Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (17 page)

When he came home on leave the family made much of him. Mrs Davis, all passion spent, was now proud to show off Albert in his khaki, and basked in the congratulations of her neighbours when he accompanied her about the village or took her shopping in Caxley.

He was a quiet, happy boy, pleased to be back in the overcrowded cottage but secretly a little lonely when the rest of the family were out upon their various ploys during the day. He wandered round Beech Green, leaning on a gate here and there to chat with men gardening or women hanging clothes. He stopped to talk to old school-mates, as they cut back hedges or turned the plough at the end of a long furrow, and felt mingled pride and guilt at the envy which he saw in their eyes.

'It ain't all beer and skittles,' he assured his questioners, almost apologetically. 'Sometimes I reckons you chaps has the best of it.' But he knew he was not believed. To the stay-at-homes, he had the glamour which a uniform and travel give.

To have some purpose for his meanderings, Albert frequently strolled towards Fairacre to meet his sister and Dolly on their way home from school. He was fond of them both, and a little sorry for Dolly, whom he considered overshadowed by Ada. If he had been bolder he might have approached Ada himself, but he knew that she was besieged by young men, and was afraid that he might be rebuffed. He felt safe with Dolly, and asked her one day if she would like to go to Caxley with him on the next Saturday. Somewhat surprised, Dolly agreed.

It was all very innocent and pleasant. They cycled together to the town, Albert on Emily's bicycle. It was a blue and white March day of strong sun and wind. Dolly bought some crochet cotton and a new hook, a pound of sprats winch her mother wanted, and two ounces of cabbage seed for her father. Albert accompanied her into the shops, watching gravely over her purchases, and buying some cold wet cockles in the fishmonger's as a present for the Davis family's supper.

The fish was put into a small flat rush bag which was secured with a skewer. As the afternoon wore on it grew dark with dampness and decidedly smelly, but the two were in great spirits and felt very daring as they took their burden into a tea shop in Caxley High Street and Albert ordered ices.

'What would you like to do?' asked Albert, as they tinkled their spoons in the glass dishes.

'I don't really know,' said Dolly truthfully. 'I mustn't be too late because my bicycle lamp isn't right, and anyway I want to wash my hair when I get back.'

Albert looked a little relieved. He had been wondering if he could afford to take Dolly to the show in the Corn Exchange put on by the local Nigger Minstrels. It might have been good fun, but they would have been late back, and Albert was not sure if his parents and Dolly's would have approved. Perhaps another time, he told himself vaguely.

'We'll have a walk in the park,' he said firmly, and called for the bill.

The daffodils were in bud, and they sat on a bench with the fish bag oozing gently beside them. Albert rested his arm along the back against Dolly's thin shoulder blades, and finding that she made no demur, shifted a little closer.

Dolly's silence stemmed from surprise rather than shyness. She did not have the heart to tell the young man that she was very uncomfortable. Albert's arm gave her a crick in the small of the back, and he was sitting heavily on the side of her skirt. Dolly doubted if the gathers would hold at the waist, as the material was rather worn. She leant a little towards him in order to minimise the strain and found Albert, much encouraged, tipping her head to rest on his shoulder.

Her discomfort now was considerable. His epaulette was stiff and dug into her cheek, and her neck was strained unbearably. A cold hairpin, sliding from her rumpled bun, lodged inside her collar and added to her troubles. Albert took her hand and held it very tightly and painfully in his own.

They sat there in silence with a chilly wind blowing round them. A bed of early wallflowers competed unsuccessfully with the damp fish bag for their attention. Dolly, squinting sideways at the daffodils, found her view impeded by Albert's neck and was interested to observe how much larger his pores were than her own. It was a decidedly clean neck, she noticed with approval, and the lobe of the only ear she could see had a healthy glow.

At last cramp began to invade her left foot, and feeling that she could bear no more, Dolly struggled into an upright position. There was a cracking sound, but whether of gathers or stiff joints Dolly could not be sure, and then the two smiled upon each other, Dolly with relief and Albert with affection.

'It's getting very cold,' said Dolly gently.

'Best be cycling home,' agreed Albert, collecting the fish bag.

They pedalled home companionably in the twilight, talking of this and that, but making no comment on their prim embrace on the park bench. Only when they stopped at Dolly's gate were future plans mentioned.

'Will you write to me sometimes when I'm away?' asked Albert, looking very young as he screwed and unscrewed Emily's bicycle bell.

'Of course I will,' said Dolly warmly.

'And come out again perhaps?' continued Albert.

'Thank you,' said Dolly, a little less warmly.

'Good,' said Albert, and looked as though he might lean across Emily's bicycle and peck her cheek. At that moment Francis Clare opened the door of the cottage.

'Got my cabbage seed, Doll?' he called cheerfully.

'Goodbye,' said Dolly hastily, 'and thank you for that lovely ice cream.'

Pushing open the gate, she trundled her bicycle towards the house. The lamp made a pool of light round her father's familiar figure in the doorway. It was good to be home.

This incident, touching and absurd, had no real sequel, for Albert's leave ended very soon after. But Dolly kept her word and wrote occasionally telling Albert about the doings of Beech Green and Fairacre. Her letters were beautifully penned; no blots, crossings or spelling mistakes marred their exquisite pages, and their subject matter was as blameless, for Dolly had no stronger feeling than friendship for the young man and was too honest to pretend that anything more was felt. After some months the letters between them grew less and less frequent, and Dolly heard of his engagement to a girl in Colchester, some time later, with genuine pleasure and some relief.

Meanwhile, Ada's love affair gave Dolly food for thought. After his interview with the publican, Francis tried patiently to get some sense from his defiant daughter.

