Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (25 page)

'You must come into Caxley and see me often,' continued Emily, busy with the poker. 'Joe was always fond of you.'

It would not be quite the same, Dolly felt, to visit Emily in someone else's home, but she promised to go frequently, and begged Emily to spend as much time as she could at Beech Green. She looked at her friend in the firelight. Her hair was sprinkled with silver threads but was still, in the main, the crisp dark crop she had known since they were children. Emily had altered little over the years, and still had the power to give that same comfort to Dolly as the first unforgettable Emily had done in her infant years. This was a sad moment for them both. Life in a Caxley street, no matter how comfortable Joe's home was, could not be as happy for Emily as her own rural independence.

'When must you go?' asked Dolly, at last.

'I start there next term,' said Emily. 'I shall move in the Easter holidays.'

She looked at the clock upon the mantelshelf and uttered a cry of horror.

'So late! Never mind, I've only myself to think of,' she said, putting on her coat. 'When I'm a housekeeper I shall have to take more care!'

Dolly walked to the gate with her through the windy night. The light of Emily's bicycle wavered along the brick path, and
the moon emerged from scudding clouds for a brief moment. By its gleam Dolly caught sight of Emily's face. It was sad, but had the dogged look about it with which she had always faced misfortune.

She watched her old friend mount her bicycle, called farewell, and watched the brave little light until a bend of the road extinguished it. Dolly went to bed that night with a heavy heart.

It was a relief to everybody when Beech Green's new buildings were ready and the long-awaited transfer of the older children took place. Fairacre's parents had been vociferous about the scandal of moving their offspring at first. Later, they said it was 'a crying shame they never learnt nothing in their last year' at Fairacre, and it was high time they went on to Beech Green's superior instruction at eleven.

Mr Fortescue had just retired, and as Fairacre was now a primary school only, a woman head was appointed. Dolly Clare liked Miss Read from the first, and the two worked well together. It was much more peaceful with the bigger children absent. Playground duty was far less arduous, and fewer numbers in the classroom meant that it was easier to give the children individual help in a quiet atmosphere.

Dolly was grateful for a less busy working day. She had been obliged to go to Doctor Martin's surgery one day and confess that she had had 'a turn'. The old doctor listened gravely to her heart and shook his head.

'Feel like retiring?' he asked.

'No,' said Miss Clare composedly.

'I thought not,' replied the doctor. He surveyed his old friend with a gleam of amusement. 'Well, take one of these tablets once a day, and try to rest more. I suppose I might just as well talk to that table there, but that's my advice, Dolly.'

It was soon after this encounter that fate struck again. One autumn afternoon, the children were engrossed in making bunches of corn to decorate St Patrick's church next door for Harvest Festival. It was a time that Dolly always loved. She loved the clean floury smell of the grain, and the sight of the busy children preparing to garland the sombre old church. She sat at her desk watching their solemn faces as they arranged the heads of corn evenly together.

It was warm and close, and suddenly the room began to tilt alarmingly. Her heart began to beat so loudly that she felt the children must hear it. She struggled to rise from her chair to open a window, but the last thing she was conscious of was the stream of water which flowed across the desk top from an overturned vase of pink dahlias.

Later she found herself in the school house with Doctor Martin gazing steadily at her.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

'Nothing to be sorry about,' he replied cheerfully. 'You can't control your heart's antics, you know.'

Dolly heard his voice as he made his farewells to the head mistress. She knew suddenly, with devastating clarity, that this was the end of the life she loved at Fairacre. She was no more use to the children if these attacks were to become frequent. She must have frightened them to death by this afternoon's collapse. It was not right to stay in her condition.

The room swam before her tear-filled eyes, but her voice was steady when her headmistress came in to see her.

'I shall go at Christmas,' she said, and felt as though her heart would break.

Retirement was something which Dolly had dreaded. To be idle, to be useless, to be laid aside, seemed appalling to her. But when it actually happened, and she had made the sad farewells to the school she had known all her life, and had put a generous cheque from the managers in the bank and a presentation clock upon her bedside table, she found that there were compensations in this time of enforced leisure.

At first she looked at her new clock and thought of what they would be doing in the classroom at that time. Now they would be out in the playground, now they would be at arithmetic, now washing their hands ready for school dinner. But gradually other activities engaged her attention, and she found it wholly delightful to potter in the garden when she would have been marking a register or collecting savings money.

Emily retired very soon after, for she was a little older than Dolly, but still she kept house for Joe and the two seemed to get along very well together. Once or twice she suggested to him that he might find another housekeeper, and that Dolly could do with her company, but he seemed so distressed by the idea that she did not pursue the subject. The friendly widow called as often as ever, and played cards on two evenings a week. On these occasions Emily and Dolly usually met.

To augment a tiny pension, Dolly Clare occasionally took in a lodger. Her first was a redoubtable young woman called Hilary Jackson, who taught her own infants' class at Fairacre school. It began as a happy relationship, for Dolly looked forward to the girl's return at the end of each day, and to hearing the school news. But she soon found that Hilary Jackson's love affairs were too tempestuous to endure, and when at last the girl decided to leave the district Dolly Clare was relieved to see her go.

One or two temporary lodgers followed, but Doctor Martin decided that his patient was doing too much, and finally forbade her to take more.

'Better to have less money than too much worry,' he told her. 'See how it goes, my girl. You'll manage, I expect. Pity you and Ada don't get on better. You could share a house with her.'

