The House of Hardie (15 page)

The next morning, before church, he went in search of Midge. He found her working in her own room, her head bent low over a table spread with books and notebooks. So intense was her concentration on the new notes she was making that she did not appear to hear him come into the room; and when he spoke to interrupt her scribbling, her eyes as she looked up did not at first seem able to focus on him.

Gordon was shocked by his sister's appearance – and by his own failure to take note earlier of what must have been apparent for some time. To say that she was pale would not signify very much, for her complexion was naturally white; but there was a new look of strain about her expression. Her face seemed to have become thinner, tightening the skin over her cheekbones; there were dark circles beneath her eyes. It would not, he supposed, be tactful to tell her that she looked like a ghost. Instead, he smiled in what he hoped was an easy manner.

‘It's a glorious day,' he said. ‘You should be out in the garden, enjoying the air.'

‘The wind blows my notes about,' Midge said. Her hand held the pen poised over the inkwell, to show that she was allowing herself only the briefest of interruptions.

‘Then stop working for a little while. Sunday should be a day of rest. Come out and talk with me for a few moments.'

Midge shook her head. ‘I can't, Gordon. I've got so much to do.'

‘A walk round the garden will refresh your mind and ease your eyes.'

‘You don't understand,' she said. ‘The Final Examinations are so close now. I have to revise everything I've learned in the past three years. And when I re-read the essays I wrote in my first year, I'm appalled to find how immature they are. The work of a schoolgirl still. I must work through all those subjects again and try to improve my reasoning. The only way I can hope to cover all the ground before the examination is by keeping strictly to a timetable of what must be done each day. And there are not enough hours in the day as it is. If I were to take time away from the work just to chatter, I should feel so worried at the thought of all the minutes slipping past that I shouldn't enjoy our conversation anyway.'

Gordon nodded, abandoning the attempt to persuade her. He could sympathize with the efficient way she had planned her work and the determination with which she followed the plan, because exactly the same determination had carried him through his own secret botanical studies. But there was more to his silence than that. He had forgotten that her examinations were so near. And if she were worried about them – as clearly she was – it would be an unkindness to add to her troubles by introducing the subject of Archie Yates.

‘But you mustn't make yourself ill,' he said. ‘A few moments in the sunshine each day, walking briskly, will send you back to your books with new energy. Won't you try to make a place for that in your timetable?'

Midge smiled at him. It was the smile of someone who recognized the friendly spirit in which advice was given but had no intention of accepting it. Gordon grinned ruefully back as he realized this, and retreated. He was still anxious to know what had happened to her friendship with Archie; but he would have to wait.

Midge had refused to spare any of her working time for Gordon, but there was one social encounter which she could not, in politeness, ignore. When William Witney arrived from London to take up his new duties in Oxford, and to lodge with the Hardies, she was waiting with her mother to greet him.

Even before he arrived, he gave the impression of being two quite different people. To Midge, who had never met him, he would naturally be Mr Witney, and he would be addressed in the same way by all members of the staff on the business premises of The House of Hardie. But to Mr Hardie and Gordon, who had known him since he was twelve, the new manager had always been simply Will. It was amusing to hear them reminding themselves that they must change to a more formal manner as soon as they stepped out of the house.

The sense of Mr Witney's dual character was more dramatically suggested to Midge when he first raised his hat to acknowledge his introduction to her. He was a well-built man and his correct business clothes provided all the
gravitas
appropriate to his new appointment. But beneath the high hat his reddish hair grew straight upwards, like a bottle brush. He was clean-shaven, and the effect of the short, bristly hair was to change the whole aspect of his body. Now his broad shoulders and upright bearing gave an impression of athleticism rather than dignity. Only when he moved to follow Mrs Hardie upstairs did Midge
notice his limp – a reminder of his first plunging introduction to The House of Hardie.

A third contradiction in his personality was not revealed at once. On the day of his arrival, Mr Witney spoke in the formal voice of a man accustomed to conversing with the aristocracy. Although he did not imitate their accent, he used the same cadences and grammatical constructions as his customers. But as Midge came to know him better, she discovered that he had another way of speaking – an easy and unaffected manner, hinting at a sense of humour that he was always ready to turn against himself, and liable at any moment to explode into vigorous Cockney; not so much reverting to the natural speech of his childhood as parodying it. The grin which accompanied this lighter style of conversation transformed his face into that of a young man: he was only a year or two older than Midge herself.

This free and easy manner, though, was to be a later discovery. When he moved into the house as a lodger, it was inevitable that he should at first be treated with an excess of politeness, and should reply in kind. On the one hand, enquiries were made as to his tastes; on the other, he was anxious to discover how the life of the family proceeded as a rule, so that he could fit in without disturbing its routines.

It was Midge herself who broke the ice of this over-elaborate consideration. On what seemed set to be the hottest day of June, she appeared at breakfast wearing a high-necked white blouse and a severe black skirt instead of the bright colours and light materials which were her usual summer choice. Rising to his feet as she entered the dining room, Mr Witney was so amazed by her appearance that he remained frozen in an awkwardly bent position, staring at her.

Midge burst out laughing. During the past two months she had been working so hard and worrying so much that her normal merriment had deserted her. But now the strain of revision was over and the new stress of putting her views and knowledge on to paper had not yet begun. She was able to smile as she explained to their lodger.

‘This is a day of doom for me,' she said, although the brightness of her eyes seemed to contradict the words. ‘The first day of the Final Schools Examination. A lamb would be decked for the slaughter with garlands, but we sacrificial victims are expected to dress ourselves appropriately for our own funerals. I shall be apparelled in this hideous fashion for twelve days, and I shall expect your undivided sympathy for the whole of that period.'

