Lark Rise to Candleford (51 page)

One exciting moment was when they passed through a village
with a shop and went in boldly and bought a bottle of gingerade to wash down
their sandwiches. It cost twopence and when they were told they must pay a
halfpenny on the bottle they hesitated. But, remembering in time that they each
had a whole shilling to spend, more than they had ever had at one time in their
lives before, they paid up, like millionaires, and also invested in a stick of
pink and white rock each, and, with one end wrapped in paper to keep it from
sticking to their fingers, went off down the road sucking.

But eight miles is a long walk for little feet in hot August
weather, and the sun scorched their backs and the dust made their eyes smart
and their feet ached and their tempers became uncertain. The tension between
them reached breaking point when they met a herd of milking cows, ambling
peacefully, but filling the narrow road, and Laura ran back and climbed over a
gate, leaving Edmund to face them alone. Afterwards, he called her a coward,
and she thought she would not speak to him for a long time. But, like most of
her attempted sulks, it did not last, for she could not bear to be on bad terms
with any one. Not from generosity of heart, for she often did not really
forgive a real or imagined injury, but because she so much wanted to be liked
that she would sometimes apologize when she knew the fault had not been hers.

Edmund was of a quite different nature. What he said he held
to, like a rock. But then he did not say hasty, thoughtless things: what he
said he meant and if any one was hurt by it, well, they were hurt. That did not
change the truth, as he saw it. When he told Laura she was a coward he had not
meant it unkindly; he was simply stating a fact and there was more of sorrow
than of anger in his tone. And Laura only minded what he said so much because
she was afraid it was true. If he had said she was stupid or greedy, she would
only have laughed, because she knew she was neither.

Fortunately, soon after this, they saw what must have looked
like a girls' school out for a walk advancing between the hedgerows to meet
them. It was a relief party, consisting of the cousins and as many of their
school friends as they could muster, with a large tin can of lemonade and some
cakes in a basket. They all flopped down beside a little brook which crossed
the road at that point and the girls fanned themselves with bunches of
willowherb and took off their shoes to search for stones, then dipped their
toes in the water, and, before long, the whole party was paddling and
splashing, which astonished Laura, who had always been told it would 'give
anybody their death' to put the feet in cold water.

After that, it did not seem long before Candleford was
reached and the travellers were being welcomed and made much of. 'They've
walked! They've walked the whole way!' called their aunt to a friend who
happened to be passing her door, and the friend turned and said, 'Regular young
travellers, aren't they?' which made them again feel like the explorers they
admired.

Then there was tea and a bath and bed, though not to sleep
for a long time, for Laura had a bed in her two middle cousins' room and they
talked a great deal. Talking in bed was a novelty to her, for it would not have
been permitted at home. In her cousins' home there was more liberty. That
night, once or twice one of their parents called upstairs telling them to be
quiet and let poor little Laura get to sleep; but the talking went on, a little
more quietly, until long after they heard the front door bolt shot and the
window sashes in the lower rooms pushed up. What do little girls talk about
when they are alone together? If we could remember that, we should understand
the younger generation better than we do. All Laura could remember was that
that particular conversation began with a cousin saying, 'Now, Laura, we want
to know all about you,' and that in the course of it one of them asked her: 'Do
you like boys?'

When she said, 'I like Edmund,' they laughed and she was
told: 'I mean boys, not brothers.'

Laura thought at first they meant sweethearts and grew very
hot and shy; but, no, she soon found they just simply meant boys to play with.
She found afterwards that the boys they knew talked to them freely and let them
join in their games, which surprised her, for the boys at home despised girls
and were ashamed to be seen talking to one. The hamlet mothers encouraged this
feeling. They taught their boys to look down upon girls as inferior beings;
while a girl who showed any disposition to make friends of, or play games with,
the boys was 'a tomboy' at best, or at worst 'a fast, forward young hussy'. Now
she had come to a world where boys and girls mixed freely. Their mothers even
gave parties to which both were invited; and the boys were told to give up
things to the girls, not the girls to the boys—'Ladies first, Willie!' How
queer it sounded!

