Jane Austen Made Me Do It (32 page)

“That's an excellent point, Penny,” Julie said. “I really think Brandon should have had a word with Mrs. Dashwood or Sir John Middleton.”

“That's what's wrong with them all,” Cathy said. “All of
them! They're so prim and proper they won't tell anyone anything. Like Elinor won't tell Edward she likes him and he won't tell her about the other stupid girl, Lucy whatshername. And Elinor should have told Lucy to bugger off because Edward was hers.”

“Don't swear,” Julie said, trying not to laugh.

“I wouldn't tell a boy I liked him,” said Penny. “What if he didn't like you back?”

“What if you were on a desert island with Paul? Or, what if you had ten seconds to live and you were with Paul?” Susan said. “You would then.”

“Don't you think that's what Marianne is trying to tell him at the ball in London?” Julie said. “It's a very brave thing for her to do.”

There was a short silence in which Penny scrambled under her desk for a dropped pencil and Susan studied her fingernails. Cathy hummed quietly to herself.

“I don't think any of the Beatles would do what he did,” Susan said. The other two nodded agreement.

“Yes, but if Paul did—I mean, if he dumped me and I was really ill and nearly died and he came to see me and he was married, I'd …” Penny's voice faltered. “I think if Paul got married I'd die.”

“Just like Marianne,” Julie said. “Do you think you'd marry—who did we decide was Brandon?—let's say it was George—afterwards, when you got better? If he told you he was in love with you?”

“I don't know. I don't think I'd ever forget Paul,” Penny said. “But I quite like George. So I suppose I'd marry him if he asked. He is one of the Beatles and I'd see quite a lot of Paul, I suppose. But I'd never be friends with his wife.”

“That's true,” Julie said. “Willoughby is still the Dashwoods'
and Middletons' neighbor. You know, one of you—I think it was Susan—said that Marianne and Elinor were silly cows, and Marianne is certainly silly with Willoughby. But by the end of the book, do you think she's still as bad?”

“Yes,” Susan said, to Julie's surprise. “But in a different sort of way. She's done what everyone has expected her to do—she's got married to the first boy who comes along when she couldn't marry Willoughby. Well, not really a boy, he's an old man. I feel sort of sorry for Willoughby. If he really loved her so much, maybe he should have asked her to run away with him. If John asked me to run away with him, I would. Even if it was George, who's my next favorite, who wanted to marry me, I'd run away with John. Marianne could get a job if he needed money. In Woolworth's or something.”

All three girls laughed. “Mrs. Henderson's always saying that if we don't go to university we'll end up working in Woolworth's,” Penny said, who still seemed to be brooding on the horror of Paul's marriage.

“But if Marianne did that, she'd lose her reputation. Elinor would never speak to her again and probably Elinor wouldn't be able to marry Edward. Women couldn't do things like that then,” Julie said. “She probably wouldn't be able to get a job either.”

“My mum would never talk to me again if I ran off with someone,” Susan said, looking quite pleased at the prospect.

“And how about Elinor?” Julie asked. “What do you think of her at the end of the book?”

Susan snorted. “She's a right cold fish, miss, particularly if what you say about how she wouldn't talk to her sister if she ran off with Willoughby is true. If she really loved Edward, she should have told him and married him without waiting for his mother to say it was all right.”

The others murmured assent.

“But it's not right, miss, about Marianne. What if she isn't really in love with Colonel Brandon?” Penny asked.

“That's the great thing about Austen,” Julie said. “She knows when to tell us things and when not to.”

The girls looked thoughtful.

Julie looked at her watch. “Girls, I think you've demonstrated that when you put your minds to it, you're capable of doing better work than you've done so far for Mrs. Henderson. I'll let you go early this once, but I don't expect to see you in detention again.”

They chorused their thanks and filed out of the room.

Julie followed them out and went to the teachers' cloakroom for her coat. Now the school day was officially over, only the front entrance was open, and to her surprise she found the girls clustered there, deep in discussion.

“He's more like a dad,” Cathy was saying as Julie approached.

“Perhaps she misses her dad. He's dead, isn't he? I mean, Marianne's all weepy about him at the beginning of the book but she seems to forget about him pretty quickly,” Penny said, hands in the pockets of her school blazer.

They were discussing the book, Julie realized with a flush of pleasure.

And, they were waiting for her, as was evident from the beaming smiles they turned on her.

“Fab detention, miss,” Susan said with a cheeky grin.

“Don't you dare tell anyone,” Julie said. “I don't want to take detention five times a week, thank you very much, not even with you lot.”

Cathy held the door open for her. “So why couldn't Marianne get a job, miss?”

“She's posh,” Penny said. “Right, miss?”

“That's part of it. But women couldn't train for professions then, so she'd have the equivalent of a job in Woolworth's, being
a servant, and it would be even worse—demeaning and poorly paid with long hours. She'd probably end up becoming a prostitute, like Eliza.”

“Which one's Eliza?” Penny said as they walked down the drive to the gates.

The other two turned on her. “You know, the one Colonel Brandon fights the duel over, stupid. 'Cause she's his adopted daughter or something,” Susan said.