‘Of course you shall have it, Miss Hardie.' Mr Witney bowed, and spoke in his dignified voice. ‘Although surely you should be triumphant rather than downcast. I understand that for a good many years now women have been demanding the right to take the same examinations as men, so that their abilities can be truly measured. This is also a day of privilege for you, is it not?'

It could almost have been her brother Gordon speaking, so well did the gravity of his voice conceal the teasing choice of words. It was difficult not to compare the speed of his understanding with Archie Yates's plodding attempt to understand the importance of the examinations to her.

Midge reminded herself that she was trying not to think about Archie, and gave Mr Witney a light-hearted grin.

‘You're quite right,' she agreed. ‘I must regard it as an opportunity to demonstrate my brilliance rather than as an ordeal in which all my weaknesses will be probed. It will become a disaster only if I prove not to be brilliant after all.'

There were moments during the next few days when
she was forced to recognize that she did indeed lack brilliance. She had worked hard at her studies, and possessed a retentive memory and a well-ordered mind. But it was not, in the Oxford sense, a first-class mind. In conversation she was able to develop an argument in ways which were sometimes wild but often imaginatively effective: But in writing, when she became anxious to stay close to fact and eschew fantasy, her theories were expressed more cautiously and, although accurate, were dull. Reading through her answers at the end of each examination, she was clear-minded enough to recognize that they would earn her a place only in the Second Class.

Well, that would be respectable enough, if not exactly what she had hoped for in the beginning. To someone like Archie, a Second would represent an unattainable height; more probably he would have to be content, when the time came, with a mere pass degree. Once again Midge reminded herself that she was not to think about Archie.

For as long as her Finals were in progress, she refused to allow herself any feeling of tiredness. But as the last word was written, the last paper handed in, she was overcome by a combination of exhaustion and depression. Outside the Examination Schools, exuberant groups of undergraduates would be waiting to welcome the prisoners released from their ordeal. All the male examinees would be swept off to celebrate; and even amongst the very much smaller number of women, those who lived in a hall could expect to be met by their fellow-residents. Only Midge herself would emerge alone to a day which no longer had any purpose. Lonely and weary, she dragged herself outside.

‘Cor blimey, Miss Hardie,' said a Cockney voice in her ear. ‘You look proper done in, and that's a fact.' Mr
Witney raised his hat to reveal that ludicrous bristle of ginger hair. His mouth was grinning, but his eyes were concerned as he offered her his arm.

‘Where are you taking me?' Midge was sufficiently pleased by his unexpected appearance to shake off some of her apathy.

‘All over Oxford,' said Mr Witney, his Cockney accent fading away into earnestness, ‘the young toffs are celebrating the end of their examinations with an orgy of the champagne which they've obtained from The House of Hardie but almost certainly haven't paid for. Is the daughter of the House, I asked myself, to be the only one of the lot of them who goes home sober?' He was steering her gently in the direction of The House of Hardie, which was not far from the Examination Schools, on the other side of the High. In the parlour, set out as though for a wine tasting, a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket of ice stood between two glasses.

Mr Witney pulled out a chair for her. He had left the door of the parlour open, Midge noticed. Perhaps so that he could keep an eye on the staff working in the shop; perhaps also so that they should not suspect him of planning a tête-à-tête with their employer's daughter.

‘Your father's in London and your brother's in Cambridge,' he told her, opening the bottle. ‘I had a word with Mrs Hardie after breakfast. The chaise will be here for you in half an hour. I hope I'm not presuming. But I didn't like to think of you going home as though it were an ordinary day.'

‘It was very thoughtful of you.' Midge never allowed herself to feel tired for more than a moment or two and, as the bubbles touched her lips for the first sip at this unaccustomed time of day, she forced herself into good spirits again. Her smile of appreciation, in fact, was even
warmer than it would normally have been, just because of the effort needed to shake off the feeling of anticlimax.

‘Good,' said Mr Witney, noticing this. ‘You really did look a picture of misery when you came out on to the steps there. I was afraid something must have gone wrong. There was a nightmare I used to have before the tests I took with my night study classes – that I'd turn over the paper and find I'd prepared quite the wrong subject – French when it should have been Chinese, or something like that.' He was chattering to spare her the effort of talking. ‘Here's to your First.' He raised his glass.

Midge shook her head. ‘No chance of that, I'm afraid. And what would it signify, in any case? Although I'm allowed to take the examinations, I shan't be awarded a degree.'

‘Do I hear a trace of resentment in your voice there?'

‘Yes,' she admitted. ‘It rankles that women are allowed to do only what men permit. A married woman may own her own property if a wholly male parliament graciously gives her permission to do so. If women are ever allowed to vote, it will be because that same group of men has reluctantly conceded the right to them.'

Mr Witney's voice changed as he considered her view seriously. ‘Do you propose to raise your banner in that cause?'

‘No,' said Midge. ‘It's too early. So many of the arguments used by bigoted men are true, in fact. The first battle must be fought on the field of education. Only when there's a generation of women who are able to manage their own affairs and understand the affairs of the nation shall we be justified in talking about rights.'

‘Yet you yourself –'

‘I was more fortunate than most girls. My father, as I'm
sure you know, is generous and fair-minded. He was willing to allow me the same chance of education as my brother, if I seemed able to profit by it. I've done better, indeed, because I was never expected to work in the family business. But there was an element of luck about it. The Oxford High School for Girls opened its doors just in time to help me qualify for university education – and the greatest good fortune is that of living in Oxford, so that I've been able to study without leaving home.'

‘And so –?'

‘And so I hope to become a schoolteacher. An assistant teacher to start with, of course, but as soon as I have sufficient experience I shall do my best to find a post as headmistress, so that I can choose my own pupils – and, indeed, go out to find them. Drag them away from their embroidery and their piano lessons, and educate them as thoroughly as their brothers.'