The Land Endures (The Apple Tree Saga Book 4) Page 11

Betony took the child’s hand and led her into the school porch. She showed her where to hang her bag, and watched while she changed into indoor shoes. Emma’s movements were slow and precise. She looked about her curiously.

  ‘I expect it seems strange to you after Miss Protheroe’s,’ Betony said. ‘But you’ll soon get used to it, you’ll see. I’ll take you into your classroom now, and you’ll meet your teacher, Miss Vernon.’

  But Miss Vernon, in the smaller room, had removed the lower panel from the piano and was on her knees in front of it, tightening the pedals with a screwdriver. She looked fraught, and her hair was dishevelled. Betony tactfully withdrew.

  ‘You’d better wait with me for a while, at least till the other children arrive. You can give me a hand with my morning chores.’

  Betony sat the child at a desk and gave her a box full of broken pencils. She gave her a sharpener shaped like an egg, and an empty carton to catch the shavings. And while Emma sharpened the pencils, Betony went to and fro, taking exercise books from the cupboard and sorting them into separate piles.

  ‘Did you come down across the fields?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said, ‘it’s the quickest way.’

  ‘Are there still mushrooms in Cowpark Meadow? There used to be when I was a little girl like you.’

  ‘I didn’t see them,’ Emma said.

  ‘Perhaps it’s too early in the year.’

  Betony climbed onto the form and looked out of the window again. There were children in the playground now: six of them chasing an old rubber wheel; their booted feet kicked up the dust, and their voices shrilled with merriment. Betony got down again.

  It made Emma smile to her see her headmistress bob up and down from the wooden form. Miss Protheroe would never have done such a thing. Miss Izzard was younger; she was light on her feet. She was fairer, prettier, more full of life.

  ‘The children have begun to arrive now. Would you like to go out and play with them?’

  ‘I haven’t finished the pencils yet.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. You’ve done a lot.’

  ‘I’d sooner finish them,’ Emma said.

  She liked this little task of hers, sitting at a desk in the sunny classroom, while her new headmistress passed to and fro. The pile of sharpened pencils grew, each one pointed beautifully, and the curly shavings filled the carton, tinged with yellow, red, and green. When she had finished, she sat quite still. She looked at the hops above the door; the hips and haws and the autumn leaves, catching the light on the window-sill; the coloured posters on the wall. She watched Miss Izzard, secretly, as she wrote on the blackboard with a chalk.

  Outside, in the playground, the noise of playing children grew. From the classroom next door came a heavy thud as Miss Vernon replaced the front of the piano. She came and opened the connecting door.

  ‘I’m going out to the playground now. There’s a bit of a rumpus going on. The Tillotson boys, as usual. Goodbye to peace for the next three months!’

  A few minutes later she was back, entering by the main door and ushering in, very formally, a young woman and a small boy.

  ‘Miss Mercybright to see you,’ she said.

  The young woman had auburn hair. It showed like copper, gleaming bright, under her rather shabby hat. The little boy, on the other hand, was dark-skinned and had black hair. Yet there was enough likeness between them to show that they were mother and son. Miss Vernon’s glance was shrewd and sharp.

  ‘You did say Miss Mercybright, I believe? I’m sorry if I made a mistake ‒’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Vernon,’ Betony said.

  Miss Vernon withdrew, flushing slightly, and closed the door. Betony put her chalk away and wiped her hands on a clean duster. She moved between the rows of desks. Smiling, she stooped to the little boy, and lifted him up to stand on a form.

  ‘Well, Robert, and how are you? I haven’t seen you since ever so long. Not since we went to the Whitsun fair. Have you still got the fairing you won at the stalls?’

  The little boy’s hand went into his pocket. He held up the fairing for her to see. It was a tiny tumbler bell and he jingled it on the end of its string. Then he put it away again. Betony, laughing, looked at him.

  ‘You look very smart in your corduroys. Are you glad to be starting school?’

  Robert gave a little nod. A slight smile touched his lips. His mother reached up and removed his cap. She tried to smooth his straight black hair.

  ‘He’s very young to be starting school. He isn’t even four yet. But I’ve got this job at Tinkerdine, doing the cleaning for old Mrs Frail, and Dad said Robert should come to school.’

