Caroline England

by Noel Streatfeild

  Hannah, heavy sleeper though she was, heard the noise at last. She sat up and without waiting to light a candle got out of bed and groped her way over to Caroline, and took her in her arms.

  “Now, Miss Caroline, what’s a little thunder? Now, now! Hannah’s here. No need to be afraid.”

  Caroline was over the border of reason. It was nearly an hour of persuasion from Hannah, backed by a glass of milk heated on the little stove, before she calmed. Little by little, through the sobs, Hannah gathered what the fright was about. She was not disturbed. Her mother had brought her up on the theory of a Hell full of shelves on which the ill-behaved were laid out in rows to be cooked for ever. Children always were brought up like that and very right and proper. All the same, she thought, as good a child as Miss Caroline did not need to fear.

  “Little devils with pitchforks indeed! Why, Miss Caroline pet, if they were to come it would be for Hannah; she went downstairs, which was why your prayers weren’t said. You couldn’t help falling asleep.”

  The storm moved further off. Rain slashed against the window and with it came relief to the nerves.

  “Can I say them now?” Caroline whispered. “And I want to say them properly, kneeling on the floor.” She scrambled out of bed and knelt by Hannah’s knee. “Oh, God, that knowest that I am a wicked sinner,” she hiccuped. Hannah was unable to prompt her with the words, and tears had blurred her memory, but she choked her way through to the end: “So that I may not fear my last hour, Amen.”

  “Amen,” said Hannah briskly. She was getting cold sitting about in her nightdress. She thought God had been sufficiently remembered for one night and had no intention of letting Caroline loose on a string of prayers. She got up, picked her up and took her into bed with her.

  The closeness of Hannah’s body might have been a bit too much for a sensitive nose, but Caroline noticed nothing wrong. Hannah’s arms round her meant safety and warmth. In their security she fell asleep.

  Hannah did not connect the troubles of the night with what worried her in Caroline. She would never have mentioned the affair if Prudence had not chanced to ask if they had been disturbed by the storm.

  “Disturbed!” Hannah’s face creased into a broad grin. “I should just about say we was disturbed. Little Miss here thought the lightning was come to strike her dead. Scream! You should have heard her. Such talk of demons and the like.”

  “But why?” Prudence asked. “What sin did she think she had committed?”

  Hannah hesitated.

  “Well, we forgot our prayers.” She saw Caroline was listening, so she rumpled her curls. “It was Hannah’s fault, wasn’t it pet.” She gave Prudence as near a wink as was respectful. “Little pitchers.”

  Prudence had a profound belief in the reality of Heaven and Hell. A picture shown her as a child had made a lasting impression. It showed the road upwards as a stony and thorny path, unalleviated by any place for rest or amusement. The one bright spot was the golden gates at the top, open to show two stout angels pulling weary climbers into Heaven. The road downwards was a far more pleasant-looking affair. Flowers grew on both sides of the way. Sunday trains ran beside the track. Gin palaces and dance-halls were open along the entire route. The bored could play cards for money at small tables set at intervals on either side of the road. The flaw was, of course, the end showing a dismal pit with flames shooting out of it into which red-eared demons were pushing the travellers with pitch-forks. She had never worked out the exact meaning of this piece of art, merely accepting as a certainty that no one she knew would ever be found on other than the upward path. That Caroline should consider herself not only a traveller on the lower road but one who had reached the final slopes of it, shocked her. Children, all children, in Prudence’s philosophy, were marching upward guarded by an angel apiece. That later, at such time as the angel left them to walk alone, they might slip on to one of the side-tracks leading to the lower road, she knew to be a sad fact. Caroline obviously knew nothing of where her feet were leading her, still less of her angel. She must be taught, thought Prudence, and who should teach her except the rector? She took her pupil’s troubles to her father.

  Mr. Sykes’s christianity was real. As far as possible built on the teachings of the New Testament. He believed firmly that: “In my Father’s house are many mansions.” He believed in a last day and a judgment dividing the sheep from the goats. Where he differed from many of the clergy was in his idea of what constituted a goat. His love of reading had given him a greater understanding of people than he would have picked up from his country parish. He had a generous attitude to sin, even to those sins he could not understand anyone wishing to commit. His people loved him. Seldom or never did they discuss their souls, but they took their earthly troubles to him. In return they allowed and expected to be scolded. Scolding was “Pa’son’s” job. If they missed church on a Sunday and he was not round on Monday to know the reason why they were offended. Actually his services were popular. He liked a nice simple service with a lot of singing, so did his people, but what they did enjoy was his preaching. “Pa’son Sykes be a rare one for preachifying” was known for miles. Actually he had started life as a dull preacher, which was odd for one of his temperament. He wrote out careful sermons full of good doctrine, and delivered them as a duty. Then, during a visit to London, he went to the Metropolitan Tabernacle and heard Charles Spurgeon. That morning was a revelation to him. Such freedom of expression. Such humour and humanity. He was never a Charles Spurgeon or anything approaching it but, after that day, away went his prosy wordy affairs and he did speak as man to man straight from his heart.