'Never!' said Dolly forthrightly, thinking of harada in all its ostentatious glory. It now had a billiard room, two tennis courts and a swimming pool, and Ada was in the throes of choosing the third car for the establishment. Dolly felt that she could never fit into such grandeur.

Doctor Martin had been right, she discovered. She went gently on her way with only a beloved cat for company in the house. She was not lonely now, for in a village there are always people to call and be called upon, and everyone was fond of old Miss Clare. Her garden was one of the loveliest in Beech Green, and the little thatched house always as gracious and serene as its owner. The furniture might be old, but it shone like silk; the rugs might be threadbare, but they were spotless, and everywhere there were flowers from the garden to add colour and fragrance to the cottage rooms.

And always, more precious with every passing year, was the friendship of Emily.

O
LD
Miss Clare stirred in the hot sunshine. While she had dozed among her memories, the June sun had slid round the sky and now fell fully upon her head. It was too much even for Miss Clare's thin blood, and she rose and made her way towards the house.

Heat shimmered across the silvery thatch, and the great pink poppies had fallen wide open in the heat. A bumble bee fumbled up and down the blue spire of a lupin, and the cat lay stretched at full length in the shade of the hedge.

Stepping down into the cool twilight of the living-room was like entering a shady wood from some bright open meadow. The clock said four and Miss Clare spread the table with a white cloth for which Mary had made the lace edging long ago.

Humming happily to herself she went gently to and fro between the kitchen and living-room as she had done ever since she was a little girl of six. Soon Emily would arrive by bus, for this was market day in Caxley and an extra bus drove the villagers back in good time for their husbands' homecoming.

She set out her best china, a dish of plum jam, a plate of wafer-thin bread and butter, and a freshly-made sponge cake. The kettle was beginning to sing as she heard the bus stop obligingly at her gate.

'Must be Bill Prince driving,' said Miss Clare aloud. He had once been a pupil of Emily's at Springbourne and would look after his old teacher well, she knew.

The two friends met in the path and kissed affectionately.

'Come inside, where it's cooler,' said Miss Clare. 'I'll make tea at once, if you like to put your bag upstairs.'

Emily paused at the foot of the box staircase, her grey eyes sparkling.

'Doll, I've got the most wonderful news for you!'

At that moment the shrill whistle of the kettle shattered the peace of the room, and Dolly Clare hastened to the kitchen.

'Tell me when you come down!' she called.

A few minutes later, with the tea cups steaming and the bread and butter on their plates, Miss Clare looked across at her friend. Emily was obviously bubbling with excitement. Her clear grey eyes were as mischievous as a kitten's.

'Joe's given in at last,' she announced. 'On Tuesday he said he'd marry Caroline.'

Miss Clare put down her cup with a crash, and stared dumfounded.

'I can't believe it!' she cried at last. 'After all these years!'

The full significance of the disclosure suddenly dawned upon her. She put a thin hand upon her friend's.

'And you're free? You can come here?' she asked, with a quiver in her voice.

Emily nodded, smiling.

'If you still want me,' she said.

'As soon as you like,' said Miss Clare thankfully. The little room seemed lit with more than sunshine. A great happiness suffused her. At last the little house would be a shared home again. The empty bedroom would be occupied, and her companion for the last years of her long life would be the dearest and most constant friend of all. There were no words to express her joy at this sudden blessing.

Later, in the evening, they sat in the quiet garden and discussed plans. The wedding was to be as soon as possible. Caroline obviously had the sense to act swiftly after years of waiting, and she and Joe proposed to live in his house as soon as they were married.

'I ought to be able to come next month,' said Emily. 'In nice time to help with the bottling and jamming.'

'And to think,' sighed Dolly happily, 'that you'll be here to enjoy it next winter! I still can't believe it's happened!'

They sat there until the white owl from the elms nearby swooped out on his nightly affairs, and the moths began to flutter in the twilight. Then the two old friends walked slowly indoors and prepared for bed.

'This has always seemed like home to me,' said Emily, when Miss Clare came to say goodnight. 'It's lovely to be in Beech Green again. I started my life here, and I hope I'll end it here, Dolly. It's funny when you think of it—the furthest I've been is Dorset, and the furthest you've been is Norfolk. I suppose some people would think our lives have been narrow, and would feel sorry for us. But I think we've been two of the luckiest women alive—to have lived all our lives in this dear small place and to have watched the children grow up and have children of their own, and always to have had our friends about us.'

'I thank God daily,' answered Dolly simply, 'for the same things.'

Half an hour later, Miss Clare, in her nightdress, leant from her window to take a final look at the sleeping garden. The scent of the tobacco plant floated from below, a bat rustled on its erratic way, and in the distance the white owl hooted over Hundred Acre field.

There was still a lightness in the sky and the splendid whaleback of the eternal downs was visible. Dolly Clare looked up to them with affection. How many thousands of men and women, she wondered, through countless centuries had lifted up their
eyes to those great hills and there found help as she had done throughout her long life?

Beside her, a few feet along the roof her father had thatched so well, Emily's dormer window glowed companionably. It was good to know that through summer sunshine and winter storm they would share the same roof and the same view for the rest of their time on this earth. It might not be for long, but, no matter how long or how brief their allotted time, it would be a blessing shared.

Dolly Clare took one last look at the night's beauty and then, with a thankful heart, crept softly to bed.