“She never goes on the game!” Penny looked quite shocked. “I bet Jane Austen didn't even know about that sort of thing.”

“She did,” Julie said. “It's there, if you look for it. But it's not like
Lady Chatterley's Lover
.”

The three girls giggled.

“So do you have a boyfriend, then, miss?”

“Not really,” Julie said.

“But isn't that why you became a teacher, miss?” Susan persisted. “So you could get married and have summer holiday with your kids and go back after they've started school, and all?”

“No,” Julie said. “I didn't even think of it in those terms. I certainly don't now.”

“This is our bus stop, miss.” Cathy took off her school hat and stuffed it into a blazer pocket and dropped her satchel on the ground at her feet.

Penny took a bag of sweets out of her pocket and offered one to Julie, who shook her head with a smile.

“Bye, then, miss,” Susan said.

Julie had only a short walk to the small terraced house she rented. But instead she turned the other way on the street, heading toward the center of the town. This had been the way the stages came into the town in Austen's time, descending the hill to stop at the George Inn on the way to London. Austen herself might have looked out upon these same buildings, seen the original
Georgian façades now marred by modern shop windows and frontages.

She should really go home. She should repack; replace the pretty lace nightgown with a sturdy flannel one that didn't show an inch of skin and the daring strapless black evening dress—sexy, rustling taffeta—with something more innocent and suitable for a weekend in the country. But instead she turned into the coffee bar that tried so very hard to be Italian, with small replicas of famous statues in alcoves and a mural of Vesuvius surrounded by a border of vines and grapes.

Yet the owners were Italian, and the young man behind the counter, one of the sons of the family, certainly looked the part, with dark expressive eyes and a winning smile. He gave her an admiring look.

Julie knew the effect would be spoiled when he spoke in the local accent, the way Penny and Susan and Cathy spoke, but she ordered a cup of espresso and a very English bun studded with raisins and went to sit at one of the tables by the window. It was steamed up from the espresso machine but she could see a phone box on the other side of the street. Her coffee arrived, blanketed by a soft foam of froth pitted by dark sprinkles of cinnamon. She took an appreciative sip. It wasn't quite as good as coffee in Rome or in Paris, but for the moment it would have to do.

And after she had finished her bun and coffee she would ring up Derek.

Her experience today hadn't been quite that of Paul—the saint, not the Beatle—on the road to Damascus, but she knew now what she would do; about Derek, about being a teacher. Not everything in her life, but a good start.

She would invite the three girls over for tea one evening after school. She imagined showing them her books, getting them to
talk about Austen, encouraging them to read more. She might even play them some records that weren't by the Beatles.

She looked again at the phone box, glowing red in the late afternoon sun, and wondered if she'd remember this day, long after Derek was a faint shadow in her memory. Even if it was true that in ten weeks, or months, or years, no one would remember those four cheeky young pop stars from Liverpool, Jane Austen would still be there.

To Miss Lydia Bennet

Longbourn House,

Longbourn,

Near Meryton,

Hertfordshire.

March 12th

My Dear Lydia,

Well, here I am at Hunsford Parsonage, after a Delightful Stay in London. We went to the Play, and saw
The Rivals
, in a Box! And we visited some Ware-houses, and I purchas'd a length of very pretty figured muslin, sprigg'd with forget-me-nots. 'Twill be the talk of Meryton.

How I wish we could have staid in London! Instead I am
cooped up here. I was to Write and tell you my Doings, but, alas, Doings are there none.
Every Body
here is Elderly, and they have but little Time for Me. I have try'd to confide in Hannah the Housemaid, the only other Young Person in this House, but when I ask'd her Opinion of
Otranto
she answer'd that she had never
eaten
any and, on my questioning her further, confess'd that she cannot read.

We have been here for three whole Days. Mr. Collins and Charlotte are fattening a Pig—I truly feel that the Animal is more absorbing to Charlotte than poor Me. Down with Sisters—mine and yours too: your Sister Lizzy is scarce four years older than Me, but she is as bad as the Others, censorious and teazing. She and Charlotte shut themselves away in the Back Parlour to gossip, first sending me away on ridiculous Errands. I spent an
Hour
this morning shooing the birds off the seedling Cabbages! A Scarecrow would have done the Job better.

Yesterday morning, a Chaise drew up, very grand with a Coat of Arms on the Door, and inside—Miss de Bourgh herself. She is not very old, but looks peeky-weaky, as far as Papa and I could see through the Parlour Window. She condescended to talk to Charlotte and Mr. Collins at the Gate for
twenty-three
minutes (Papa check'd on his Timepiece)! But when I asked what they had discuss'd, all Charlotte would say was “O, this and that.”

Later

This evening we was invited to the Great House, which is called Rosings, to dine with Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh—even me! Would you believe it? Charlotte actually try'd to prevent my accompanying them because I was too young—but Mr. Collins said that I must come, so that I can tell our Neighbours in Hertfordshire
about the Splendours of the Manor (only he
said fffplendours
, as he is missing a Front Tooth, and speaks with the oddest Whistle).