Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (19 page)

That sorrow had driven him to it, Dolly knew well. That same sorrow had broken his wife's health and this added to his own misery. But Dolly could not understand why he gave way. He had so much to lose, and to her mind, there was so much around him to offer comfort and sanity. The countryside alone offered untold blessings of sight, sound and scent. He had the affection and, till recently, the respect of the children and their parents, and a fine gift of teaching. His conduct was incomprehensible to young Dolly.

What Dolly failed to recognise, because of her inexperience, was that she judged Mr Hope by her own standards. She had a calm wisdom beyond her years, and the ability to stand aside from a problem and assess it rationally. No matter how troubled her heart might be, as it was at the unaccountable attack on her by 'the marsh' boy so many years before, or by the death of Frank or by Ada's sudden vituperation, yet her head took command and dictated the course to take through stormy waters. That a man might be engulfed by the storms, and finally ship-wrecked, simply through lack of judgement, was a state of affairs which Dolly could not imagine.

Nor could she realise the state of despair to which a man might be driven so that he was impervious to the world around him. Dolly's quick eye and ear supplied her constantly with a succession of small delights—a field of buttercups, a child playing with an animal, the bubbling of a clear spring in the hedge, the flaming of Arnold's hair in the sunshine. That a man might be stricken deaf and blind with grief, and so be cut off from the mercies of nature's healing, was beyond the girl's understanding, at this time.

After some unhappy months, matters improved a little, for the morning absences ceased and Mr Hope remained on duty. It was common knowledge that the vicar, who was chairman of the managers of the school, called upon the headmaster one evening and remained in his house for nearly three hours. After this warning, 'The Beetle and Wedge' saw Mr Hope no more, but he did not stop drinking. He and his wife went out less and less in the evenings. Failing health, and shame at her husband's condition, kept Mrs Hope house-bound, while despair drove Mr Hope to the bottle, which led only to further despair.

So the sad state of affairs drifted on, and it was lucky that Dolly had so much happiness in her love for Arnold and in the bright world around her that she was able to work by the side of the pathetic headmaster of Fairacre School with constant cheerfulness.

An added joy, in the early summer of 1914, was the birth of Ada's first child. Despite her robust good health, Ada and her husband had waited six years for a son, and three miscarriages made them wonder if they were doomed to have no family.

Dolly and Arnold went to Caxley one evening to see the new baby. Harry Roper let them in the door by the side of his shop. The greengrocery business was doing well and, as his father had hoped, Harry had settled down well with his young wife. It was quite apparent, though, that in spite of her youth Ada ruled her husband. It was she who urged him to buy a smart horse and cart and to employ a good-looking young man to drive it on a round. Harry would have been content to let customers come to him. Ada saw that 'H. Roper—Caxley's Finest Greengrocer' went further afield.

Dolly suspected that it was not a very happy marriage. Prosperity had thickened their figures and lined their brows. Harry's native indolence needed to be scourged by Ada's nagging tongue. Material success meant the vindication of her early rebellion to Ada, and she intended to show the world that the Ropers had succeeded. It was an attitude which jarred on the unworldly Dolly, but on this May evening she rejoiced that her sister and brother-in-law should have a new and unifying interest.

Ada lay in a vast brass bedstead, her son in a beribboned cradle at her side. Dolly had never seen her look so pretty.

'Well, there's your nephew,' said Ada, nodding to the swaddled infant. 'And your godson, too, if you like the idea.'

Dolly was much moved. She picked up the warm bundle and looked at the tiny crumpled face among the shawls. It was more than she had ever hoped for, and it meant a new and happier relationship with Ada which she welcomed gladly.

'There's nothing I'd like more, Ada,' she said softly. The two sisters looked at each other with a sympathy and affection which had been lacking for years. It was as though they were children again, sharing the joy of a precious new present.

'We're going to call him "John" after Harry's dad,' said Ada, at last. 'And "Francis" after our dad. We'll have him christened at Beech Green when I'm up and about.'

It sounded perfect, Dolly told her. She returned the sleeping baby to its cradle, kissed Ada with warmth, and made her farewells.

