Three
If the ruling members of the household hadn’t already agreed that if Nancy Ann was ever to take on the refinement of a young lady she must be sent away to the Dame school, they would certainly have come to this decision through two incidents that occurred during the following three weeks.
Nancy Ann was in bed for three days and housebound for another three days, but on the following Sunday she was considered well enough to attend the morning service and Sunday school in the afternoon.
Miss Eva McKeowan was winding up the proceedings of the Sunday school with, ‘Now we shall sing your hymn, children, “Let Me Like An Angel Be”.’ Thus saying, she went to the harmonium in the corner of the room, and, turning her head to face the class, she called, ‘After three…one, two, three.’
‘Let me like an angel be,
Let me always trust in Thee.’
The voices squeaked and rose in disharmony:
‘Ever present at Thy knee
Let me like an angel be.’
It was a silly hymn: Ever present at Thy knee. Nancy Ann did not raise her voice because she knew she couldn’t get the tune right.
The hymn ended with Amen being sung in several different keys. Then Miss McKeowan stood up and said, ‘Now you will depart quietly.’
Why did she always say ‘depart’?
Nancy Ann herself was about to depart hastily when Miss McKeowan’s voice stopped her, saying, ‘Nancy Ann, stay for a moment, will you?’
Slowly and reluctantly she walked back to where Miss McKeowan stood near her reading desk, and she waited to know what was required of her. But Miss McKeowan didn’t speak until the last of the children had gone. And then smiling she looked down on Nancy Ann, saying, ‘I’m glad to know you are so much better, Nancy Ann.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I have a little present for you.’ She lifted the lid of the reading desk and took out a small box, and when she opened it, it revealed what looked like a gold chain with a heart-shaped locket on the end. She now dangled it from her finger, saying, ‘I…I would like you to have this, Nancy Ann, as a keepsake, seeing this is almost your last visit to Sunday school. A week tomorrow, I understand, you go away to school, and perhaps you will be so busy next Sunday you may not attend. So I thought I would give you this today. It’s a very pretty locket, isn’t it?’
She now swung the chain backwards and forwards like a pendulum while Nancy Ann thought, Oh dear, dear. She wasn’t fond of trinkets and she couldn’t accept this one because she knew why it was being given to her: it wasn’t that Miss McKeowan liked her, it was a way of finding favour in James’s eyes.
Of a sudden she felt sorry for Miss McKeowan and realised, as Peter said, that she was blinded by love; and she must be, or else she would have understood James’s attitude towards her, which had become rude of late. At one time he would stand and talk to her, and sometimes she had seen him laugh with her, but afterwards he would always relate what had passed between them to Peter, and they would both laugh.
‘Take it. Put it on. It will show up against your blue dress.’
‘I’m…I’m sorry, Miss Eva, but…but I must first ask Mama, because it looks…well, an expensive gift, like…I mean, it’s very like the one James…James bought.’
She knew what she was saying was dreadful, yet it would be wrong to accept this gift, because this poor young woman—and now she thought of her almost in her grandmama’s words as a poor young woman, would gain nothing by its giving.
‘Mr James has purchased one like it?’ Miss McKeowan’s voice was high, her words running up the scale as if she was going to burst into song; and there was a smile in her eyes and hovering around her mouth as she brought her head down towards Nancy Ann and said again, ‘Your…your brother has bought one like this?’
Nancy Ann stepped slightly back from the bright hopeful look and she swallowed deeply and coughed before she brought out in a rush, ‘It…it is a present for his fi…financée.’ She had pronounced the word wrongly but that didn’t matter, what mattered was the changed expression on the face that had now stretched itself upright and away from her. The finger no longer swung the chain holding the heart-shaped pendant, but the whole was crushed in her hand and this was held tightly against the buckle of the broad belt that spanned her narrow waist and helped to flounce her print skirt.
Now she was speaking again, her words coming through lips which didn’t seem to move: ‘What did you say? He has a…a fiancée? When? Where? Whe…when? Who?’
Nancy Ann took three steps backwards until the back of her knee pressed against the harmonium seat, and she stared at the agitated young woman. What she wanted to do was to go to her, take her hand away from her belt and pat it and say, ‘’Tis all right, ’tis all right. I was only…only saying that. It isn’t true.’ But if she were to do this she could see Miss McKeowan becoming enraged and even slapping her. She had slapped Mary Jane Norton once because she had caught her mimicking the way she walked and how she announced the hymn ‘Let Me Like An Angel Be’. And she couldn’t risk being slapped: having always endeavoured to join with her brothers’ games, her reaction to either their teasing or roughness had been to retaliate and this had become almost a natural reaction and had been of great help to her whenever she came up against the McLoughlins.
‘Go away!’ yelled Miss McKeowan.
But she remained standing, the desire still on her to take the awful look off the young woman’s face: she looked as though she were about to cry, yet was too angry to do so.
‘Get out!’
She got out, at a run now, and when she was outside she continued running until she reached the back gate, where she bumped into Johnny.
