“So I believe.”
“I help her sometimes. You see she finds it difficult to read her own shorthand notes so she reads out as much as she can and I write it down for her. Afterwards we go back and fill in the gaps.”
“There are other jobs besides working in an office.”
“Yes, I know. Barbara is going to be a nurse, but I wouldn’t like that. I don’t want to work in a shop or——”
“Of course not!” exclaimed father in horrified tones.
“Lots of girls work in shops,” I told him. “Nell is learning to arrange flowers, she wants to work in a flower shop, and Jane Riley is going to a big dressmaker’s in London. Freda King wants to go on the stage; her father made a fuss about it——”
“I don’t wonder!”
“But he’s given in and she’s going to a Dramatic Academy! You see, girls are all different and want different things. Some girls are clever at figures, others are good at drawing or music or acting . . . but I’m not. I just want to learn languages so that I can talk to people and understand what they say.”
“If I were to write to Miss Bain——”
“It wouldn’t be any good. The mistress who teaches us French is English, so she doesn’t teach us the proper way to speak. You couldn’t expect Miss Bain to change everything just for me, could you?”
“No, I suppose not,” said father doubtfully.
“And anyhow we don’t have enough time to learn French. I want to leave school because they aren’t teaching me the right things. The wrong things are just a waste of time.”
There was quite a long silence. I didn’t say any more because I had said everything that I had meant to say; I had thought it all out beforehand. This was something I wanted terribly much and grandpapa had told me that you never get anything worth having unless you go all out to get it. I had tried to think of what father would say and what I should reply; fortunately the conversation had gone exactly as I had expected. I had even been able to bring in the words “co-ordination” and “supervision” which Charles had used about the history muddle . . . and they had impressed father quite a lot.
“We must find a Frenchwoman,” said father at last.
“You mean I can?” I cried in delight. “Oh, Father! But will it be very expensive?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Anyhow you seem to know what you want.”
“Oh, I do! . . . but you aren’t disappointed with me, are you?”
“It would be foolish to be disappointed. People who don’t know what they want aren’t much use in the world.”
All the same he sounded a little disappointed so I rose and went round the table and put my cheek against his. “I’m your own Sarah,” I said.
“Yes, of course you are, darling.”
“It’s settled, then?”
“It’s settled that you’re to have lessons from a Frenchwoman, but I shall have to consult Mother about your idea of leaving St. Elizabeth’s. I don’t know what she’ll say about that.”
“Yes, of course,” I agreed cheerfully. I thought I knew what mother would say. She liked having me at home and was always very sorry when the holidays were over.
Chapter Nine
There was a great deal of argument in the family as to whether or not I should leave school but at last, when I had begun to feel hopeless, father and mother gave in quite suddenly and it was arranged as I wanted. Curiously enough it was mother who was dead against the idea and had to be persuaded . . . and even after it was all settled she still had doubts.
“I hope we’re doing the right thing,” she said with a sigh.
It was a Saturday morning and we were in church together arranging the flowers.
“Of course it’s the right thing,” I told her. “I’m going to be able to help you in all sorts of ways. You like having me at home, don’t you?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m worried about it.”
I was just going to ask what she meant when Mrs. Rickaby came in with a basket of roses.
“Of course you needn’t use them, Mrs. Morris,” said Mrs. Rickaby. “Next Saturday is my proper day for flowers, but they’ll be past their best, so I thought——”
“Oh, we must use them!” exclaimed mother. “They’re perfectly lovely.”
We had done the vases already, with flowers from the Vicarage garden, but mother knew that Mrs. Rickaby would be disappointed if we didn’t use her roses so we emptied the vases and helped Mrs. Rickaby to arrange them . . . and she went away smiling happily.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened – and wouldn’t be the last – for although there was a list in the porch with the names of the people who had promised to bring flowers, and the dates upon which they were to bring them, they sometimes forgot all about it or brought them too late or brought them on the wrong day – which made trouble. That was why mother made a point of being in church every Saturday morning.
There had been trouble one Saturday morning last January when mother was helping Minnie to make marmalade. When I went to fetch mother she was sitting at the kitchen table cutting up the skins of the Seville oranges and the kitchen was full of the sweet tangy smell of the fruit.
“Oh, goodness! Is it ten already?” exclaimed mother. “You had better go, Sarah. Mrs. Stanley always comes early.”
“Shall I arrange the vases or wait for you?”
“Oh, just do them – unless she wants to arrange them herself – I want to finish these strips for Minnie. Don’t forget the key.”
I took the key of the church out of the drawer in the hall and walked up the path to church, feeling very pleased with myself (mother had never let me arrange the altar vases before), and I found Mrs. Price waiting in the porch with a bunch of white carnations and asparagus fern.
I was deputising for mother so I said, “Oh, Mrs. Price, what lovely carnations! Did you grow them yourself?”
“Yes, they’re very fine specimens; Mr. Price grew them in his green-house,” said Mrs. Price. She added, “You’re late. I’ve been hanging about in this draughty porch for ten minutes; my feet are frozen.”