Arnold, cycling home beside her, noted his Dolly's glowing looks and attributed her happiness to the new nephew. It was good to be looking forward to their own marriage later this year, he thought, for Dolly was now twenty-six and it was time they began a family of their own.

But Dolly's thoughts were of the past rather than the future. In those few minutes with Ada it seemed that some of the comradeship of their childhood had been regained. In the long look which had passed between them, Dolly recognised the old Ada she had always loved, and believed that that brief vision was a happy augury for the future.

T
HE
marriages of Dolly Clare and Emily Davis were planned for the autumn. There were practical country reasons for this, for Edgar, Emily's young man, would have helped his father to get in the harvest by that time, and could be spared for a few days for the less important job of marrying and taking a short honeymoon.

Arnold, too, would be particularly busy in the Evanses' garden in September, and the cottage promised them by Mr
Bertie would not be vacated until Michaelmas Day. He had promised to get the decoration and repairs done immediately, and the young couple expected to be able to live in their first home towards the end of October.

Dolly was so engrossed with household plans and the making of her trousseau that she took little notice of the newspapers and the talk of troubles abroad. She was vaguely aware that a foreign Archduke, with the same name as her father's, had been shot, in a country whose name meant nothing to her. She heard her father talking to a friend about it in the garden one hot June evening, but she was bent double, with her hands thrust among the thorns and fruit of the gooseberry bushes, and her attention was otherwise engaged. This would be the last time, she told herself, that she would pick the crop to bottle for her mother. Next year she would be picking in the Evanses' garden and the fruit jars would stand upon her own white shelves.

All through July, as Dolly spent her last few weeks at Fairacre School, trouble brewed far away. She heard Mr Hope talking to the boys and girls about Germany and her military power. At home Arnold and her father shook their heads, and the names of Sir Ernest Grey and the Czar of Russia and the Kaiser and Crown Prince flew back and forth across the room. Dolly was too happy to worry about such far-off affairs, and it was not until the first day of August that Dolly realised that her own small world might well be shattered by a great explosion outside. It seemed, suddenly, that everyone spoke of Belgium—Belgium's neutrality, Belgium being overrun by the Germans, Belgium who must be helped.

'We wouldn't go to
war,
would we?' asked Dolly, much shocked, one Sunday morning. Arnold had cycled to Caxley for a paper, and it was spread out upon the table with all four grouped around it. The headlines said 'Germany declares war on Russia', and on the same page were the words 'Bank rate
rises to 10 per cent.' It all seemed incomprehensible to Dolly, but from the gravity of the men's expressions she realised that calamity was threatening.

'It'll be France next,' said Arnold quietly. 'And we'll have to go in.'

'That be damned,' answered Francis robustly. For him still the French were the enemy. Hadn't his mother told him Bony would get him when he was a boy, even though the Frenchman had been dead for years? Tradition dies slowly in the country, and the idea of spilling his blood for a parcel of Frenchies did not suit Francis Clare.

'And what about Belgium then?' asked Arnold.

'Oh well,' said Francis roundly, 'that's a different kettle o' fish. If the Kaiser steps in there, he's for it.'

'Comes to the same thing,' said Arnold laconically.

In two days' time Arnold's words were proved true, and Dolly, with mounting horror, watched the enthusiasm which greeted Britain's entry into the war. Just as, faced with Mr Hope's tragedy, she deplored his rejection of reason, so now in this world-wide dilemma she was appalled to think that no settlement could be reached between nations except by the idiocy of war. She tried to talk about it to her mother, but Mary shrugged her shoulders, and dismissed the subject with:

'It's the men, dear! They govern the country, and they knows what's best.'

When Dolly retorted that it was a pity they did govern then, if that was what they thought best, she was teased by her father and Arnold.

'Our Dolly's turning Suffragette! Votes for women!' they cried. And Dolly smiled and remained silent, for she knew it was useless to try to explain the fire, kindled by injustice and deep feeling, which burnt within her.

The summer holidays had begun and Dolly had time to think of things. She had. planned to return and teach for a few weeks in the autumn term before getting married. On marriage she was obliged to give up her post, for no married women teachers were employed in that area. She was looking forward to earning a little more money before her enforced resignation, to put towards the many expenses of their new home.

