Lark Rise to Candleford (46 page)

It had been arranged that the Lark Rise family should have
dinner at Ethel and Alma's home, not because her parents happened to be the
most prosperous of their Candleford kin, but because their house came first as
they entered the town. Afterwards they were to go on to see another family of
cousins. Laura thought her mother would have preferred to go there at once,
for, when their arrangements had been discussed at home, she had said something
about hating a lot of fuss and show-off, and that money wasn't everything,
though some folks who had plenty might think so. 'But,' she had concluded,
'they are your relations, not mine, and I expect you understand them better
than I do. But, for goodness' sake, don't get on to politics with James, like
you did at our wedding. If you two talked till you were black in the face you'd
never agree, so what's the good of arguing'; and her husband had promised,
quite meekly for him, that he would not be the first to bring up the subject.

Candleford seemed a very large and grand place to Laura, with
its several streets meeting in a square where there were many large shop
windows, with the blinds drawn because it was Sunday, and a doctor's house with
a red lamp over the gate, and a church with a tall spire, and women and girls
in light summer frocks and men in smart suits and white straw, boater-shaped
hats.

But they were pulling-up at a tall white house set back on a
little green with a chestnut tree supporting scaffold poles and ladders and a
sign which informed the public that James Dowland, Builder and Contractor, was
ready and competent to undertake 'Constructions, Renovations, and Sanitary
Work. Estimates Free'.

Readers have no doubt noticed how seldom builders live in
houses of their own construction. You will find a town or village expanding in
all directions with their masterpieces of modernity in the way of houses and
bungalows; but the builder himself you will usually find living nearer the
heart of things, snugly and comfortably housed in some more substantial, if
less convenient, building of less recent date. Uncle James Dowland's house was
probably Georgian. The eight windows with their clinging wreaths of wistaria
were beautifully spaced and the flight of steps which led up to the hooded
front door was guarded by the low white posts and chains which enclosed the
little green. But, before Laura could get more than a general impression and
think 'what a nice house', she was in the comfortable arms of her Aunt Edith,
who was sure they were all tired out after that long drive in the hot sun and
would be glad to rest, and Uncle would be here soon. He was a Churchwarden now
and had to attend the morning service; and if Robert would take the horse and
cart round to the yard gate—'You haven't forgotten the way, Robert?'—Alma would
call the boy to see to the pony. 'He comes in for an hour or two on Sunday
mornings to clean the boots and the knives, you know, Emmie, and I've kept him
on to-day on purpose. Now, you come upstairs with me and I'll find some lotion
for Laura's freckles; then you must all have a glass of wine to refresh you.
It's all of my own making, so you need not be afraid of it for the children.
James would never allow intoxicating liquor in this house.'

The inside of the house seemed like a palace to Laura, after
their own homely cottage. There were two parlours, one on each side of the
front door, and in one of them a table was spread with decanters and
wineglasses and dishes of cakes and fruit and biscuits. 'What a lovely dinner,'
Laura whispered to her mother when they happened to be alone in the room for a
moment.

'That's not dinner. It's refreshments,' she whispered back,
and Laura thought 'refreshments' meant an extra nice dinner provided on such
occasions. Then her father and Edmund came back from their hand-washing, Edmund
bubbling over with some tale of a chain you could pull which brought water
pouring down, 'More water than there is in the brook at home,' and their mother
said, 'S-s-hush!' and added that she would explain later. Laura had not seen this
marvel. She and her mother had taken off their hats and washed their hands in
the best bedroom, a magnificent room with a four-poster bed with green curtains
and a double washstand with a jug and basin each for them. 'You'll find the commode
in that corner,' her auntie had said, and the commode turned out to be a kind
of throne with carpeted steps and a lid which opened. But Laura was older than
Edmund and knew it was rude to mention such things.

