A Clergyman's Daughter Page 27

fairly rich with her wages (four pounds ten, for nine weeks) and

  her father's two pounds, she took to buying sandwiches at the ham

  and beef shop in the town and eating her dinner out of doors. Mrs

  Creevy acquiesced, half sulkily because she liked to have Dorothy

  in the house to nag at her, and half pleased at the chance of

  skimping a few more meals.

  Dorothy went for long solitary walks, exploring Southbridge and its

  yet more desolate neighbours, Dorley, Wembridge, and West Holton.

  Winter had descended, dank and windless, and more gloomy in those

  colourless labyrinthine suburbs than in the bleakest wilderness.

  On two or three occasions, though such extravagance would probably

  mean hungry days later on, Dorothy took a cheap return ticket to

  Iver Heath or Burnham Beeches. The woods were sodden and wintry,

  with great beds of drifted beech leaves that glowed like copper in

  the still, wet air, and the days were so mild that you could sit

  out of doors and read if you kept your gloves on. On Christmas Eve

  Mrs Creevy produced some sprigs of holly that she had saved from

  last year, dusted them, and nailed them up; but she did not, she

  said, intend to have a Christmas dinner. She didn't hold with all

  this Christmas nonsense, she said--it was just a lot of humbug got

  up by the shopkeepers, and such an unnecessary expense; and she

  hated turkey and Christmas pudding anyway. Dorothy was relieved; a

  Christmas dinner in that joyless 'morning-room' (she had an awful

  momentary vision of Mrs Creevy in a paper hat out of a cracker) was

  something that didn't bear thinking about. She ate her Christmas

  dinner--a hard-boiled egg, two cheese sandwiches, and a bottle of

  lemonade--in the woods near Burnham, against a great gnarled beech

  tree, over a copy of George Gissing's The Odd Women.

  On days when it was too wet to go for walks she spent most of her

  time in the public library--becoming, indeed, one of the regular

  habituees of the library, along with the out-of-work men who sat

  drearily musing over illustrated papers which they did not read,

  and the elderly discoloured bachelor who lived in 'rooms' on two

  pounds a week and came to the library to study books on yachting by

  the hour together. It had been a great relief to her when the term

  ended, but this feeling soon wore off; indeed, with never a soul to

  talk to, the days dragged even more heavily than before. There is

  perhaps no quarter of the inhabited world where one can be quite so

  completely alone as in the London suburbs. In a big town the

  throng and bustle give one at least the illusion of companionship,

  and in the country everyone is interested in everyone else--too

  much so, indeed. But in places like Southbridge, if you have no

  family and no home to call your own, you could spend half a

  lifetime without managing to make a friend. There are women in

  such places, and especially derelict gentlewomen in ill-paid jobs,

  who go for years upon end in almost utter solitude. It was not

  long before Dorothy found herself in a perpetually low-spirited,

  jaded state in which, try as she would, nothing seemed able to

  interest her. And it was in the hateful ennui of this time--the

  corrupting ennui that lies in wait for every modern soul--that she

  first came to a full understanding of what it meant to have lost

  her faith.

  She tried drugging herself with books, and it succeeded for a week

  or so. But after a while very nearly all books seemed wearisome

  and unintelligible; for the mind will not work to any purpose when

  it is quite alone. In the end she found that she could not cope

  with anything more difficult than a detective story. She took

  walks of ten and fifteen miles, trying to tire herself into a

  better mood; but the mean suburban roads, and the damp, miry paths

  through the woods, the naked trees, the sodden moss and great

  spongy fungi, afflicted her with a deadly melancholy. It was human

  companionship that she needed, and there seemed no way of getting

  it. At nights' when she walked back to the school and looked at

  the warm-lit windows of the houses, and heard voices laughing and

  gramophones playing within, her heart swelled with envy. Ah, to be

  like those people in there--to have at least a home, a family, a

  few friends who were interested in you! There were days when she

  pined for the courage to speak to strangers in the street. Days,

  too, when she contemplated shamming piety in order to scrape

  acquaintance with the Vicar of St George's and his family, and

  perhaps get the chance of occupying herself with a little parish

  work; days, even, when she was so desperate that she thought of

  joining the Y.W.C.A.

