Victoria looked at Isobel.
‘You don’t look any different. Your chest sticks out more, that’s all. Mine doesn’t.’
‘Well, you’re only just thirteen – I expect it will begin this year. What resolutions are you making?’
Victoria sighed.
‘The same as usual, but I don’t know why I make them, for I break them right away. Tonight I will vow not to argue, always to get up the moment I’m called, not to fight with Louise, and to work so hard at school I’ll get a good report. But I’m very despairing about keeping any of them.’
Isobel looked again at her clock.
‘We haven’t long.’ She took a piece of paper from under her pillow. ‘I’ve written mine down. Not to mind when Miss Herbert fusses; not to mind when I’m ill; not to mind not going to a proper art school.’ She hesitated then folded the paper. ‘That’s all.’
Victoria made a pounce.
‘It’s not all. Let me see.’
But Isobel had the paper tight in her folded hand.
‘You can’t see – anyway it’s time. Go and open your window so you can hear the bells, and don’t quite shut my door so I can hear them too.’
Victoria flung open her window. The bells of all the churches in Eastbourne were ringing, and from down the street there were voices shouting greetings. Into the night Victoria called her resolutions in the form of a prayer.
‘Please, God, don’t let me argue once with anyone, not even Miss Herbert. And help me to get up the very minute I’m called. And don’t let me fight with Louise, however awful she is. And make me work harder at school however mean Miss French was about my ankle, because then I’ll get a good report. And please help me to start to grow up, even if it means my chest has to stick out, which I don’t like, for don’t forget I’ll be fourteen next Christmas.’
Isobel, as midnight passed, whispered the last resolution on her list.
‘And I resolve not to let Vicky do everything, like Granny said she did. I must do my share.’
Nineteen hundred and eleven was what Victoria called ‘a beast year’, which meant it was the year when John’s parents, Uncle Mark and Aunt Catherine, came on leave from India. Even the first time it happened, though she was only four, Victoria had resented their arrival and had shown it by hiding under the dining room table when they called, refusing to budge and shouting, ‘Go away! Go away!’ It was perhaps this unfortunate start which had given Aunt Catherine the impression that her niece Vicky was a boorish child.
The next time they came home Vicky had been seven and, as on the last leave, they had found John rather at a loose end during the summer holiday, they tried the experiment of staying in an hotel near the villa-typed house in Devonshire the children’s father had rented for August. This was a great success from the men’s point of view, for the brothers were devoted, but it was in every other way a failure for the children’s mother and her sister-in-law had nothing in common: Aunt Catherine, a smart bridge-playing type, much preferred the hotel to the beach, and she was unable to disguise the fact that, had there been any other suitable relations to whom she could have entrusted John, she would have done so. John had not helped matters by escaping from the children staying in the hotel whenever he could, to join his cousins – particularly Victoria.
Because when John went back to school at the end of the Christmas holidays, both he and Victoria knew they were unlikely to meet again before next Christmas, their parting, though outwardly off-hand, had been discussed between them for days.
‘Let me know how you get on with the reading, Vicky. I expect everything on that list I gave you will be either in Uncle Jim’s study or your school library, but if they aren’t let me know, I always get extra pocket money when the parents are home.’
‘I hope you get into that shooting team before your father comes, then he won’t fuss so much about other games.’
John too had made New Year resolutions.
‘I’m going to try and look keen on O.T.C. things. That really will please my father.’
Victoria had often heard John on the subject of the Officers’ Training Corps, whose every enterprise was anathema to him. The drills, the route marches, the field days. The spit and polish and rewinding of muddy puttees.
‘Could you?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘I shouldn’t think anyone was less like a soldier.’
‘I’ve got to try, Vicky. If he thinks I’m sloppy he’ll be on again about boxing, which I’ll hate worse.’ He looked amused at his thoughts. ‘Smart soldierly type, that’s me.’
The day before he left Victoria had said:
‘You will write and tell me everything, even in the holidays, won’t you – especially if Uncle Mark says anything about what you’ll be when you grow up?’
