So Long At the Fair

by Jess Foley

  ‘Miss Morris,’ Carstairs said, acknowledging her with a slight nod. Turning to the class he motioned to the children to be seated. Obediently they sat, with the exception of Tom Gilpin who remained standing at Abbie’s desk, looking undecided as to what to do. With a faint smile at the boy, Abbie murmured that he also might go and sit down. Needing no second bidding, he moved back to his seat.

  She turned back to the man. There was no hint of pleasure in his cold eyes or his thin-lipped mouth. She wondered again what he was doing there. His visit was unannounced and she could only suppose that he had come in the hope of catching her out – of finding her to be wanting in some way. Well, let him go on hoping, she said to herself; the Board would have difficulty in faulting her teaching – she made sure of that – added to which her pupils’ exam results had been generally very good under her tuition – better than they had been under the previous schoolmistress, Miss Beacham.

  ‘And how are we, Miss Morris?’ Carstairs asked, standing a yard or two away from her. Before she could answer he gestured with his hand. ‘Do sit down, please.’

  As Abbie sat, the man gazed somewhat appraisingly at her for a moment, then said, ‘Is everything all right?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Good.’ He briefly surveyed the class, then, turning back to Abbie, said, ‘Don’t let me interrupt you. What are the children doing right now?’

  ‘Some of the children have been writing phrases and short sentences,’ she said. ‘The others have been working on English compositions.’

  He nodded, glanced down at Abbie’s desk and picked up the paper that Tom Gilpin had left. He read what was written, took in the name at the top of the paper and raised his eyes to the class. ‘Who is Thomas Gilpin?’ he asked.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Tom raised his hand. ‘Please, sir – me, sir.’

  ‘Stand up, boy.’

  Nervously the boy got to his feet.

  ‘Christmas has to be given a capital “c”,’ Carstairs said. ‘And there’s no “e” in skating.’ He looked back at the paper. ‘The word should be “frozen”, not “froze”, and the word union doesn’t begin with a “y”. Anyway, what do you know of unions, boy?’

  Tom gave a little shrug. ‘Not much, sir. Miss was just telling us about them.’

  Carstairs raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. And what exactly was Miss Morris telling you?’

  ‘Well – about the unions, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘About the bosses making the workers work too hard.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well – how in a union the workers get together, so that they’re stronger and so that the bosses will listen. She told us that when –’

  ‘Thank you.’ Carstairs motioned with his hand. ‘You may sit down.’

  As the boy sat, Carstairs turned to Abbie, looked at her for a moment and then took out his watch. ‘There’s only a little while to go before classes end for the day,’ he said. ‘Might I suggest that you dismiss the children now?’

  Abbie got to her feet. ‘Thank you, children. Class is dismissed now. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.’

  She remained standing as the children left their seats, took their coats from the hooks and went from the room. When the last one had gone Carstairs closed the door and turned back to her.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would appear that I did right in stopping by the classroom this afternoon.’

  Abbie said nothing.

  ‘When you first came before the Board of School Governors,’ he went on, ‘it was made perfectly clear to you that this kind of thing would not be tolerated.’

  ‘What kind of thing is that, sir?’ Abbie said, though she knew full well what he meant.

  ‘I think you know what I mean. I’m referring to this dissemination of your rather – modern ideas. Miss Morris, you are here to teach the children to read and write, not to fill their heads with so-called progressive ideas of socialism and equality.’

  ‘Sir, I did not volunteer to speak on the matter of trades unions,’ Abbie said. ‘The subject came up when the boy wrote of unions in his composition. He asked me what a union was. I merely tried to explain.’

  ‘Is that so,’ he said sceptically.

  ‘Yes, it is so. And if you wish to verify it I suggest you ask the boy concerned.’

  Carstairs glared at her. ‘Miss Morris, your tone is insolent. I have no intention of questioning the boy. I can rely on the evidence of my own eyes and ears, and to me the situation is perfectly clear.’

  ‘I am not being insolent,’ Abbie said. ‘I merely wish to tell you what happened. The boy asked me what a union was, and I answered his question. Surely that’s part of my reason for being here – to answer the children’s questions – to try to enlighten them as far as I am able.’

  ‘Ah, enlighten. An interesting choice of word.’

  ‘Mr Carstairs, I’m only trying to do my job – to the best of my ability.’

  ‘Which you think includes stirring up unrest, do you?’

  ‘Unrest? I simply told them what unions are.’

  ‘Unions! Huh.’ Carstairs’s tone made clear what he felt about such a concept.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Abbie said, growing angry. ‘I know there are many people who would like to believe that such things as trades unions don’t exist – for example, those rich employers who got their wealth by exploiting the poor – and their sycophants and hangers-on who would do anything to support them. But times are changing and the poor are demanding a voice. And unions do exist, whether some people like it or not – and as time goes on there will be more of them. And if they help to bring about a fairer and more humane system, then they can only be a good thing.’

  She came to a halt, aware that her voice had been rising.

