the sum of two hundred pounds. The family spent several evenings in earnest discussion, and finally decided to purchase it with the savings of a lifetime.

'Well, I never thought to live in a house of my own,' declared Mary proudly. 'Now we don't need to fret about paying the rent every week.'

'It's to be yours when we're gone,' said Francis to Dolly. 'Ada's well provided for, and this place don't mean much to her, and never did.'

He looked through the leaded panes at the trim garden, and Dolly saw the pride of possession light up his face.

'And if you was hard pressed,' he continued, 'you could always sell it. Or say you got married,' he added, somewhat doubtfully.

'We don't need to think about that for a good few years,' replied Dolly. 'You'll enjoy it for another twenty or thirty.'

Ada and Harry bought a house about the same time. Living over the shop, Ada said, was downright common, and if they didn't have a place on the hill on the south side of Caxley, like all the other people who had done well, their two children would never be able to hold up their heads. Harry, delighted to be back and to find a flourishing business and money in the bank, agreed readily. Within a year they were installed in a brand new house with harada in curly chrome letters on the oak-type front door.

Entity too had moved. She had been acting head teacher during the headmaster's absence on war service, and was appointed head when he moved to a larger school. A little house went with the post, and as her father had died, Emily persuaded her mother to leave the cottage where she had reared her thriving family and live at Springbourne with her. Mary Clare missed her good neighbour sadly, but sometimes made the long walk over the hill to spend an hour or two with her.

Fairacre school had its changes, too. Private warnings to Mr Hope had been of no avail. The man was now a physical wreck and the work of the school suffered badly.

One spring morning he came into Dolly's room looking vaguely bewildered.

'I'm leaving Fairacre,' he said abruptly. 'I had my notice this morning.'

Dolly was not surprised, but she was sorry that he was going. There were many things about the man that she liked, and change was always distasteful to her.

'The managers suggest that I have a holiday for a month or two,' went on the headmaster, 'and there will probably be a vacancy for me in Leicestershire.'

Dolly guessed that this opening must have been suggested by Miss Parr, one of the managers of Fairacre school, who had relatives in Leicester. Privately, Dolly thought Mr Hope was lucky to get anything. She suspected that he would have an assistant's post in the new school, and in this she was right.