‘Yes . . . ?’ She saw that his expression was calm. And now he was smiling gravely.
‘You’re still as keen as ever to teach, are you?’ he asked.
‘What? Oh, yes, of course.’
‘Then I think you might get your wish very soon.’
‘Oh . . . ?’
‘Miss Beacham, the village schoolmistress, is to be married in January. And of course, as you know, married women are not employed as teachers. So – her post will become vacant as from Christmas. There was a meeting of the Board yesterday and in the end it was agreed that you should be offered the post.’
Abbie shook her head in wonder. ‘I can’t believe it. Is it true?’
‘Oh, it’s true enough, all right.’ He added quickly, ‘Though you’ll have to assist Miss Beacham in the classroom in the meantime, to complete a period of training, of course. But if that goes well – and I see no reason why it should not – then the post will be yours.’
‘But I didn’t think I stood a chance,’ Abbie said, ‘– not after my interview.’
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘it would be foolish of me to pretend that all the members of the Board were equally in favour of your appointment. But the majority were and that’s what counts.’ He paused. ‘So – do I take it that you accept the offer?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed. Yes – yes, thank you. Oh, thank you, Reverend.’
‘You’ve nothing to thank me for. Of course I wanted to help you, but my first consideration is always for the pupils. I think you’ll be good for them.’ Here a touch of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ‘As long as you use your best judgement and aren’t tempted to try to change the world from your classroom.’
Abbie smiled back at him. ‘Oh – no fear of that, sir.’
He put out his hand and, gratefully, she grasped it, shook it.
‘I’ll be in touch again in the next few days,’ he said, ‘to settle the details and arrange for you to start working with Miss Beacham.’ He gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘And in the meantime if there is anything I can do to help with regard to Beatrice then don’t hesitate to let me know.’
‘I won’t. And thank you again.’
He bade her goodbye and started away. As if in a dream she stood watching him as he walked back across the green, then, pulling herself together, she turned and headed down the lane. What an irony it was, she thought as she passed through the front gate to the cottage, that such a moment of happiness should come at such a time.
She called out Beatie’s name as she entered the kitchen, but the room was empty. Moving to the stairs she opened the door and called up, ‘Beatie? Beatie, are you there?’ There was no answer. She called again. Still no answer. She had probably gone outside to the privy. She took off her bonnet and cape, stood before the mirror and ran smoothing hands over her hair. Through her mind ran the Reverend’s words –
It was agreed that you should be offered the post
. . . If only Beatie had not suffered such a terrible blow; as things were she felt guilt for her own personal good fortune.
On the mantelpiece above the range stood the envelope containing Louis’s letter. She took it down, pulled it out and read it once again. In her mind she had already composed so many replies. And yes, of course she would see him. She couldn’t wait to see him again. He was in her thoughts so often, from the time of her waking until the time of her sleeping. She would write to him tomorrow.
She returned the letter to the envelope and replaced it on the shelf. Then she banked the fire, filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Her thoughts reverting to Beatie’s difficulties, she said to herself that perhaps it was not all over and done with. Perhaps Tom had indeed had to go away from home for a while. And even if he had not, even supposing that he had chosen not to see Beatie when she called, then it still did not mean that it was over. After all, he must have been terribly shocked at the news of what had happened. Perhaps in time it would all come right again.
Moving to the door, she looked out and, after a moment, crossed the yard and moved down the garden path. The privy, its door slightly ajar, stood empty. Puzzled, Abbie turned and started back towards the cottage. As she drew nearer the door she suddenly quickened her pace.
She entered the cottage almost at a run, swiftly turning inside and starting up the stairs. ‘Beatie . . .’ Her boots clattered on the treads. ‘Beatie . . . ?’
Her heart pounding, she reached the bedroom and flung open the door.
It was Beatie’s shadow she saw first; her shadow thrown onto the wall. Then, turning, she saw Beatie herself.
