Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (39 page)

It appeared that her father had been a prosperous manufacturer in Yorkshire until a stroke had finished all activity for him. Mary had left her job as almoner in the local hospital to nurse him. Her mother had been dead for some years.

On her father's death she found that everything had been left to her. He was 'a warm man', as they said locally, but a large house on the windswept moors, despite two old-fashioned hard-working maids to help in running it, was not what Mary wanted.

She was over thirty now, and longed to get away. Too long, she felt, she had been mewed up in the old home. She craved for sunshine and change.

She left the house in the maids' care while she set about her restless wanderings. Almost a year was spent in this way, and now she longed for a home, and somewhere to settle, as urgently as she had yearned for flight. In Taormina she believed she had found her goal.

'If I find it to my liking,' she told Billy, twirling her glass thoughtfully, 'I shall sell the Yorkshire place and stay here permanently. I've nothing to take me back—no relatives, no ties of any sort—'

Her voice trailed away, and she looked directly at Billy.

'Are you staying for dinner?'

'I ought to go back to do some work.'

'Do stay,' she said impulsively. 'It's lovely to talk to someone again, and you've been so very kind.'

Of course he stayed. And every minute that passed made her company dearer to him. He promised to come and inspect the little house on the morrow, and to help in any way he could with the move.

Billy Dove walked home, through the moonlit scented night, tingling with the most unusual sensations.

'My God!' said Billy, addressing a stone dragon on a gatepost, 'it's love again!'

In the days that followed, Billy felt himself the battleground of conflicting emotions, and very exhausting he found it. He had been a fairly uncomplicated character for almost forty years, distrusting violent emotion, and impatient with those who seemed to have no control of their feelings. He had met many philanderers in his travels, and had a hearty dislike of them. Those who boasted of their conquests he found doubly boring. They did not impress Billy Dove.

'Time you grew up,' he would tell them, yawning, and walk away.

And here he was, behaving in exactly the same way. The guilt he felt when he thought of his disloyalty to Sarah and the boys was overwhelming, but only momentarily so. It was swept away by this new wave of fierce, youthful, exulting happiness. Before its onslaught he was powerless.

Mary's passion matched his own. It was as though, with so little time before them, their love had an added urgency. They spent every possible hour together, turning their minds away from the inexorable advance of the day of Billy's departure, like children who hide their eyes from a wounding light.

Taormina, and the golden girl, were heartrendingly beautiful when that last day came.

'You'll come back? Say you'll come back!' pleaded Mary, clinging to him.

'You know I can't promise that,' said Billy. She knew about Sarah and their two children, and he had been careful not to raise her hopes by telling her of the possibility of further work on the site. Cruel though it seemed, they must make the break.

He flew from Catania that morning and he saw the green and golden island tipping beneath him. He changed planes at Rome, and found he had to wait for three hours. He spent the time pacing restlessly up and down in the windy sunshine, his mind in turmoil.

He flew from Catania that morning and he saw the green and golden island tipping beneath him through a blur of tears. He changed planes at Rome, and found he had to wait for three hours. He spent the time pacing restlessly up and down in the windy sunshine, his mind in turmoil.

By the time he arrived at Heathrow, in pouring rain, he was calm enough to have made two decisions. This sweet mad interlude was over, and he would not see Mary again. Secondly, Sarah must never know anything about it.

I
T
is easy enough to make good resolutions. Keeping them is another kettle of fish.

The decision to keep his guilty secret from Sarah was comparatively simple. He was deeply ashamed of his behaviour, although the remembrance of those few idyllic weeks would never fade, and would colour the rest of his life.

Billy was not the sort of man to unload his guilt on to another. What good would confession do to Sarah? No, he owed it to her to keep silent, and by his extra care of her, and the boys, to salve his smarting conscience.

