A tea tray stood ready but Emily noted it was not until Mr. Redway nodded at Phyllis that she began to pour.
Bert seemed annoyed at the business of teacups and kept saying impatiently, ‘Well, let’s get down to it.’
Emily had a fair idea what ‘it’ would be, but she was discommoded by Bert’s hostility to her. And yet he did not seem a belligerent person. He wore a loose dark shirt, popular because it was ‘army surplus’ from Vienna. But he looked like an old dog, who was in the habit of growling at everyone. She had no idea how much he disliked her.
Alfred was still a tall, well-made man, holding himself straight, and he was wearing a jacket chosen by his wife because she said the material was like a thrush’s feathers, dark brown with lightish touches.
Both men wore the army boots that could be purchased anywhere these days for a few pounds.
‘I want to pick a bone with you,’ said Bert, direct to Emily, waving away a teacup, sugar and milk.
Now, Emily was prepared for this because Mary had told her to be. ‘Well, then,’ said she, agreeably. ‘Let’s have it.’
‘I want an explanation – I mean, we want an explanation…’ Here he hastily indicated his wife and Betsy. ‘We want to know why you won’t let the Longerfield school be one of your outfits?’
‘You see,’ began Emily, holding her own – just – against the force of his hostility, ‘didn’t they tell you when you applied? There has to be a Montessori teacher for it to be a Martin-White school.’
‘Don’t you have the say about what happens? Isn’t it your money, then?’ demanded Bert, leaning towards her, his fists clenched tight.
‘You see,’ said Emily, ‘if we were using only my money, then we would have enough for, let’s say, four or five schools. It’s not just a question of setting them up; we have to maintain them, pay salaries, all that kind of thing.’
‘Well, then? Well, then?’ urged Bert, dismissing what she had already said.
‘But to do what we are doing now – and we have fifteen schools, with more on the way – it couldn’t be my money. It has to be a charity. And then you have dos and don’ts…’ and Emily could not prevent her impatience at these restrictions showing. ‘If you didn’t have some sort of rules, then just anybody could decide to call themselves a Martin-White school.’
‘Just anybody!’ said Phyllis, angry.
‘Well, we’re glad to know at last what we are,’ said Betsy.
Bert was grinning with the triumph of the moment. Emily was sitting there, limp, hurt, and as much by the sudden antagonism as by what they had said.
‘Whoa,’ said Alfred, ‘wait a minute. You’ve brought a whole lot of books for us – Emily,’ he said. After all, they had known each other for a quarter of a century.
‘Yes, but I paid for them myself,’ said Emily, addressing him direct, ignoring the others, whom she felt as enemies just then.
‘You mean,’ said Bert, ‘that your precious foundation, or whatever you call it, couldn’t even fork out for a few books?’
‘No,’ said Emily. ‘But I have. And I have arranged for the bookshop to send you more.’
‘Well, then, Emily,’ said Alfred – and she could see that he was deliberately rescuing her from Bert’s real rage, ‘I’m going to put in a private request. My boys – do you remember them, perhaps? – they like to read, but how about some Bulldog Dr.ummond or Henty, or Edgar Wallace? They are well beyond fairies and little animals. And I like that kind of reading too. Or Tarzan, perhaps. And I always did fancy Zane Grey.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Emily, smiling gratefully, and looking straight at him. ‘Of course. And we were thinking of expanding a bit anyway – adult books as well. Because when we set up our little libraries, the adults always ask, What about us, then?’
‘There you are,’ said Alfred. ‘So, I am not alone. Our boys will be really pleased, won’t they, Betsy?’
‘Yes,’ said Betsy, knowing she was part of a rescue of Bert – something that had so often to be done.
‘And now,’ said Alfred, ‘it’s time for us to be looking at the horses, isn’t it, Bert?’ And he pulled Bert up by the arm.
‘If you say so,’ said Bert, deflated, apparently defeated, his anger gone.
As he and Alfred went out, Bert said, over his shoulder, ‘And thanks for the books you brought. Thanks a lot.’ Alfred had nudged him.