‘You know I’ll write. But don’t worry. My father can talk his head off. I know the sort of life I couldn’t lead. I’d loathe India, with all the filth and burning ghats and everything; I’ll pretend to agree, but when the time comes I’ll do what I want.’
‘Aren’t you brave!’ Victoria had said admiringly. ‘I wish I could feel like that.’
John had caught hold of her hands.
‘You will, Vicky, when you are older. Just think – you have only one life, so it’s up to you to see that you use it as perfectly as you possibly can. You must understand that.’
Victoria was still too much a child to look upon her life as her own; what she did was decided for her by her parents. But John’s enthusiasm was catching.
‘I can’t see it quite as you do because I’m a girl, I suppose – but I do hope you do what you want, and that sometimes I can share in the things you do.’
Fortified by her resolutions, Victoria began the school term determined to do really well. It was bad luck that apparently other people had made New Year resolutions; among them was Victoria’s form mistress, Miss Brown, and evidently one of her resolutions had been to be more strict, especially with Victoria Strangeway. Unfortunately, both Victoria and Miss Brown were so busy thinking about their own resolutions that neither had time to wonder about other people’s.
The first period of the term in each form was taken up in making out timetables. The main outlines of these timetables were the same, save for special subjects: music lessons and music practice, extra dancing and elocution, special art classes and so on. All girls in those days learned to play the piano – it was expected of a lady – but Victoria was an exception; instead she learned the violin, which she played abominably.
The reason for the violin went back many years to the day when Victoria, aged seven, having fought at every lesson against being taught to play the piano, arrived at her own solution. She turned both hands upside down, and neither punishment nor bribes could persuade her to play with them in any other position.
‘It is no good my teaching Vicky,’ the young woman who came to the vicarage to give piano lessons confessed. ‘She’s determined not to learn, and I’m afraid that if I go on trying she might damage the piano.’
That was one of the occasions when Victoria was sent for by her father to come to his study. He was looking sad.
‘This is very, very naughty of you, Vicky. Poor Miss Carney says she can’t teach you the piano any more.’
‘Good,’ said Victoria. ‘I hate learning, Daddy.’
‘I daresay,’ her father agreed. ‘But it is not for you to decide what you learn. But, as Miss Carney will no longer teach you, Mummy and I have decided you will learn the violin.’
Victoria had scarcely at that time seen a violin.
‘The violin! But I haven’t a violin. And who will teach me?’
That was soon settled. A violin was bought and a Miss Gardener found to give lessons. From that time on nightmare sounds filled the vicarage whenever Victoria practised or had a lesson. Her mother would have let the violin lessons drop, but her father refused to give in; because Victoria had been naughty, she must not be excused learning an instrument.
‘Stick to
it, darling,’ he said. ‘One day you will be a great help to me.’
‘How?’ Victoria had asked suspiciously, hoping her father had no wild ideas about her playing at parish concerts.
‘If you could play hymns they could be of the utmost help when I am writing a sermon.’
That day at her violin practice Victoria started to pick out the tune of the hymn ‘Art thou weary, art thou languid …’ At once her mother came into the room.
‘I don’t believe Miss Gardener told you to play that. Go back to your scales.’
Up had shot Victoria’s chin.
‘If you want to know, Daddy asked me to learn it. It’s to help with his sermons.’
The children’s mother with a muttered, ‘What nonsense!’ had retired, so Victoria went on struggling with the hymn. She could not know it then, but when she grew up and at last stopped learning the violin, the only tune she could play with any accuracy was ‘Art thou weary, art thou languid …’
When the move came to Eastbourne the violin, of course, travelled with Victoria. She was to learn, she was told, with a man – a George Bring – who came to Laughton House twice a week to give lessons. What Victoria did not realize was that it was only musical girls with some talent who learned the violin and that Mr George Bring had a sense of humour, and when pressed, would sometimes give an imitation of Victoria playing the violin.
Another thing Victoria did not know was how much the governesses disliked chaperoning her during her violin lessons. Even more unpopular was it when one or other of them had to play her accompaniments during her daily practice.