  But almost at the end of the holidays, through a chance encounter

  at the library, she made friends with a little woman named Miss

  Beaver, who was geography mistress at Toot's Commercial College,

  another of the private schools in Southbridge. Toot's Commerical

  College was a much larger and more pretentious school than Ringwood

  House--it had about a hundred and fifty day-pupils of both sexes

  and even rose to the dignity of having a dozen boarders--and its

  curriculum was a somewhat less blatant swindle. It was one of

  those schools that are aimed at the type of parent who blathers

  about 'up-to-date business training', and its watch-word was

  Efficiency; meaning a tremendous parade of hustling, and the

  banishment of all humane studies. One of its features was a kind

  of catechism called the Efficiency Ritual, which all the children

  were required to learn by heart as soon as they joined the school.

  It had questions and answers such as:

  Q. What is the secret of success?

  A. The secret of success is efficiency.

  Q. What is the test of efficiency?

  A. The test of efficiency is success.

  And so on and so on. It was said that the spectacle of the whole

  school, boys and girls together, reciting the Efficiency Ritual

  under the leadership of the Headmaster--they had this ceremony two

  mornings a week instead of prayers--was most impressive.

  Miss Beaver was a prim little woman with a round body, a thin face,

  a reddish nose, and the gait of a guinea-hen. After twenty years

  of slave-driving she had attained to an income of four pounds a

  week and the privilege of 'living out' instead of having to put the

  boarders to bed at nights. She lived in 'rooms'--that is, in a

  bed-sitting room--to which she was sometimes able to invite Dorothy

  when both of them had a free evening. How Dorothy looked forward

  to those visits! They were only possible at rare intervals,

  because Miss Beaver's landlady 'didn't approve of visitors', and

  even when you got there there was nothing much to do except to help

  solve the crossword puzzle out of the Daily Telegraph and look at

  the photographs Miss Beaver had taken on her trip (this trip had

  been the summit and glory of her life) to the Austrian Tyrol in

  1913. But still, how much it meant to sit talking to somebody in a

  frien
dly way and to drink a cup of tea less wishy-washy than Mrs

  Creevy's! Miss Beaver had a spirit lamp in a japanned travelling

  case (it had been with her to the Tyrol in 1913) on which she

  brewed herself pots of tea as black as coal-tar, swallowing about a

  bucketful of this stuff during the day. She confided to Dorothy

  that she always took a Thermos flask to school and had a nice hot

  cup of tea during the break and another after dinner. Dorothy

  perceived that by one of two well-beaten roads every third-rate

  schoolmistress must travel: Miss Strong's road, via whisky to the

  workhouse; or Miss Beaver's road, via strong tea to a decent death

  in the Home for Decayed Gentlewomen.

  Miss Beaver was in truth a dull little woman. She was a memento

  mori, or rather memento senescere, to Dorothy. Her soul seemed to

  have withered until it was as forlorn as a dried-up cake of soap in

  a forgotten soap dish. She had come to a point where life in a

  bed-sitting room under a tyrannous landlady and the 'efficient'

  thrusting of Commercial Geography down children's retching throats,

  were almost the only destiny she could imagine. Yet Dorothy grew

  to be very fond of Miss Beaver, and those occasional hours that

  they spent together in the bed-sitting room, doing the Daily

  Telegraph crossword over a nice hot cup of tea, were like oases in

  her life.

  She was glad when the Easter term began, for even the daily round

  of slave-driving was better than the empty solitude of the

  holidays. Moreover, the girls were much better in hand this term;

  she never again found it necessary to smack their heads. For she

  had grasped now that it is easy enough to keep children in order if

  you are ruthless with them from the start. Last term the girls had

  behaved badly, because she had started by treating them as human

  beings, and later on, when the lessons that interested them were

  discontinued, they had rebelled like human beings. But if you are

  obliged to teach children rubbish, you mustn't treat them as human

  beings. You must treat them like animals--driving, not persuading.