The two men went off to the stables.
The two wives said, quite nicely now that Bert had taken himself off, ‘We’ll show you our school, anyway.’
‘We’re proud of it.’
An empty labourer’s cottage made the schoolhouse, and this afternoon it was being well patronized, as Emily and Mary could see, walking along dusty lanes towards it. A great ash shaded it, and children of all ages were playing in the cool, and the two women stopped talking because of their babble. Then, some of the older ones recognized Emily and called out, ‘Are you coming to tell us stories? Are you?’ And they entered the building in a crowd of children.
Betsy and Phyllis were with about thirty, pouring out lemonade from great china jugs. Every kind of glass, tumbler and cup was being used, and Emily thought that there was always a battle in her schools because ‘they’, the trustees, whom she thought of collectively as ‘the debs’, were always wanting to buy the most expensive cups and glasses to be had while Emily and Fiona tried to keep costs down.
Emily and Mary were given cups of lemonade and sat on a windowsill to observe. These children were really young, some babies with their mothers in tow. Older children, girls and boys, were in an adjoining room. They were reading stories to their age group. The small children had Phyllis and Betsy reading to them. Those who had recognized Emily pressed around her, but Emily was a long way, these days, from mice in pantries and the adventures of blackbirds. She found a book from the piles she had brought, and read to them about the feats of a kitten called Thomas Widgeon.
‘More! More! More!’ and she went on, while half listening to the bigger children’s voices next door, reading The Jungle Book.
Some of the very smallest fell asleep. It was hot. This pleasantest of afternoons went smoothly along, interrupted when a girl brought cakes, biscuits and milk on trays from the big house. Mr. Redway dropped in to sit with Emily and Mary and watch.
Emily felt that this school, the friendliness and ease of it, was what her schools were missing. In an interval of reading she said sorrowfully, ‘Plans don’t always turn out the way we think they will.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Mary.
‘This, here, is better than any of the schools I’ve done.’
‘But, Emily, how can you compare them? Don’t you see? Everyone here, we all know each other.’
‘Is that what it is? I wonder. And there isn’t a qualified teacher, but it seems to me Phyllis and Betsy do well enough.’
‘And I come sometimes,’ said Mr. Redway. ‘And don’t forget Bert and Alfred.’
‘I feel that I’ve missed something; something’s lacking with us.’
Mary, who had seen all the schools, except a couple of the newest in the Midlands, said, ‘Emily, that’s absurd. The Martin-White schools are what everyone wants to emulate. You must know that.’
Emily was silent, because she did not know how to express what she felt, which was – perhaps? – this was a sort of family, everybody seemed to belong together, there was a kindliness – was that it? And it was what she had always missed in every place but Longerfield.
Emily saw Bert and Alfred walking through the children near the tree, but then Bert, seeing her, swerved off and Alfred went with him.
Emily could not miss it: Bert did not want to meet her.
‘Bert is very odd, isn’t he?’ she said, thoroughly uncomfortable, to Mary.
‘Very strange indeed,’ instantly agreed Mary. ‘And I am sure that we all of us do wonder what would have happened if Alfred and Betsy – and Phyllis, of course – weren’t so wonderful with him.’<
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Then it was getting late, and the smaller children went off with the bigger ones, and soon Phyllis and Betsy, and a couple of girls from the big house, were clearing away the lemonade and the milk, and Emily and Mary tried to help.
‘No, you run along,’ said ‘the wives’. ‘But we hope you weren’t too shocked by our country ways.’
Emily, of course, denied she felt any such thing, but could not say what she did feel.
They left the schoolhouse, went through the deep shade of the ash, where some older children still played, and were in the yellow glare of a lowering sun.
‘There seem to be quite a few empty cottages,’ remarked Emily, and heard that ‘With this new machinery, many fewer workers are needed on the farms.’ And there they were, the machines, standing together in a big field, making sharp black shadows.
Beyond the field of machines there was a large pond where stood a dozen horses with the water lapping about their legs and, in one or two cases, their sides.
‘There are half as many people on the Redway farm,’ said Mary, ‘and it is true of all the farms round about.’