It was impossible to arrange timetables absolutely fairly. There were many music rooms, but they were always in use, so some of the girls had to fit in their practice during recreation periods. Possibly Miss Brown had done her best, and annoying Victoria was not in her thoughts when she arranged the timetables, but certainly Victoria had been unlucky. On two mornings she was down for violin practice after morning school, and on two afternoons between tea and homework. The second Victoria heard the half-hours allotted to her, away went her resolutions about arguing.
‘But it’s not fair, Miss Brown. You’ve given me practice in free time almost every day.’
Away too went half of one of Miss Brown’s resolutions, for to the intention to be more strict, she had added ‘but just’.
‘I will not have any discussion about the timetables, Vicky. In my opinion day girls should do their practice at home. But since Miss French allows you to do it here, if anyone is to be inconvenienced, you must see it is not fair it should be one of the boarders.’
Miss Brown had not said ‘who are the most important people in the school’ but it was clearly what she thought. Victoria seethed.
‘Boarders, boarders, boarders!’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, it seems to me mean to speak of us day girls in that despising way.’
Miss Brown’s voice was icy.
‘One more word from you, Victoria, and you will leave the room.’
Victoria said no more because her friends made faces suggesting ‘It’s only old Brownie’ and ‘Don’t let her annoy you’. But it was hard work being silent, and for the rest of the morning she was muttering ‘She’s mean. She’s mean.’
Having broken one resolution or rather, in Victoria’s opinion, having it broken for her by Miss Brown’s meanness, another good resolution quickly followed and Victoria was back where she had been last term, learning as little as possible.
In March Isobel was confirmed. She was sent a charming white dress by Aunt Helen which Ursula had worn when she was confirmed. Both Grandfathers came for the service and so did Isobel’s godparents, Uncle Paul (with, of course, Aunt Helen) and Aunt Hetty and mother’s sister Aunt Penelope. Victoria was impressed with the service and thought privately Isobel looked like a saint in her white veil, but she was surprised how calm and ordinary she seemed. Nobody actually talked in a quieter voice or was what the children called more ‘creamish’ than usual, but it seemed to Victoria as if they were.
‘My goodness,’ Victoria thought, ‘I’m glad it’s not me being confirmed. I couldn’t bear all that sort of “this is a wonderful day” way they go on. When I’m old enough I’ll ask Daddy if, instead of at home, I can be confirmed with my class at school.’
Two things happened after the confirmation which left their mark. The first concerned Jackie. Uncle Paul was an amusing, clever man, but very much under Aunt Helen’s thumb – as indeed were her two children, Ursula and Henry. Aunt Helen, though she dressed Ursula artistically, was a no-nonsense mother, seeing a daughter from babyhood as a little woman, rather than as a pretty toy.
Though Aunt Helen did her duty by her sister-in-law Sylvia’s family, in her heart she disparaged them. Her brother-in-law Jim was a fine man and, of course, they were poor – vicars always were – but need they live quite so miserably? The food in the vicarage, in her opinion, was always uneatable. There were never enough fires. The girls – even Isobel in Ursula’s clothes – looked unkempt. And, in her opinion, they were stupidly brought up. She was sure if she had Isobel in her care there would be less asthma, it was probably partly bad feeding. As for Victoria, she really was impossible and she was getting to look so sulky; if there was one kind of child Aunt Helen hated it was a sulky one.
Aunt Helen had no idea that her poor Ursula was slowly having such personality as she possessed crushed out of her until she showed nothing, not even sulkiness. Most of all Aunt Helen was aggravated by Louise. This was partly jealousy, the child was so outstandingly beautiful. Just because she was beautiful, that was no reason to baby her.
‘Look at Louise,’ she said to her husband before the confirmation. ‘She’s eleven years’ old, yet she goes round like a child of six, clutching that ridiculous golli.’
Uncle Paul was a true Strangeway. He accepted dear Jim’s family just as they were without criticism.