It was only just after ten, but I said, “Oh, I’m sorry! You see Minnie is making marmalade this morning and Mother always cuts the strips herself; Father likes them cut very thin.”
“I always put the oranges through the mincer,” said Mrs. Price crossly. “I’ve got far too much to do without fancy touches like that. I suppose Mrs. Morris is coming later to arrange the flowers – I can’t wait any longer.”
“Mother said I could arrange the flowers this morning.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Price, looking at me doubtfully. “Oh well . . . but don’t leave them lying about for hours.”
“Of course not! I’ll do them at once,” I said, and I added tactfully, “I’m sure Mother will be delighted when she sees your beautiful carnations.”
“They’re particularly fine ones so she ought to be delighted,” said Mrs. Price.
As I took the huge iron key out of my pocket and opened the church door I decided that it was a very strange thing for her to say: the flowers weren’t a present for mother; it was Mrs. Price who ought to be delighted to have her carnations put on the altar. However, you couldn’t expect a stupid old thing like Mrs. Price to see that.
I put the carnations in the front pew, they would be safe there, and went through the vestry into the flower-room to get the vases ready. Four altar vases had been given to St. Mary’s by Sir Clive Hudson of Brailsford in memory of his father. Sir Clive never came to church, so it was rather surprising that he had thought of giving the vases, but we were glad to have them; they were heavy brass vases and well shaped so it was easy to arrange flowers in them. We used them a lot and always kept them well polished.
I was polishing the vases when someone knocked on the outside door of the vestry. It was Mrs. Stanley with a bunch of pale pink carnations in her hand.
“Oh!” I exclaimed in dismay.
Mrs. Stanley smiled. “Did I g
ive you a fright, Sarah?”
“Oh no, it was just——”
“I’m afraid I’m a little late.”
“It doesn’t matter a bit. What lovely carnations!”
“I told Mrs. Morris I’d bring pink carnations if I could get them. Is she here this morning?”
I explained about the marmalade.
“Mrs. Morris is absolutely right,” declared Mrs. Stanley. “I always cut the strips myself. Is she coming later?”
“Mother said I could arrange the flowers if you hadn’t time.”
“Would you like to do them, Sarah?”
“Well, yes – I would. You see Mother has never let me do them before.”
“I’m sure you’ll arrange them beautifully,” said Mrs. Stanley. She put her carnations on the draining-board near the sink and went away.
I fetched Mrs. Price’s white carnations and put them beside the pink ones . . . and looked at them and wondered what on earth to do. It was all my fault, of course. I remembered now, when it was too late, that mother had said it was Mrs. Stanley’s day. I had been so pleased with myself because mother had trusted me to do the flowers that I had forgotten . . .
Well, it was no good wasting time; I decided to see what they looked like mixed. Carnations are expensive in January, so Mrs. Stanley had only brought eight – and there were seven white ones from Mr. Price’s green-house. I divided them between two vases, with the asparagus fern, and carried them into church and put them on the altar; then I stood back and looked at them.
I was still standing, looking at them, when mother came in.
“Oh, you’ve done them very nicely!” she exclaimed.
“I hope it’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right; they look beautiful.”
“I mean I hope it was all right to mix them. It was silly of me to get into a muddle. I didn’t know what to do . . . and Mrs. Price was so cross.”
“Mrs. Price?” asked mother in alarm.
I nodded.
“Tell me all, Sarah; I can’t bear the suspense.”
We went into the vestry and I told her. I was afraid she would be annoyed with me but she sat down on a wooden chair and laughed and laughed.
She laughed so heartily that I had to laugh too. “But I don’t know what we’re laughing at!” I gasped.
“They had a frightful row at the Work Party,” explained mother. “They haven’t spoken to each other for weeks.” She wiped her eyes and added seriously, “I’m not laughing at that; it makes me feel quite sick when people are horrid to each other, but it seems funny to me that you’ve mixed their flowers and they go together so well and look so beautiful. I’m not clever,” said mother. “Sometimes when people laugh I can’t see the joke . . . but sometimes I’m obliged to laugh at a joke which doesn’t seem funny to other people.”
“I think this is a very funny joke,” I told her.
“Do you, Sarah?”
“Yes, but I’d better change the flowers, hadn’t I? They may be angry.”
“No, don’t touch them, They look lovely – and there’s a sort of rightness about it. I don’t know why, exactly.”
I felt the same – so I left them. Anyhow Mrs. Price and Mrs. Stanley couldn’t blame mother because they both knew that I was going to do the flowers.
*
Father had promised to find “a Frenchwoman” and he set about it without delay; he put an advertisement in the Larchester Gazette and had several replies. Mademoiselle Bénet seemed the most suitable, she had a small flat in Larchester and took private pupils; she said she was very busy and could only take me for an hour twice a week . . . but she gave me books and I worked by myself at home. Mademoiselle Bénet was used to older pupils, and at first she was impatient with me, but after a bit she realised that I was very anxious to learn and she began to take more interest in my work. She was very strict about pronunciation and made me learn poetry and say the same words over and over again until I had got them right . . . then she suggested I should go to her three times a week, so I began to make better progress.
