So Long At the Fair Page 7
Abbie nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I do.’
Mr Carstairs said – his smile taking nothing from the antipathy Abbie sensed – ‘That’s all very well, of course, but without your having some certificate of proficiency or acceptable references I’m afraid your opinion doesn’t count for a great deal.’
‘Well, now,’ said the squire, ‘I don’t think we need to be too hard on the young lady.’ He smiled encouragingly at her. ‘I’m sure she finds this experience daunting enough as it is.’ He glanced briefly at the other members of the panel, referred to a piece of paper before him, then added, ‘If a man earns ten shillings and sixpence a week, for fifty-two weeks, minus three weeks due to sickness, how much would he earn altogether?’
The abrupt question took Abbie by surprise and for a moment she sat in panic, fingers touching at Mrs Carroll’s lace collar. Then she answered. ‘Twenty-five pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence. Sir.’
The squire glanced down at his notes and smiled. ‘Correct. Very good.’
As he spoke, Abbie saw Mr Carstairs flick a glance at Mr Yates, in his eyes a barely concealed contempt for the squire and his method of examination. In the eyes of Dr Parrish, however, Abbie noticed a brief gleam of amusement.
The squire, blithely unaware of the reactions to his questioning, proceeded to give Abbie a series of arithmetical problems to solve, which she answered satisfactorily in each case. In the single instance her answer differed from that prepared by the squire, it was found that it was he who was wrong. When he jovially conceded the error Abbie began to feel a little more confident.
He had not finished, however. ‘Now,’ he said, adjusting another sheet of paper in front of him, ‘the Battle of Hastings. Can you give us the date of that?’
Abbie was aware of further swift glances being exchanged between the school inspector and the Baptist minister. With a nod to the squire, she said, ‘1066, sir.’
‘Correct,’ said Mr Bradfield. ‘What about . . . the Great Fire of London?’
‘It was 1666, sir. I believe it destroyed about 13,000 houses and other buildings – including St Paul’s Cathedral. Though few lives were lost. Seven or eight at most.’
‘Excellent.’ The squire gave a congratulatory nod. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the Baptist minister, Mr Yates, forestalled him.
‘I wonder if you’d care to read something for us, Miss Morris. Allow us to have an idea of your reading ability.’ As he spoke he pushed an open book across the table towards her.
She took it up and saw that it was Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, which she had recently been reading. ‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Act Four, the Court of Justice.’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Yates stiffly. ‘Would you care to read a passage for us . . . ?’
Abbie looked down at the page, then up at the five pairs of eyes regarding her. She took a breath and began to read Portia’s famous speech:
‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown . . .’
She continued to the end of the speech and came to a stop. Looking up, she saw Dr Parrish beaming at her.
‘That was splendid, Miss Morris. If you don’t teach perhaps you should consider becoming a Shakespearean actress and going on the stage.’
Mr Yates turned to him with a disapproving frown, then reached out and took the book back. ‘Do you know anything of politics, Miss Morris?’
‘Well,’ Abbie replied with a shrug, ‘I read the papers.’
‘And what, for example, do you know of Mr Benjamin Disraeli?’
‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid. I know that he was made Chancellor of the Exchequer in Lord Derby’s Conservative administration at the beginning of July.’
Mr Yates nodded, then turned enquiringly to the Revd Hilldew.
Taking his cue, the Reverend said, ‘Do you read for pleasure, Miss Morris?’
‘When I have the time, sir.’
‘And what have you been reading? Would you like to tell us?’
For a second Abbie’s mind went blank, then she said, ‘I’ve just been reading Thackeray’s History of Henry Esmond. Before that I read David Copperfield. Also, I very much like Keats’s poetry. Oh, yes, and I very recently read Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert.’
‘Madame Bovary,’ said Mr Yates, pursing his little pink mouth. ‘I don’t think that’s the kind of book we’d want disseminated in a classroom. Where do you get your books from, Miss Morris?’
