Authors: Winifred Holtby
The slouching pace was set by the heavy horses. Their harness shone, their brass tinkled as they trod forward, the steady rolling gait of the plough. The wagon creaked. Its sign “Robert Carne, Maythorpe” was almost the only part of its surface not covered by greenery. Laurels and burberry, privet and holly had been laid along its outboards. The coffin itself had been piled with bright spring flowers, tulips, and daffodils from Kingsport, snowdrops and aconites from the local gardens. Behind the wagon walked Mrs. Castle and Dolly, and young Castle limping upon his crutches. Carne had wanted Hicks to drive him, but he had refused, a prickly, difficult fellow.
Behind the Castles came Carne, behind Carne his fellow labourers. Cottagers came to the doors as the slow procession passed them. From almost every house at least one man or woman joined the mourners. This big genial man whom they were burying had been widely known and liked. He could tell a story, he could thatch a straw stack, he could clip a sheep or plough a furrow with the best of them. He had been strong and solid, jolly and undefeated. He had ruled his Hinds’ House as a good head master manages a school, the young lads under him drawing some sense of power and pride from that authority. His wife had kept a good table. He had been a kind neighbour, a friendly drinker. And he was dead.
A passing motor-car stopped to watch the procession. The townsmen had never seen anything quite like this before. Slowly, without thinking, they removed their hats. At the Nag’s Head, a ghost was standing in the doorway. Lily Sawdon, leaning on Chrissie Beachall’s arm, looked with envious eyes at the laden wagon. Tom slipped out from the door and joined the groom. “Couldn’t get away before,” he whispered. He was in his Sunday clothes, and a black tie. Grandpa Sellars limped out from his cottage, and took his place in the rear, mumbling and grunting. He had not thought that Castle would go before him, and the triumph of survival was worth the fatigue of walking.
As the horses turned the corner of the village street up to the churchyard, the off leader reared suddenly, almost knocked over by a car that whipped round the corner without sounding its horn, a gay car, hung with vivid yellow ribbons and great placards announcing:
“Vote for Dollan.
Come to-day and save your county.
Don’t let reaction strangle local development.”
The car was a big saloon; the street was narrow; the four-horse wagon took up more than half the room. The wagoner, who was driving, knew his business. He soothed the restive leader, got the others back into the middle of the road, and the car had to pull sideways on to the narrow pathway, and stay halted as the funeral procession passed.
As he came level with Dollan’s car, the groom spat viciously.
“No good. Too late. He’ll get in,” muttered Sawdon.
“Get
in
?” gasped Hicks, incredulous.
“I’m afraid so. It’s got out that Snaith’s going to bring a libel action against Carne. It’ll ruin him. He’s up to the neck in debt already. They’re saying too that he’s selling Maythorpe for use as a madhouse. I’ve heard plenty of talk.”
And it was so.
“They’re saying too, Dollan’s lot, that this do to-day comes under corrupt practices. They could sue him for it—giving a free feast to village on election day.”
After the funeral there was to be a dinner in Maythorpe kitchen. That huge stone-paved room had been used before on many more festive occasions. Lady vocalists had sung there at war-time recruiting meetings. Trenchers had twirled there at Christmas parties. Holly had hung across the bacon hooks, with scarlet berries, and girls had been kissed, playing Postman’s Knock, behind the half-closed door.
Now the big trestle tables were set for eighty. Beef and ham, bacon cakes and spice bread, apple pasties and great blocks of cheese, were spread along them, and urns were already singing on the banked fires. There was beer for the lads and port wine for the ladies and a drop of whisky for the veterans like Grandpa Sellars. Carne had promised Castle to bury him handsomely, and handsomely he had done it. What if this was election day? What if the laws were fussy? The Carnes of Maythorpe had never yet run a funeral meanly, and Castle had been in their service for fifty years.
Trouble might be closing in on the farm—debts, law suits, ruin; but Carne would keep his obstinate faith with Castle, his obstinate pride, his obstinate sense of honour.
The vicar had come down to the lych-gate. His white surplice fluttered above the flowers, the white narcissi, the yellow trumpeting daffodils and the scarlet tulips, as the bearers shouldered the coffin from the cart.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.”
Dolly Castle, brazen till now, red lipped and stubborn, bent her pretty head with a stifled sob.
“We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Carne followed his foreman’s body through the graveyard, into the porch, into the crowded church.
“I said, I will take heed to my ways,” read the vicar, “that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle: while the ungodly is in my sight.”
It was not true; Carne had not bridled his tongue; he had offended; he had taken no heed to his reckless wilful ways. He would bury his foreman with pomp and feast his neighbours; his debts were unpaid; his enemies in Kingsport were discussing warrants for libel with their lawyers.
“My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled; and at last I spake with my tongue.”
He, Carne, the silent man, had spoken; the fire had kindled; he had done for himself, though he did not yet quite know it.
“Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days; that I may be certain how long I have to live.”
The doctor at Manchester had said:
“If you go slowly, you’re a youngish man, there’s no knowing. You might have another attack. You might live till seventy. But I must warn you. Your heart’s in a pretty poor condition. You’ve had two attacks. Any sudden exertion, any anxiety . . . I wouldn’t promise anything.”
“Hear my prayer, O Lord, and with thines ears consider my calling: hold not thy peace at my tears.
“For I am a stranger with thee: and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.
“O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.”
That night, after counting votes in the school house, it was announced that Mr. Stanley Dollan had been elected County Councillor for Maythorpe by a majority of forty-seven votes.
O
N
M
ARCH
15th Kiplington High School was to be inspected by Miss Emily Teasdale.