  ‘Robert will soon settle down with us. There are others here just as young, you know. It’ll do him good to have company.’

  ‘He’s always had company,’ Linn Mercybright said. ‘He’s never been left alone in his life.’

  ‘But he’s had no other children to play with. It’s lonely out there in Stoney Lane.’

  ‘I suppose you think I’ve been too protective. But he is my son. Remember that.’ Linn, avoiding Betony’s glance, pulled a thread from Robert’s sleeve. ‘You and your family have been very kind. You’ve helped us for his father’s sake ‒’

  ‘We’ve tried to help,’ Betony said. ‘Tom was brought up with my family ‒ is it so strange that we should want to help his son?’

  ‘Robert is all I’ve got left of Tom. If Tom had lived, we’d have shared him together, but I’m not going to share him with anyone else.’

  ‘Why should you indeed?’ Betony said. ‘Except in those ways that are best for him?’

  ‘I’m the one to decide what’s best.’

  ‘Well, at least you’ve allowed him to come to school.’

  ‘As to that, I have no choice, if I’m to work for Mrs Frail. We need every penny we can get.’

  Linn’s tone had an edge to it. There was a coldness in her face. If it had been any other school she would have found it easier, but Betony, being the little boy’s godmother, had a special claim on him, and Linn would have given anything rather than yield him up to her. Betony apprehended this. She sought to set Linn’s mind at rest.

  ‘Robert will be in Miss Vernon’s class. He won’t come to me until he’s eight. There’s nothing much to worry you.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried!’ Linn said. She turned it off with a little shrug, pretending not to understand. ‘He’ll soon settle down, I’m sure of that.’

  All the time, while the two women talked, the little boy stood on the form, watching them with a deep dark gaze. Once he turned his head and looked at Emma, sitting primly at her desk, but otherwise he scarcely moved.

  ‘I hope there won’t be any trouble from the other children.’

  Linn spoke carefully, with some hesitation, but Betony knew what she meant to say. Robert was illegitimate. In a village like Huntlip, this would be known to everyone.

  ‘He’s not the only love-child here. There may be remarks from time to time, but that’s something that’s got to be faced, isn’t it?’

  ‘So long as it isn’t worse than that.’

  ‘I shall watch over him, never fear.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Linn, ‘I’m sure you will.’

  Suddenly she coloured up. The tartness this time had been unintended. Confused, she turned to her son again, straightening his collar and tightening his tie. She forced herself to meet Betony’s gaze.

  ‘Do you see Tom in him?’

  ‘Yes, in his stillness,’ Betony said. ‘And because he’s so dark, of course. But he’s got a look of your father, too, especially about the eyes.’

  She gave the little boy her hand and encouraged him to jump from the form. She walked with him and Linn to the door.

  ‘How is your father nowadays?’

  ‘His leg is giving him trouble,’ Linn said, ‘though he’ll never admit it, needless to say.’

  It was time for her to go. She found it hard to leave her son. She forced herself not to touch him again, but
looked at him with severity.

  ‘Be a good boy on your first day at school. I’ll call for you at three o’clock. And do remember what I said! ‒ You mustn’t say “Aunty Betony” ‒ you must say “Miss Izzard” like everyone else.’ And, turning to Betony, she said: ‘I hope it doesn’t slip out, that’s all. I’ve told him about it often enough.’

  ‘It won’t be the end of the world if it does. He is my godson, after all.’

  At the outer door, Linn turned to wave. Robert answered by waving his cap. Then suddenly she was gone, and a shadow flickered across his face. Betony gave his hand a squeeze.

  ‘Come along, Robert. I’ll find you a friend.’

  She took him to Emma, who sat with folded hands in her lap.

  ‘This is Robert, my godson,’ she said. ‘He’s never been to school before. Will you be his special friend?’

  Emma nodded. She and Robert exchanged a stare. When she stood up, small though she was, she felt herself tall compared with him. Shyly, she took his other hand.

  ‘It’s not worth your going out to play now,’ Betony said. ‘They’re all coming in in a minute or two. I’ll take you into your own room.’

  ‘Can’t we stay in here with you?’