Uncle James Dowland now came in. He was a big man and an important-looking
one, and seemed to fill even that large, well-proportioned room with his
presence. At his approach Aunt Edith's stream of good-natured chatter ran dry,
and Alma, who had been tiptoeing round the table, helping herself to a little
from most of the dishes, sank down on the couch and pulled her short skirt over
her knees. After she had been greeted by a heavy pat on the head, Laura shrank
back behind her mother. Uncle James was so tall and stout and dark, with
eyebrows so bushy and so thick a moustache, with so glossy a Sunday suit and so
heavy a gold watchchain that, before him, the others present seemed to fade
into the background. Except Laura's father, who nearly as tall as he was,
though slighter, stood with him on the hearthrug, talking about their trade. It
turned out afterwards to be the only safe subject.

Uncle James Dowland was one of those leading spirits found at
that time in every country town or large village. In addition to attending to
his own not inconsiderable business of building new houses, renovating old
ones, and keeping everybody's roofs and drains in order, he was People's
Churchwarden, choirman, and occasional organist, a member of every committee,
and auditor of all charity accounts. But his chief interest was in the temperance
movement, at that time a regular feature of parochial life. His hatred of
intoxicating drink amounted to a phobia, and he used to say that if he saw a
workman of his entering a public-house, he would not be his workman much
longer. But he was not content with ruling his own home and business in this
respect; the whole town was his mission field, and if he could coax or bribe
some unhappy workman into signing away his nightly half-pint he became as
exhilarated as if his tender for building a mansion had been accepted.

To him the smallest child was worth winning as a temperance
convert. He would guide their tiny hands as they signed the temperance pledge,
and to keep them in the fold he had established a Band of Hope which met once a
week to eat buns and drink lemonade at his expense and to sing to his
accompaniment on the school harmonium such rousing ditties as 'Pray sell no
more drink to my father' or:

Father, dear Father, come home with me now, The clock in the
steeple strikes one. You promised, dear Father, that you would come home As
soon as your day's work was done

while, all the time, their own excellent fathers, after a
modest half-pint at their favourite inn, were already at home and the singers
themselves were likely to get into trouble for being out late.

Edmund and Laura, that first Sunday, wrote their names on a
handsome blue-and-gold illuminated pledge card, thereby promising they would
henceforth touch no intoxicating liquor, 'so help me God'. They were not quite
sure what intoxicating liquor was, but they liked the cards and were pleased
when their uncle offered to have them framed to hang over their beds at home.

Their Aunt Edith was more attractive to children. She was
pink and plump and had wavy grey hair and kind grey eyes. She was dressed in
grey silk and when she stirred there was a faint scent of lavender. She looked
kind and was kind; but, that discovered and acknowledged, there was little more
to be said about her. Away from her husband and daughters she was talkative,
running on from subject to subject, like a brook babbling. She greatly admired
her husband, and every moment when alone with Laura's mother was devoted to his
praise. It was James says this, and James did that, and stories to show how
important and respected he was. In his presence she seemed a little afraid of
him and she was certainly afraid of her daughters. It was 'What do you think,
dear?' or 'What would you do if you were me?' to the girls before she would
express an opinion or make an arrangement. Then, to her sister-in-law, 'Of
course, you see, Emmie, they've got different ideas to us, with all this
education and getting to know people.' She had already informed her that they
sometimes played tennis at the Rectory.

Laura thought the girls were conceited, and, although she
could not have put it into words, felt they patronized her mother and her as
poor relations; but perhaps she was wrong. It may only have been that they were
so far removed in circumstances and interests that they had nothing in common.
That was the only time Laura was to meet them upon anything like equal terms.
They were away from home at the time of her next visit and grown-up before she
saw them again. She was only just in time to catch the last flick of their
skirts as they began to climb the social ladder which would take them right out
of her own life.

The dinner which speedily followed the refreshments was
superlative. At one end of the table was a leg of lamb, roasted before an open
fire to conserve the juices; at the other a couple of boiled fowls garnished
with slices of ham. There were jellies and cheese-cakes, and gooseberry tart
with cream.