They stopped to watch the horses, and their enjoyment of the cool water, and went on through fields that were red with dust.
‘We joke that there is more of Longerfield in the air above us than there is on the ground.’
‘Doesn’t that matter?’
‘There’s nothing it seems we can do, anyway,’ said Mary. ‘All of us older ones care but the young ones don’t seem able to see what is happening.’
They passed some young men, all with Surplus badges on their chests.
At supper they discussed how the young men were going off to London and signing up with recruiters for service in the wars that were going on, in South America, Africa and parts of Asia.
‘At least not here,’ said Mary.
The parents of Longerfield were afraid because of their sons wanting to be soldiers, and Emily asked about Alfred and Betsy’s boys.
‘They are a bit too young yet – but not for long.’
And next morning Mary called Emily to see, through a window, two people in the lane. Two tall, broad boys took up all the space beneath the trees. They were throwing a cricket ball back and forth to each other, as they strode along.
‘If you were a recruiter and those two came and said they were eighteen, would you believe them?’
‘If I wanted to,’ said Emily.
‘But they are not quite sixteen. The work they do with the horses puts on years and muscle. There’s nothing the parents can do. Of course, they love the horses.’
What happened was this: Bert had for years asked his father to breed horses, which were his passion. Mr. Redway said he didn’t want all the bother, when farming was getting difficult anyway. Alfred told Mr. Redway that it would be good for Bert to have his horses. ‘You see, it’d be something of his own, some-thing he does.’ He didn’t have to say that Bert did not have a special role on the farm. Bert joked that he was the children’s father, so ‘I’m good for something, then.’
Disused stables were brought back into use, and a racecourse made. And from that moment none of the boys could be kept away from the horses and their needs. Some of the girls were as attracted.
But Alfred had been heard to say that giving Bert his heart’s desire had given him bad nights: all the boys on the farm grew heavier, larger, stronger, with all their work for the horses, feeding them, exercising them – stable lads in all but name.
‘Poor Alfred, poor Betsy,’ said Mary. ‘Everybody feels for them. A lot of our lads have already gone off to the wars, a couple of the girls, too – as nurses.’
That evening, as the sun grew large and red in its veil of dust, Mary handed Emily a hat and the two went up to the horses. It seemed everyone Emily had ever seen in Longerfield was there, crowding the rails, or taking horses to the big pond.
Alfred was watching where the horses came in after a gallop. A big man. No lightweight. He had been riding a tall bulky black horse, which stood near him while he fondled its neck and ears. He was looking down the track to where a man on a horse came fast towards them in a cloud of dust. It was Bert. Never had Emily seen or heard of Bert without there being an edge of disapprobation on faces, in voices. She had never seen or imagined this Bert. He was smiling, at ease, confident, and as he came near Alfred, he wheeled, jumped off the horse, and vaulted the rail to stand near him.
‘The fastest yet,’ said Alfred. ‘Well done! So, you’ll go to Doncaster next weekend, then?’
‘I might as well,’ said Bert, bowing slightly, a sardonic little acknowledgement of the applause from stable boys, the watching children and some parents.
So, that was Bert, thought Emily. Would she have ever imagined he could be this hero, basking in applause, in approval?
And, she thought, that is what happened to me. Suddenly I found I could tell tales and the children were after me, ‘More, Aunt Emily. Tell us more.’
She looked towards Bert, smiling, feeling the warmth of her approval for him – for herself – and he saw her, and extended his little bow to include her.
Then, he looked at her, and his grin was openly satirical. It was what she wore: she was catching the evening train to London in an hour, and she was dressed for London, not Longerfield. She had on a dark-blue linen coat and skirt, and the white collar and belt were reddened with dust. She tried to brush it off, making things worse.
Ignoring Bert, though she did look embarrassed, she said to Alfred, ‘I won’t forget what you said. I’ll get the books sent directly to you.’
‘Then thanks,’ he said, smiling straight at her, in a way he had – direct, personal, really seeing her.
