Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (35 page)

'She doesn't like me. She might feel like making mischief.'

'Rubbish!' cried Leslie. He stopped by the end of a shelter, where they were hidden from sight, and took Ada in his arms. His kisses were not returned as ardently as before.

'Ada! Don't let this silly business upset you.'

'I bet she tells Dolly anyway,' said Ada spitefully. 'They never keep anything from each other.'

'Forget it,' said Leslie, drawing her close. She struggled free.

'It's all right for you. You're going away. I've got to go back and face them all. Suppose Harry gets to hear of it?'

'And suppose he doesn't!'

'Or Winnie?'

'They won't! Come back to the hotel and calm down.'

He guided his love back to the privacy of the hotel, and there they stayed, very happily, until it was time for Ada to catch the train home.

Emily, of course, had to catch the same train. She was careful to get into it early, and to busy herself with her books.

There was no sign of the couple and she began to think that they must be staying in Bournemouth when, at the last moment, they hurried on to the platform.

Ada climbed into a carriage only two from Emily's. There was little time for farewells for the train was about to move off,
but Ada leant from the window and clung passionately to Leslie's neck for a brief moment, crying his name.

The train chuffed off, leaving Leslie, hand upraised, on the platform. Emily heard the window pulled up with a bang, and before she had time to wonder if she could slip down the corridor to a carriage further away, Ada herself appeared in the corridor.

She stopped dead, her chest heaving beneath its smart frogging, and tears still wet on her cheeks. She cast a look of venom upon poor Emily, who gazed back transfixed, as an innocent rabbit might when hypnotised by a stoat.

Ada turned and re-entered her compartment. Emily, sorely troubled, did her best to read a paper by the meagre light afforded by war-time illuminations.

At Caxley Station they reached the ticket-collector side by side.

Ada thrust her ticket into his hand and spoke in a vicious whisper to Emily.

'You keep your mouth shut,' she hissed.

She never forgot the look which Emily gave her from those clear grey eyes.

Emily said no word, but the look expressed loathing and contempt. In that moment, Ada was forced to face the truth that little Emily Davis, poor, shabbily dressed, a humble inkyfingered school-teacher was her peer in all that really mattered. There was no disguising the fact that Emily had every right to despise her.

When, in later times Ada looked back upon that mad weekend, which was never repeated, she realised that it was that look of Emily's which brought home to her the wickedness and cruelty of her behaviour.

It was the first step towards Ada's heart-searching, and her first true encounter with the feeling of guilt.

And now Emily Davis was dead, thought Ada, the old woman. She had kept silence. She had carried Ada's secret to the grave with her. Of that, Ada had no doubt. She would have heard soon enough, in Caxley, if Emily had ever breathed a word.

There had been many moments of panic for Ada in the years that followed. Harry was a loving and generous husband, but he would never have forgiven infidelity, Ada knew well. She trembled when she thought how completely she was at the mercy of Emily Davis. It made her dislike of Emily stronger than ever, for now it was allied to guilty fear.

Yet, in her heart, she felt sure that her secret was safe. That look which Emily had given her at Caxley Station expressed not only contempt, but also her own shining goodness. Emily Davis would not stoop to anything as shabby as tale-telling.

The old lady sighed, and picking up the poker, stirred the fire.

'Well, at least she made me take a look at myself,' she said aloud.

'Who, dear?' asked Alice from the other side of the hearth. She lowered her knitting and looked in bewilderment at her employer.

'Emily Davis. She made me look at myself. What's more, she made me see plenty to dislike when I looked.'

Alice studied the wrinkled face with some concern. For the first time, she saw humility written there.

A
MONG
those who read the brief notice of Emily's death in
The Caxley Chronicle
was Jane Bentley, who had started her teaching career, many years before, under Emily's guidance at Springbourne School.

She was now a woman in her late fifties and lived in a village to the south of Caxley, some fifteen miles from Springbourne. She had not kept in touch with her old headmistress, but occasionally they had met by chance in Caxley, and were always glad to see each other.