  Before all else, you must teach them that it is more painful to

  rebel than to obey. Possibly this kind of treatment is not very

  good for children, but there is no doubt they understand it and

  respond to it.

  She learned the dismal arts of the school-teacher. She learned to

  glaze her mind against the interminable boring hours, to economize

  her nervous energy, to be merciless and ever-vigilant, to take a

  kind of pride and pleasure in seeing a futile rigmarole well done.

  She had grown, quite suddenly it seemed, much tougher and maturer.

  Her eyes had lost the half-childish look that they had once had,

  and her face had grown thinner, making her nose seem longer. At

  times it was quite definitely a schoolmarm's face; you could

  imagine pince-nez upon it. But she had not become cynical as yet.

  She still knew that these children were the victims of a dreary

  swindle, still longed, if it had been possible, to do something

  better for them. If she harried them and stuffed their heads with

  rubbish, it was for one reason alone: because whatever happened she

  had got to keep her job.

  There was very little noise in the schoolroom this term. Mrs

  Creevy, anxious as she always was for a chance of finding fault,

  seldom had reason to rap on the wall with her broom-handle. One

  morning at breakfast she looked rather hard at Dorothy, as though

  weighing a decision, and then pushed the dish of marmalade across

  the table.

  'Have some marmalade if you like, Miss Millborough,' she said,

  quite graciously for her.

  It was the first time that marmalade had crossed Dorothy's lips

  since she had come to Ringwood House. She flushed slightly. 'So

  the woman realizes that I have done my best for her,' she could not

  help thinking.

  Thereafter she had marmalade for breakfast every morning. And in

  other ways Mrs Creevy's manner became--not indeed, genial, for it

  could never be that, but less brutally offensive. There were even

  times when she produced a grimace that was intended for a smile;

  her face, it seemed to Dorothy, CREASED with the effort. About

  this time her conversation became peppered with references to 'next

  term'. It was always 'Next term we'll do this', and 'Next term I

  shall want you to do that', until Dorothy began to feel that she

  had won Mrs Creevy's confidence and was being treated more like a

  colleague than a slave. At that a small, unreasonable but very

  exciting hope took root in her heart. Perhaps Mrs Creevy was going

  to raise her wages! It was profoundly unlikely, and she tried to

  break herself of hoping for it, but could not quite succeed. If

  her wages were raised even half a crown a week, what a difference

  it would make!

  The last day came. With any luck Mrs Creevy might pay her wages

  tomorrow, Dorothy thought. She wanted the money very badly indeed;

  she had been penniless for weeks past, and was not only unbearably

  hungry, but also in need of some new stockings, for she had not a

  pair that were not darned almost out of existence. The following

  morning she did the household jobs allotted to her, and then,

  instead of going out, waited in the 'morning-room' while Mrs Creevy

  banged about with her broom and pan upstairs. Presently Mrs Creevy

  came down.

  'Ah, so THERE you are, Miss Millborough!' she said in a peculiar

  meaning tone. 'I had a sort of an idea you wouldn't be in such a

  hurry to get out of doors this morning. Well, as you ARE here, I

  suppose I may as well pay you your wages.'

  'Thank you,' said Dorothy.

  'And after that,' added Mrs Creevy, 'I've got a little something as

  I want to say to you.'

  Dorothy's heart stirred. Did that 'little something' mean the

  longed-for rise in wages? It was just conceivable. Mrs Creevy

  produced a worn, bulgy leather purse from a locked drawer in the

  dresser, opened it and licked her thumb.

  'Twelve weeks and five days,' she said. 'Twelve weeks is near

  enough. No need to be particular to a day. That makes six

  pounds.'

  She counted out five dingy pound notes and two ten-shilling notes;

  then, examining one of the notes and apparently finding it too

  clean, she put it back into her purse and fished out another that

  had been torn in half. She went to the dresser, got a piece of

  transparent sticky paper and carefully stuck the two halves

  together. Then she handed it, together with the other six, to

  Dorothy.