Here was the kindliness that she felt she was missing everywhere but in this place, had always missed – had not known that she missed.
He was a kind man, yes, someone to be trusted. His face clouded, his eyes were troubled: he was now looking at his two lads, big lads, who seemed so very much older than their years. Both held a horse by its bridle and both leaped up and rode off, no saddle, just the reins to hold on to.
And now his eyes were full of tears.
‘Well,’ he said to her, steadying his voice, ‘I expect Mary has told you of our worry. It’s not much comfort to know that most of the parents around here share it.’
And he went in through a little gate and swung himself up on to the great horse.
‘See you again, I expect,’ he said to Emily, riding off, while Bert rode beside him.
Emily left Longerfield, as always, sadly, and found herself thinking she could retire there, buy a little house near Mary, never have to leave Longerfield again. And she was amazed at herself: retire! And it was such a success, people applying in droves to work with them, people giving them money – and that was the point. It had needed Emily McVeagh to start the thing, but it could go on nicely without her. Fiona would be just as efficient…She was going to see Fiona now. She believed that Fiona was the luckiest thing that could have happened. Emily had her flat in Beak Street, could always stay with Daisy, but she had lost her room in her own house: Fiona had not asked her, but it was evident the room was needed for a nanny, who was starting today. Fiona had accomplished two children, apparently without effort, and this had not stopped her working with Emily. But a nanny had become essential. Emily wanted to see how it was working. And she loved being there at the children’s bedtime.
She went straight to the nursery, which had once been hers and William’s bedroom, and found Fiona sitting by a lively fire, her first little girl standing clinging to the bars of a cot and watching her mother feed the new baby. Emily wanted to hear what Fiona would say about events in Longerfield: she relied on her for a kind of clarity, so she told herself. Really, Fiona agreed so well with Emily about everything, it was not till Emily had been confirmed, as it were, by Fiona, that she felt she could face her critics, ‘the debs and the bishops’ – most of whom seemed to be Fiona’s cousins or some o
ther kind of relative.
She watched Fiona’s confident clasp of her babe, saw the round full white breast, which seemed to be like a different aspect of Fiona, not known to her: she knew well a quick, clever, ambitious girl, impatient of checks and obstacles; the soft round breast spoke of other capacities. Emily told Fiona of her visit to Longerfield, taking her time, watching Fiona’s face, which showed she had grasped at once everything Emily had said. In just one part of the narrative Emily was not sure of conveying what she felt: sitting in the schoolhouse with all those children, and feeling a rightness there, which she would have liked Fiona to share.
Fiona’s eyes were on Emily’s face as she talked and then, as the visit to the schoolhouse was about to end, she said, showing she had caught what Emily had not said, or felt that there was more Emily would like to say, ‘Some day I must come with you to Longerfield because you come back from it so – contented.’
‘Contented?’
‘Yes. But there’s one thing that stands out. Whenever we set up a library for a school, we are always asked about books for adults.’ Now Emily listed the novels Alfred had requested, and added more she had thought of since.
‘Yes,’ said Fiona. ‘It seems to me we might have a separate fund for the grown-up books.’ ‘There are libraries,’ said Emily, ‘but if we have little libraries of our own, or even lists we could put up, I feel they would know what to ask for in the public libraries. They don’t know what there is, you see, what’s available.’
‘I know just the person for that,’ said Fiona. ‘She’s longing to work with us. Her name is Jessie and I’ll speak to her. No, she won’t want to be paid.’
‘That’s one advantage of the debs,’ said Emily.
‘To have some work…the poor things,’ said Fiona. ‘Everywhere women going mad, wanting to work.’
The babe at her breast seemed to fall off it, as if his mouth had been the grasp of a limpet. He lay, hands curled, eyes shut, on Fiona’s lap. Fiona looked down over the swollen breast at this replete infant. Her breast budded drops of milk. A black and white cat beside the fire miaowed. Fiona deftly picked up a saucer near it, allowed some milk to fall into it and put it down by the cat, which, like the baby, seemed pleased. The infant in her cot was sinking back and down, and was lying, blinking sleepily, silent.