  Carstairs was looking at her as if unable to believe his ears. ‘Well, Miss Morris,’ he said, ‘perhaps I shouldn’t be too surprised at such an outburst. After all, this incident doesn’t mark the first time I’ve had occasion to doubt the wisdom of continuing to employ you in the classroom.’

  Abbie was taken aback at this. What occasions did he mean? Since she had been employed at the school she had been careful never to put a foot wrong. She drew herself up. ‘I have never failed in my work in this school,’ she said stiffly. ‘And I would remind anyone who is in doubt that my exam results have been better than those of any other teacher here over the past ten years.’

  ‘In this instance,’ Carstairs said, ‘I was referring to the matter of your mother living with you in the schoolhouse.’

  Abbie’s spirits sank lower. She was quite sure that he must be aware of the cause of her mother’s illness and subsequent death; such knowledge would not have been kept from him. ‘The Board of Governors gave their approval,’ she said. ‘I was given permission for my mother to live with me.’

  ‘Indeed you were.’ He nodded. ‘Though not by me. I was not one of those who accepted – or condoned – such a situation.’

  ‘You’d have had me turn her away, would you, sir?’

  He avoided her eye. ‘It is immaterial what I would have done. Though had the situation continued I rather think that the other members of the Board would have had second thoughts about the wisdom of allowing your mother to remain with you.’ A pause, then he added: ‘And you know, of course, what I mean. I’m sure you were even more aware than others of your mother’s . . . weakness.’

  Her cheeks burning, Abbie remained silent while he moved away. In the open doorway he turned back to face her. ‘You leave me in something of a quandary,’ he said.

  She waited.

  ‘I am not unaware,’ he went on, ‘that your mother died only months ago, and it is not my wish to add to your difficulties. I could recommend your instant dismissal for what I’ve witnessed this afternoon – but I wouldn’t wish to be thought lacking in humanity or sensitivity. However, there must never be another such episode as has occu
rred this afternoon.’

  ‘Sir –’ Abbie began, but he raised a hand in an imperious gesture for silence.

  ‘On this occasion,’ he said, ‘I am prepared to let the matter ride. But, as I say, it must never happen again. And as an insurance I shall expect you to give me your word, in writing, that you will not again resort to this . . . unacceptable socialist indoctrination of your pupils. You know where I live, I believe? Fine. I shall expect your letter.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Understand – there are numerous young women who would be only too glad of the opportunity to step into your shoes.’ He paused. ‘It is Wednesday today. I shall expect your letter by Saturday afternoon at, say, five o’clock at the latest.’ He gave a slight inclination of his head. ‘I wish you good day.’

  With his final words he turned and went from the room.

  ‘Abbie . . . ?’

  The voice came to her from out of the stillness and she gave a little start and pressed a hand to her breast. Louis stood in his overcoat in the open doorway of the schoolroom, his hat in his hand.

  ‘Oh – Louis,’ she said, ‘– you startled me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I called at the cottage but got no answer – then I saw a light burning in here.’

  Abbie realized that some considerable time must have passed since Carstairs’s departure. The classroom was quite dark apart from the area around her desk that was illuminated by the oil lamp. She realized too that the stove had gone out.

  ‘The devoted schoolmistress.’ Louis smiled. ‘Working so late – and in the cold.’ He set down his hat and sat on one of the children’s desks, facing her. ‘What are you doing – correcting your students’ work?’

  ‘No. I’ve been writing a letter. I wasn’t aware how the time had gone by.’

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ She looked down at the envelope containing the letter. ‘I’ve finished. I was just sitting here dreaming.’ She placed the envelope, addressed to Mr Carstairs, in her bag and began to gather up her things. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘That would be very nice.’

  ‘I’ll lock up here and we’ll go home.’

  He took up his hat. ‘I’ve just been calling on one of my patients nearby and thought I’d take the opportunity to see how you are.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. And I’m very well.’

  ‘Are you? You seem somewhat – preoccupied.’

  ‘Oh . . . No – I’m all right.’

  With Louis carrying the lantern she put out the lamp, took up her coat and bag, and followed him to the door. When she had locked it behind them they made their way across the yard to the schoolhouse. Inside, Abbie lit the lamps, made up the fire and put on the kettle. It was almost six. They kept their outer clothing on while the room was getting warmer. Abbie, glancing up from placing a log on the fire, found Louis gazing at her. As their eyes met he lowered his glance while she in turn straightened before the mirror and adjusted some of the pins in her hair.

  After a time the kettle began to sing. They took off their coats and she made tea, and they sat drinking it while they spoke in a desultory way of unimportant things. Sometimes, during their more recent meetings, there had seemed to be a certain restraint between them that got in the way of the former ease of their conversation. It was the same this evening. In a very short time their talk became stilted and interspersed with silences, and Abbie became increasingly aware of his nearness. She could find no peace with him tonight. And following so soon after the scene with Carstairs, his presence seemed disturbing. She looked at him as he sat beside the fire, his tall, strong frame bent slightly towards the warmth while the glow of the flames reflected in his cheek. Before long, however, he put down his cup and got to his feet.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve got things on your mind.’

