Alfred and Emily (12 page)

Then, he looked at her, and his grin was openly satirical. It was what she wore: she was catching the evening train to London in an hour, and she was dressed for London, not Longerfield. She had on a dark-blue linen coat and skirt, and the white collar and belt were reddened with dust. She tried to brush it off, making things worse.

Ignoring Bert, though she did look embarrassed, she said to Alfred, ‘I won't forget what you said. I'll get the books sent directly to you.'

‘Then thanks,' he said, smiling straight at her, in a way he had – direct, personal, really seeing her.

Here was the kindliness that she felt she was missing everywhere but in this place, had always missed – had not known that she missed.

He was a kind man, yes, someone to be trusted. His face clouded, his eyes were troubled: he was now looking at his two lads, big lads, who seemed so very much older than their years. Both held a horse by its bridle and both leaped up and rode off, no saddle, just the reins to hold on to.

And now his eyes were full of tears.

‘Well,' he said to her, steadying his voice, ‘I expect Mary has told you of our worry. It's not much comfort to know that most of the parents around here share it.'

And he went in through a little gate and swung himself up on to the great horse.

‘See you again, I expect,' he said to Emily, riding off, while Bert rode beside him.

Emily left Longerfield, as always, sadly, and found herself thinking she could retire there, buy a little house near Mary, never have to leave Longerfield again. And she was amazed at herself: retire! And it was such a success, people applying in droves to work with them, people giving them money – and that was the point. It had needed Emily McVeagh to start the thing, but it could go on nicely without her. Fiona would be just as efficient…She was going to see Fiona now. She believed that Fiona was the luckiest thing that could have happened. Emily had her flat in Beak Street, could always stay with Daisy, but she had lost her room in her own house: Fiona had not asked her, but it was evident the room was needed for a nanny, who was starting today. Fiona had accomplished two children, apparently without effort, and this had not stopped her working with Emily. But a nanny had become essential. Emily wanted to see how it was working. And she loved being there at the children's bedtime.

She went straight to the nursery, which had once been hers and William's bedroom, and found Fiona sitting by a lively fire, her first little girl standing clinging to the bars of a cot and watching her mother feed the new baby. Emily wanted to hear what Fiona would say about events in Longerfield: she relied on her for a kind of clarity, so she told herself. Really, Fiona agreed so well with Emily about everything, it was not till Emily had been confirmed, as it
were, by Fiona, that she felt she could face her critics, ‘the debs and the bishops' – most of whom seemed to be Fiona's cousins or some other kind of relative.

She watched Fiona's confident clasp of her babe, saw the round full white breast, which seemed to be like a different aspect of Fiona, not known to her: she knew well a quick, clever, ambitious girl, impatient of checks and obstacles; the soft round breast spoke of other capacities. Emily told Fiona of her visit to Longerfield, taking her time, watching Fiona's face, which showed she had grasped at once everything Emily had said. In just one part of the narrative Emily was not sure of conveying what she felt: sitting in the schoolhouse with all those children, and feeling a rightness there, which she would have liked Fiona to share.

Fiona's eyes were on Emily's face as she talked and then, as the visit to the schoolhouse was about to end, she said, showing she had caught what Emily had not said, or felt that there was more Emily would like to say, ‘Some day I must come with you to Longerfield because you come back from it so – contented.'

‘Contented?'

‘Yes. But there's one thing that stands out. Whenever we set up a library for a school, we are always asked about books for adults.' Now Emily listed the novels Alfred had requested, and added more she had thought of since.

‘Yes,' said Fiona. ‘It seems to me we might have a separate fund for the grown-up books.' ‘There are libraries,' said Emily, ‘but if we have little
libraries of our own, or even lists we could put up, I feel they would know what to ask for in the public libraries. They don't know what there is, you see, what's available.'

‘I know just the person for that,' said Fiona. ‘She's longing to work with us. Her name is Jessie and I'll speak to her. No, she won't want to be paid.'

‘That's one advantage of the debs,' said Emily.

‘To have some work…the poor things,' said Fiona. ‘Everywhere women going mad, wanting to work.'