Candleford was but a small town and their cousins' home was
on the outskirts. To children from a city theirs would have been a country
holiday. to Laura it was both town and country and in that lay part of its
charm. It was thrilling, after being used to walking miles to buy a reel of
cotton or a packet of tea, to be able to dash out without a hat to fetch something
from a shop for her aunt, and still more thrilling to spend whole sunny
mornings gazing into shop windows with her cousins. There were marvellous
things in the Candleford shops, such as the wax lady dressed in the height of
fashion, with one of the new bustles, at the leading drapers; and the
jeweller's window, sparkling with gold and silver and gems, and the toy shops
and the sweet shops and, above all, the fishmonger's where a whole salmon
reposed on a bed of green reeds with ice sprinkled over (ice in August! They
would never believe it at home), and an aquarium with live goldfish swimming
round and round stood near the desk where they took your money.

But it was just as pleasant to take out their tea in the
fields (Laura's first experience of picnics), or to explore the thickets on the
river banks, or to sit quietly in the boat and read when all the others were
busy. Several times their uncle took them out for a row, right up the stream
where it grew narrower and narrower and the banks lower and lower until they
seemed to be floating on green fields. In one place they had to pass under a
bridge so low that the children had to lie down in the boat and their uncle had
to bow down his head between his knees until it almost touched the bottom.
Laura did not like that bridge, she was always afraid that the boat would stick
half way through and they would never get out again. How lovely it was to glide
through the farther arch and see the silvery leaves of the willows against the
blue sky and the meadowsweet and willowherb and forget-me-nots!

Her uncle exchanged 'Good mornings' and words about the
weather with the men working in the fields on the banks, but he did not often
address them by name, for they were not close neighbours as the field workers
were at home; and the farmers themselves, in this strange place, were not
reigning kings, as they were at home, but mere men who lived by farming, for
the farms around Candleford were much smaller.

On one of the first days of their holiday they went
harvesting in the field of one of their uncle's customers, their share of the
work, after they had dragged a few sheaves to the wagon, being to lie in the
shade of the hedge and take care of the beer-cans and dinner baskets of the
men, with occasional spells of hide-and-seek round the stocks, or rides for the
lucky ones on the top of a piled-up wagon.

They had taken their own lunch, which they ate in the field,
but at teatime they were called in by the farmer's wife to such a tea as Laura
had never dreamed of. There were fried ham and eggs, cakes and scones and
stewed plums and cream, jam and jelly and junket, and the table spread in a
room as large as their whole house at home, with three windows with window
seats in a row, and a cool, stone-flagged floor and a chimney corner as large
as Laura's bedroom. No wonder Mr. Partington liked that kitchen so much that
his wife, as she told them, could never get him to set foot in the parlour.
After he had gone back to the field, Mrs. Partington showed them that room with
its green carpet patterned with pink roses, its piano and easy chairs, and let
them feel the plush of the upholstery to see how soft and deep it was, and
admire the picture of the faithful dog keeping watch on its master's grave, and
the big photograph album which played a little tune when you pressed it.

Then Nellie had to play something on the piano, for no
friendly call was then considered complete without some music. People said
Nellie played well, but of this Laura was no judge, although she much admired
the nimble way in which her hands darted over the keyboard.

Afterwards they straggled home through the dusk with a
corncrake whirring and cockchafers and moths hitting their faces, and saw the
lights of the town coming out, one by one, like golden flowers, as they
entered. There was no scolding for being late. There was stewed fruit on the
kitchen table and a rice pudding in the oven, of which those who felt hungry
partook, and glasses of milk all round. And, even then, they did not have to go
to bed, but went out to help water the garden, and their uncle told them to
take off their shoes and stockings, then turned the hose upon them. Wet frocks
and petticoats and knicker legs resulted; but their aunt only told them to bundle
them all up and put them into the cupboard under the attic stairs. Mrs.
Lovegrove was coming to fetch the washing on Monday. It was a surprising
household.