Sarah had met her in London, knew and liked her. She looked forward with confidence to her visit. She was aware of the merits of her staff and pupils. Seated at her desk, preparing for Miss Teasdale, she reviewed in her mind Miss Masters’ energy, the devotion of Miss Parsons, the vitality of Miss Becker, and the brisk ability of Miss Vane, Miss Sigglesthwaite’s successor. She regretted bitterly that for this term Lydia was missing, but she had planned herself to coach the girl twice weekly; next term her father might be married, and then at last the star pupil could settle down to work uninterrupted.
As for the school’s defects, its indifferent buildings, the abominable cloak-rooms, the cramped and distant games field, Sarah hoped for as adverse a report as possible. A real denunciation from Miss Teasdale might wake up the governors a little and strengthen her own hand in her fight for bricks and mortar.
She expected the inspector at half-past eleven. Miss Teasdale was motoring herself from Kingsport.
Sarah had been teaching for the first period and her unopened correspondence still lay on her office desk. She and Dolores had had one of their weekly arguments, and Sarah still felt a little deflated and limp in consequence. If only Pip would hurry up before I go mad, she thought. It had been easy to get rid of Miss Sigglesthwaite; but Miss Jameson stuck like a limpet to her job.
With quick precision Sarah opened her letters, cutting the envelopes neatly, sorting their contents—business, receipts, bills, estimates and the rest of them—letters from parents or staff about school vacancies—personal communications. She received fewer and fewer of this third category. She had become increasingly absorbed in her professional affairs. She neglected her friends. The school, the school, the school filled her deliberate mind. “You’re becoming a monomaniac,” Pattie had told her.
There was one envelope addressed in a slanting scholarly hand which was familiar. Sarah unfolded the thin blue paper and read:
“26a
Canning Terrace,
Tunbridge Wells,
March 13th,
1934.
“M
Y
D
EAR
M
ISS
B
URTON
.”
It was from Miss Sigglesthwaite. A wave of nausea rocked in Sarah’s mind. She still felt that she had treated Miss Sigglesthwaite shabbily. She had given her rope to hang herself, longing to replace her. She had sacrificed her and secured her efficient Miss Vane, fresh from Cambridge. She had let her become the victim of bad mass-bullying, and had left unpunished the ringleader of her tormentors.
With stern self-discipline Sarah compelled herself to read the letter.
“M
Y
D
EAR
M
ISS
B
URTON
,
“You may doubtless be wondering why you have not heard from me. I apologise for any lack of courtesy, but knowing your kind thoughts for me I waited till I had cheerful news to send.
“I can now report that my own health has already shown great improvement, and that I have found another post.
“I am now installed as daily companion to an elderly lady living here who is almost blind. I conduct her correspondence for her, read to her, and wheel her out when it is fine in a bath chair. You would be amused at her literary tastes, and so am I. I shall soon become an expert in the works of Ruby M. Ayres, Pamela Wynne and Ursula Bloom. Do you know any of these novelists? I assure you that they have opened up a new world to me. My salary is not princely, but as I can live at home, we have been able to give up our maid and my sister does the housework while I relieve her at night, by looking after our poor mother, so I think with care we shall be able to manage if we can both retain our health.
“And now, my dear Miss Burton, may I at last be allowed to thank you, not only for your extreme kindness to me after my breakdown, but for your more than generous and heartening letter which arrived last week? Please believe me that I shall never forget your patience with my shortcomings; and your sympathy when they proved at last too much for me. I realise that I should have retired earlier, but you know my circumstances, and I am more than grateful that you never uttered one word of reproach.
“I shall always watch from afar your career in the world of teaching with the warmest interest, remembering how in your youth and vigour you found generosity enough to show kindness to my stupidity and failure. I feel sure that you will go far and I shall always rejoice in your well-deserved success.
“Believe me, yours gratefully and sincerely,
“A
GNES
S
IGGLESTHWAITE
.”
Sarah laid the letter on her desk, and sat staring out to the sea. A fishing smack with a brown sail dipped and tossed there and sometimes disappeared. Sarah held her breath till it re-emerged, but she was not really thinking of it. She was picturing the tall lank woman pushing her employer about in a bath chair through the streets of Tunbridge Wells, her hair pins tinkling behind her to the pavement, her skirt unbuttoned, her jumper gaping above her waist belt, her mild chin quivering below her sensitive mouth. She could hear her cultured voice pronouncing with its habitual precision the declaration of love, the luxurious descriptions of feminine underwear, the conflicts of vice with virtue, so frequently encountered in her employer’s favourite literature.
“So there goes the most distinguished scientist we have ever had on our staff—or ever will have,” she thought, and her heart rebuked her.
The simple generosity and goodness of Agnes Sigglesthwaite were too much for her. She had become morbidly self-reproachful for her part in that affair. She had lain awake telling herself that she had sacrificed the science mistress for Midge Carne, that it was Midge whom she should have sent away, that the child was hysterical, vain, a centre of exaggerated emotion, an unhealthy influence in the school.
She forgot the weeks when she had sheltered Miss Sigglesthwaite in her own house, sitting with her at night and reading to her, pouring into her exhausted mind the optimism and resilience of her own unstaled philosophy. She forgot her unstinted efforts to beat the sickness and sorrow of the overburdened woman. She only remembered that her kindness had been mingled with impatience, her benevolence soured by her planning mind.
“A companion to a blind lady who lives here.” And it’s my fault, she groaned in spirit. She put the letter in the basket marked “to be answered,” and picked up the next one.