The babe at her breast seemed to fall off it, as if his mouth had been the grasp of a limpet. He lay, hands curled, eyes shut, on Fiona's lap. Fiona looked down over the swollen breast at this replete infant. Her breast budded drops of milk. A black and white cat beside the fire miaowed. Fiona deftly picked up a saucer near it, allowed some milk to fall into it and put it down by the cat, which, like the baby, seemed pleased. The infant in her cot was sinking back and down, and was lying, blinking sleepily, silent.

‘All fed,' said Fiona. ‘The cat was here long before Rosie. It was jealous and I was afraid it might harm Rosie. One day when I finished feeding, the cat jumped on my lap and licked my breast so I put down a saucer of milk and the cat stopped being jealous.'

‘I wonder if the cat thinks it's a baby or a kitten?' said Emily. ‘I mustn't let Miss Burton see me give my milk to the cat,' said Fiona. Mimicking a hoity-toity voice, she said, “‘The cat'll get ideas above its station. You don't want that.” She's already
told the cook I'm a real Bohemian, but she thinks she can get me back in line.'

‘I wish you were coming with me to Scotland,' said Emily.

‘So do I. Well, nursery days won't be for ever.'

A knock, and a large, matronly woman appeared, who said to Fiona, ‘Give me the baby. I'll take him for tonight. I'll give him a bottle if he wakes. And now you must get to bed early, you really can't go on without some sleep.'

In this way Emily learned of the hardships of nursery days. The nanny lifted the sleeping baby, pulled a little blanket over the older infant, and left, while Fiona sat yawning in the firelight.

Another knock. The cook appeared. ‘Dinner is served,' she said, and to Emily, whom she knew, ‘I've laid a place for you, madam.'

The two women descended the stairs.

In the dining-room, where there was now a smaller round table supplementing the vast one of Emily's reign, Cedric sat yawning.

‘We are ordered to go to bed, Cedric,' said Fiona, and he said, ‘Aunt Emily, thank you for letting us have your room. If Fiona and I hadn't Miss Burton to keep us in order I don't think we would survive.'

He sat at the table, Fiona near him. Food arrived, and was not much eaten.

‘I don't have to eat,' said Cedric, ‘but poor Fiona does.'

‘Yes, you do,' said Fiona. ‘I am sure Miss Burton would not hear of your not eating.'

He accomplished a few mouthfuls and retired to a little green sofa that Emily had once been fond of. He sat and yawned. Fiona, eating as if Miss Burton stood over her, took in sole as if it were medicine and went to sit by Cedric who put his arms around her.

‘I am sure you have already worked it out, Aunt Emily,' said Cedric, ‘but if we are going to have a third child then Miss Burton is absolutely essential.'

‘Well, are you?'

‘We haven't decided,' said Cedric, kissing Fiona. Emily felt that Miss Burton probably would not have approved this kiss and the others that followed.

Not too tired to flirt, thought Emily, musing, If married couples do flirt – well, I and William certainly didn't.

‘But if we haven't got the energy simply to go upstairs to bed,' said Cedric, ‘then is it likely we have enough energy for a third child?'

Fiona murmured: a joke, Emily thought. Cedric laughed out loud, and said something that Emily knew was pretty sexual, but she did not know what he was really saying.

The two, Cedric and Fiona, seemed to drowse in each other's arms, kissing a little, then some more – and in came Miss Burton, surveying them with severity.

‘You two must really go and get some sleep,' said Miss Burton. ‘You'll lose your milk,' she warned Fiona.

‘And what will I lose?' enquired Cedric, seriously. ‘Very well, Fiona, up you get.'

He pulled her up, and she stood resting against him, already half asleep.

‘That's right,' said Miss Burton. She nodded at Emily, and went out.

‘Good night, then, Emily,' murmured Fiona.

‘Good night, dear Aunt Emily,' said Cedric, and the two left the scene.

Emily did not believe that sleep was on their immediate agenda.

Emily found a cab, got to Beak Street, and lay awake thinking of how she would get the books Alfred wanted to him quickly. When Emily heard of a storyteller somewhere, she went to see him or her at once, and she was going to see a certain Alistair McTaggart, who lived in a village near Stirling. It was quite a journey, and she did a good deal of work on the train. She did not know what she would find. Some of the old storytellers behaved as if they were guardians of a store of gold, quickly diminished if used recklessly; others responded to invitations to visit schools and tell stories to small children. This Alistair was a tall, craggy, whiskery man who at once said that to introduce children to the great tradition was more important than anything. He was famous locally, in many pubs, was invited to ceilidhs and gatherings, and invited Emily to go with him that very night to a nearby pub where he was expected.