As a child, Jane Bentley, then Jane Draper, was delicate, the type of child who spends a large part of the winter in bed, the prey of every epidemic in season.

Luckily, she was intelligent and fond of books. The youngest of four, she became an aunt in her teens and had plenty of experience with children. She decided to become an infants' teacher.

The Draper family lived in a respectable London suburb. Money was short, but with wisdom and thrift the family managed adequately. It was a sacrifice to let Jane go to the training college of her choice, for although' she received a grant, and a loan which had to be repaid in the first three years of teaching, in the normal way she would have been earning at the age of eighteen, and able to augment the family income.

She was a conscientious girl doing well at college and, honouring her pledge to return to the authority which had financed her, she started her teaching career, in the bleak early thirties when posts were so scarce, at a large infants' school in her native borough.

She found the work tough going. Nervous and apprehensive, she discovered that she was expected to teach a class of fifty six-year-olds to read, to write, and to imbibe the rudiments of arithmetic. These three Rs in some form or other, and with a break for physical training, made up the morning's time-table. The afternoons were given over to such infant delights designated as Art, Music, Handwork, Free Expression, and the like.

Her headmistress was a forceful woman, over endowed with thyroid and the relentless energy which goes with it. She did her best to be patient with the succession of young teachers who passed through her hands, but it was plain that their slowness and lack of class discipline, allied to some vague and high-faluting clouds of Child Psychology which they trailed behind them from college lectures, drove the poor woman to distraction.

Miss Jolly—for that was her unlikely name—came into Jane's classroom one day to see what all the hubbub was about. She found Jane sitting at her table with half a dozen children round her, holding reading books. One of the books was upside down.

The rest of the class seemed to be wandering restlessly about the room, some children holding pieces of equipment, some gazing through the window at another class in the playground and others enjoying themselves by sweeping their fellow pupils' work from the tables with happy cries.

'What are they doing?' asked Miss Jolly in a voice of thunder.

'They're Working At Their Own Pace,' replied Jane, rising to look over the heads clustered about her.

'Half of them aren't working at all,' rejoined Miss Jolly truthfully. 'Get them to their desks.'

Poor Jane did her best by clapping her hands ineffectually and crying, in a voice faint with nervousness, for order. A few, who had noticed Miss Jolly's presence, had the good sense to obey, and sat, smiling smugly, at the chaos around them.

For almost two minutes, agonisingly long to Jane Draper, she did her best to make herself heard. At last Miss Jolly came to her aid.

'S
IT DOWN
!' commanded that lady, in tones which set the windows vibrating. Children scurried to their chairs.

'H
ANDS IN LAPS
!' ordered Miss Jolly. They obeyed to a man. Even Jane's particular problem child, Jimmy Lobb, who had frequent fits—some of them quite genuine—subsided into his chair and sat mute and wide-eyed. They knew the voice of authority well enough, and most of them unconsciously welcomed it.

'You are making far too much noise,' Miss Jolly told them sternly. 'How can Miss Draper hear this group read?'

Rightly, the subdued class assumed that this was a rhetorical question and remained suitably mute.

'Has everyone got work to do?' asked Miss Jolly.

'Yes, Miss,' came the meek reply.

'Very well. You get on with it, and you
STAY IN YOUR DESKS
until the clock says half-past.'

She pointed to the enormous electric time-piece on the wall which jerked the minutes along in staccato fashion.

'When that big hand gets to 6,' she continued, improving the shining hour, 'you may
CREEP
from your desks to change your apparatus.
NOT BEFORE
! You understand?'

'Yes, Miss,' came the dulcet whispers.

'Those who were reading come quietly to Miss Draper's table,' ordered Miss Jolly. 'And I want to see every book the right way up.'

A demure half-dozen tip-toed politely to their former positions. Jane found the whole exercise unnerving, and hoped that Miss Jolly would soon leave her to her usual muddle.