She hung suspended by her neck from a rope that she had tied to a stout hook in one of the beams. Her body was swaying slightly. Beside her dangling feet lay the overturned chair.
PART THREE
Chapter Eleven
It was 21 July 1872. Abbie had reached her twenty-second birthday less than two weeks previously, and three and a half years had passed since she had begun her work as a teacher at the village school.
The schoolhouse was flooded with sunshine this summer Sunday as Abbie washed her breakfast dishes and tidied the rooms. It didn’t take long. The little cottage was comprised merely of one bedroom upstairs, and a small parlour and kitchen on the ground floor. In addition there was a tiny rear garden with a privy at its foot, and an even smaller garden at the front. Her housekeeping was something she tried to do religiously every day, always aware of the chance – albeit slim – that a member of the Board of School Governors might, unannounced, call to see her.
Now, her chores finished, she looked at the clock. Time to get ready to meet Jane and go with her to church.
A little later, dressed in her bonnet and cape, Abbie picked up her bag and went out into the July sunshine. From the cottage’s front door she turned right along a path across the front garden and entered the gate that led into the schoolyard. Moving past the pump, she walked to the door of the school, unlocked it and went inside.
Stepping first into a small vestibule holding rows of coat racks, she went on into the schoolroom where lines of desks stood waiting for the pupils who would occupy them in September – pupils who, for the most part, would be spending the summer working on the land and helping with the harvest. Abbie moved through the room, her eyes scanning the windowsills and the floor. The previous year she had found a dead starling that had got in down the chimney and then died of starvation. Her daily check of the premises since then was to try to ensure that such a thing did not happen again. Satisfied, she turned from the room and, after locking the main door behind her, crossed the yard and made her way along the lane.
At the Carrolls’ cottage in Tomkins Row she found Jane ready and waiting, and after a few minutes’ conversation with Mrs Carroll she and Jane set off for the church.
Jane was in Flaxdown for her annual summer holiday. She had arrived a week previously and had a further week before returning to London where for the past two years she had been employed as lady’s maid in the household of a wealthy barrister. During her week in Flaxdown she and Abbie had met every day, sitting chatting in each other’s homes, swimming in the nearby clay pit or going for leisurely strolls in the surrounding countryside. During their time together Abbie had swiftly realized that Jane’s time in London had given her an air of elegance and sophistication that she had not previously possessed. It was apparent in her dress; looking at her friend, Abbie could not but be aware of how striking was Jane’s appearance in her blue dress and matching bonnet. Indeed, for a moment Abbie felt very conscious of her own plain bonnet and simple gown of brown and black houndstooth check.
After the service the two girls made their way towards the village green. As they walked Jane talked of a trip on a Thames pleasure boat that she had recently taken with her mistress. ‘Oh, Abbie,’ she said, ‘it was so exciting. It sails right through the heart of London. You can see it all. And what a wonderful place. You can’t imagine what London is like. For a start it’s so vast. Just the part where I’m situated – Fulham – is bigger than six Flaxdowns. And Fulham is only one small part. Oh, there’s so much there – the museums, the theatres, the parks – so many sights to see. It’s a different world.’
Looking around at the dwellings of the little village Abbie said, ‘Then you’d need a good reason to come back to live in a place like this, wouldn’t you? A reason apart from your mother, that is.’ She smiled. ‘One wearing trousers, perhaps?’
Jane burst out laughing, then said, her expression serious, ‘Perhaps you’re right. I suppose for the right man you’d go anywhere, don’t you agree?’
Abbie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Jane, ‘I was forgetting – you’re set on becoming an old maid.’
They talked for a little while longer, arranging to meet again that evening, and then parted, Jane to return home and Abbie to go back to the schoolhouse. There she changed her clothes, gathered a few items together in a basket and set out once more. On reaching the cottage in Green Lane she found her father sitting on the back step cleaning his boots.
‘Hello, Father.’ She bent and kissed his cheek.
