Lark Rise to Candleford (59 page)

She turned and looked back over green cornfields at the
huddle of grey cottages, one of which was her home, and pictured her mother
ironing and her little sisters playing round the doorway, and wondered if her favourite
brother would miss her when he came home from school and if he would remember
to water her garden and give her white rabbit, Florizel, plenty of green
leaves, and if he would care to read her new journal when she sent it to him,
or would think it silly, as he sometimes did her writing.

But it was May and the warm wind dried her eyes and soothed
her sore eyelids, and the roadside banks were covered with the tiny spring flowers
she loved, stitchwort and celandine and whole sheets of speedwell, which Laura
knew as angel's eyes, and somewhere in the budding green hedgerow a blackbird
was singing. Who could be sad on such a day! At one place she saw cowslips in a
meadow and asked her father to wait while she gathered a bunch to take as an
offering to Miss Lane. Back in her seat, she buried her face in the big
fragrant bunch and, ever after, the scent of cowslips reminded her of that
morning in May.

When, about midday, they passed through a village, she held
the reins while her father went into the inn for a pint of ale for himself and brought
out for her a tall tumbler of sweet, fizzing orangeade. She sat in state on her
high seat and sipped it gently in the grown-up way she had seen farmers' wives
in gigs sipping their drinks before the inn at home, and it pleased her to
imagine that the elderly clergyman who glanced her way in passing was wondering
who that interesting-looking girl in the spring-cart could be, although she
knew very well in sober fact he was more probably thinking about his next
Sunday's sermon, or trying to decide whether or not he owed a parochial call at
the next house he had to pass. At fourteen it is intolerable to resign every claim
to distinction. Her hair was soft and thick and brown and she had rather nice
brown eyes and the fresh complexion of country youth, but those were her only
assets in the way of good looks. '
You'll
never be annoyed by people
turning round in the street to have another look at you,' her mother had often
told her, and sometimes, if Laura looked dashed, she would add: 'But that cuts
both ways: if you're no beauty, be thankful you're not a freak.' So she had
nothing to pride herself upon in that respect, and, being country born and with
little education, she knew herself to be ignorant, and as to goodness, well, no
one but herself knew how far she fell short of that, so, rather than sink into nothingness
in her own estimation, she chose to imagine herself interesting-looking.

Candleford Green was taking its afternoon nap when they
arrived. The large irregular square of turf which gave the village its name was
deserted but for one grazing donkey and a flock of geese which came cackling
with outstretched necks towards the spring-cart to investigate. The children
who at other times played there were in school and their fathers were at work
in the fields, or in workshops, or at their different jobs in Candleford town.
The doors of the row of shops which ran along one side of the green were open.
A man in a white grocer's apron stood yawning and stretching his arms in one
doorway, an old grey sheepdog slept in the exact middle of the road, the church
clock chimed, then struck three, but those were the only signs of life, for it
was Monday and the women of the place were too busy with their washing to promenade
with their perambulators in front of the shops as on other afternoons.

On the farther, less-populated side of the green a white
horse stood under a tree outside. the smithy waiting its turn to be shod and,
from within, as the spring-cart drew up, the ring of the anvil and the roar of
the bellows could be heard.

Attached to the smithy was a long, low white house which
might have been taken for an ordinary cottage of the more substantial kind but
for a scarlet-painted letter-box let into the wall beneath a window at one end.
Over the window was a painted board which informed the public that the building
was CANDLEFORD GREEN POST AND TELEGRAPH OFFICE. At the other end of the
building, above the door of the smithy, was another board which read: DORCAS
LANE, SHOEING AND GENERAL SMITH.

Except for the sounds of the forge and the white horse dozing
beneath the oak tree, that side of the green appeared even more somnolent than the
shopping side. Their arrival had not been unobserved, however, for, as the cart
drew up, a young smith darted from the forge and, seizing Laura's trunk, bore
it away on his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a feather. 'Ma'am! The
new miss has come,' they heard him call as he reached the back door of the
house, and, a moment later, the Post Office door-bell went
ping-ping
and
Miss Lane herself stepped out to welcome her new assistant.