But for a full five minutes, Miss Jolly prowled about the room, whilst work went on in an unnatural hush. Jane found herself trembling with anxiety.

At last, Miss Jolly departed, requesting Jane to meet her in her room as soon as school dinner was over.

By the time the meeting took place, Jane was in a state of panic. She entered the well-polished room, blind to the Della Robbia plaques, the cut-glass vase of roses, the silver desk-calendar (a parting gift from another school) and the handtufted rug on the floor.

Miss Jolly was kind but firm. She began by praising Jane's conscientious approach to teaching, her punctuality, her neat Record Book of Work to be done weekly, and did her best to put the dithering girl at ease.

She did not succeed, for in Jane's bewildered brain the phrase 'Damning with faint praise' beat about inside her head like an imprisoned bird, as she tried to listen to Miss Jolly's controlled commendations.

'You see,' said Miss Jolly at last, approaching the heart of the matter. 'We set ourselves certain aims in this infant school—aims of
attainment,
I mean. Ideally, each child should go forward to the junior school able to read—the most important
thing—to write, and with a working knowledge of the four rules, at least in tens and units, preferably with hundreds too. Then, of course, they should have some idea of common measurements, be able to tell the time—'

'But there are
so many
of them!' wailed poor Jane.

'Unfortunate, I know, but there it is. What you have to learn, my dear, is to get them to do as they are told when they are told. You saw what happened this morning.'

'But they really
were
working,' protested Jane. 'They must move about to fetch the next piece of apparatus. It shows they are keen to get on when they get one card done quickly and hurry out for the next.'

'It could show that they are bored with the piece of work in front of them,' said Miss Jolly. 'As far as I could see, quite a number of them couldn't be bothered to finish one job before trying their luck with the next. It's no good letting them get slack. You must check their progress. The bright ones will get on whatever happens. It's the idle ones who need prodding.'

'But if they're
interested,
' began Jane, 'they'll
want
to work. At college—'

Miss Jolly, with one eye on the clock, and patience sorely tried, let herself be told about Self-Determination, A Child's Natural Thirst for Discovery, and Working At One's Own Pace.

'Yes, well -,' she said, when Jane had come to a faltering halt. 'Don't forget that a very small percentage are paragons. The rest, like most of humanity, are bone idle.'

Jane, horrified by such heresy, was about to argue, but Miss Jolly raised the capable right hand which had slapped so many infant legs.

'Keep the aims in mind, my dear. We want to send these children along to the junior school well equipped. If you can get the results by the methods shown you at college, well and good. But they won't work unless you have control of the class. Without that, nothing will work.'

She rose, and Jane made her way to the door.

'You're doing very well,' said Miss Jolly kindly. 'I think I shall be able to give you a good report at the end of this probationary year.'

'Thank you,' said Jane huskily. 'If only there weren't so many in a class, I think I'd manage better.'

'Wouldn't we all?' said Miss Jolly, with feeling. She gazed speculatively at Jane for a moment, and spoke again.

'I could offer you
forty backward
children next year, if you like the idea. Think it over, dear. Think it over!'

Jane did think it over. She thought a great deal in that first gruelling year, and many a time she despaired of continuing in the career she had adopted.

Would she ever become a fully-certificated teacher at the end of this probationary year? Did she want to be one for the rest of her life? And what could she do, if she wanted to change her job?

There were plenty of long queues outside the Labour Exchanges. Some of her college contemporaries were on the dole. It was a dispiriting situation.

She was not sure that Miss Jolly was right in her attitude to the children. She seemed to be far more concerned with the school's record of achievement than with the children themselves. Jane felt that she demanded too much of them, and of her staff. Not all of them were possessed of the self-assurance
and drive which had swept Miss Jolly into a headship at a relatively early age.

On the other hand, she had the sense to realise that Miss Jolly did not ask anything of her teachers which she could not do herself. She might not conduct a class as Jane's college lecturers had recommended, but she certainly got results, and the children seemed to thrive. It was all very confusing.