But the decision to make a clean break with Mary was seriously undermined when a letter arrived from his firm asking him to return to the Sicilian site for the second stage of the work. Could he let them know how the Scottish project was moving? At a pinch, young Bannister could take over one or the other while he was away. He would need thorough briefing, of course, and it was to be hoped that Dove could arrange to carry on with both jobs. What did he feel?

What did he feel, echoed Billy! He put the letter to the side of his breakfast plate, and gazed out at the wooded Scottish hillside. In the garden John and Michael raced round and round pursued by a floppy-eared puppy. There were his two fine boys, full of roaring high spirits. He must do nothing to hurt them.

He looked across the table to Sarah, immersed in
The Caxley Chronicle
which had arrived with the morning letters. She looked very young and defenceless, despite her thirty-odd years, in her blue and white cotton frock. A little frown of concentration furrowed her smooth brow.

'There's an Emily Davis in the "Deaths",' she remarked. 'Could it be your old teacher?'

'I should have thought she'd died years ago,' remarked Billy absently, his mind on his problem.

'Well, she was eighty-four,' said Sarah, her eyes still fixed on the paper. 'Died at Beech Green. Might well be, don't you think?'

She looked up. Billy was standing at the window, gazing into the garden. It was apparent that he had not heard her remarks. She was accustomed to his complete withdrawal from the world around him when his mind was perplexed, and was not unduly upset.

'Heavens, it's late!' she cried. She ran to the open window and called to the boys.

Billy shook his head, as though he had just emerged from deep water. He put his arms round her swiftly and kissed her with sudden fierceness.

Sarah laughed.

'Don't dally, darling,' she said, 'or the boys will be late for school.'

Within two minutes, the three were in the Land-Rover waving goodbye to Sarah at the window.

The road was steep, and wound its way downhill between dark fir woods which Billy found beautiful on a sunny morning, but sinister and silent at other times. Nothing grew beneath their shade, and Billy often thought longingly of the oak and hazel woods of his childhood at Caxley, starred in spring with primroses and anemones, and gay with the golden tassels of catkins.

The village school stood back from the road with a wide green verge before it. As Billy drew up, the bell was clanging from the little bell-tower, and the children were already forming lines ready to lead in. The two boys gave him hasty wet kisses, scrambled down, and raced to join their fellows. The schoolmaster was a stickler for punctuality.

He waited to see them take their places in the lines. John turned towards him and gave an enormous wink of triumph, as if to say: 'Done it!', just as the lanky form of the headmaster appeared at the school door.

Amused, Billy drove off slowly. There was a lot to be said for a village school education when one was eight, robust and cheerful.

He had been eight, he remembered sharply, when he was at Beech Green Village School. But, though he may have been robust, he had been far from cheerful at that time.

What would he have done without Emily Davis just then? At the same age as John, frightened and horror-struck, he had been rescued by her efforts. He had never forgotten that night of storm and terror.

And she was dead? Is that what Sarah said tins morning? Eighty-four, and at Beech Green? He mused as he wound his way towards work. That would be Emily Davis, without doubt.

He sighed deeply. She was a grand old girl! His thoughts strayed from the events of that wild night to another phase of his school life when, as a bewildered eleven-year-old, Emily Davis had come, once more, to the rescue.

***

The transition from the tiny world of Springbourne to the comparatively large one of Caxley upset the boy more than he would admit.

Instead of racing the few yards along the village street from his home to the school, he now had to rise much earlier and catch a bus into the town. His comfortable hand-knitted jerseys and flannel shorts, now gave way to a grey flannel suit with long trousers. Black laced shoes, polished overnight, took the place of easy well-worn sandals, and on his head he wore the familiar Caxley Grammar school cap, with much pride, but some irritation—for wasn't it just one more thing to take care of, and to remember to bring home at night?

At times, young Billy felt burdened with all these belongings. They weighed as heavily upon him as the shining new leather satchel which bumped against his hip as he walked.

He was bewildered too by the sheer size of his new school and by the hundreds of boys. When you have been one of forty or fifty children at school assembly, and one among only twenty or so in the classroom, it is unnerving to be cast among four hundred-odd boys, all larger than oneself.

