Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (6 page)

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.

S
OON
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.

Ada and Esther went before them, the younger child skipping cheerfully, swinging the satchel and quite unconcerned by her recent scolding. She was beginning to be bored by Esther's attentions. Strong and lusty, Ada could have done without Esther's support after the first week at school. Her boisterous good spirits disarmed any possible bullies, and her tough little fists would have attacked anyone foolish enough to molest her.

Esther adored her. To look after Ada made the pathetic child feel wanted and useful. Mary's bright smile and her occasional present of an apple or rough sandwich as 'a stay-bit' warmed Esther's heart. In the Clares' modest home Esther saw all that she wanted most. Mary knew this, and knew too that her young children were as safe in Esther's devoted care as they would be in her own.

Dolly's spirits were high too, as she struggled to keep up with the others. She could hear the school bell ringing in the distance, and looked forward to the delights of sitting in a desk and having a multitude of children for company. If Ada said school was fun, then it must be. For nearly five years Ada had told Dolly what to expect. So far she had never been wrong. Trustingly, she trotted behind Ada's prancing heels.

The bell had stopped ringing by the time they turned the corner and came in sight of the asphalt playground in front of the school. Children were forming lines, and two or three teachers stood in front of them. One had a whistle and blew it fiercely.

'Straighten up, Standard Four,' she shouted. 'Take distance, there. Take distance!'

The children lifted their arms to shoulder level and moved back to make a space. Dolly watched in amazement.

Her mother kissed her swiftly and put her hand in Ada's.

'You stay with Ada, my love, till your teacher fetches you. They knows all about you, 'cos I filled in the form the other day.'

Dolly's eyes began to fill with tears, and her mother dabbed them hastily with the corner of her scarf. Her voice grew urgent.

'There, there now! Don't 'ee cry. The others'll think you're a baby. I must be getting back to cook your dinner, my lovey, and Ada and Esther'll bring you home very soon.'

Wisely, she hurried away, doing her best to smile cheerfully at her woebegone little daughter, who looked smaller than ever against the bigger children ranked in the playground.

'Hurry up, you three!' called the teacher with the whistle, and Mary saw the three children scurry into place. With considerable relief she noticed that Dolly, though pale, was now dry-eyed. She turned towards home realising, with a shock, that she was alone for the first time for years, and that she would find her house empty.

Twenty minutes later Dolly sat in a long desk close beside Ada. There were four children on the narrow plank seat which they shared, and Dolly was perched precariously at the end, her boots swinging in mid-air.

Before each child was a fascinating square carved into the long desk top. Although Dolly did not know it then, she was soon to learn that each one measured a foot by a foot, and that the little squares inside were each a square inch. Under her lashes she looked to see if her companions were as interested in their property as she was, but they were old campaigners of several terms' standing, contemporaries of Ada's, and were sitting bolt upright with their arms folded tidily across their backs.

Dolly put out an exploratory finger and traced the lines lovingly.

'Don't fidget, dear,' said Miss Turner, briskly. 'Hands behind backs.'

Dolly attempted to put her hands away as neatly as her sister, but found the position extremely uncomfortable. However, Miss Turner seemed satisfied with the effort, and returned to her scrutiny of a large book on the desk before her, leaving Dolly free to gaze about her.

The schoolroom was long and contained three classes. All the children faced the same way, and all sat in desks holding four.

At Dolly's end of the room Miss Turner faced her two rows of infants. In the middle of the room sat the teacher who had wielded the whistle. Her name was Miss Broomhead, Dolly learnt later, and not unnaturally she possessed a multitude of nicknames, none of them flattering. The children in her class were aged from seven to ten or eleven, and their desks were a size larger than the infants', and had four inkwells spaced at regular intervals, whereas the infants' had none.

At the far end of the room the headmaster, Mr Bond, held sway. He was small and neat, with white hair, very blue eyes, and a sharp tongue. He was a stickler for punctuality, tidiness, cleanliness and obedience. Good work took its place after these four virtues. Very often, as he well knew, it followed automatically, for orderly habits make an orderly mind just as surely as an orderly mind expresses itself in a tidy manner. For the eager, clever child, however, whose mind outstripped his pen, Mr Bond's standards could be heart-breaking. He might do a dozen sums of horrid intricacy and get them all correct, but if one small blot or crossing out marred his page then Mr Bond's red pencil slashed across the whole, and he must perforce copy it all out again under threat of a caning. With the amazing patience and endurance of childhood, these conditions were accepted, and Mr Bond was not considered unreasonable in his demands. In fact, he was respected for his high standards, and in an age which was geared to great efforts for a small return, Mr Bond's methods, harsh as they might seem to later schoolmasters, suited his pupils and prepared them for sterner employers in the future.