Every few days, when they were out in the town, they would
call at Aunt Edith's, at their Aunt Ann's request, 'in case she should be hurt,
if neglected'. Uncle James would be about his business; the girls were away on
a visit, and even Aunt Edith herself would often be out shopping, or at a
sewing party, or gone to the dressmaker's. Then Bertha would take them straight
through to her kitchen and give them cups of milk in order to detain them, for
although so silent as to be thought simple in the presence of the elders, with
the children alone she became talkative. What did Molly, or Nellie, think of
so-and-so, which had happened in the town? What was Mr. Snellgrave up to when
he fell down those stone steps? 'Was he a bit tight, think you?' She had heard,
though it wouldn't do for Master to know, that he called at the 'Crown' for his
glass every night, and him a sidesman and all. Still, it might, as Molly
suggested, have been that the steps were slippery after the shower. But you
couldn't help thinking! And had they heard that her Ladyship up at Bartons was
getting up one of these new fancy bazaars? It was to be held in the picture
gallery and anybody could go in who cared to pay sixpence; but she expected
they'd have to buy something—crocheted shawls and hand-painted plates and
pincushions and hair-tidies—all given by the gentry to sell for the heathens.
'No, not the Candleford heathens. Don't be cheeky, young Nell. The heathen
blacks, who all run naked in foreign parts, like they have the collection for
in church on missionary Sundays. I expect the Mis'is will go and your mother
and some of you. They say there's tea going to be sold at sixpence a cup.
Robbery, I call it! but there's them as'd pay as much as a pound only to get
their noses inside Bartons, let alone sitting down and drinking tea with the
nobs.'

Bertha was not above school gossip, either. She took great
interest in children's squabbles, children's tea parties and children's
holidays. 'There, did you ever!—I wonder, now, at that!' she would ejaculate on
hearing the most commonplace tittle-tattle and remember it and comment on it
long after the squabble had been made up and the party forgotten by all but
her.

In spite of her spreading figure and greying hair, there was
something childlike about Bertha. She was excessively submissive before her
employers, but, alone with the children, with whom she apparently felt on a
level footing, she was boisterous and slangy. Then she was so pleased with
little things and so easily persuaded, that she actually seemed unable to make
up her mind on any subject until given a lead. She had an impulsive way, too,
of telling something, then begging that it might never be repeated. 'I've been
and gone and let that blasted old cat out of the bag again,' she would say,
'but I know I can trust you. You won't tell nobody.'

She let a very big cat out of the bag to Laura a year or two
later. Laura had gone to the house alone, found her Aunt Edith out, and was
sipping the usual cup of milk in the kitchen and paying for it with small talk,
when a very pretty young girl came to the back door with a parcel from Aunt
Edith's dressmaker and was introduced to her as 'our young Elsie'. Elsie could
not stay to sit down, but she kissed Bertha affectionately and Bertha waved to
her from the doorway as she crossed the yard.

'What a pretty girl!' exclaimed Laura. 'She looks like a robin
with those rosy cheeks and all that soft brown hair.'

Bertha looked pleased. 'Do you see any likeness?' she asked,
drawing up her figure and brushing her hair from her forehead.

Laura could not; but, as it seemed to be expected, she
ventured: 'Well, perhaps the colour of her cheeks …'

'What relation would you take her for?'

'Niece?' suggested Laura.

'Nearer than that. You'll never guess. But I'll tell you if
you'll swear finger's wet, finger dry, never to tell a soul.'

Not particularly interested as yet, but to please her, Laura
wetted her finger, dried it on her handkerchief, drew her hand across her
throat and swore the required oath; but Bertha, her cheeks redder than ever,
only sighed and looked foolish. 'I'm making a fool of myself again, I know,' she
said at last, 'but I said I'd tell you, and, now you have sworn, I must. Our
young Elsie's my own child. I gave birth to her myself. I'm her mother, only
she never calls me that. She calls our Mum at home Mother and me Bertha, as if
I was her sister. Nobody here knows, only the Mis'is, and I expect the Master
and your Aunt Ann, though they've never either of them mentioned it, even with
their eyes, and I know I oughtn't to be telling you at your age, but you are
such a quiet little thing, and you saying she was pretty and all, I felt I must
claim her.'