This meant she would have to stay the night in Stirling, though he offered her a bed in what he called a spare room, which was a tiny space, not more than a large cupboard, off his main room. She did not at all mind the meagreness of the space, but thought that it would be late after the pub, perhaps he – or she – might be tight, and surely…But in the event the taxi to take her to Stirling was cancelled, because it was indeed late, both were pretty tight – they had sung and told stories till nearly morning.

Emily, pressured by Alistair, had told a story inspired by Fiona's cat, though the milk that staved off jealousy was cow's milk. She was happy to fall into bed in her cubbyhole of a room and to enjoy a vast Scottish breakfast with Alistair. She could have stayed another day or two – she was invited – but had to return to London.
Had
to? Why?

She told Fiona about this wonder of a storyteller, who kept a crowded pub silent for hours with his repertoire of traditional tales, and Fiona made an excuse to go up and hear Alistair McTaggart at work in the Martin-White school in Edinburgh. It was not easy for her to stay a night, or many, as invited, because of her infants, so she returned reluctantly to London and her duties.

A conversation took place between her and Emily, soon after. Having said how much she had enjoyed Alistair McTaggart, and her experience watching him, listening to him, with the children, she remarked, casually though, that she thought Alistair was intrigued by Emily. That was how she put it. Did
Emily seem conscious that more was meant? She did seem on her guard, and did not look at Fiona, who then spoke very low, so that Emily could pretend she had not heard. ‘He really likes you, Emily, but really.'

Emily had heard, but was silent, her eyes down – was she blushing? – and then she said, laughing, ‘Well, I like him too.'

Fiona, encouraged, asked, ‘Have you thought of marrying again, Emily?'

Emily said, ‘You know, Fiona, not every marriage is like yours and Cedric's.'

At once Fiona said, ‘Oh, I do know, believe me. I know how lucky I am.'

‘And isn't Cedric lucky too?'

‘Not as much.'

Emily showed that she needed to hear more, and obliging Fiona gave her what she craved with ‘A good man is hard to find.'

And hadn't Emily herself proved the rightness of this pronouncement?

‘When I check with my friends, Aunt Emily, believe me, I do know my luck.' Fiona was still looking enquiringly at Emily. She seemed now rather like an earnest little girl, even more so because she was wearing her hair in two fair plaits. She only wore these indoors. Soon after the first baby was born she was out and about with her hair plaited and even with little baby bows. This was for convenience: she did not go in for ‘Serb' or ‘Turk'
hairdos. Friends, seeing her, instantly announced a new trend: ‘Pigtails for Peace' was the craze, but Fiona scorned to approve it.

‘You know, Aunt Emily, we – that is, Cedric and I – think it is too soon for you to decide on being an old maid.'

Emily had to laugh at this but there was no doubt she was troubled; no laughing matter, her face said, and then she asked, ‘But shouldn't one be young to think of getting married?'

Fiona clearly did not know what to say, but she was thinking: Aunt Emily wasn't exactly old when she married Uncle William. And Emily was thinking: I wouldn't marry William now, whatever age I was. She simply could not discuss with Fiona just how much of a disappointment William had been. She had never told anybody. Fiona discussed her marriage with her friends, did she? Emily could not imagine doing that.

‘You haven't thought it out, Fiona. Am I going to live in a little village in Scotland, just like that, and give up my work?'

Now Fiona was silent, partly because she realized just how very much she would miss Emily.

Soon she remarked that there would be trouble again with the debs. The two, Emily and Fiona, enjoyed their ongoing battles with the debs, which had become partly invented too. This time it was that the debs would say there was no need to spend so much on Alistair McTaggart's engagement to ‘tell fairytales', as they put it, in Edinburgh, Glasgow and Stirling. The debs always contested any money spent on the storytellers: it was amazing how this was always being crowded out
of any curriculum. Fiona and Emily fought their good fight, Emily remembering that this was where the whole great airy structure of schools and boards and trusts had begun: she had told funny little tales to some children in Longerfield and had been followed by crowds of them: ‘Tell us a story.'