The Land Endures (The Apple Tree Saga Book 4) Page 15

  ‘Will they be upset, seeing their pictures spoilt?’ he asked.

  ‘They will no doubt be puzzled,’ Betony said, ‘at the strange behaviour of their elders and betters.’

  ‘Is there anything of Emma’s here?’

  ‘No, there’s nothing, I’m afraid. She did have a picture put up in class, but she took it down and threw it away.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  ‘She told Miss Vernon that it wasn’t good enough.’ There was a pause. Betony looked at him absently. She leant her broom against the wall, and dropped her shovel into the scuttle. With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore, she turned again, considering him.

  ‘You are interested in Emma’s school work, then, Mr Wayman?’

  ‘That’s a strange question to ask, isn’t it, seeing that I’m her father?’ he said.

  ‘You were not at our Parents’ Day last Friday. That’s why I ask.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was Parents’ Day.’

  ‘Every parent was sent a note. The children wrote them out themselves. They copied the words from the blackboard.’

  ‘I never had mine. I must ask the child what became of it.’

  ‘Would you have come, if you’d known in time?’

  ‘I might have done, certainly. A lot would depend on the work of the farm ‒’

  Stephen broke off, looking at her. He saw that her smile was sceptical.

  ‘Miss Izzard,’ he said in a gentle tone, ‘are you taking me to task?’

  Betony chose her words with care.

  ‘Emma seems a lonely child. She doesn’t seem to have any friends. It’s all right while she’s in school … She talks to the other children here … but out of school it’s a different matter and she seems at a loss for something to do. Forgive me for saying so, Mr Wayman, but I don’t think she ought to be allowed to wander about by herself so much.’ Stephen’s feelings were beginning to change. Amusement was yielding to irritation.

  ‘I don’t think I neglect my children, Miss Izzard, if that is what you are trying to say.’

  ‘Perhaps neglect is too strong a word ‒’

  ‘Use whichever word you like so long as you say what you really mean!’

  ‘Seeing that your eldest son is running wild, it shouldn’t be too difficult to understand what I mean.’

  ‘Running wild?’ Stephen said. ‘That is something of an exaggeration! Chris as a rule works very hard. He works a full day on the farm with me. Last night was the first occasion of its kind and if the Labour candidate who addressed your meeting had not been so provocative.’

  ‘What he said was only the truth.’

  ‘Part of the truth, but not the whole.’

  ‘How do you know? You weren’t there.’

  ‘I’ve heard Bob Treadwell speak in the town. He neglects the farmer’s point of view. The prices we’re getting for our produce now.’

  ‘Do you know what wages are paid at Outlands these days?’

  ‘My neighbour, Mr Challoner ‒’

  ‘Do you know what they are at Dunnings?’

  ‘I know what they ought to be,’ Stephen said.

  ‘They’re down to twenty-five shillings.’

  ‘How do you know about these things?’

  ‘I make it my business to know!’ she said.

  Once again there was a pause. They looked at each other, and each drew breath.

  ‘I’ve always heard you were a firebrand, Miss Izzard, and now I begin to see it’s true.’

  ‘Then it may satisfy you to know that because of what happened here last night I may well lose my job.’

  ‘What?’ Stephen said. He was appalled. ‘What in heaven’s name makes you think that?’

  ‘The vicar made it plain to me when I went to see him last night. And now, if you will excuse me, I do have rather a lot to do.’

  ‘But this is unheard-of!’ Stephen said. ‘I really must get the matter clear.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wayman, but I haven’t got time. My brother is coming in at ten and I have to get this room clean enough for him to start work.’ She took up her shovel and her broom. ‘Thank you for coming on your son’s behalf. It was kind of you to take the trouble.’

  As she began to sweep again, the coal-dust rose and hung on the air, the particles glistening in the pale sunlight. She was intent on what she was doing. Stephen felt himself dismissed. He stood for a moment, watching her, then swung away and left the school.

  He went straight to the vicarage and was shown into the vicar’s study.

  ‘What’s all this about Miss Izzard losing her job? You surely can’t be serious. Where’s your good sense?’