‘Mostly from the lending library, sir.’
‘What is this Bovary book, then?’ asked the squire. ‘I don’t know of it, Mr Yates.’
‘Then be content, Squire,’ Mr Yates replied. ‘I haven’t read it myself and I’ve no intention of reading it. I’ve been told about it, though. It’s a scandalous book: the story of a – a wanton Frenchwoman, a woman who reaches the kind of end she deserves. And not a moment too soon.’
‘I read that,’ the doctor said, ‘when it came out a few years ago. In all fairness, Mr Yates, I don’t think it’s so bad.’ While the minister gave a sniff, the doctor looked at Abbie. ‘What did you think of it, Miss Morris?’
‘I – I thought in a way it was an excellent book, sir.’
‘Did you, now?’ The doctor gave a little smile.
Mr Carstairs said, ‘And what did you find so excellent about it, Miss Morris?’
‘It – its truth.’
Mr Yates: ‘Its truth?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Abbie nodded. ‘It’s a harrowing story – and, I agree, not a pleasant one. But I don’t think it was meant to be.’
‘What’s it about?’ said the squire.
Abbie hesitated briefly, then replied, ‘It’s . . . well, it’s simply the story of a provincial housewife – a woman who is bored in her marriage and – and seeks distractions elsewhere. She longs for her life to be like the lives of the heroines she reads about in her novelettes – romantic and exciting.’ As she spoke she had a sudden vision of her mother, sitting in the kitchen, reading. ‘The woman’s story ends in disaster,’ she finished.
There was a little silence.
‘Anyway,’ said Mr Hilldew, ‘I don’t imagine for a moment that Miss Morris would be teaching such a book to her students.’
‘No, sir,’ said Abbie, ‘of course not.’
‘Well,’ muttered Mr Carstairs to the ceiling, ‘that’s something to be thankful for.’
Steepling his fingers and leaning forward slightly, Mr Hilldew said, ‘Exactly what would you hope to teach your pupils, Miss Morris?’
‘I think the most important thing,’ Abbie said, ‘would be to teach them to read. Once a person can read there are no boundaries to the scope of his learning. My father says that reading is the key to all knowledge.’
Dr Parrish gave a nod of agreement at this and murmured, ‘Yes, indeed.’
Mr Yates said, ‘And how far would you take your pupils, Miss Morris? – in their learning, I mean.’
‘As far as it was possible to go, sir – within their capabilities.’
‘Would you care to elaborate?’
She hesitated, not knowing what was expected of her. ‘Well, the lives of the poor are so restricted,’ she said. ‘Generally they know nothing of what goes on outside their immediate vicinity. And they are kept down by their lack of knowledge. I – I would do what I could to change things for them. To open the world for them.’ She was aware as she finished speaking of how pompous her words sounded, but she meant them; it was what she believed.
While the school inspector glanced about him with raised eyebrows, the Baptist minister spoke up. ‘And what would be the point in that?’ he enquired. ‘In the countryside the men work as labourers on farms, and in the towns they operate machines in factories.
What good could it do them to know about the finer points of the Poor Laws or the machinations of the French Revolution?’
‘If they’re kept subjugated then it certainly wouldn’t do them any good at all,’ Abbie answered. ‘But surely a man has a right to the opportunity to better himself.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Mr Yates, ‘that that kind of philosophy could only lead to discontent. Or hasn’t that occurred to you?’
‘Oh, but a certain amount of discontent is surely necessary, sir,’ Abbie replied. ‘All progress and creativity are born out of frustration and discontent. It’s complacency that is fatal to progress.’
Mr Yates and Mr Carstairs stared at her, eyes wide.
Dr Parrish said, ‘So you would not, I imagine, agree with the recent words of the minister Robert Lowe when he was speaking on Education.’
‘You mean,’ Abbie replied, ‘when he said that the lower classes “ought to be educated to discharge the duties cast upon them”? No, sir. If that’s the philosophy behind all education then a man will never be able to better himself. Every child would be condemned to being no better than his parents.’
