Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (40 page)

'Lots of prep?'

'Too much. Much too much.'

Billy sighed. Miss Davis felt a pang of pity.

'Have you got time to help me saw some logs this afternoon?'

Billy's face brightened.

'Yes. I'd like to. What time?'

'Any time after two. Ask your mother if she can spare you for a couple of hours. I'd be glad of a hand.'

She packed her basket neatly, smiled at Billy, and departed. Cheered at the prospect of some physical activity, Billy set about his shopping in better spirits.

Clad in his comfortable old jersey and shorts, Billy reported for work at a quarter past two. Emily was already hard at it, at the end of the garden, saw in hand.

'My poor old apple tree,' she told him, pointing the saw at the fallen monster. 'It's been rocking for two or three years, and last week's gale heeled it over.'

'We'll never get through the trunk with these saws,' observed Billy.

'No need to. It's just the branches we'll have to do. A man's coping with the main part next weekend.'

They applied themselves zealously to the smaller branches. Billy found the work wonderfully exhilarating. The smell of the sawn wood was refreshing, and a light breeze kept him cool.

He enjoyed stacking the logs in Emily's tumble-down shed, and made a tidy job of it. The rough bark, grey-green with lichen, was pleasant to handle, and his spirits rose as the stack grew higher and higher.

'It will probably be enough for the whole winter,' he said, sniffing happily. Emily straightened up and, hands on hips, looked at their handiwork with satisfaction.

'Easily, Billy.'

She gave a swift glance at the boy, now flushed and panting with his exertions.

'Have you had enough, or shall we finish the job?'

'Let's finish,' said Billy decidedly.

They worked on in companionable silence. Sawdust blew across the grass, as the saws bit rhythmically through the branches. By half past four the job was done, and only the twigs and chips remained to be collected into a box for kindling wood.

'I've got two blisters,' laughed Emily, holding out her hands.

'I haven't,' said Billy proudly, surveying his own grimy hands.

'We deserve some tea,' said his old headmistress, leading the way to the house.

It was over home-made fruit cake and steaming cups of tea that Billy told his tale. He had never felt any shyness in Emily's presence, and their shared labours that afternoon made it easier for him to speak, as Emily had intended.

There was little need for her to probe. The boy was glad to find someone to talk to, and the new problems came tumbling out. They were not new, of course, to Emily Davis. She had seen many children in the same predicament. There were very few, in fact, who went on to the large Caxley schools from Springbourne, who did not find the journey, the pace of work and the numbers surrounding them, as daunting as young Billy did.

And then came the sorry tale of the conkers. If Billy had expected sympathy, he was to be surprised. Emily took the
account of his discomfiture with brisk matter-of-factness.

'If "no conkers" is a school rule—although I doubt it—you must just abide by it. Nothing to stop you enjoying a game at home, anyway. And as for that prefect, well, you'll find people like that everywhere, and he was only trying to do his duty, poor young man.'

'Poor young man', indeed, thought Billy resentfully! But he had the sense to remain silent.

Emily refilled his tea-cup and went on to talk, as though at random, of the difficulties of adjusting oneself to new situations. Billy was soon aware that he was not the only person to have suffered growing pains. It was true, as Miss Davis said, that one's world grew bigger every so often. It was an ordeal to leave home for one's first school; it was a bigger one to change to a larger school, as he had just done.

'And then you'll plunge into a deeper pool still, if you go to a university,' said Emily, 'and probably nearly drown when you dive into the world of work after that! But you'll survive, Billy, you'll see, and be able to help a great many other young people who are busy jumping from one pool to the next and floundering now and again!'

It was all said so light-heartedly that it was not until many years later that Billy realised how skilfully the lesson had been imparted. At the time, he was only conscious of comfort and the resurgence of his natural high spirits, and put both down to energetic sawing in the open air, and Emily's excellent fruit cake.

At the gate, Billy turned and surveyed the old familiar playground next door.

'I wish I were back,' he said impulsively.

Emily shook her head, smiling.

'You don't really. You're much too big a fish for that little pond now, and I think you are beginning to know it.'

She looked at Billy thoughtfully.

'What was the name of that prefect?'

Billy told her. She was silent for a minute, and then seemed to come to a decision.

'I'm going to tell you something which you must keep to yourself, but I think you can do it, and I think it will help you.'

'I can keep a secret,' promised Billy.

'That boy went from Fairacre School to Caxley. The family moved later, but this is what I want you to know. Miss Clare told me that he was so upset in his first term that his parents thought he might have to leave. From what you tell me, he seems to be keeping afloat in his bigger pond now.'

'He's unsinkable!' commented Billy ruefully.

'Well, think about it. I've only told you because I believe it might help you to understand people. But not a word to anyone, Billy.'

'Not a word,' he echoed solemnly, and ran home with half a crown as wages in his hand, and new-found hope in his heart.

Wisps of white mist were drifting in from the sea as Billy Dove drove his Land-Rover over the rutted site to his office.

The sun was almost blotted out now, faintly discernible now and again, riding moon-like through the ragged clouds. Billy hated this sea-mist, which local people called 'the haar', which swept in unpredictably and wrapped the countryside in icy veils.

He shivered as he entered the small granite house where his office was situated on the ground floor. He was the first to
arrive. His colleagues would be coming within the next quarter of an hour, but now he had the little house to himself, and had time to think.

He took out the letter and read it again. Taormina! And Mary! Gazing into the swirling whiteness outside, he longed to return to the sunshine, the flowers, the cypress trees—and, above all, to the warmth and love of Mary. It would be so easy to return, and have a week or two of utter happiness in the sun. The work here could go on under young Bannister's eye without much effort. God, it was tempting!