It was a busy winter for me: I worked hard at French; I read history, and father continued to teach me Latin; I helped Minnie in the kitchen and learnt to cook quite nicely. I did the shopping for mother, added up the accounts and paid the bills.
Lottie thought I was mad to leave school; she enjoyed dancing and games and was given quite a good part in the school play . . . but I was doing what I wanted and was perfectly happy at home.
Charles came down from Oxford several times; he played the piano and we went for walks together. He told me about his work at Oxford and lent me history books. It was lovely having Charles as my friend; I missed his visits very much when the long vacation began and he went back to Austria to see his family.
Chapter Ten
One day when I went to Mademoiselle Bénet for my French lesson she said, “You have been with me for nearly a year, Sarah, and you have worked well. At first I was doubtful because you were so young and your accent was deplorable. I thought it was very wrong of your parents to take you from school; I thought you would become lazy . . . but, no, you have persevered and you can speak quite nicely. You have a talent for languages, my child.”
“Have I really, Mademoiselle Bénet? Could I learn to speak other languages too?”
“Why not? But I cannot teach you other languages. Listen, Sarah, we are discussing your progress in French: you have learnt quickly, it is now practice that you require. It would be a good plan for you to go to France and stay with a French family.”
(We were speaking in French, of course. Mademoiselle Bénet wouldn’t let me speak a word of English.)
“But that is impossible!” I exclaimed. “My father would not allow it.”
“I think he would allow it if I were to explain what I have in mind,” said Mademoiselle Bénet, nodding thoughtfully. “I am going to Nivennes in August to stay with my parents for a month and I would take you with me. My parents are old – theirs would not be a suitable household for you – but I have friends in Nivennes who would be willing to have you. They are very respectable people, well thought of in the district. Monsieur Delormes is a wine-grower, he has a large estate; best of all there is a daughter of your own age.”
“Oh, I don’t think——”
“Ecoutez, Sarah! You are anxious to speak fluently and well. A month with the Delormes family would be of the greatest help.”
“It would be a nuisance for you to——”
“I shall be happy to take you, Sarah. It will be company for me on the long journey.”
She talked to father and mother about her plan and they agreed to it at once. I had been quite sure they would refuse to let me go, so I was surprised . . . and a little frightened.
It was while mother and I were buying some cotton frocks for my visit to Nivennes that I discovered why they had agreed so easily: the education of Lewis and Willy and Lottie was costing a great deal of money and my education was costing practically nothing; they felt it was unfair.
“And you’ve worked so hard,” added mother.
As the day of departure drew near I became more and more frightened but I was too proud to say so – and I realised that if I wanted to speak French “fluently and well” it was a wonderful opportunity – so I determined to face the alarming new experience with courage. It took every bit of courage I possessed.
*
It was dark when we arrived at Nivennes; we had left London yesterday morning and I felt as if we had been travelling for weeks. As usual after a train journey my head was aching so my first impression of the place was unhappy. Mademoiselle Bénet was met at the station by her parents, who fell upon her neck with cries of delight. I stood by, feeling wretchedly homesick and wishing I hadn’t come.
I was almost in tears when Mademoiselle Bénet remembered me. “Ah, la petite!” she exclaimed, and introduced me to the two old people. Then her eye fell upon a short stout figure in a voluminous cape an
d a trilby hat; she pounced upon him crying, “Monsieur Delormes!” and explained that this was “la petite Anglaise” and she had brought me safely all the way from England and would confide me to his care.
Monsieur Delormes greeted me without enthusiasm and, taking my suitcase, led me to his car.
“She is a talker,” he mumbled – in French, of course. “Her tongue never stops wagging.”
“She is very kind,” I said.
“Oh, you speak French? I thought you had come here to learn.”
“I have come to learn to speak better. I want to speak like a French girl.”
Monsieur Delormes was delighted at this news; he smiled and explained that they had been dreading the visit of a young lady who could speak not a word of their language . . . all the more so because neither he nor Madame Delormes could speak a word of English. “This will make your visit very much more pleasant,” he declared.
I wondered why they had consented to have me.
“Yvonne will be pleased too,” he added.
“Yvonne is your daughter, Monsieur Delormes?”
“Yes . . . and I have a son also. He is a very fine child and extremely clever. Already he trots after me when I tend the vines. Some day the vineyard will belong to him, you understand, so it is good that he should interest himself in La Touche. Look, here is the auto, Mees Morreese! We have not far to go.”
We hadn’t far to go but it was uphill all the way, and “the auto” was so old and decrepit that it laboured up in low gear. Monsieur Delormes continued to talk of his son and his vineyard so by the time we arrived I was full of information. He was friendly and pleasant and I was so pleased to find that I could understand all he said that I began to feel more cheerful.
It was too dark to see the place that night but afterwards I discovered that the house stood on the side of a hill and had a wide view of the surrounding country. The vines grew in orderly rows upon broad terraces facing south and west. Monsieur Delormes explained to me that this was why the small white grapes ripenened early . . . La Touche was noted for its delicious golden wine.
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