‘And you,’ said Mr Carstairs, now barely hiding his hostility, ‘would like to be better than yours.’
‘Well, sir. I would like to have the opportunity to do more with my life.’
‘Your father, I understand,’ enquired Mr Yates, ‘is a labourer, is that so?’
‘He’s a bricklayer, sir. I would hope to gain more learning than he was able to, but I don’t know that I could be a better person.’ She paused. ‘My father is the finest man I know.’
There was a brief silence, then Mr Carstairs continued, ‘Well, Miss Morris, you’ve treated us all to an exposition of your philosophy on education. Though I don’t know how well your ideals would work in the classroom. I fear you might end up rather frustrated. The government pays the schools by results and anything that won’t help a child to pass his annual exams in the three Rs might prove rather counterproductive. Have you thought of that?’
‘My aim would be,’ Abbie said, ‘to do whatever I could within the rules and the guidelines set down.’ She knew, looking at his cold eyes and unsmiling mouth, that she had long ago lost any chance of winning him over to her side. Glancing at Mr Yates, she saw the same picture. She should have realized at the start that she had not had a chance. She shifted in her seat, preparing to rise and take her leave. At the same time she was aware of the squire taking out his watch; clearly he was anxious to be elsewhere on such a fine day. The interview was not quite finished, however.
‘By the way, Miss Morris,’ said the Revd Hilldew into the silence that had fallen, ‘I’m pleased to see you regularly at church.’
Abbie smiled. ‘Well, it’s been a little easier for me since my two younger sisters left home.’
‘Yes – in your mother’s absence you’ve been caring for the family, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A pause, then Mr Carstairs said, ‘Your mother passed on, did she?’
Abbie hesitated. She felt quite sure that her examiner already knew the answer to his question. ‘No, sir,’ she replied, ‘as far as I know she is in good health. I have no idea. My mother left us.’
‘She – left you, you say?’ The inspector’s ignorance was to Abbie’s ears clearly feigned.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why was that? If you don’t mind my asking . . .’
‘Not at all, sir,’ Abbie said. ‘It was common gossip in Flaxdown at the time. The fact is that my mother went away with a local man – and we have not seen her since. She left six years ago.’
The silence was broken, after a moment, by the squire who mumbled, ‘Yes – er – very sad, very unfortunate. But I don’t think we need to dwell on such matters, what? That’s not part of our brief.’ He turned to Mr Carstairs as he spoke, and the latter, as if anxious to regain lost ground, said awkwardly, ‘Quite. We have no wish to add to your distress and shame, for after all –’
Abbie interrupted, ‘I feel no shame, sir.’
Carstairs gaped at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
She got to her feet. She knew she had lost, and knowing, she no longer cared what they thought of her. ‘My mother did wrong,’ she said. ‘But I am in no way responsible for her actions. Her going away left us very unhappy for a time, but my father, my brother and my sisters – we live our own lives now and our mother has no part in them any longer. If anyone is waiting for me to bow my head in shame and do penance for the actions of someone else then I’m afraid he’s going to wait for a very long time.’ She adjusted her skirt and tugged at her gloves. ‘Now, gentlemen, I think I have taken up enough of your time.’
A minute later she was being shown out of the house by the maid and was walking away down the drive towards the gate.
‘Well,’ said Beatie, ‘I’m sure there are other things you can do besides teach.’
Abbie nodded. ‘That’s what I said to Jane.’ She gave a resigned sigh. ‘Anyway, I’m not going to fret about it.’
It was Saturday afternoon. Jane had that morning set off back to Trowbridge at the end of her holiday. And now Beatie was here, having not long since arrived from Lullington for her last weekend at home before she came back to prepare for her wedding. Her employers, the Callardines, were spending the weekend with friends in Bath and, with two nursemaids already there, Beatie’s services would not be required. She had driven from Lullington in the trap of a local farmer on his way to Warminister and would be returning with him on Monday morning.
