‘Does this mean public schools will go?’ Hannah asked, thinking of Harry.
Miss Fletcher lifted her hands in mock horror. ‘Good God,’ and Hannah was startled by this profanity. ‘Those bastions will be here until the end of time. They are the breeding ground for our leaders, my dear. It is there that Empire, Christianity and cricket are taught. It is there that the status quo is elevated to a religion, but I digress.’
Miss Fletcher broke off and looked into the fire, her face thoughtful, her fingers tapping on the desk. ‘It’s the development of the individual that I subscribe to, and perhaps this will be spread with this new system. There must be so much ability which never gets aired, and that is sacrilege. I shall be taking scholarship pupils, mixing them up with my girls. It will be exciting. Britain needs people who can think for themselves, break the mould of tradition.’
Hannah nodded, excited now. ‘Yes, advancement should be on merit, shouldn’t it, not privilege. We should unlock minds: teach, not instruct. We should make children explore, not just repeat and learn. That way they will question, that way rules will change.’ She was leaning forward now, talking quickly, her hands shaping her thoughts and Miss Fletcher watched her carefully.
‘Bravo, spoken like a true teacher.’ Miss Fletcher laughed but reached for the oil lamp which stood at the corner of the desk. ‘It really is too gloomy to be borne. I think a little light would be a good idea.’
The glass globe was tinged with green and Miss Fletcher moved to the fire and took a taper from the mantelshelf, shielding the flame that she lit from the glowing coals as she walked slowly back. The wick flared until she lowered it and placed the glass globe back in place. There was a smell of oil now, as there was in her mother’s bedroom in the evenings when they sat together and Hannah prayed that this baby would not destroy the woman whom she was beginning to know.
Miss Fletcher was speaking again. ‘Now, where were we? Oh yes. This new system will call for more qualified teachers and that is where you will benefit.’ She leant forward and picked up one of the sheets of paper, tapping it with her finger. ‘Pupil teachers have had to learn how to teach whilst actually in charge of a class. There have been attempts to give them some instruction at schools designed for that purpose but it has been totally inadequate and, since most of these pupil teachers start at thirteen following an elementary education limited to the three R’s, there has been a great problem. This new scheme will be improving on this deplorable state of affairs. Already facilities have been established for training teachers and this includes London. Now,’ and here she sat back, placing her hands on the desk, ‘I suggest that, as you have requested, I take you on as a pupil teacher, pay you accordingly, say ten shillings a week, and in the afternoons you attend college to become a qualified teacher.’
Hannah watched as Miss Fletcher passed her the piece of paper she had been holding. It seemed that her hand was slow to take it but somehow it was there, and she was reading the list of subjects she would have to study, the times she would have to attend, and the classes she would have to take at this, her own school, and knew that this was what she wanted; to teach and to be taught. What had been snatched from her by her father she was now taking back; or was it being given by this woman? She didn’t know but either way it was happening. Before she could show her gratitude Miss Fletcher moved on to the second pile of papers.
‘The St John’s group give regular lectures, as I suspect you already know, since you have clearly done some investigating?’ Miss Fletcher looked over the sheet of paper at Hannah who nodded. ‘None the less it does no harm to reiterate the facts in case you have not fully understood. Hand in hand with the lectures go demonstrations on first aid, hygiene and so on. At the end of the year you receive a certificate if you pass. This means that you can then go on to show others, or before that, if you felt confident. I certainly have knowledge of the local leader and have already written to her, saying that you will be visiting her shortly. I suggest straight after school one afternoon; you may leave a little early. You will, of course, write beforehand to Mrs Glover at this address.’ She was smiling as she pointed to the paper before looking up. ‘I, of course, am available to help with other queries about health and well-being that the admirable St John’s group might not feel equipped to deal with – like the prevention of children.’
Hannah took the second sheet of paper that Miss Fletcher handed her. Could it all really be this easy? But of course not, for she still had to gain permission from her father. She pushed that thought to the back of her head, because somehow she would make it happen. The fire was dying down now and Hannah rose, putting new coals on, watching as the red was hidden by the black. The tongs slid down when she tried to rest them against the fireplace but she caught and lodged them in between the wooden surround and the tiles. The dog lifted her head as she bent over her and she stroked her soft smooth coat before she walked back. Then she looked at Miss Fletcher and spoke.
‘Thank you. I can’t say how much this means to me.’
Miss Fletcher shrugged and shook her head, her smile quick but warm. ‘Not at all. You should really be given the chance of a university education as I was, but perhaps this vocational training might suit you better. I have a feeling that you will always need a commitment, a cause, my dear.’ Her voice died away and they both sat there, closed off in this study by the fog, by the crackling fire and the heavy oak door.
As Hannah eventually stirred, Miss Fletcher looked at her watch on the table.
‘We are running out of time, my dear, but before you return to your classroom there is your last problem. How to become a person, not a piece of property.’ Her sigh was long and her face looked tired suddenly, and dispirited. Hannah watched as Miss Fletcher rose from her chair and walked to the window. She stood with her hands loosely clasped before her, her face close to the glass, her breath misting the pane, but she did not seem to notice. Eventually she turned. She did not move back to the desk but stood against the curtain, which was dull green against her grey, like a person preparing to do battle. Her voice when she spoke was taut.
