Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (43 page)

Her clothes were deplorable, her cottage worse. Neighbours had long since given up trying to help her, for she was half-mad, muttering to herself constantly, and violent if provoked. Bob Willet had heard her called 'an old witch' by several people in the village. No doubt it was said in jest, but the boy believed it.

How could he prove it? Fearfully, he put his problem to Ted Pickett, a boy a little older than himself. Mrs Willet did not approve of the Picketts. She considered them dirty and untruthful, and wished her Bob had made friends elsewhere. But nothing could be done without giving offence, and Ted Pickett called for Bob, on his way to Fairacre School from Springbourne, and Mrs Willet could only hope that time would part them one day.

Ted Pickett was something of a hero to Bob. He was an intrepid tree climber and good at football. What more do you ask of a hero when you are a seven-year-old boy?

Bob half-hoped that Ted would give him some comfort when he told him about Lucy. It would have been a relief to have been laughed to scorn for harbouring such a wrong notion. But Ted Pickett did not laugh and Bob did not know whether to feel glad or not. According to Ted Pickett, Lucy might well be a witch. The only way to prove it was to catch her flying on a broomstick at the full moon. On that Ted Pickett was positive.

'Come with me?' asked Bob.

'No fear!' said his hero. 'I'm scared of anything like that!'

It was not very reassuring, but Bob's curiosity got the better of his fear, and one night of full moon he crept from the house and made his way to Lucy Kelly's cottage.

Everything seemed eerie in the silvery light. It was warm and still. The harvest had been gathered, and stooks of wheat stood
in the stubbly fields, throwing sharp pointed shadows. The scents of the fruitful sun-warmed earth hung everywhere.

Bob approached Lucy's house stealthily, his heart in his mouth. The front of the shabby place was in full moonlight, and to Bob's horror he saw a stout besom broom lodged against the wooden lean-to at one end of the cottage.

So she had got a broomstick! For two pins, Bob would have run home, but having come so far he braced himself to investigate further.

The garden was full of waist-high docks and nettles, but by keeping close to the house he managed to make progress. Fearfully, he peeped into one grimy window. By the light of the moon he could see some ramshackle furniture. All was silent. Where was Lucy? Was she already preparing herself for a midnight flight?

He gazed spell-bound into the room, noting the battered kettle on the hob, the broken armchair with the stuffing oozing from its sagging seat, and the opened tin of condensed milk standing on the table with a spoon lodged in it.

There was something wholly fascinating in seeing a private life so plainly disclosed. Young Bob had never visited a theatre or he might have recognised the excitement which mounted in him, despite his fear. Here was a stage and although no actors could be seen upon it, a drama must take place.

Action was about to begin. The clock of distant St Patrick's began to strike twelve, each note floating clearly across the tranquil countryside. The boy grew cold with mingled terror and excitement. It was midnight—the time for witches' flights.

At that moment, a dark shape rolled from some low couch hard against the wall where Bob stood. It had been hidden from his sight as it was immediately below the window through which he was looking.

It was Lucy! Dry-mouthed, Bob watched her throw a black shawl round her shoulders and make for the door. It was enough for the terrified boy.

Lucy was off to her broomstick!

Bob Willet fled.

You may think that such an experience would scotch a boy's desire for private investigation, but funnily enough, it seemed to whet young Bob Willet's appetite for more. That glimpse into someone else's life affected the boy deeply. He always loved a story, and was to become a fine raconteur in later life, but this was something better than a story. It was experience at first hand—real people occupying a real place, an actual story unfolding while he watched.

He took to loitering past lighted cottage windows, and treasuring the glimpses of life within. Here was a baby being bathed by the fire. Here was a man setting down a foaming jug of beer on the dresser. Here was an old woman, nodding by the fire, her head on one side and mouth open, while the cat lapped milk from a jug on the table. These little vignettes fascinated the child.

He did not speak about them for some time, knowing full well that his mother would scold him for prying. But one day, he mentioned his new game to Ted Pickett.

By now it was winter-time and lamps were lit at tea-time. Children were told to be sure to be in by dark. Mrs Willet was a stickler for obedience, and one Saturday afternoon young Bob was allowed to go and play at Ted Pickett's only on the strict understanding that he was home before dusk.

The two boys spent a blissful afternoon kicking an old ball about a muddy field. Dusk began to fall and the cottage windows gleamed golden as the lamps were lit. Bob Willet, seeing them, reminded Ted Pickett of his game.

'Bet you wouldn't dare to look in Miss Davis's window,' challenged Ted. The village school stood nearby, and the school house adjoined it, surrounded on three sides by grass which Emily kept shorn with a hand mower which frequently went wrong.

Bob's heart gave a jump. Emily Davis was someone to be respected, even feared. Supposing she saw him at the window?

On the other hand, Ted had dared him. And Ted was older and bigger. If he did not take up the challenge, Ted might put an end to the friendship. There were plenty of boys at school who would be proud to take his place at Ted Pickett's side. Swiftly, the younger boy made up his mind.

'Who said I wouldn't dare?' he boasted, his heart fluttering. 'Come on then. Let's go over now.'

In the grey moth-light between day and night, the two went stealthily across the road from the field. A light burned in the little sitting room of the school house. They could see the lamp quite clearly, standing centrally on the table, for the window was a low one.

'Get round the side,' whispered Ted, 'and creep along below the window level.'

Bob led the way, Ted following. They skirted a row of lilac bushes which grew between the school playground and Emily's garden. It grew darker every minute. The two crouched down in an angle formed by two walls, waiting for an opportune moment.