  Mr Netherton was taken aback. He drew up a chair for Stephen to sit.

  ‘I feel that Miss Izzard acted irresponsibly in allowing the meeting at the school. She chose to ignore my considered advice. I knew the managers would be incensed when they heard about the disgraceful affair and I warned her last night what the probable outcome would be. I’ve already had Major Jeans here this morning, with Mrs Talbot of Crayle Court, and they both insisted that I should call a special meeting of the managers for Monday next at twelve o’ clock. Miss Izzard will be required to give an account of herself and as she is quite unrepentant I’m afraid they will ask for her resignation.’

  ‘I am one of the managers,’ Stephen said, ‘and I shall ask for no such thing.’

  ‘The major made his feelings plain. So did Mrs Talbot, needless to say. And some of the other managers, I’m sure, will feel that Miss Izzard ought to go.’

  ‘Then it’s up to us to change their minds!’

  ‘Is it?’ said the vicar, doubtfully.

  ‘She’s good at her job, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, of course, there’s never been any question about that.’

  ‘Then we should be foolish to let her go.’

  Stephen sat quiet for a while, watching the vicar as he polished his glasses. Then he spoke again with vehemence.

  ‘If Miss Izzard is dismissed I shall resign from the school board and make known my reasons for doing so. I may tell you also, speaking from my knowledge of the law, that Miss Izzard might well have grounds for bringing an action against the managers for wrongful dismissal. The education secretary would probably support her in such a course. I certainly would!’

  ‘Wrongful dismissal?’ the vicar said.

  ‘I shall go along and see Mrs Talbot straight away and do my best to talk some sense into her. I shall see Major Jeans and the other managers, too, if need be.’

  ‘It would appear that you feel very strongly about this matter, Mr Wayman.’

  ‘My son was one of the troublemakers. No doubt you’ve heard who the others were. Is Miss Izzard to lose her job because of the bad behaviour of a handful of boys? No, Mr Netherton, it will not do!’

  ‘Yes, well, I begin to think you’re right,’ Mr Netherton said. He rather liked Stephen Wayman because Stephen, alone of the farmers in the parish, never grumbled about paying his tithes. ‘I will certainly speak for her at Monday’s meeting and that, together with your eloquent representations, should sway the rest of the board, I think.’

  ‘I should damn well hope it does indeed!’

  ‘Nevertheless, there are still grounds for criticism, I think, in that Miss Izzard allowed the school to be used for a political meeting without obtaining the board’s consent. I feel therefore that when she is called before us on Monday she should receive a reprimand.’

  Stephen got up and went to the door. He had a full morning in front of him.

  ‘Reprimand her if you must but I will not be present at the meeting to witness such a piece of flummery.’ Walking through the village, out towards Crayle, he smiled to himself in a wry way. His concern for her feelings at Monday’s meeting was probably quite unnecessary. It would take more than the vicar’s reprimand to put that young woman out of countenance, he thought.

  In the attic at Holland Farm, Joanna and Jamesy were trying on costumes fo
r their play. Chris, with his hands in his breeches pockets, sat on a corner of the table, watching them as they flounced to and fro.

  ‘What’s the good of choosing the clothes when you haven’t even written the play?’

  ‘We’ve written some of it,’ Jamesy said. ‘It’s the Second Act we’re stymied on.’

  ‘If you’re so clever,’ Joanna said, sweeping Chris with a swirl of her cloak, ‘why don’t you help with writing it?’

  ‘I’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘Such as smashing up poor Emma’s school?’

  ‘Sssh!’ said Jamesy, with a warning glance, but Emma, rummaging in Aunt Doe’s tin trunk, gave no sign of having heard.

  Chris slid from the edge of the table and slouched about the room. He picked up Jamesy’s cardboard cutlass, gruesomely stained with crimson paint, and tried on Jamesy’s three-cornered hat. More than once he glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. He went to one of the barred windows and stood looking down over the fields. His father was coming up the track.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Jamesy asked.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Chris said.

  He left the playroom and hurried downstairs. He met his father in the yard.