Johnny Pratt was the vicarage handyman. He had been handy, he would tell you, for fifty years. He was now sixty-two. He drove the trap, tended the horse, saw to the kitchen garden, neglected the flower garden—he had no use for frivolities, he said. He believed in, and obeyed, the parson; not so his wife, for he considered her like the parsons’ wives before her, aiming for a front seat in heaven. The old ’un, he respected, even if she had a tongue like a newly stropped razor. The lads he liked: they were fine young chaps, always civil. But this one here—he looked at Nancy Ann—he could say he more than liked her. She was a chip off the old block. He was sorry they were packing her off to a fancy school. Well, he supposed he could see their point; she was a bit of a rough ’un for a lass.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘Nothing, Johnny.’
‘You’re lyin’, an’ on a Sunday an’ all. You know where you’ll go for doin’ that? And you’ve been runnin’ an’ all, and you know what your ma thinks about runnin’ an’ on a Sunday…among other things,’ he added.
‘Where are they?’ she asked, in a whisper now.
‘Well—’ he pulled out a large round watch from his waistcoat pocket. It was in a case from which any supposed silver had long since disappeared leaving the metal the colour of dull brass, and after studying it for a moment he said, ‘Well, if things go according to Sunday plans, and I can’t see them altering here, they should be in the sitting room having their cups of tea and—’ he bent down to her, a grin on his bewhiskered face, adding now, ‘and no cake, ’cos it’s Sunday.’ At this he nodded at her, then walked on; and she, too, walking now, went down the yard, round the side of the house and in by the garden door.
In the hall she took off her hat and coat, examined her hands to see if they were clean enough, decided they were as she hadn’t been dealing with chalk, then, tapping on the sitting-room door, she opened it and went in and stopped what she recognised immediately was a tirade from her grandmama which had been directed towards her mama. ‘There you are.’ Rebecca turned a thankful glance on her daughter. ‘Did you enjoy the lesson?’
‘It…it was as usual, Mama.’
‘It would be with that one taking it…the Eva one I suppose.’
She looked at her grandmother. ‘Yes, Grandmama.’
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‘You would like a cup of tea?’ Her mother was looking at her.
‘Yes, please, Mama.’
She sat down behind the round table on which the tea tray was set and as she did so her father smiled at her. She returned the smile, then let out a long sigh and relaxed against the back of the chair. She didn’t know now what she had been frightened about. She had done James a service and Miss Eva wouldn’t be silly any more, at least towards him.
She was startled out of her reverie by her grandmother’s voice crying, ‘Disraeli! That old woman! Instead of running round the Queen’s skirts…Empress of India, indeed!’ She sniffed. ‘It would suit him better if he attended to those Turks.’ And she rounded on her daughter-in-law: ‘And don’t tell me, Rebecca, that this is not Sunday talk, massacring Christians is a talk for any day in the week to my mind. Those Bazouks, or whatever you call them, killed thousands.’
‘Oh, Mother-in-law, that is an exaggeration.’
‘No exaggeration whatever, woman. You don’t read your newspapers. Isn’t that so, John Howard?’ She addressed her son, as she always did, with his full Christian name. ‘Wasn’t there twelve thousand of them polished off?’ And before he could answer, she again rounded on her daughter-in-law, crying, ‘And it could happen here. It all started there because of a bad harvest, and it could happen here, I’m telling you.’
‘Mother…Mother, please don’t become so excited. Yes, you are right, there were Christians massacred by the Bashi–Bazouks, but it’s all so far away, and…’
‘Oh, my Lord!’ Nancy Ann watched her grandmama put her cup down on the side table with such a bang that the remaining tea in the cup splashed over onto the saucer, then onto the table. She watched her mother look towards the table in dismay and yet make no move to go and wipe it. And her grandmama went on, ‘So far away, you say. Don’t forget, what happened yesterday in France could happen here tomorrow, and in that Germany too. And there’s that stupid little man standing firm, as he calls it, on his support of Turkey while other countries are aghast at the atrocities in Bulgaria. John Howard’—she looked sternly at her son—‘did you not read the pamphlet that James brought home, that Mr Gladstone got published, showing up the Bulgarian horrors? No, I’m sure you didn’t. Well, it’s in the library, at least it was a week ago, if it hasn’t been tidied up.’ She now cast an accusing glance towards her daughter-in-law before going on, ‘James, Peter, and I discussed this situation. James has a head on his shoulders; looks beyond these shores. He could do well in Parliament.’
‘Oh, Mother.’ John closed his eyes and, his voice weary, he went on, ‘You know as well as I do that James won’t think seriously along such lines. He knows…well’—he lowered his head—‘it’s only because of your generosity that he has managed to remain at his studies so far. Please, Mother, I beg of you not to encourage him in such costly…’
‘Encourage him! He’s got a mind of his own. And don’t worry, I could no more support either of them in such a career than I could fly; I couldn’t even now buy us a new tr…ap.’ Her voice trailed away, and she grabbed at her cup and gulped at the now cold tea that remained in it. And when she replaced the cup and the saucer this time, it was done quietly, and she raised her eyes and looked at her son and daughter-in-law. They were staring at her, and John, in a small, quiet voice, said, ‘Oh, Mother.’