He stood up suddenly, hands in pockets, and went to the window. Coins jingled as he turned his loose change over and over in his nervousness.

This was a situation he must face alone. No wise old Miss Davis to turn to now.

He gave an impatient snort of derision. What would Emily Davis know, anyway, of a man's feelings? Much use she would be to him with a problem like this. Her advice would come out ready-made, as automatically as a packet from a slot machine.

'Your duty, my boy, is to your wife and children! The rest is temptation. It is SIN, put before you by the devil himself.'

How simple life must have been to those old Victorians with their rigid rules of conduct! But how much they must have missed!

He faced about, turning his back upon the blank whiteness now shrouding the hill side in impenetrable clammy fog.

Nevertheless, it was the only course to take. He had made up his mind to stay in Scotland as soon as he read the letter. Temptation, the devil, Emily Davis and all the other faintly ridiculous issues which clouded his mind, at the moment, as confusingly as the mist outside, made no difference to his decision. He had made the break with Mary. He would not go back.

He had a sudden memory of Sarah that morning, laughing in her blue and white cotton frock, and of John's conspiratorial wink across the playground.

He smiled as he drew a piece of writing paper towards him. Young Bannister would see Sicily for the first time. He would remain in Scotland.

He banged on the stamp as his assistant's car drew up outside, and went outside to meet him. It was like stepping naked into a wet mackintosh. God, what a climate!

Some men, thought Billy Dove, would say he was out of his mind to turn down the opportunity of leaving it. Perhaps he was. Who knows?

Ah well, the decision was made and, bitter though it was, it was the right one. He began to smile.

'What's the joke?' said his assistant.

'I'm trying to decide if I've come to my senses—or lost them completely,' said Billy.

The assistant raised his eyebrows, and Billy laughed ruefully.

'One thing, Miss Davis would approve.'

He clapped his bewildered colleague on the shoulder.

'Come along, son. We've work to do.'

T
HE
village of Fairacre is some two miles from Beech Green, but news—particularly bad news—travels swiftly in the country, and Emily's death was heard of within a few hours of its happening.

The people of Fairacre knew Emily well, but their first concern was for Dolly Clare who had taught them, and their children, for so many years at Fairacre School.

As children, Emily and Dolly had attended Fairacre School, and later had taught there as pupil teachers. Dolly had remained there for the rest of her teaching life, whilst Emily had gone first to Caxley and then to Springbourne. When Springbourne School closed, as a result of the 1944 act, Emily was transferred to a Caxley school, and lived with a younger brother for whom she kept house. She was glad when he married, and she was free to join Dolly Clare. In the last happy years of their shared retirement, the two old ladies had frequently visited Fairacre, and indeed they were as well known there, by young and old, as in Beech Green.

'I'd have taken a bet on Dolly Clare going first,' observed Mr Willet to Mrs Pringle. Mr Willet is a man of many parts. He is school caretaker, sexton, verger, local nurseryman and a pillar of strength to all needing practical advice on such matters as faulty plumbing, pruning roses, tiling a roof and coping generally with a householder's problems.

Mrs Pringle is as gloomy as Mr Willet is sunny. She acts as school cleaner, is the bane of her headmistress's life, and a terror and scourge to all those with dirt on their shoes. Mrs Pringle is one of this world's martyrs, but one who certainly does not suffer in silence.

On this mellow afternoon of autumn sunshine, Mrs Pringle encountered Mr Willet as she made her way homeward from washing up the school dinner plates and cutlery.

St Patrick's clock had struck two, and Mr Willet was perched on a ladder picking early black plums from a tree in his front garden. He was suitably impressed with the gravity of Mrs Pringle's news of Emily Davis's going, and dismounted the ladder to converse over the gate.

Mr Willet knew what was fitting. One could not carry on a conversation on such a serious matter when engaged on plum-picking, ten feet above ground. It would be disrespectful to the dead, and an affront to Mrs Pringle.

'Yes, I'd have taken a bet on Dolly Clare going first,' he repeated, pushing back his cap. 'She'll miss her, you know. Anyone with her?'

Flattered by his attention, Mrs Pringle launched into her narrative. It was not often that Mr Willet treated her words with such respect. She made the most of this rare occasion, and propped her black oil cloth bag against the gate, at her feet, as if she intended to be some time imparting her news.

Mr Willet, anxious though he was to hear it, watched the gesture with some foreboding. He had some hoeing to do, after the plum-picking, and some seeds to water. Mrs Pringle, launched upon the tide of her story, could take an unconscionable time getting to its end, as he knew well.

'I thought, the last time I saw Miss Davis,' began Mrs
Pringle lugubriously, 'as she was on the wane. Funny how you gets to know. There's a look about folks, as no doubt you've noticed, Mr Willet.'

'Can't say I have,' replied Mr Willet shortly, his eyes roving to the plum tree.

'Ah well!' conceded Mrs Pringle, with a certain ghoulish smugness, 'there's some of us more in tune with the Other World. You gets to recognise the Hand of Death, before it's even fallen. Miss Davis had that look—just as though she was seeing the Farther Shore.'

'Stummer-cake, more like,' said Mr Willet sturdily. He did not hold with morbid fancies, and in these realms of psychic fantasy Mrs Pringle could lose herself for a good ten minutes, if not checked. Dear knows when he'd get the seeds watered, at this rate!

Mrs Pringle ignored his coarse interjection. It was not often that she had such a valuable captive audience. She returned to her theme with all the concentration of a terrier with a rat.

'I saw the same look on my poor mother's face the night before she died. "She won't last another day," I told my husband. "She got that hollow-cheeked look".'