  ‘Well, I’ve had a busy morning of it, thanks to you,’ Stephen said. ‘I’ve seen the headmistress of the school. I’ve seen the vicar and three of the other managers, and I’ve seen the young man whose face was cut by glass last night. I’ve also called on the constable.’

  Stephen looked pointedly at his son. Deliberately he paused, waiting, and Chris at length muttered his thanks.

  ‘You’ll be relieved to know that the young man with the cut face is recovering from the shock and bears nobody any grudge,’ Stephen said. ‘You’ll also be relieved to hear that no summons will be brought against you for the damage you did to the school. The constable will be calling on you to give you a piece of his mind, but otherwise there will be no action from the law, because no one intends to bring any charge.’

  ‘What about the headmistress? I bet she had plenty to say!’

  ‘She said nothing that wasn’t deserved. She called you a hooligan, and so you are. But you may be interested to know that she blames me as much as you. She thinks I neglect you and let you run wild.’

  ‘Oh, what rot!’ Chris exclaimed.

  Hands thrust into his pockets, he stood without speaking for a while, kicking a stone with the toe of his boot.

  ‘I’ve been thinking over what you said, about making my apologies to her. There’s no sense in putting it off. I’d better get it over with, hadn’t I?’

  ‘If you go straight away,’ Stephen said, ‘you’ll probably find her still at the school.’

  Chris went swinging away down the track. Somehow his mood was lighter now. He felt he could do almost anything. Phrases were forming in his mind.

  As Stephen turned towards the house, little Emma came running out.

  ‘I’ve been talking to your headmistress,’ he said. ‘She says you had a note for me, about the Parents’ Day last week. What happened to it, I wonder?’

  Emma frowned. It seemed she had trouble in remembering.

  ‘I must’ve lost it on the way home.’

  ‘That was careless, wasn’t it? But why didn’t you tell me about the note? You could easily have remembered what it said.’

  ‘It was only about the Parents’ Day.’

  ‘Didn’t you want me to come to it?’

  ‘I didn’t want Aunt Doe to come.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ Stephen asked.

  But it was easy to guess why not. Aunt Doe was a figure of fun. Fond though the children were of her, she was a source of embarrassment to them. They would grow out of it in time.

  ‘Very well. You run along. But mind you take care of any notes you have for me in future.’

  When he had gone, Emma went across the yard and let herself into the little orchard, where the rows of hen-coops stood and the chickens were pecking about in the grass. She opened the lid of a nesting-box and looked inside it in search of eggs.

  Standing outside the school door, Chris could hear voices from within, and the sound of a scrubbing-brush in use. For an instant he thought of turning back; he hadn’t bargained for an audience; but while he stood indecisively, watching the smoke from a pile of rubbish burning on the waste-ground by the sheds, Betony came out of the school with a bucket of water to throw down the drain. Seeing the boy, she came to a halt. She knew who he was. She left him to speak.

  ‘I say!’ he exclaimed, swallowing. ‘I’m terribly sorry about all this! Last night and everything, I mean, and all the mess!’

  ‘So you should be sorry,’ she said.

  ‘I’d no idea it would turn out like that. If I’d known beforehand about the sheep ‒’

  ‘Would you have stopped it?’ Betony asked.

  ‘Yes! I would most certainly! It was a rotten thing to do!’

  ‘I suppose your father sent you here?’

  ‘I know I ought to have come before but I was in a bit of a state and I wanted to think out what to say.’

  ‘At least you have come. None of the other hooligans have. Not so far, anyway.’

  No, nor would they, Chris thought. Gerald, David, Jackie, Jeff: they would never apologize; and he suddenly felt himself better than they. Though younger in years, he was more mature. He had learnt a few things about himself during the course of his sleepless night. He knew that Gerald and the rest were not the friends he really wanted.

  ‘I would like, if I may, to make an apology on their behalf.’ Words were coming more fluently now. He sensed that he had her sympathy. ‘I would also like to say that I think it’s jolly decent of you to take it all so well as you have.’ Betony inclined her head. A smile hovered about her lips. Chris sent a glance towards the school.