  Prudence told her story. She explained that she had been worried because she did not feel she had Caroline’s entire confidence. She finished with what Hannah had told her of the night before.

  Frederick Sykes gazed over his daughter’s fair head at his garden. He bit on his pipe. Slowly as she talked his passion grew. Here was a story Dickens should have told. The terrified child shut up in that nursery wing. Suddenly his indignation burst out of him.

  “Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones—their angels do always behold the face of my Father little children—for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” His voice faded away. He put his head into his hands and groaned.

  Prudence was quite unmoved. He often behaved like that over what upset him in The Times. She waited until he looked up.

  “And yet Papa in a way it is right. A child must fear Hell.”

  Her father, calmer now, put his pipe back in his mouth. “I am not so sure Prudence. Eternal punishment is very real and all one’s life must be spent striving to avoid it. But children should only learn of it with care. As you know, I do not believe in that lip-service goodness which means behaving well through fear. Goodness, whether in a man, a young woman of your age, or in a baby like little Caroline, must come from a wish to please the Master. You should be able to teach her that; it is what I taught you.” Prudence frowned.

  “I’m not sure I’m much good at teaching, Papa. I can teach her new things, but I do not know how to unteach.”

  “Ah.” He nodded at her. “There’s a wise daughter.”

  His voice deepened. “To unteach harmful teaching. Which of us can do that?”

  Prudence came over to him and rumpled his hair.

  “I think you could. You’re wonderful with children.”

  He looked up at her and smiled.

  “Some day when you have some of your own, my dear, you will wish you had tackled this yourself.”

  “No, I shall not.” Prudence laid her cheek against his. “Mine will never learn things wrong. Besides their papa will teach them.”

  Her father caught her hands.

  “Doesn’t that depend on who the papa is?”

  She flushed. The nice-looking young rector of the next parish had been over a good deal lately. He was supposed to come an
d see her father. At least, that was what she thought her father thought.

  “Of course,” she hesitated. “I mean if the papa was a good man, and I’m sure—”

  Her father pinched her cheek.

  “All right, my dear, I didn’t mean to tease you. I will go up to the Manor to-morrow and see if I may give little Miss Caroline lessons in scripture.” He got up. “Shall I hint that she may soon need a new governess?”

  Prudence flushed again.

  “Of course not, Papa. How can you be so foolish.”

  There was no difficulty in persuading James that his daughter should have Bible classes. Very fit and proper he thought it of Frederick Sykes to offer. Dammit the living was his gift, no doubt the fellow was glad to be able to make some return.

  Frederick Sykes came to the Manor for half an hour on Wednesdays and Fridays. He had an easy way with children. He never spoke down to them. Even then he had uphill work with Caroline. She had never really known what his bottom half was like, being used only to that portion which stuck out of the pulpit. A man so utterly chained to pulpits and God’s House was hardly one with whom she could fraternise.

  Frederick, sensing her nervousness, made no overtures. He would settle himself in the arm-chair, allowing Caroline to sit where she would. He told her the story of Christ from His birth to His death. Not the story she usually heard which was interspersed with: “And if He did this for us, what must we do for Him,” but more as a fairy-story. Its fairy-story atmosphere was enhanced by the inclusion of many angels. The whole point of his lessons was angels. Gentle angels, white-robed, guarding little children.

  He had the reward of his patience. After the third lesson Caroline came and leant against his knee. She was very impressed by the thought of guardian angels.

  “And always there’s an angel with me?” she questioned.

  Frederick nodded.

  “Always Caroline. Standing beside you to look after you.”

  “Always?” She was worried. “When I’m in bed? And when I’m havin’ a bath?”

  “Always. Your angel never leaves you for a moment.”Even at five Caroline knew there were some things of which one must never speak to gentlemen. She therefore kept to herself the opinion that there were moments when no angel should be looking. At least, not a nice one.

  Frederick, with a twitch of the lips, guessed her difficulty, but could see no way to remove it. Having planted his guardian angels they must remain at all moments, tactful or otherwise. He certainly could not confuse her with the idea of a nimbus. A good solid angel, even if invisible, was her need.

  Caroline ran one finger up and down his knee. “Would the angel put me to burn if I was bad?” Frederick shifted slightly. Here was his chance. “Nobody burns children.”

  Caroline was amazed at such ignorance from him. “God would.”

  “No.” Frederick slipped his arm round her, so gently that she was unconscious of it. “You know, Caroline, when I was a little boy of not more than four or five, I was afraid of a dark cupboard in the corner of the stairs. I had never looked inside it, but when I went past it I pressed myself against the other wall so as not to go too near it.”