‘Is Louise eleven? She doesn’t look it. I think she only carries Jackie around from habit.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Aunt Helen. ‘I think Sylvia likes her to have a toy; it makes her feel she’s still a little thing. She doesn’t want the responsibility of a grown-up family.’
Uncle Paul disliked the conversation.
‘I am sure you are wrong, dear. I tell you it’s only a habit.’
‘Prove it,’ said Aunt Helen. ‘You take Jackie from Louise – toss him in the air or something – and see what happens.’
Uncle Paul and Aunt Helen were returning to London after the confirmation, but after the service, which was in the afternoon, before they left to catch their train, they were to have tea. It was a fine afternoon and while they were waiting for tea the family went into the garden. Louise had fetched Jackie from her bedroom.
‘You’re rather a big girl to carry a doll around, aren’t you?’ Aunt Helen asked her.
Louise clutched Jackie. She knew she was too big to play with him, and that he no longer meant to her what he used to. But though she had no idea of it, in a way Jackie was Dick to her – her friend, confidant and supporter.
‘Jackie’s not a doll.’
Suddenly Aunt Helen snatched Jackie from Louise’s arms and tossed him to Uncle Paul. ‘See if you can throw him over that tree.’
Uncle Paul had not heard the conversation but he was a cricketer. Up went his bowling arm and Jackie flew, not over the tree, but into one of the top branches.
Louise was always pale for she was anaemic; as Jackie hurtled into space she gave a muffled scream (Miss French’s training was taking effect), turned a bluish white and fell down apparently in a faint.
That evening at bedtime when Jackie, with the help of a ladder, was recovered and the fuss had died down, Victoria said to Isobel:
‘Do you think Louise really did faint?’
Isobel thought about that.
‘She could have. She’s silly enough about Jackie.’
Victoria swung on the door between the two rooms.
‘I hope today makes her give him up. I don’t often agree with Aunt Helen, but this time I did – she’s too old to carry him about.’
‘Poor Louise,’ said Isobel.
Victoria studied her sister with interest.
‘Do you feel that? I mean you don’t usually. Is it because you were confirmed today?’
‘Idiot!’ Isobel retorted. ‘Shut the door and go to bed.’
The other thing that happened after the confirmation was to affect Victoria. Aunt Penelope stayed on at the vicarage for a day or two and on Saturday afternoon she had invited her god-daughter Isobel out to tea.
Going out to tea in those days meant going to a café and eating innumerable cream buns, and was a much-loved treat. Aunt Penelope was the hardest of mother’s three sisters for she had less self-pity, she was too insensitive. Probably she was genuinely sorry for Louise, who had looked white and miserable since the scene about Jackie, but also she had no love for her niece Victoria.
Whatever Aunt Penelope’s reason, at the last moment she invited Louise to tea too – which meant leaving Victoria alone at home. No one had ever behaved like that before, and all three sisters were shocked. Victoria was wounded in a way she had never been before. To be left behind by one’s aunt! It was unthinkable.
Her father and mother were out, and so was Miss Herbert. Victoria took Spot into the garden and, while he sniffed round the lawn, she climbed up a cedar tree. She had thought she wanted to be alone to cry, but no tears came. Aunt Penelope’s behaviour had hurt her, but that her parents had not interfered and said: ‘You can’t leave Victoria out,’ cut her to the quick. But it was not her hurt she thought about, but her future:
‘This is something I am never going to forget. I’ll always see myself on this day, and remember how it felt when people were cruel and I was thirteen.’
15
A School Report
Though Victoria was not getting on at school, Isobel and Louise were doing splendidly. Louise shone at theory of music, electrifying everybody by getting a hundred out of a hundred in an examination. Isobel, though often away ill, kept up easily with her form and was likely to be moved up in the autumn. As Louise was frequently at the top of her form, it was obvious she would move up too; but if that happened what was to be done about Victoria? By no stretch of the imagination was Victoria ready for a move, for she was usually bottom of her form.
A Vicarage Family: A Biography of Myself Page 16