Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (18 page)

Dolly had heard that the Evanses were going abroad from Mr Davis, who was their gardener.

'Taking poor Miss Lilian,' he said, 'to see some famous doctor over there. They say he may be able to cure her. Cuts a bit out of your brain, he does, and many a poor soul's found his wits again that way.'

Dolly thought it was brave of the Evanses, to go so far, and hoped that the proposed operation would be successful, for Miss Lilian grew more pathetic yearly, and it was common knowledge that her ageing parents feared for her future when they had gone.

A few days later Mary Clare was delighted to find a picture postcard on the mat. The postman rarely called at the little cottage, and a picture was far more exciting than a plain envelope.

She held it up for Dolly to see at the breakfast table.

'I call that real nice of Mrs Evans. Written just before they sail, she says, and she's never seen anything so lovely before. Hopes we are well, and Miss Lilian sends her regards.'

Mary put the card face upward beside the bread board and peered closely at it.

'You can see the name quite clear,'she said excitedly.
'Titanic!'

***

Three days later the village heard the news. The names of the Evans family were not on the list of survivors. It was a stunning blow.

Mr Hope took down the picture of the ill-fated ship, but could say nothing to the children at that time. He was as stricken as they were at the horror which had come so close to them.

The house stood with its blinds drawn for three weeks. The eldest son, known to the neighbourhood as 'Mr Bertie', then moved in with his wife and young family. With him came two or three servants who had been in his employ in London.

Mr Davis gave the Clare family the news.

'There's a new chap coming to be head gardener,' he told them. 'Seems a nice enough young fellow, if you like 'em with red hair, which I don't.'

'And what's happening to you then?' enquired Francis.

'Three times a week,' said Mr Davis, 'and it suits me. Getting a bit long in the tooth these days, and the family brings us in a bit. We'll manage.'

He made his way to the door and then turned to Dolly.

'Keep your eye out for that young chap,' he said, with mock solemnity. 'You can't miss that hair. Just like a sunset it is.

He opened the door and was gone.

I
T
was strange, thought old Miss Clare, that the
Titanic
disaster in the spring of 1912 had brought such unexpected happiness in its wake.

Although, at this time, she was almost twenty-four years of age, she had remained remarkably untouched by love. There were several reasons for this. By nature she was reserved, and in company she was an observer rather than a participator. Ada's tempestuous marriage had made her cautious, and circumstances did not throw many young men across Dolly's path. At home she found that her parents grew more dependent upon her for company, and she herself, tired after a day's teaching and the long cycle ride, was very content to stay at home during the evenings.

She had not been conscious of any gap in her life. Her work, gardening, reading, helping her mother with household affairs and writing to Emily, kept her occupied and happy at the cottage. She took part in the life of both villages, helping with socials and jumble sales, fetes and church bazaars, and considered her life completely satisfying. She was all the more surprised, therefore, to find how overwhelmingly easy it was to slide into the state of love within a few weeks of Arnold Fletcher's arrival at Beech Green.

They first met when the young man called at the cottage with a message for Francis. Dolly was weeding, squatting down with her back to the gate, and did not hear him approach. She was startled by his voice, and struggled to her feet, much hampered by an old sack which she had pinned round her for an apron.

'You should kneel to weed,' said the young man, smiling upon her. 'It saves your back.'

There was no doubt about who he was. The bright auburn hair, which flamed above his pale bony face, identified him as the Evanses' new gardener. His eyes were of that true dark brown which is so rare in English faces, and they looked very kindly on Dolly's discomfiture.

After that he came often. He had an easy friendliness which disarmed Dolly immediately, and she felt happy in his company from the first. They found that they had much in common. His knowledge of plants and trees was deep, and unlike many gardeners, he was equally interested in wild growing things. He was an avid reader and a cricketer. Beech Green found him a reliable slow bowler and a swift-running fieldsman, and by the end of May he was playing regularly for the team.

Both he and Dolly enjoyed music and Arnold took great pride in a new phonograph which he sometimes brought over to the Clares' cottage. After much adjustment a hollow nasal voice echoed through the little room: 'This is an Edison Bell record,' and after a short rushing noise, the music would begin. It all seemed miraculous to the listeners, and Dolly first became acquainted with Handel and Bach, whose music she was to love throughout her life, by way of Arnold's phonograph.

It was soon common knowledge in the neighbourhood that Dolly and Arnold were 'going steady', as the villagers said. There was general approval.

'About time that girl got settled,' said Mr Davis to his wife. 'Won't have time for much of a family if she leaves it much longer.'

'Nonsense!' snorted Mrs Davis. 'Who wants to begin a family at eighteen like I did? Dolly's got plenty of sense—and plenty of time too. I shouldn't want to see her with a long string like ours.'

'But I thought you liked 'em!' answered Mr Davis, somewhat affronted by this sidelong attack.

'Case of have to!' commented his wife shortly, pushing him to one side as she bustled by with a steaming saucepan. Mr Davis wisely held his tongue. No point in adding fuel to the fire, he told himself.

Francis and Mary both seemed pleased, but Dolly sensed that her mother's approval was not whole-hearted. Latterly, Mary's mariner had been strange. She was at an age when women are the prey of moods, and Dolly had tried to be understanding. She guessed that, unconsciously, Mary clung to her last remaining child, and it was this that caused her mother to be cool at times with the young man. Nothing was ever said, and the matter was small enough to be ignored. In any case, Dolly was so deeply happy that troubles could scarcely affect her.