  “What was inside?”

  “My nurse told me Mr. Manners lived there. If one did not behave well, if one forgot a ‘please,’ or proper respect for Papa and Mama, she said Mr. Manners would get angry. If he got really angry, he took children into the cupboard and ate them.”

  Caroline’s eyes were round with horror.

  “And did he try to eat you?” He shook his head.

  “One day my grandmama came to stay. She was a very stern lady.”

  “That’s like my grandmama,” Caroline interrupted . “Grandmama Torrys. Grandmama Ellison isn’t never stern at all.”

  Frederick knew Rose only too well. Many talks there had been of supposed laxity in his parish. He nodded sympathetically.

  “My grandmama, though she was stern, usually bought me a present. Lovely presents, carved in wood. Then one year when she came she bought me a Bible. Do you know what I did Caroline? I was so disappointed that I threw it across the room and then stamped on it.”

  Caroline gasped. What, she wondered, could God find bad enough to do to a child who did things like that? Her voice was an awed whisper.

  “What did happen?”

  “Well, my father said I must be beaten. My father didn’t beat us often, but when he did, he beat hard. I was so scared that I ran away and hid. Where do you think I hid?”

  “Where?”

  “In Mr. Manners’ cupboard on the stairs.”

  “And he cooked and ate you all up,” Caroline suggested hopefully, remembering her Hansel and Gretel.

  Frederick laughed.

  “No. What do you think I found? Why, there was no one there at all. The cupboard was empty. Mr. Manners had been made up to frighten me to make me good.”

  Caroline sighed at this deplorably tame finish. “Another story, please.”

  He drew her closer.

  “This one is about a little girl called Caroline. She lived in a big house and was five years old. Everything in the house was there for her to play with.”

  Caroline considered this inaccuracy must not be allowed to pass.

  “Not everything. Nothing what isn’t mine or in my garden, unless I’m told I may.”

  “Well, nearly everything. And yet do you know this little girl wasn’t happy. Do you know why?”

  Caroline considered. Here was a clergyman. This was a Bible class.

  “Because of sin.”

  “No. Not because of sin. She was a good little girl, and when she wasn’t good, she was sorry. No, because she believed in something much more frightening than Mr. Manners.”

  “Being ate,” Caroline whispered, appalled. This was a new and worse version of divine punishment.

  Frederick smiled.

  “Oh, dear no. But she thought of her Heavenly Father the wrong way. Not as a loving friend wanting to help, but as an ogre, a Mr. Manners waiting to punish.”

  Caroline was amazed at such ignorance from one whom Nurse had held up as a paragon.

  “You mustn’t think that,” she said to him severely. “God will be very angry. Don’t you know any po’try?” She pulled free from him and stood up straight with her heels together and her hands behind her back.

  “Almighty God, thy piercing eye

  Strikes through the shades of night;

  And our most sacred actions lie

  All open to thy sight.

  There’s not a sin that we commit,

  Nor wicked word we say,

  But in thy dreadful book ’tis writ,

  Against the judgement day.

  And must—”

  He stopped her.

  “Did Nurse teach you that?” She nodded. He had difficulty in controlling his voice. How dared the woman. He struggled to find words to convince the child without undermining nursery authority. “You go to church, don’t you?” She nodded again. “Whom do you see there?”

  The view over the pew was very limited. Caroline considered.

  “You.”

  “Yes. I am there because I am an especial servant of God’s. Don’t you think I must know something about Him? More than other people, perhaps.”

  Caroline’s eyes looked up at him trustingly. “More than Nurse?”

  “I think so.” He stroked her hair. “And I tell you that God loves you, and to show it He sends an angel to look after you.” He saw from her face that she was impressed. He got up and said good-bye.

  At Caroline’s age, ideas take deep root. Fears get a grip go and only the utmost skill and understanding can uproot them. Frederick, partly by his words and partly by the weight of his office, was able to help. Looking back, Caroline could never have said when first she began to
doubt the truth of Nurse’s teachings. It started by a blurring of the edges of fact. Just as fairies and Father Christmas are not totally discounted in a moment, so neither was God as ogre. The days grew warmer. Her garden was full of flowers. Often the sky was blue. Then suddenly one afternoon when she was digging she remembered that Mr. Sykes had said an angel was with her. That God loved her and was kind. Was it true? She half believed it was. Cautiously she tried an experiment. She peered round. Nobody was about. She picked up a handful of earth and deliberately rubbed it into her frock. Then she looked up at the sky where God’s eye should be watching, and made a face at it. Then she waited.

  Nothing happened. The birds went on singing. From the kitchen garden came a curl of smoke from a bonfire. The wind rustled the leaves. The sun shone on her flowers. At that moment she felt fear go away. She was not afraid. Not just for the moment, but for ever.