'The girl' brought in and cleared away the dishes. The maid
in a tradesman's family was then always known as 'the girl', irrespective of
age. In this case she was a girl of about fifty, who had been with Aunt Edith
from the day she was married and was to remain with her as long as she lived.
According to Laura's mother, she was overworked, but, if so, it appeared to
agree with her, for she was rosy and round as a tub, and the only complaint she
was ever known to make was that 'the Missis' would always make the pastry
herself, although she knew that she (Bertha) had a lighter hand with a
rolling-pin. She kept the whole of the fair-sized house cleaned and polished
and whitestoned, helped the washer-woman on Mondays, cooked the meals, and
mended the stockings, and all for twelve pounds a year. She was kind, too.
Seeing on that first visit Laura had no appetite for dinner after the
refreshments, she whisked her scarcely touched plate away while the others were
talking.

It was all very rich and fine, but frightfully dull to a
child who had come with such high expectations. They were back in the first
parlour. The refreshments had disappeared and there was a green plush cloth on
the table. Ethel and Alma had gone to Sunday School, where both took classes,
and Laura had been given a book with views of Ramsgate to look at. The window
blinds were drawn, for the sun was hot on the panes, and the room smelt of best
clothes, furniture polish, and potpourri. Edmund was already asleep on his
mother's knee and Laura was getting drowsy when the soft buzz of grown-up
conversation which had been going on over her head was broken by sharp cries of
'Ireland', 'Home Rule', 'Gladstone says …' 'Lord Hartington says …' 'Joey
Chamberlain says …' The two men had got on to the subject which her mother had
dreaded.

'They're subjects of Queen Victoria, ain't they, same as we
are,' her uncle insisted. 'Well, then, let 'em behave as such and be thankful
to have a decent Government over 'em. Nice thing they'd make of governing
themselves, and they no better than a lot of drunken savages.'

'How'd you like it if a foreign country invaded, England …'
her father began.

'I'd like to see 'em try it,' interposed her uncle.

'… invaded England and shed blood like water and burnt down
your house and workshops and interfered with your religion. You'd want to get
rid of 'em, I'll bet, and get back your independence.'

'Well, we did conquer 'em, didn't we? So let 'em learn who's
their masters, I say, and if they won't toe the line, let our soldiers go over
and make them.'

'How many Irishmen have you ever known personally?'

'If I'd only known one it'd be one too many; but, as a matter
of fact, I've had several working for me at different times. Then there was
Colonel Dimmock at Bradley, went bankrupt and let me in for more money than
you're ever likely to earn.'

'Now, Bob!' pleaded Laura's mother.

'Now, James!' urged her aunt. 'You're not at a meeting now,
but at home, and it's Sunday. What's Ireland to either of you. You've never
been there and are never likely to, so have done with your arguing.'

Both men laughed a little and seemed ashamed of their
vehemence, but her uncle could not forbear a parting shot. 'Tell you what,' he
said, probably meaning it for a joke. 'In my opinion, the best way to settle
the question would be to send over a shipload of whisky one day and a shipload
of guns the next and they'd all get raving drunk and kill one another and save
us the trouble.'

Robert stood up and his face was white with anger, but he
only said a cold 'Good day' as he made for the door. His wife and sister ran to
him and seized an arm each and his brother-in-law told him not to be a fool.
'It's only politics,' he said. 'You take things too seriously. Come, sit down,
and Edith'll tell the girl to bring in a cup of tea before you go on to Ann's.'
But Robert walked out of the house and away down the street after saying over
his shoulder to his wife, 'See you later.'

He had no sense of humour. None of them had at that moment.
Laura's mother was all apologies. Her uncle, still angry, but a little ashamed,
said he was sorry for her. Her aunt wiped her eyes on a pretty lace-edged
handkerchief and Laura's needed wiping, for was not their long-looked-for day
ruined if their lovely drive behind Polly had only led to this.

It was her mother, who did not pretend to be well-bred, yet
always managed to do or say the right thing, who eased the situation by saying:
'Well, he'll have to come back presently to harness the horse and he'll be
sorry enough by that time, I dare say, and I think I will have that cup of tea,
if Bertha's got the kettle boiling. Just a cup to drink. Nothing more to eat,
really. Then we must be getting on.'