They became engaged later that year. Arnold took Dolly to Caxley where he bought a delicate little ring which she had seen in the jeweller's window and adored at first sight.

'But it's a
regard
ring, Dolly,' protested Arnold. 'I feel more than
regard
for you!'

But that was the ring which she wanted, and as she turned it upon her slim finger admiring the ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby and diamond which spelt out its message, she felt that no one could be so happy.

Soon afterwards, in the Christmas holidays, Dolly paid her first visit to London, on the way to meet Arnold's parents who lived in Norwich. She had been by train from Caxley to the county town on a few occasions, but to ride to Paddington was a real adventure, and to see the capital itself an even greater thrill. Very few of the older generation in Beech Green, and not many of Dolly's, had seen London, although they lived within seventy miles of it, for fares were expensive and there were very few holidays.

She and Arnold went by horse bus from Paddington to Liverpool Street. Dolly was appalled by the number of vehicles, most of them horsedrawn, but some motor driven. The speed and dexterity with which the bicycles moved in and out of the traffic made Dolly shudder, and she found the noise worse than Caxley on a market day. The streets too seemed very dirty, and she was interested to see how necessary crossing sweepers were as they brushed a clear way across the road for the ladies to use.

Dolly had never seen anything so enthralling as the ladies' fashions in Oxford Street. She admired the wide hats tied on with veiling, the net necklets held up with whalebone which gave their wearers a haughty appearance, and the long sweeping skirts, held gracefully to keep them from the dirt, above neat buttoned boots. The journey to Liverpool Street passed all too quickly.

She was glad of Arnold's protection in that cavernous place of reeking smoke, hooting engines and hustling people, but once the sad poverty of the slums was passed she settled back to enjoy the different scenery of East Anglia. She never forgot
her first sight of those wide wind-swept heaths and the magnificent avenues of the Norfolk countryside, with great clouds bowling in from the North Sea, moving like pillars of snow across the vast blue sky.

Arnold's parents were welcoming. They lived in a small crooked road in the shadow of the ancient cathedral. Dolly liked them at once, and was taken on a tour of relatives who lived in the city, and who proved equally friendly. She and Arnold spent three happy days in Norwich, and she grew to love the place more with every hour that passed.

When the time came to return to Beech Green, and the farewells were over, she stood at the train window and watched with regret the last of that lovely and lively city slide behind her.

Arnold, amused at her pensive face, put his arm round her comfortingly.

'We'll come again,' he promised. 'Lots of times.'

But Dolly never saw Norwich again.

Long engagements were common in those days, and Dolly felt no hardship in waiting for her wedding. It was an idyllic time, she thought. She saved as much as she could from her small salary, and bought and made many things for her future home. Friends presented her with linen and china, and Dolly found much satisfaction in her wellfilled bottom drawer.

Emily, who was also engaged, to the son of a local farmer, was as busy and as happy as her friend. The two girls had plenty to talk about now when they met, and despite the major distraction of their future husbands, the weekly letters still passed between them. There were things, Dolly discovered, that one could only tell to Emily, no matter how dear Arnold might be, and their shared school experiences made a constant bond.

Fairacre School had its problems at this time which perturbed Dolly. In the January following her visit to Norwich, a tragedy had occurred in the headmaster's house.

Harriet Hope, the only child, had died from the same disease which had taken little Frank Clare. She had been a child of such unusual vivacity and beauty that the blow was all the more cruel. Mr Hope and his wife could not face the village for a week after the funeral, and Dolly coped alone with both classes, glad of the extra work and responsibility which kept her from dwelling on the loss of the attractive child.

When at last Mr Hope returned, he was a changed man. His vigour had gone, never to return, and his duties were undertaken mechanically. Worse still, he began drinking heavily, and frequently arrived in the schoolroom smelling strongly of liquor. It was not long before he began to make an excuse to leave the school soon after ten each morning, and could be seen making his way to 'The Beetle and Wedge'. He returned within half an hour just in time to mark the arithmetic he had set before his departure. But his marking pencil often wavered, and the smell of beer was most noticeable. It was small wonder that the older boys and girls winked and giggled at each other behind his back, and that the parents at Fairacre, torn between pity and indignation, wondered if they should report their schoolmaster to those in authority.

While Mr Hope was out, the door in the partition between the two classrooms was left open so that Dolly could keep an eye on both classes. She took to setting her babies some quiet work in their little desks, for during the headmaster's absence she knew she would have to make several visits to his room. Through the open door she caught glimpses of mischievous dumb show. One wag would pretend to swig from a bottle, another would clutch his stomach and roll his eyes in mock drunkenness, and these capers aroused titters from the rest of
the children. It was a difficult time for Dolly, and she found it better to forestall this insolence rather than deal with its effects. Her presence in the room guaranteed good behaviour, for most of the children had been in her hands only a year or two before, and young though she was, Dolly's tall dignity commanded respect.

The babies suspected nothing, and were content to set out their counters and attempt the simple adding up and taking away sums displayed on the blackboard in Miss Clare's clear hand. Sometimes, during those quiet periods when she walked the length of Fairacre School with all its young scholars in her care, Dolly grieved for the tragedy which was being enacted around her.

Standing at the narrow Gothic window, she gazed at the dazzle of fruit blossom in the school garden, and the grandeur of the elms against the sky. She could see the roofs of the village, the blue smoke spiralling against the background of the distant downs, as blue as the smoke itself. It was appalling to think that a man could throw away such beauty and the security of a home and congenial work for the sake of drink.