A farm labourer, with his dog, clumped along the lane, only a few yards from them. The dog raised its muzzle, sniffing the air, and for one awful moment Bob thought that they would be discovered. But the man was intent on getting home, and calling his dog to heel, he made off down the road.

Two small children then appeared, and took a long time to pass the school premises. Then one of their neighbours, who had been wooding, trundled an old pram piled high with dead branches, along the lane. Bob was terrified that she might see him. His mother would soon hear about it, if she did.

The thought of his mother made him more nervous still. It was time he was home. It was cold squatting there, and getting dangerously late. Now he had taken up Ted's challenge he must get on with it—and the sooner it was over, the better.

Now the lane was clear, and Bob nudged Ted.

'Coming?' he whispered.

Ted nodded.

Bent low, young Bob crept along the front of the school house until he was squarely below the lighted window. Ted joined him, and they sat on their haunches side by side.

Bob listened. Not a sound disturbed the twilight. Face to the wall, he raised himself, inch by inch, until his eyes were level with the lowest pane of glass. Beside him, Ted Pickett followed suit.

There was only one person in the room, and that was Emily's mother. They could see the top of her white head above the back of the armchair. An open book lay on a stool beside the chair, and a large ball of white wool. They could see the old lady's right hand moving dextrously and rhythmically as she worked at her crochet. At that very moment, just as the usual magic was beginning to work for Bob, a terrible blow smote him, and he banged heads with Ted Pickett violently. Both boys tumbled to the ground.

Through the stars born of this sudden assault, Bob looked up to see Emily Davis, who had approached noiselessly over the grass, standing over them.

'And what,' she said grimly, 'are you two doing?'

'Only looking,' quavered Bob, rubbing his ear.

'I call it
prying,
' said Emily. 'It's not only extremely rude, it could be very frightening to anyone inside the room. People's homes are private places. How dare you behave like that!'

Emily was very angry indeed. Looking back, Bob realised that she was anxious for her mother, as well as being affronted by such anti-social behaviour.

The two struggled penitently to their feet and apologised.

'Do you know what people like you are called? 'Peeping Toms', that's their name, and pretty mean they are reckoned to be. The police look out for 'Peeping Toms', so you'd better not do it again.'

The boys, thoroughly scared, promised fervently never to pry again.

'Then be off home with you. If I catch you at this again, there will be real trouble,' said Emily fiercely.

In silence, the two boys left the garden. In silence, they walked home along the muddy lane.

'See you Monday,' said Bob diffidently, when they reached the Picketts' gate. Ted grunted in reply.

Severely shaken, Bob Willet went on to his own home. It was the end, for him, of his secret game. Was it the end of his friendship, too, with Ted Pickett?

Mrs Willet was at the sink, washing up the tea things, when he entered. The table had been cleared.

'You're too late for your tea,' said his mother shortly. 'You should get home at the right time. You've been told often enough.'

She tossed him a tea-towel.

'Make yourself useful,' she said.

Dejected and hungry, wiping up the plates of those who had eaten, Bob Willet learnt his bitter lesson.

It didn't pay to be a Peeping Tom.

He never was again.

Mr Willet straightened his aching back and leant on his hoe.

Funny how fierce those little women can be when roused! Emily Davis could not have been much taller than he was, all
those years ago, and yet the memory he had of her, on that distant evening, was of a vengeful giant.

Well, she'd put the fear of the Lord into him sure enough! It had been the right thing to do, no doubt, but what pleasure he'd had while the game lasted! Pity it had to end like that, but Emily was the very person to make a boy see sense. He might have scared the life out of some poor old soul one day. As it was, Bob's shameful secret was known only to Ted Pickett and Emily Davis. And they never told.

Mr Willet plucked a piece of groundsel from the earth and put it tidily with the heap of weeds.

'Good old Emily!' he said warmly, to the robin perched on the runner bean sticks, waiting for worms.

It would have made a fitting epitaph.

I
T
was Mr Willet who passed on the news of Emily to Mr Lamb who kept the Post Office at Fairacre.

They were on their way to choir practice, prepared to tackle the usual Ancient and Modern hymns for the next Sunday, a fairly simple psalm, and a new anthem, which their choir-master Mr Annett, the Beech Green schoolmaster, called 'a refreshingly modern piece of music', and which the muchtried choir referred to privately as 'that hell-of-a-thing in E flat.'

'I'm sorry to hear it,' said Mr Lamb, entering the lych-gate.

'My brother George will be too. I'll mark the notice in
The Caxley Chronicle
when I send it on next week.'

'Does he find time to read the paper in New York?' asked Mr Willet, half-jokingly. George Lamb was known to be a prosperous restaurant owner there. His progress had been viewed with mingled admiration and envy by the Fairacre folk, but George's stock had risen considerably recently by his generous contribution to the repair of Fairacre's church roof. Those curmudgeonly souls like Mrs Pringle had been considerably sweeter in their attitude to George Lamb since that warm-hearted gesture of George's and his American friends.'

'He likes to keep in touch with things back home,' replied Mr Lamb. 'No friends like old friends, I always say. Emily
Davis was one of them, come to think of it, though we never saw a lot of her. George would be the first to say so.'

They crunched up the gravel path to the vestry door. The sound of the organ greeted their ears.

'Lord love old Ireland!' exclaimed Bob Willet, 'Annett's started already! We'll cop it.'

Like two naughty schoolboys, the two middle-aged men slunk shame-faced into the choir stalls, and Emily Davis was temporarily forgotten.

It was a cold blustery day when George Lamb opened
The Caxley Chronicle
faraway across the Atlantic.

'See P. 16' was written in his brother's handwriting on the top of the first page. He turned to page sixteen obediently, and read the brief notice of Emily Davis's death, marked by the pen of Fairacre's Post Office.