Now these long-settled plans were thrown into confusion. Within a week of the declaration of war, Mr Bertie, who was in the Army Reserve, left to join his regiment, and his wife announced that the house would be turned into a hospital. She explained to Arnold that his cottage would be available if he should need it in October, but it was quite clear that she imagined that he too would be in the Army by that time. In this she was right.

Dolly and Arnold discussed their future long and earnestly. Lord Kitchener's appeal for half a million men had gone out, and Arnold was determined to become one of Kitchener's Army without delay. Dolly, though sad at heart, could not help admiring his single-mindedness. He looked upon the war as a great adventure, and something more—a crusade against the evils of subjection. She did all in her power to make his going easier. It would have been wrong, and also impossible, to deflect him from his purpose.

At first, immediate marriage seemed the right thing, but after some cooler thoughts they decided against it.

'It's best if you carry on with your teaching,' said Arnold, 'while I'm away. Something to stop you from fretting. We'll get married a bit later, say, after Christmas. It'll all be over by then, they say, and we can settle down without parting.'

It seemed sensible, and Dolly agreed. After all, it was only a few months, and maybe Arnold would worry less about her if she were still under her parents' care. Sadly and bravely, the young couple rearranged their lives, and neither spoke of the possibility of mutilation or death, for it barely entered their thoughts.

The next day Arnold and a dozen other young men drove into Caxley to the recruiting centre. Dolly never forgot that summer morning. Harold Miller, son to the man who had let Francis have the cottage so long ago, held the reins at the front of one of his own farm waggons. He was a lusty red-faced man in his thirties, grinning broadly on this unforgettable morning, and thoroughly enjoying the thought of excitement ahead.

The waggon was freshly painted bright blue, with red wheels. Two massive black carthorses pulled it, their coats shining like coal and the brasswork of their harness jingling and gleaming in the sunlight. Two small Union Jacks fluttered from the front of the waggon, and Harold Miller had decorated his whip with red, white and blue ribbons that fluttered in the breeze. It was a brave, gay turn-out, which matched the spirits of the young men riding aloft, and the villagers waved enthusiastically when it descended the long slope of the downs and stopped at Beech Green to collect the recruits.

They were all dressed in their Sunday suits. White collars, or clean white mufflers, showed up the sunburnt country faces, and Dolly thought that they looked as fine a body of men as any in England. They glowed with good health and eagerness. Normally as quiet and docile as the powerful horses in front of them, the thrill of war had woken them to life. Ahead lay adventure, the unknown, hazards to face and battles to win. Now they would see, as such lucky chaps as Albert Davis had seen, foreign parts and foreign ways. They would exchange the confines of home for a limitless new world, and at the heart of each of them lay the encouraging certainty that they were fighting for a right and proper cause.

Dolly, with a pang, thought that Arnold had never looked so happy as at that moment. His red hair glowed above his sun-tanned face. He had one arm round his neighbour's shoulders, as the great waggon rumbled away from the waving crowd, and looked as though he were one of a band of brothers, each as exulting and purposeful as he was himself. She remembered old Mr Davis's words so long ago. No woman could ever know completely the whole of a man's heart.

All through August, Dolly and her mother went several times a week to Caxley Station to help to distribute cups of tea and sandwiches to the troops, who passed through in their thousands to Southampton. Thanks to the British Fleet, the Expeditionary Force was ferried safely across to France in the ten days between August 7th and 17th. Dolly was told that this meant that a hundred and sixty thousand men were carried during that time, and sometimes, it seemed to her, the majority must have come through Caxley Station.

Hot and tired, she cut bread and butter, sliced meat, mixed mustard, tended urns and milk jugs, and carried trays up and down the length of the packed trains in the broiling heat. But she forgot her minor discomforts in the warmth of the welcome she was given by the men. Most of them had been travelling for many hours, but their spirits were as unquenchable as their thirst. To Dolly they looked unbelievably young in their khaki uniform, and had the same air of gaiety that Arnold wore. She waved to each departing train, a long, long monster fluttering with a thousand hands, until it disappeared round the line which curved southward to the sea. Then she hurried back to the trestle tables to prepare for the next train load which would follow so soon after.