'I've told you and told you,' said Ada obstinately. 'We're going to get married whatever anyone says.'

'But what if he doesn't want to?' queried Francis. 'Takes two to make a marriage, and he ain't bothered to come and speak to me about it yet, has 'e?'

'Looks to me,' commented Mary, in support, 'as if you're throwing yourself at him. That's no way to go into marriage, Ada.'

'Why should he come here to be picked over and found wanting?' demanded Ada belligerently. ''Twon't do no good to either of us, as far as I can see.'

They could get no further with her in this mood. Francis was perplexed. He disliked the idea of pursuing this young man, but if he refused to come and see him then he supposed he must make some effort to find out the fellow's intentions if Ada's happiness was involved.

'Dammit, Mary!' he sighed to his wife. 'Girls is a darn sight more trouble than boys when it comes to wedding 'em.'

He waited a fortnight, but nothing happened. Ada continued to see the young man, and short of locking her in her room, Francis felt he could do nothing about it. At length he went again to Caxley and had an uncomfortable session with the publican, his wife and their son.

The young man was ill at ease, but assured Francis that he wished to marry Ada. Harry Roper did not impress Francis. He was thickset, with a surly expression, and had the heavy, dark, good looks which would soon coarsen with corpulence. Francis was amazed that Ada was attracted to him.

There was no doubt, however, that she would be well provided for. Jack Roper, the publican, also had an interest in a nourishing market garden, and he proposed to set up the young couple in a small greengrocery business in the town as a wedding present. So far, he knew, Harry had failed to remain in any job for longer than a year. Marriage, and a business of his own, he hoped, would settle his son permanently. At twenty-five he should have sown all his wild oats, and it was time he turned his attention to domesticity and the raising of a family. The Ropers, for their part, liked the lively girl who seemed so determined to marry their son, and felt sure she had the power and energy to direct both her husband and the business.

The Ropers were invited to the Clares' cottage. The two families exchanged civilities, the engagement was announced, and the marriage arranged for the autumn. Mary seemed pleased with matters, but Francis had a heavy heart. It was not what he wanted for his best-loved child.

There was a triumphant excitement about Ada, throughout the weeks before the wedding, which Francis found distasteful.

'She feels she's got the better of us all,' he confided to Mary.
'But what does that matter if she's not truly happy herself? And do that young Harry really want her?'

It was Mary's turn to calm fears this time.

'Our Ada's always known what she's about, and she's chose a solid fellow as'll see she's always comfortable. He loves her all right, never you fret,' she added casually.

Francis was not completely convinced, but this matter-of-fact attitude of Mary's gave him a little comfort. Presumably women knew best in these affairs.

But when he stood beside his glowing Ada before the altar, his misgivings returned. She looked so radiant, so young and so trusting in her white lace frock, standing beside that dark stranger whom he disliked. Behind her stood Dolly, pale and demure in blue, the only bridesmaid.

Francis gave Ada away, feeling as though part of his heart had gone too, and all through the wedding breakfast, which was held in 'The Crown', he felt cold and wretched. With the rest of the party he waved goodbye to the young couple as they drove off in a carriage to the railway station, and was ashamed to find that tears blurred his final view of them.

It was Mary who remained dry-eyed.

Dolly and Emily had just finished their four years' pupil-teaching at this time. Little Miss Taylor at Fairacre School now retired, and Mr Wardle suggested that Dolly might like to carry on. She was appointed as infants' teacher that September, and continued to cycle from Beech Green daily. Emily heard of a post, some miles away at a village on the south side of Caxley, which appealed to her. An aunt lived in the village and would put her up, and she would be teaching children from twelve to fourteen, which was what she had always wanted.

The two friends, who had seen each other daily for most of their young lives, missed each other sorely. They promised to write once a week, and they met occasionally in Caxley or whenever Emily managed to get home for a week-end. Without Emily and Ada, Dolly felt quite forlorn for several weeks that autumn.

But the interests at Fairacre and its school grew more absorbing as the months passed. Mr Wardle and his wife left the village, a year after Dolly began her teaching, and a new headmaster, called Mr Hope, came to live at the school house. He was a shyer, cleverer man than his predecessor, one who loved animals and flowers, and who wrote poetry with some skill and feeling.

Dolly liked him, and his vague young wife. They had one daughter, Harriet, a child of outstanding beauty and intelligence. All three, Dolly thought, had charm and uncommon sympathy, but she missed the Wardles' splendid invigorating presence, the hearty good humour and the drive which was essential to stimulate the native laziness of the Fairacre children. She hoped that Mr Waterman's methods wouldnot be repeated.

At first, all went well. Despite his delicate appearance and gentle ways, Mr Hope had the ability to catch the imagination of the children. He was more aware of the progress of the world than Mr Wardle had been. For Mr Wardle, Fairacre and its immediate environs offered all that was needed in interest and amusement. Mr Hope soon made his older children conscious of the exciting changes about them.

He told them about aeroplanes and the pioneers who flew them. He conjured up visions of air travel in the future for his open-mouthed, and slightly disbelieving, pupils. With a poet's flair for words he described the great icy wastes at the farthest Poles of the earth, whose mystery and beauty were just becoming known and explored by brave men. He told them of Peary and Shackleton and of Scott, and he made his country children realise that adventure was still to be found.

In advance of his time, the schoolmaster recognised the power of topical news, and photographs from the papers were pinned on the walls to encourage an interest in matters of the day. He was adroit enough, too, to relate these national events to their own small world, whenever possible, and Dolly listened to him one April morning as he pointed out the splendours of a mighty new liner.

'And Mr and Mrs Evans at Beech Green are going to sail in her,' he told them. 'When they come back I shall ask them to come and tell us all about it.'