Miss Lane was not a tall woman and was slightly built, but an
erect carriage, a commanding air, and the rustle as she walked of the rich silks
she favoured gave her what was then known as a 'presence'. Bright, dark, almost
black eyes were the only noticeable feature in her sallow but not otherwise
unpleasing countenance. Ordinarily quietly observant, those eyes could
disconcert with a flash of recognition of motives, sparkle with malice, or, more
rarely, soften with sympathy. That afternoon, over a deep prune-coloured gown,
she wore a small black satin apron embroidered almost to stiffness with jet
beads, and, in accordance with fashion, her still luxurious black hair was
plaited into a coronet above a curled fringe.

Not quite the Dorcas Lane, Shoeing and General Smith, that
might have been expected after reading her signboard. Had she lived a century earlier
or half a century later, she would probably have been found at the forge with a
sledge-hammer in her hand for she had indomitable energy and a passion for
doing and making things. But hers was an age when any work outside the four
walls of a home was taboo for any woman who had any pretensions to refinement,
and she had to content herself with keeping the books and attending to the
correspondence of the old family business she had inherited. She had found one
other outlet for her energy in her post office work, which also provided her
with entertainment in the supervision of her neighbours' affairs and the study
and analysis of their motives.

This may sound terrifying as now related, but there was
nothing terrifying about Miss Lane. She kept the secrets with which she was entrusted
in the course of her official duties most honourably, and if she laughed at
some of her customers' foibles she laughed secretly. 'Clever' was the general
village description of her. 'She's a clever one, that Miss Lane, as sharp as
vinegar, but not bad in her way,' people would afterwards say to Laura. Only
her two or three enemies said that if she had lived at one time she'd have been
burned as a witch.

That afternoon she was in her most gracious mood. 'You've
come just at the right time,' she said, kissing Laura. 'I've had a most
terrible rush, half a dozen in at once for postal orders and what not, and the telegraph
bell ringing like mad all the while. But it's over now, I think, for the time
being, and the afternoon mail is not due for an hour, so come inside, do, both
of you, and we'll have a nice cup of tea before the evening's work begins.'

Laura experienced a slight shock when she heard of this
recent pressure of business. How, she thought, would she ever be able to cope
with such rushes. But she need not have feared: the rushes at Candleford Green Post
Office existed chiefly in the imagination of the postmistress, who loved to
make her office appear more busy and important than it was in reality.

Her father could not stay to tea, as he had his Candleford
relations to visit, and Laura watched him drive away with the sinking feeling
of one whose last link with a known world is vanishing. But, before the day was
out, her childhood's life seemed long ago and far away to her, there was so
much to see and hear and try to grasp in the new one.

As she followed her new employer through the little office
and out to the big front living kitchen, the hands of the grandfather's clock pointed
to a quarter to four. It was really only a quarter past three and the Post
Office clock gave that time exactly, but the house clocks were purposely kept
half an hour fast and meals and other domestic matters were timed by them. To
keep thus ahead of time was an old custom in many country families which was
probably instituted to ensure the early rising of man and maid in the days when
five or even four o'clock was not thought an unreasonably early hour at which
to begin the day's work. The smiths still began work at six and Zillah, the
maid, was downstairs before seven, by which time Miss Lane and, later, Laura,
was also up and sorting the morning mail.

The kitchen was a large room with a flagstone floor and two
windows, beneath which stood a long, solid-looking table large enough to accommodate
the whole household at mealtimes. The foreman and three young unmarried smiths
lived in the house, and each of these had his own place at table. Miss Lane, in
a higher chair than the others, known as a carving-chair, sat enthroned at the
head of the table, then, on the side facing the windows, came Laura and
Matthew, the foreman, with a long space of tablecloth between them, supposed to
be reserved for visitors. Laura's seeming place of honour had, no doubt, been
allotted to her for handiness in passing cups and plates. The young smiths sat
three abreast at the bottom end of the table and Zillah, the maid, had a small side-table
of her own. All meals excepting tea were taken in this order.

Cooking and washing-up were done in the back kitchen; the
front kitchen was the family living- and dining-room. In the fireplace a small sitting-room
grate with hobs had replaced the fire on the hearth of a few years before; but
the open chimney and chimney-corners had been left, and from one of these a
long, high-backed settle ran out into the room. In the space thus enclosed a
red-and-black carpet had been laid to accommodate Miss Lane's chair at the head
of the table and a few fireside chairs. This little room within a room was
known as the hearthplace. Beyond it the stone floor was bare but for a few
mats.