To Billy, some of the prefects were men. Certainly, some of them looked quite as mature as some of the young masters. They filled the boy with awe with their tasselled caps, their gruff voices and their sheer size when they passed him in the corridors.

The standard of work, too, presented a problem. At Springbourne School he had held his own with little effort. Now he was among boys brighter than himself. There were new subjects to tackle, such as French, Latin and Algebra. At times, sitting at the cottage table, with his homework books spread out in the light of the Aladdin lamp, he came near to despair. Would his mind ever be able to hold all this mass of new knowledge?

But it was the affair of the conkers which brought all his troubles to a head. Billy had always loved the glossy beauties which tumbled from the Springbourne trees in the autumn gales. He collected them with the eye of a connoisseur, and Billy Dove was recognised by the other boys as a champion in the conker-playing field.

He owned a metal meat skewer which bored a hole beautifully. Only Billy's closest friends were allowed to borrow it. He was equally particular about the type of string he used to thread his collection. All in all, Billy Dove brought the care and use of conkers to a fine art.

He was delighted to find a stout horse-chestnut tree on the way from Caxley station to the school, and he filled his new jacket pockets with some splendid specimens. At playtime (which he tried, in vain, to remember to call 'break' now), he turned out his collection on the grass of the school field and, squatting down, began to sort them out for size. His metal skewer was in his inner pocket with his new fountain pen and propelling pencil. He produced it, ready for action.

At that moment, a shadow fell across him, and looking up he saw one of the prefects who was on duty.

'Whose are these?' said he disparagingly.

'Mine,' said Billy, blinking against the sunlight.

'Stand up when you talk to me.'

Billy obeyed briskly.

'What are these for?' continued the lofty one.

'To play with.'

'To play with,' mimicked the older boy. 'You'd better learn pretty smartly that we don't play kids' games like conkers here. Chuck them away.'

'But why—?' began Billy rebelliously.

'Don't argue. Throw them in the dustbin. And pronto!'

'Can't I take them home?'

The prefect took hold of Billy's left ear, and twisted it neatly.

'You talk too much, young feller. Do as you're told or I'll report you. And pick up every one. Understood? If they get in the school mower old Taffy'll murder you.'

His eye lit upon the skewer.

'And I'll confiscate that. Dangerous weapon, that is. You can ask for it back at the end of term.'

There was nothing for it but to obey. Furious at heart, Billy collected the shining conkers, grieving over the satin skins so soon to wither in the dustbin.

The prefect accompanied Billy to the dustbin and watched him deposit his treasures. He tossed the skewer nonchalantly from hand to hand as the disposal of the conkers went on.

Billy made one last bid for his property.

'If I promise to leave my skewer at home, can I have it back?'

The prefect stood stock-still, his eyes narrowing menacingly.

'Don't you understand the King's English? You'll get it back—IF you ever get it back—at the end of term. Clear off, and think yourself lucky not to be reported for disobedience!'

A dangerous weapon, thought Billy murderously, watching his enemy depart. That's what he'd called his beloved skewer. At that moment, in Billy's hands, it might well have been an instrument of fierce revenge.

This happened on a Friday. He returned home, moody and pale-faced, his satchel heavier than ever with weekend homework, and his heart heavier still. His mother was wise enough to refrain from questioning, but she watched anxiously as the boy fiddled about with his exercise books at the table, obviously unable to concentrate.

He slammed them together eventually, and spent the rest of the evening slumped in a chair with a library book. There was still a good deal of work to be done, his mother knew. Usually, Billy tried to get the major part of it polished off before the weekend began, but it was plain that he was in no mood to tackle it tonight.

He was little better next morning, and his mother sent him to the village shop for some goods. It was there that he met Miss Davis, also armed with a basket. Her quick glance noted the heavy eyes and unusually sulky mouth.

'How's school?' she asked amiably.

'All right,' said Billy perfunctorily.