‘Women are still property. It is not a state peculiar to you, Hannah, but to all females.’ She was smiling but her eyes were distracted.
Hannah protested. ‘But not to you, Miss Fletcher. After all, you are independent. You own this school, you have your own income.’ She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, one should not discuss money but …’
Miss Fletcher laughed, throwing back her head so that her hair caught on the curtain. She pulled her head away and smoothed down the strands which had been pulled from her bun. Far away there was the sound of a fog horn on the river.
‘Nonsense, there is very little that one should not discuss if one is trying to get to the seat of a problem. Yes, I have money left to me by my parents.’ Miss Fletcher moved now, not back to her seat behind the desk but to the dark maroon carpet chair with its varnished wooden frame. She pointed to a similar one in the far corner of the room, by the door beneath a picture of a country cottage.
‘Draw that chair up, Hannah, we have only a few moments in which to explore the situation, though we will need to pursue it at greater length another time if you are to get a proper answer from me.’
The chair was not comfortable, the frame dug into Hannah’s legs and the material had no give in it but she hardly noticed as she listened.
‘My father was an exceptional man. He sent me to university, which I loved of course but women were still barred from obtaining a degree at the end of the course.’
‘But why?’ Hannah asked.
‘For the same reason that we are denied the vote. We are not considered the equal of men. As you have so rightly discovered, though I don’t know how or why, we are merely property. Firstly of the father, and secondly of the husband.’
Hannah ran her fingers along the edge of the wooden chair arm. It was scratched and she traced the indented lines with her fingers. Yes, this was what she knew, but how good to hear i
t from another woman. She paused in her thoughts. But surely Miss Fletcher had no husband and was therefore free, she queried.
‘In that narrow sense yes, but still there is this need in some women, not all by any means, to be publicly recognised as people. To feel that they have a right to decide for themselves on matters which they deem important. I feel that equality before the law is essential for women and for that reason it is a matter of the gravest importance that women must achieve what two-thirds of men already have – the vote. Oh, not just to be able to say that we are equal, but to be able to use our vote to change injustices in society, to feel that we have a voice.’ Now Miss Fletcher was drawing words and ideas with her hands and she looked somehow younger.
‘I agree, so much,’ Hannah said, leaning forward. The dog stirred, grunted and then fell silently back into sleep. She did not notice his smell now. ‘How can it be done?’ She felt eager and impatient.
‘That is what we would all like to know. I became a suffragist, and we believe that by sensible lobbying of Members of Parliament to introduce private members’ franchise bills we shall eventually win. We need to show everyone that we are capable and deserving of their support, so our members seek seats on parish councils, school boards, and the Boards of Guardians; sorting out the poor wretches condemned to workhouses; proving that we are capable of more than embroidery or endless childbearing.’
Hannah saw again the long corridor, the grey, still figures and the smell of carbolic old age; saw Bernie, Joe’s old miner, and his cottage overlooking the moor, their moor. While she sat she listened as this woman, who was soon to be her employer, explained that her colleagues also joined organisations such as the Women’s Liberal Federation to visibly canvass at election time, since paid help for prospective MPs was no longer permitted. Anything to draw attention to the fact that women were not mere ‘angels of the hearth’ but living, thinking people.
The ringing of the bell for the start of afternoon school startled them both. Hannah gripped her hands together in her lap. There was so much more she wanted to hear, to say, and there was now no time. She rose, confused, embarrassed, brought back into the present, wondering how she had come so easily to sit next to her Headmistress and forget the barriers of position.
Miss Fletcher had also risen. Again the dog stirred, yelping now but still asleep. Was she chasing rabbits? Hannah looked down at her and smiled.
Miss Fletcher moved to the door. ‘We have more to talk about, you and I, but now your biggest problem is going to be taking this next step. Somehow you have to persuade your father to agree, Hannah. Without his permission I cannot proceed with any of these ideas.’
Her face was serious, a frown was growing.
Hannah nodded and felt the familiar tension knot her back. She looked about the room with its low light, its familiar smell of oil and dog. It should have been comforting but now she felt detached from it. The papers which Miss Fletcher had given her were still on the desk and she moved quickly to retrieve them. She looked again at the picture that brought the sun into her heart and then heard as though from a distance the sound of storm and wind and the slow drawled voice of Joe.
Stay with me, he had said, hadn’t he, but something else also and she could hear it now, as though he was speaking while reaching for her hand. You’ll do what you want, Hannah, he had said, I have no fear of that. And his hand had been hard and strong.
She turned now, the papers clutched so tightly that they crumpled where she held them.
‘That picture is post-Impressionist. I’m glad that you seem to like it. These new artists are very brave, they are trying to change the mould.’ Miss Fletcher’s face was questioning, and Hannah smiled as she passed by her and then through the door.
‘My father will give his permission, Miss Fletcher. I promise you that.’