  ‘I wondered if I could give you a hand with clearing up the mess in there.’

  ‘I’ve got plenty of helpers, thanks, mostly people who were here last night. The cleaning is very nearly done.’

  ‘I’ll be getting along, then. I’ve got a few more calls to make and a lot more apologizing to do.’

  ‘You’ll find it easier,’ Betony said, ‘now that you’ve had a bit of practice.’

  Chris gave a grin and walked away. Then he stopped and retraced his steps.

  ‘We’re doing a play at Christmas time. My sister and brother and I, that is. I suppose you wouldn’t care to come?’

  Betony hesitated, thinking of the angry words that had passed between his father and herself, earlier that morning. She thought, too, of the threat to her job. But clearly the boy knew nothing of that.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I will certainly come.’

  ‘That’s really very decent of you. I’ll let you know when we’ve fixed the date.’

  He walked away with a jaunty step. An unpleasant duty had been accomplished and had not been so difficult after all. Next on the list, he told himself, was a visit to the village constable.

  Close upon lunch-time, when he got home, he sought out Jamesy and Joanna, who were still busy up in the attic, painting an old calico sheet as a backcloth, all sea and sky and black scudding clouds.

  ‘I say, you two! We’ve got to get our skates on, you know, if we’re to put on that play for Christmas. I’ve invited someone to come and see it.’

  ‘Who?’ said his sister and brother together.

  ‘Miss Izzard, that’s who,’ Chris said.

  ‘Cripes!’ Jamesy said, making a face. He splashed white paint on his foaming green sea.

  Joanna handed Chris her notes.

  ‘It’s up to you to write Act II.’

  The schoolroom was filled with the smell of wet paint. Dicky worked quickly and with skill, disguising the smudges and scars on the walls. Betony’s other helpers had gone. The wood-block floor had been scrubbed clean, and she was on her hands and knees, with a brush, a cloth, and a tin of polish.

  At one o’clock they st
opped for lunch. There were sandwiches and cherry cake. The day was reasonably mild, and they thought they would eat their lunch outside, sitting on one of the benches there.

  ‘Hello, what’s this?’ Dicky said. ‘Someone’s been in and we never heard.’

  On the table in the porch lay a tiny spray of winter jasmine, just beginning to come into flower, and beside it three brown chicken’s eggs, lying in a nest of crumpled paper.

  ‘One of your kids, who wishes to remain anonymous?’

  ‘I know who it is, though, all the same.’

  ‘Teacher’s perks, eh?’ Dicky said. ‘You’d better make the most of them if you’re going to get the push next week.’

  By Monday morning, the schoolroom was restored to order again, and a few new pictures hung on the walls. Miss Vernon, smelling the new paint, had to be given an explanation, and her pupils, who had heard all about the rumpus at the meeting on Friday night, were able to fill in the details for her, which they did with some embellishments.

  Betony approached Emma in the playground to thank her for the eggs and the spray of jasmine.

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Ah, now, I wonder!’ Betony said.

  At twelve o’clock, in the course of her luncheon break, she presented herself at the vicarage and stood before a meeting of the school board, specially convened for the purpose and chaired by Mr Netherton. The managers had plenty to say and Betony heard them through in silence. To her surprise, the vicar spoke in her defence, and nobody asked for her resignation. When she emerged at a quarter past twelve, she was still headmistress of Huntlip School.

  ‘How did it go?’ Miss Vernon asked, coming to meet her in the playground.

  ‘I was given a reprimand,’ Betony said.

  Chapter Eight

  It was Saturday, the First of December, a day of keen winds and sharp stinging showers. From the steps of the Corn Exchange the Member of Parliament for Chepsworth, Mr James Crown, was addressing a gathering of some three score of his constituents, reminding them that in five days’ time they would be asked to cast their votes. Mr Crown had been Member for Chepsworth for seventeen years. His election campaigns had been smooth and painless. He had never had to fight for his seat, and he was unused to the cut-and-thrust, the pertinent question, the jeers and abuse and derisive laughter that were coming his way from the crowd this morning.