  'There you are, Miss Millborough,' she said. 'And now, will you

  just leave the house AT once, please? I shan't be wanting you any

  longer.'

  'You won't be--'

  Dorothy's entrails seemed to have turned to ice. All the blood

  drained out of her face. But even now, in her terror and despair,

  she was not absolutely sure of the meaning of what had been said to

  her. She still half thought that Mrs Creevy merely meant that she<
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  was to stay out of the house for the rest of the day.

  'You won't be wanting me any longer?' she repeated faintly.

  'No. I'm getting in another teacher at the beginning of next term.

  And it isn't to be expected as I'd keep you through the holidays

  all free for nothing, is it?'

  'But you don't mean that you want me to LEAVE--that you're

  dismissing me?'

  'Of course I do. What else did you think I meant?'

  'But you've given me no notice!' said Dorothy.

  'Notice!' said Mrs Creevy, getting angry immediately. 'What's it

  got to do with YOU whether I give you notice or not? You haven't

  got a written contract, have you?'

  'No . . . I suppose not.'

  'Well, then! You'd better go upstairs and start packing your box.

  It's no good your staying any longer, because I haven't got

  anything in for your dinner.'

  Dorothy went upstairs and sat down on the side of the bed. She was

  trembling uncontrollably, and it was some minutes before she could

  collect her wits and begin packing. She felt dazed. The disaster

  that had fallen upon her was so sudden, so apparently causeless,

  that she had difficulty in believing that it had actually happened.

  But in truth the reason why Mrs Creevy had sacked her was quite

  simple and adequate.

  Not far from Ringwood House there was a poor, moribund little

  school called The Gables, with only seven pupils. The teacher was

  an incompetent old hack called Miss Allcock, who had been at

  thirty-eight different schools in her life and was not fit to have

  charge of a tame canary. But Miss Allcock had one outstanding

  talent; she was very good at double-crossing her employers. In

  these third-rate and fourth-rate private schools a sort of piracy

  is constantly going on. Parents are 'got round' and pupils stolen

  from one school to another. Very often the treachery of the

  teacher is at the bottom of it. The teacher secretly approaches

  the parents one by one ('Send your child to me and I'll take her

  at ten shillings a term cheaper'), and when she has corrupted a

  sufficient number she suddenly deserts and 'sets up' on her own,

  or carries the children off to another school. Miss Allcock had

  succeeded in stealing three out of her employer's seven pupils, and

  had come to Mrs Creevy with the offer of them. In return, she was

  to have Dorothy's place and a fifteen-per-cent commission on the

  pupils she brought.

  There were weeks of furtive chaffering before the bargain was

  clinched, Miss Allcock being finally beaten down from fifteen per

  cent to twelve and a half. Mrs Creevy privately resolved to sack

  old Allcock the instant she was certain that the three children she

  brought with her would stay. Simultaneously, Miss Allcock was

  planning to begin stealing old Creevy's pupils as soon as she had

  got a footing in the school.

  Having decided to sack Dorothy, it was obviously most important to

  prevent her from finding it out. For, of course, if she knew what

  was going to happen, she would begin stealing pupils on her own

  account, or at any rate wouldn't do a stroke of work for the rest

  of the term. (Mrs Creevy prided herself on knowing human nature.)

  Hence the marmalade, the creaky smiles, and the other ruses to

  allay Dorothy's suspicions. Anyone who knew the ropes would have

  begun thinking of another job the very moment when the dish of

  marmalade was pushed across the table.

  Just half an hour after her sentence of dismissal, Dorothy,

  carrying her handbag, opened the front gate. It was the fourth of

  April, a bright blowy day, too cold to stand about in, with a sky

  as blue as a hedgesparrow's egg, and one of those spiteful spring

  winds that come tearing along the pavement in sudden gusts and blow

  dry, stinging dust into your face. Dorothy shut the gate behind

  her and began to walk very slowly in the direction of the main-line

  station.

  She had told Mrs Creevy that she would give her an address to which

  her box could be sent, and Mrs Creevy had instantly exacted five