Abbie looked across the kitchen table at her sister. Only three and a half weeks remained before Beatie’s wedding and her excitement was evident in the brightness of her eyes, her voice, in her whole carriage.
The wedding was to take place at the church of All Saints in Lullington on Wednesday, 7 October. Mr Morris had booked to hire the pony and trap from Mr Taggart at the Harp and Horses and, on the morning of the great day, along with Abbie and Eddie (Lizzie and Iris would be unable to attend) they would set off from the cottage for the five-mile journey to the Lullington church. Abbie was to be Beatie’s bridesmaid. In the knowledge that she would have to wear her bridesmaid’s gown afterwards, Abbie had chosen a very simple design in dark-blue cotton. The dress had been made for her by Jane’s mother.
Beatie had made her own wedding dress. Styled from a pattern brought from London, it was of white linen, and muslin and lace given to her by her mistress. Beatie had brought the newly finished dress with her that afternoon, wrapped in sheets of brown and tissue paper, and in the bedroom she had put it on and pirouetted for Abbie’s approval. Abbie thought she would never see a lovelier sight than Beatie that Saturday afternoon, standing there in her white dress with her red lips and blushing cheeks, and her chestnut hair hanging heavy and loose.
‘Oh, Abbie,’ Beatie breathed now as she put down her cup, ‘d’you think my wedding day will ever come?’
Abbie laughed. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’ll get here soon enough!’
‘Yes, I know, but – oh, I suppose I’m just too happy. I can’t believe it’s to happen at last.’
When their tea was finished the two girls left the cottage and strolled leisurely onto the heath where Beatie picked some tall yellow tansies, pieces of fern and a few sprigs of holly, all of which, she said, she intended to turn into a pretty display as she had been taught by Mrs Callardine. Back home, she arranged her bits of foliage and then set about helping Abbie prepare the evening meal. At just past six o’clock Eddie came in from the farm and soon after greeting his elder sister launched into some good-natured teasing about the coming wedding. As far back as she could remember, Abbie reflected, Beatie had always been Eddie’s victim when it came to his teasing and practical jokes. Now Abbie listened to his tormenting and then said with a groan, ‘Oh, Eddie, give the girl a rest, will you!’
‘It doesn’t matter what he says, Abbie,’ Beatie said, laughing. ‘He can’t spoil it for me.’
As they ate, Eddie spoke of the fair that was on at Old Ford, a village about three miles away: ‘You girls ought to go. You’d enjoy yourselves. Especially you, our Beatie, for once you’re an old married ‘oman you won’t get much chance for pleasure.’
When dinner was over Abbie and Beatie washed the dishes and joined Eddie and their father at the table, where they played whist. Eddie would not be serious for long, however, and after a while they gave up the game and fell into conversation. In time the talk turned to the murder of a child that had taken place some eight years earlier in the nearby village of Road. It had been a most sensational case, not least because of the mystery that had surrounded it. Then, five years later, in 1865, the victim’s half-sister Constance had confessed to the crime and been sent to prison. The house, Eddie claimed, had since been haunted by the little boy’s ghost.
‘You’re making that up,’ Beatie said. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘No, not until you see one,’ said Eddie. ‘Then you’ll believe all right.’
‘Well,’ Beatie went on, ‘when I do, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Ah.’ Eddie nodded. ‘That’s if you can talk for the screamin’ vapours.’
Later, Beatie rose and took a match to light the lantern.
‘You ain’t goin’ to the privy, are you?’ Eddie asked.
‘And what if I am?’ she said.
‘You ain’t forgot what ’appened in the privy at Road, ’ave you?’
The fact that the Road murder victim had been found in an outside lavatory had been enough to put off many a child from using an outdoor privy at night. Beatie, however, was not to be daunted. ‘Eddie,’ she said with a superior smile, ‘I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts and Constance Kent is safely locked up in prison these three years, so she can’t do me any harm.’