‘Oh, don’t Mother me in that tone of voice. I’ve been only too pleased to do it. I thought they might as well have it now as wait till I was dead. And there’s enough left to see madam there through her schooling. And then that’s that, except for my quarterly pension. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll away to my room before I stiffen and die here, because that fire—’ she turned her head towards the small amount of glowing coals in the large grate and, a twisted smile on her face, she ended, ‘they may have stopped the human sacrifices by that king on the Gold Coast, but if they lived in this part of the world I’m sure the poor beggars would prefer the stewpot.’
And so saying and chuckling to herself, she walked smartly from the room, leaving, as she usually did, consternation behind her.
Nancy Ann watched her mother go quickly over to her father and, putting a hand on his arm, say in an undertone, ‘Do…do you think it’s right, John, she has spent her all on…on the boys and…?’
‘If she says so, my dear, it is right. I…I never guessed. I…I didn’t know what Father left her. I thought it must be a very substantial sum because she’s been so generous.’ He looked into his wife’s face. ‘She is generous, Rebecca. Underneath all her brusqueness she is generous and warm of heart.’
Rebecca’s head drooped, and in a low voice she said, ‘Yes, yes, I know, John; and I also know that she considers me a very stupid being.’
‘No, no, my dear; it is only her manner.’
‘But I am a very stupid being, John.’
‘Oh, my lo…’
It seemed that for the first time they both became aware that their daughter was still present, and now they looked towards her and John said, ‘Would you leave us, Nancy Ann, please?’
Gulping in her throat, because now for some reason or other she wanted to cry, she had the urge to run to them and put her arms around them both, and hold them tightly to her; instead, she rose from the chair, saying quietly, ‘Yes, Papa,’ and hurried from the room.
It had been an afternoon threaded with emotion, emotion that had to be sorted out. She hurried now to her room and there, sitting on the end of the bed, she put her arms on the brass rail and leant her head against it. And in the quiet moments that followed she realised that she had never understood her mother and never loved her as much as she did at this moment. She would try, in future, to be good and always do what she was told, and never upset her.
It was four hours later, and her mother was still very upset, as was her father, and even her grandmama was asking, ‘My…why say such a thing?’
Nancy Ann was in the drawing room again, and there they were, her mother and father and grandmama, as they had been in the afternoon, but the atmosphere was entirely different.
It should happen that in the vestry after conducting evening service, John had noticed that his churchwarden, Harry McKeowan, was unusually silent. After a service it was Harry’s custom to give a running commentary on who had been present and who absent and the reason for the latter, and how little or much had been put onto the offertory plate. But, this evening, he had not spoken, not even to comment on the main colour of the coins on the plate, for there were very few silver pieces shining amongst them. Feeling that his warden might be in some personal trouble and needing help, he said, ‘Aren’t you feeling well, Harry?’
‘I’m as usual, Vicar.’
‘Oh, I’m glad to hear that. But is there anything else wrong?’
‘No, nothing wrong as you could say.’ The churchwarden had stroked his greying hair back from his temples, using the thumb pads of his plump hands. And having done this two or three times, he said, ‘I’ve known your sons for a long time, Vicar.’
‘Yes; yes, you have, all of twelve years since we came here from Gateshead.’
‘And I happened to see them last Monday afore they left for the train, and wished them God speed and a safe journey.’
‘Yes, yes, you did, Harry; I was there. Now go on, tell me, what have they done that seems to have upset you?’
‘Well.’ The man moved his stout body as if about to rock it; then his tone changing, he said, ‘Well, if not them, I would have thought you, Vicar, could have told me about Mr James’s coming wedding.’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘I said…well, I think you heard what I said. It took the young miss to break the news to Eva. And I…well, I must be truthful, Vicar, it came as a bit of a shock, not only to her. Well, no, not only to her, but to us all. It’s all right, it’s all right, Vicar, don’t trouble yourself like that.’ John had moved towards the table and, gripping the edge, had leaned over it. ‘I know what women are: �
�tis likely your good lady wants to surprise the village with an engagement party or some such, and so persuaded Mr James to keep quiet about it. Anyway, that’s how I see it, and that’s how I explained it to Eva, but nevertheless, it was a bit of a shock. Well, I’ll go and finish my duties. Is there anything more you require of me, Vicar?’
It had taken an effort for John to say, ‘No. No thank you, Harry.’
And now here he was confronting his daughter and asking for an explanation, and when in a tearful voice she gave it, she left him and the others quite dumbfounded. Then her father was speaking to her slowly and quietly, and as she looked at him she saw him in the pulpit again, for he was saying, ‘You know what you have done? You have lied deliberately in order to hurt someone. I am sure James never meant you to say such a thing, and you, in your heart, as young as you are, must have realised this. Why? What possessed you to such wickedness?’
The lump in her throat was almost choking her. She moved her head from side to side before muttering brokenly, ‘I…I didn’t mean to hurt her. It…it was as I said, it…it was just to stop her thinking of James, and…and she was giving me the necklace as a sort of—’ she gulped and sniffed and wiped the tears from each cheek with her fingers before she finished, ‘a sort of bribe, to get him to like her.’
The Parson's Daughter Page 5