Gesturing back into the kitchen, he said, ‘You’ll find carrots and cabbage there. And I’ve peeled the potatoes and lit the stove.’
‘Good.’ She tapped the basket hung over her arm. ‘I got us a nice little piece of brisket.’
She stepped past him into the kitchen, put on her apron and got to work preparing the meal. On taking up her position as village schoolmistress she had continued to do what she could for her father and brother, visiting the cottage most evenings to prepare supper for them and each Sunday to get their midday dinner. The previous summer, however, Eddie and Violet had married and gone to live in a tied cottage on the other side of the village. So now there was only her father to care for. Not that he expected it, he said. Indeed, there were many occasions when he told her that she should be thinking more of herself and less about him; he could manage to get his meals perfectly well. Abbie, however, would have none of it, replying that she didn’t want to spend all her time alone, but wanted company, too.
While the dinner was cooking her father went down to the Harp and Horses to fetch some ale. On his return he poured two mugs, and Abbie left off her work for a few minutes and sat down to join him at the kitchen table.
‘Did Jane go with you to church today?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Abbie smiled. ‘Though more to show off her new dress than for salvation, I think.’
Her father laughed. ‘How’s she enjoying her holiday?’
‘Oh, all right, I think. Though I’m sure she must find it deadly dull after London.’
He studied her for a moment, then said, ‘Wouldn’t
you
be happier in a bigger place? I don’t mean London necessarily – but some place with a little more life in it.’ He paused. ‘It isn’t right for a young person.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Well – spending all your time either with children or with me. You need to mix with people your own age.’
‘I don’t think you mean people my own age,’ Abbie said, smiling. ‘You mean young men. Or rather, a young man.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t do you any harm. I think you need to widen your horizons.’
‘Father,’ she said, ‘what’s brought all this on?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘sometimes lately I – I can see a restlessness in you.’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘Oh, Abbie, you must try to find what you want out of life, for until you do you’ll never be at peace.’
‘Father,’ she said, ‘I’ve got all that I want right now.’
‘Have you?’
She frowned. ‘You’re talking about – about some special person, aren’t you?’
‘Is there no one?’
‘No,’ she said, a slightly defiant tone in her voice. ‘No one. No one at all.’
‘But even around here you must have met some young men. There’s no shortage.’
‘Father, there’s no one – truly.’ And even as she spoke a picture of Louis Randolph came into her mind, and her thoughts went back four years to the afternoon of the Old Ford fair. She had met him again a week later – out there by the green, and then just before Beatie’s death a letter had come from him, sent from his lodgings in London. She had not replied. Nor when he had written a second time. He had not written again, and eventually she had thrown his letters away.
‘Really no one?’ said her father.
She smiled, holding on to her patience. ‘I told you – no one.’ Then she added, ‘Father, don’t try to marry me off. I’m quite happy as I am.’
Moments later, looking at him as he packed tobacco into his pipe, she became aware again of the change that had taken place in him over the past few years. And it was mainly due to Beatie’s death, she thought. Her mother’s sudden departure had given him a new lease of life, setting his spirit free. But Beatie’s death had done the opposite. It was as if her end had closed a window in his heart, and as if now, for all his warm and pleasant ways, his road had been cast in shadow. He did not, Abbie knew, love his other children any the less; a part of his heart would always be theirs; it was simply that his heart had not recovered from its wounds. But there, Beatie’s death had made changes for all of them.
Setting down her glass and getting up from her seat, Abbie said briskly, ‘Anyway, enough of all this talk of young men. I must get on with dinner.’
Later that afternoon Eddie and Violet appeared. Violet was pregnant; the baby expected towards the end of November. Abbie served tea with some little almond cakes that Violet had baked and brought with her. The fact that the cakes were delicious, and better than any she herself could have made, came as no surprise. Abbie had early on discovered, to her surprise and pleasure, that there was more to Violet than her pretty face and pert ways. She had no doubt that she made Eddie a good wife and would, when the time came, make their child an equally good mother.