  ‘No, Emma, I’m afraid you can’t.’

  Emma was in Standard I; Robert was in the Infants’ Class; they had to go into the smaller room, and Miss Vernon was the teacher there.

  Betony went to ring the bell. Half a dozen peals, and then a hush. But within a short space of time, the school resounded to the trampling of feet, the slamming of desk-lids, the shifting of forms. Fifty-eight children, girls and boys, stood in their places in the sunlit room; the panelled partition was slid back half way; and Miss Vernon sat at the ancient piano. Gradually the noise subsided. Betony said the morning prayer.

  ‘Give to thy children gathered here a day of peace, Oh Lord, and strength to be dutiful in thy sight.’

  When the opening bars of the hymn were played, she spared a thought for Sue Vernon. The piano was indeed old. Two strings were broken and many were loose. But fifty-eight pilgrims, undismayed, lifted their voices to the roof and sang with all their might and main.

  ‘He who would valiant be

  ’Gainst all disaster ‒’

  Emma sat at the back of the room; Robert with the ‘babies’ in the front.

  ‘Silence, everyone!’ Miss Vernon said. She tapped with a ruler on her desk.

  The first day of term was always like this. The children were slow to settle down. The basket of apples drew all eyes.

  ‘Miss Izzard has kindly brought them for you. One apple a day for everyone but not until eleven o’clock.’

  Through the glass-panelled partition, now closed, Emma could see Miss Izzard in the room next door, the sunlight on her smooth fair hair as she stood talking in front of her class. Emma sat very straight and still. She would wear a little watch pinned to the bosom of her dress, when she grew up, she told herself.

  ‘Pay attention,’ Miss Vernon said.

  Out in the playground, during the break, Robert was surrounded by older children, who wheeled him about in the gardener’s barrow. Emma sat under the chestnut tree, on one of the knobbly outcropping roots. Florrie Ricks came and sat by her.

  ‘Ent you going to eat your apple?’

  ‘No, I’m keeping it,’ Emma said.

  ‘You can’t be very hungry, then.’

  ‘No. I never said I was. I’ve just had my elevenses.’

  ‘Lucky thing,’ Florrie said. ‘I ate all mine on the way to school.’

  ‘What did you have?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Bread and scrape,’ Florrie said.

  The two were silent for a while. Emma waved away a wasp. Florrie picked at a hole in her sleeve.

  ‘Where’s your father? Is he dead?’

  ‘No,’ Emma said. She looked away. ‘He’s gone to Wales.’

  ‘Your mother’s dead, though, isn’t she? Hilda Bowers said she was. You’ve got an aunt looking after you.’ Emma made no reply. She breathed on her apple yet again and polished it on her pinafore. Florrie gave a little sniff.

  ‘You won’t have no apple left if you keep on rubbing it like that.’

  ‘Oh yes I shall.’

  ‘If you don’t want it, you should ought to put it back.’

  ‘Back where? Back on the tree?’

  ‘Back in the basket, clever dick.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to, so there.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t,’ Florrie sniffed.

  ‘I’m going to keep it,’ Emma said.

  But the apple, placed on her desk during the rest of the morning’s lessons, had somehow vanished by dinner-time.

  ‘What have you lost?’ Miss Vernon asked.

  ‘I’ve lost my apple,’ Emma said. ‘Somebody must have taken it while I was giving out the books.’

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’

  ‘Somebody took it. They must have done.’

  ‘Perhaps when you have your apple tomorrow it will teach you to eat it up at once instead of hiding it away just to tease the other children. Now run along home, child, or you’ll be late for lunch.’

  When Emma reached the Brooky Field, Chris was waiting at the stile. He put her to sit astride his shoulders and jogged home with her up the steep track.

  ‘Somebody slipped off to school by herself and never said nothing to nobody!’

  Because it was Tuesday, there was curry for lunch. Aunt Doe was filling a bowl with rice. Joanna and Jamesy were both there because school had not started for them as yet.

  ‘How’s our little Emma, then, and what did she think of the village school?’

  ‘Put her to sit in Dad’s chair. She likes that when he’s away.’

  ‘What are the children like down there?’