She was glad that the corridor was dark and without distraction because an idea was emerging even as Miss Fletcher shut the door. It was an idea that required a bargain with Esther.
Hannah sat through afternoon lessons while Esther ignored her, sulking because she had been excluded but from what she didn’t know. As the bell rang for the end of school Hannah ran to catch up with Esther, who was leaving the cloakroom without her. She tucked her arm through her cousin’s but there was no response. Esther would not turn her head as they walked down the drive and through the gate into the fog, which was still thick and tasted and smelt as it looked, yellow and sulphurous.
‘Put your scarf up over your nose,’ Hannah ordered, knowing how Esther would cough throughout the night if she did not.
But Esther tipped her head up and strode on, not replying, stiff and unyielding. Hannah pulled her own scarf up and lengthened her stride, torn between irritation and anxiety. Irritation at her cousin’s childishness and anxiety in case she was unable to persuade Esther to co-operate in the plan which she had devised during mathematics. But she must, that was all there was to it.
Hannah stopped, the air harsh in her eyes, pulling her cousin to a standstill, her arm still locked around Esther’s. She could hear the sound of the hansom cabs, carts and carriages, but only saw them at the last minute as they loomed out of the swirling fog and passed alongside the pavement, their lamps useless but alight none the less.
Hannah was not frightened because the route was familiar; these iron railings to the right enclosed the park, the cutting that they had just passed ran round the rear of the school. The sound of fog horns echoed from the river where barges eased their way along. Fog was not strange, it was usual in this world of industry and blackened chimneys.
‘Esther,’ Hannah shouted. ‘Don’t be absurd. I have a plan to give you that time you spoke of earlier.’ Esther walked forward again, not looking at Hannah, not speaking, and this time Hannah stood still, letting her hand fall from Esther’s arm, waiting for her to stop, because she knew that she would if it was to her advantage. Hannah was surprised at her thoughts but realised with absolute clarity that she had found the key to her cousin but it didn’t matter, she still loved her.
Esther did stop and slowly turn, her face set and her eyes cold, but they did not move towards one another and Hannah could see the fog drifting even in the short space that separated them. She hooked her scarf up over her face again as she felt the coughing begin but Esther still stood there with hers hanging loose. Hannah felt impatience flash again and she strode forward seizing and wrapping the scarf around the girl’s face.
‘You’re worse than a baby,’ she shouted, startling a horse as it passed and she flinched as the driver hauled on the reins, then bore down with his whip, cursing Hannah as he struggled to control the clattering, thrashing horse before disappearing into the swirling darkness.
The girls looked at one another and then laughed until the air rasped in their lungs and the coughing began.
‘You see,’ Hannah gasped, ‘even the horses take notice before you do.’ They moved nearer to the railings, walking to the point where their paths diverged.
Hannah again linked her arm in Esther’s and this time there was an answering pressure and so she explained and outlined her idea.
‘If you really want to have time to see more of Harry and not study for Cambridge I will persuade Miss Fletcher to take you on as a pupil teacher because that is what she is doing with me.’
She put up her hand as Esther swung round. ‘I’ll go into it all later but you will need to approach Uncle Thomas properly. You will need to convince him that you want to teach, that you want to take life more seriously.’ She shook her head at Esther’s raised eyebrows and did not pause. ‘That you find me a steadying influence. That you don’t want to go away to Cambridge or to finishing school but that you want to make some use of your life before you marry.’
They were beneath the hissing gas lamp now which threw barely any light on to the pavement. Hannah’s scarf was down again, warm and moist from her condensed breath. She wanted her words to be clear and firm.
Esther leant
back against the lamppost and laughed. ‘Father will think some miracle has occurred if I trot out all that.’
Hannah laughed too. ‘Say what you like but it must succeed if you wish to achieve your aim.’ She turned and walked on, too cold to stand still any longer.
‘So,’ Esther said, pulling her scarf tighter and walking beside her, her voice sounding muffled now, her eyes curious above the scarf, ‘what is the bargain then, if you arrange this with Miss Fletcher?’
Hannah didn’t turn but braced her shoulders. ‘As I said, you will have to convince your father that you need me there with you. He will have to persuade my father to allow me to take up the position. You know, as a sort of chaperon.’
There, it was out now, and she pulled the scarf back over her nose and mouth. It was cold and damp. Miss Fletcher had already agreed to offer Esther a position but she would not tell her cousin that yet.
Esther sank her chin deep into her chest as she pondered. ‘We get paid, don’t we?’ she asked eventually, and Hannah nodded. ‘It all rather smacks of trade, you know. Not quite the thing.’
They had reached the corner where Hannah would turn off the main thoroughfare and begin the walk to the crescent. She felt the panic but fought to keep her voice even.
‘Nonsense,’ she answered. ‘Miss Fletcher runs a good private school and you will be a qualified teacher, having attended a college in London. It is considered a profession with status, you know, and the college isn’t far from Harry’s.’
She paused, pushing her hands deep into her pockets, clenching them into fists before adding a piece of news that she had heard Beaky telling Cook. Her voice was loud as she fought to keep Esther’s attention against the clatter of the traffic.
A Time for Courage Page 13