Brass candlesticks and a brass pestle and mortar ornamented the
high mantelshelf, and there were brass warming-pans on the walls, together with
a few coloured prints; one of the first man in this country to carry an
umbrella—rain was coming down in sheets and he was followed by a jeering but
highly ornamental crowd. A blue-and-white dish of oranges stuck with cloves
stood upon the dresser. They were dry and withered at that time of the year,
but still contributed their quota to the distinctive flavour of the air.

Everything there was just as Miss Lane had inherited it.
Except for a couple of easy chairs by the hearth, she had added nothing. 'What
was good enough for my parents and grandparents is good enough for me,' she would
say when some of her more fashionable friends tried to persuade her to bring
her house up to date. But family loyalty was rather an excuse than a reason for
her preference; she kept the old things she had inherited because she enjoyed
seeing and owning them.

That afternoon, when Laura arrived, a little round table in
the hearthplace had already been laid for tea. And what a meal! There were boiled
new-laid eggs and scones and honey and home-made jam and, to crown all, a dish
of fresh Banbury cakes. The carrier had a standing order to bring her a dozen
of those cakes every market day.

It seemed a pity to Laura that the first time she had been
offered two eggs at one meal she could barely eat one and that the Banbury
cake, hitherto to her a delicious rarity only seen in her home when purchased by
visiting aunts, should flake and crumble almost untasted upon her plate because
she felt too excited and anxious to eat. But Miss Lane ate enough for the two
of them. Food was her one weakness. She loaded her scone, already spread with
fresh farm butter, with black currant jam and topped it with cream while she
inquired about the health of Laura's mother and told Laura what her new duties
would be. Once or twice during tea the Post Office door-bell tinkled and she
wiped her mouth and sailed majestically off to sell stamps, but the hour of her
early tea was the quietest hour of the day; after that what she called her
'rush hour' began, and for that Laura was allowed to accompany her.

With what expert speed Miss Lane stamped letters and made up
the mail, and with what ceremonious courtesy she answered questions which
sounded like conundrums to Laura, was a wonder to hear and see.

The door-bell tinkled all the time as people came in to
collect their afternoon mail. There was a delivery of letters in the morning,
and the poorer inhabitants of the place only called in the afternoon when they were
expecting a letter. 'I s'pose there isn't nothing for me, Miss Lane?' they
would say almost apologetically, and would look pleased or disappointed
according to her reply. Those of more assured position called regularly and these
often would not speak at all, but put their heads inside the door and raise
their eyebrows inquiringly. None of them gave their names or addresses, because
Miss Lane knew everybody on and around the green and she seldom had to look in
the pigeonholes labelled 'A' to 'Z', because she had sorted the letters and
could answer from memory. She often knew from whom the letter was expected and
what its contents were likely to be and would console the disappointed callers with:
'Better luck in the morning. There's barely time for an answer as yet.'

Out in the kitchen Zillah and the workmen were at tea. The
rattle of their teacups and the subdued hum of their conversation could be
heard in the office. This was the only meal of the day at which Miss Lane herself
did not preside. Zillah poured out, but she did not occupy her mistress's seat
at the head of the table—that was sacred; between each pouring out she retired
to her own seat on the settle with her own little table before her. At the
other, more formal, meals, the conversation was carried on by Miss Lane and her
foreman, with an occasional reference to Zillah when any item of local interest
was under discussion, while the young smiths at the foot of the table munched
in silence. At tea, with the mistress engaged elsewhere, there was more freedom,
and sometimes Zillah's shrill laughter would break through a chorus of guffaws
from the younger workmen. In moderation this was tolerated, but one day, when
some one rapped loudly upon the table with a teacup and said (Miss Lane said
'shouted'), 'Another pint, please, landlady!' the office door opened and a
voice as severe as that of a schoolmistress admonishing her class called for
'Less noise there, please!' None of them resented being spoken to like
children, nor did the young journeymen resent being placed below the salt, nor
Zillah at her separate table. To them these things were all part of an
established order. To that unawakened generation freedom was of less account
than good food, and of that in that household there was an abundance.