  ‘Were the teachers nice to you?’

  ‘What sort of lessons did you have?’

  ‘Ordinary lessons,’ Emma said. ‘We did our arithmetic on a slate.’

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Aunt Doe.

  ‘Yes, it’s all right,’ Emma said.

  When she returned to school after lunch, one of the children, sniffing her breath, made a face of great disgust. ‘What’ve you been eating, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Curry, of course,’ Emma said.

  Emma shared a desk with Jenny Quinton, a child with wire-rimmed spectacles and a bulging forehead that shone like wax. When Jenny broke the point of her pencil she took Emma’s from its slot in the desk and put the broken one in its place. She raised her hand to gain attention.

  ‘Please, miss! Emma Wayman’s broken her pencil.’

  Emma was allowed to sharpen it, while Miss Vernon waited impatiently.

  ‘You mustn’t be so careless next time.’

  ‘I wasn’t careless,’ Emma said.

  ‘Don’t answer back, if you please.’

  Breaking your pencil was a grave sin in Miss Vernon’s eyes. It was also a sin to allow your chalk to squeak when writing with it on your slate.

  ‘Really, Emma! Must you make that dreadful noise?’

  ‘It isn’t me, it’s the chalk,’ Emma said.

  There was a titter from the other children, and Emma looked round at them in surprise. Miss Vernon’s irritation grew.

  ‘Were you allowed to make that noise when you were at Miss Protheroe’s?’

  ‘We didn’t have slates there.’

  ‘Emma, my child,’ Miss Vernon said, ‘I’m aware that you’ve been to a better school, but we do our poor best here in Huntlip, you know, and you will have to get used to us.’

  Emma did not understand what she meant. The village school had a bell on the roof, a playground with a chestnut tree, and stained glass windows in the porch. It was a much better school than Miss Protheroe’s.

  Stephen came home from the sale in Brecon, bringing gifts for all of them. A sleepy Emma sat on his lap, nursing a doll in Welsh national costume.

  ‘How did you get o
n at your new school?’

  ‘All right, thank you.’

  ‘She won’t tell you much,’ Chris remarked. ‘We know. We’ve already tried.’

  Emma removed the doll’s tall black hat and then put it on again.

  ‘Winnie Aston’s got a loose tooth.’

  ‘Has she, now? Fancy that.’

  ‘She’s got a hammer toe as well.’

  ‘The things one hears at a village school!’ Joanna said disdainfully.

  Jamesy leant forward and tweaked Emma’s hair. ‘You’re a cough-drop. That’s what you are.’

  ‘Oh no I’m not!’ Emma said. She nestled against her father’s chest. ‘I’m not a cough-drop, am I, Dad?’

  ‘You’re a little girl who should be in bed and I’m going to take you there,’ Stephen said. ‘Come along, sleepy head! Up the Wooden Hill to Blanket Street!’

  Later that night, sitting alone with Aunt Doe, he spoke to her about the child.

  ‘Is she going to be happy there?’

  ‘Give her a chance. It’s only one day.’

  Certainly Emma seemed happy enough. She was ready for school betimes in the morning and glanced repeatedly at the clock.

  ‘What would you like for elevenses?’ Aunt Doe asked.

  ‘Bread and scrape,’ Emma said.

  Emma and the boy, Robert Mercybright, stood in a warm patch of sun, leaning against the toolshed wall. He was eating the last of his apple. When he had finished, she offered him hers. He refused it, shaking his head.

  ‘Don’t you want it?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I mustn’t take things from anyone.’

  ‘Did your mother tell you that?’

  ‘Yes, and I promised her,’ Robert said.

  ‘Go on, have it. She won’t know.’

  But Robert again shook his head. He could not be persuaded, small though he was. Emma ate the apple herself.

  ‘Can I see your little bell?’

  He held up the bell for her to see, and jingled it on the end of its string. He put it into his pocket again. Emma took a bite out of her apple.

  ‘Tell me about when you went to the fair with your auntie Betony,’ she said.

  While they stood by the toolshed wall, a group of children, forming a ring, danced up to Robert, surrounding him, and began to draw him into their game. Emma hung on to him, by the sleeve. She tried to push the others away.