  She rose and stood looking at him while he put on his coat. ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if you would do me a kindness . . .’

  ‘Of course . . .’

  She moved to her bag and took out the letter. ‘You’ll be going past Hawthorn Lane, won’t you? Could you deliver this at the Grange for me? That’s the large house on the corner.’ As Louis took the envelope she added, ‘It’s to Mr Carstairs. He’s one of the School Governors.’

  Louis was looking at her a little strangely. Then as if making a decision he took a breath and said, ‘Abbie – I lied when I said I called on you while I was here seeing one of my patients.’

  She barely heard him, and didn’t register his words. The letter was in his hand; it was still not too late.

  ‘I – I wanted to see you,’ he was saying. ‘I wanted –’ He came to a stop. ‘Abbie, are you hearing what I’m saying?’

  ‘Oh, Louis, I’m so sorry.’ She gave a distracted shake of her head. ‘What did you say?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s all right. Quite obviously this isn’t the right time.’

  ‘No, please – what were you saying?’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll wait till another time. It’s quite clear that you have things on your mind at present.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘I’m poor company right now, I know. My letter . . .’ She gestured to the letter in his hand, hesitated, then said: ‘Mr Carstairs came to my classroom this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes . . . ? And . . . ?’

  ‘He found that I had been talking to my pupils about the Agricultural Union.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘He was extremely angry. When the children had been dismissed he told me in no uncertain terms what he thought. Quite clearly he sees me as some kind of crusader who’s intent on upsetting the country’s social order.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  He looked down at the letter. ‘Why are you writing to him?’

  ‘He demanded it.’

  ‘Demanded it?’

  ‘Yes – he demanded that if I want to keep my position I send him a letter with a declaration that I will not in future – what were his words? – “resort to unacceptable socialist indoctrination . . .” So – I’ve written to him.’

  Louis frowned. ‘Are you sure you want to send this letter? I wouldn’t have thought you’d allow anyone to bully you in such a way.’

  ‘Nor would I.’

  She held out her hand for the letter and he gave it to her. The envelope was not sealed and she opened it and took out the folded sheet of notepaper. Handing it to him, she said: ‘This is my response to his ultimatum. You can read it.’

  He looked at her for a moment, then unfolded the paper and began to read aloud the words she had written.

  Dear Sir,

  You asked me to write to you and I am doing so. You made it very clear this afternoon that unless I gave you a written undertaking not to ‘resort to unacceptable socialist indoctrination’ of my pupils I would forthwith be replaced in my post as schoolmistress. I tried to tell you that I have never attempted any kind of indoctrination of my students. In accordance with my instructions I have taught them the three Rs (to the success of which the annual examination results will attest) and, using my best talents and abilities, have attempted also to impart to them some knowledge of our history and of our place on the geographical map. I have also tried to instil within them some affection for the written word, in the hope that they will use it for their future pleasure and also as a means of bettering themselves and their situations. If this be regarded as sedition, then I must plead guilty to the charge.

  My reason for writing this letter, however, is neither to plead my case (which I feel I have no need to do) nor to give you the undertaking which you demanded. I wish merely to give you formal notice of my intention to leave my post at the close of the next term.

  Yours truly,

  Abigail Morris

  Louis raised his eyes to hers. ‘Once he’s read this you’ll never work as a teacher in this area ever again. You realize that, don’t you?’


  She took the letter from him and replaced it in the envelope. ‘Oh, yes. I could have said a lot more – told him what I think of him – but I shall need references and I mustn’t burn all my boats.’

  ‘But what will you do? Will you be happy giving up teaching? Which you’ll have to do – unless you become a governess. But then you’d have to live with your employers, for you’ll be forced to leave this cottage. Unless of course you go to live with your brother . . .’

  She smiled. ‘No, Louis, I have no intention of going to live with my brother – even if he invited me to.’ She paused. ‘Indeed – I don’t intend to live in Flaxdown.’

  ‘You – you don’t?’

  ‘No. By the time next Easter comes round I hope to be fixed up with a position in London.’

  He gazed at her in surprise. ‘You’re going to live in London?’

  ‘I intend to start looking for a position there right away.’

  ‘But – why London? There are places closer at hand where you could find work. You don’t need to travel so far.’

  She shrugged. ‘If I’m leaving Flaxdown I might as well go to London as anywhere else.’

  ‘But you’ll be so far away from – from your brother and your sisters.’

  ‘I know that, but I don’t play any major part in their lives any more. And I can still get to see them occasionally, I’m sure. Once I leave this post there’ll be nothing to keep me in Flaxdown.’

  ‘But why is it necessary for you to go to London?’

  ‘It isn’t exactly the end of the earth.’

  ‘It’s a very long way.’

  ‘Yes – but anyway, I’ve got friends there.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Well, yes – my friend Jane is there.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He paused. ‘You said friends – plural.’

  ‘I meant Jane. I shall try to find a place situated near her. It’ll be lovely to see her again. It’ll be like old times.’

  ‘Is she the only reason?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is she the only reason for your choosing London?’