by Jess Foley
Miss Baker drew herself up a little under his cold glance. ‘Not at all, Mr Savill. As I said to you, I was merely doing what I thought was the best thing for her. If I may say so, sir, I’m not exactly – inexperienced as a governess. I’ve taught many children over the years. Children of good families, naturally. Although, I must confess, I haven’t taught any of the – the poorer children in the past, nevertheless it doesn’t take long to learn certain things about them. And with all due respect, sir, they are not like Miss Marianne. She’s a dear child, sir – sweet, clever, obliging and –’
‘Quite,’ Savill broke in. ‘But we’re not talking of my daughter.’
The governess gave a little nod. ‘No, well – the – the poorer children, the lower classes …’ She came to a stop before his penetrating gaze.
‘Yes?’ He prompted her.
‘Well – they have to know their place, sir. They have to.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. ‘You keep referring to “they”. Who exactly are “they”, Miss Baker? I take it you’re meaning Blanche.’
‘Well – yes.’ Then, taking a half step forward she went on: ‘Mr Savill, if I might say so, I do not take my position as teacher lightly. On the contrary, I take it very, very seriously. I have made studies of all the great educationalists of the past – and of their methods. And I’m quite certain that it’s a mistake to educate a person out of his class. As Mr Lowe said, “the lower classes –”’
‘Mr Lowe?’ There was a note of impatience in Savill’s voice. ‘Who is he?’
‘Mr Robert Lowe, Minister for Education under Palmerston.’
‘Oh, that Mr Lowe.’
‘Yes, sir. He said the lower classes “ought to be educated to discharge the duties cast upon them”. And as a conscientious teacher I try to keep his words in mind, sir. That is one of my aims as a teacher, to fit a child for the life and the world that is before him.’ A little pause then, taking another step forward, she said, ‘Mr Savill, forgive me if this sounds impertinent, but with all due respect, I’ve known a good many more children than you have, and I tell you, sir, it is a mistake to allow one’s better nature to be – be taken advantage of.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. His expression was unreadable.
The governess ventured a little smile and shook her head. ‘Oh, I do regret very much that this has happened, sir. Believe me, I do. And I will admit that I was a little – hasty. But the child – Blanche – is very forward and extremely self-willed – traits one mustn’t give in to, of course – and I’m afraid as a result things got a little out of hand. But it’s all just a storm in a teacup, sir, that’s all. I’m quite sure that in another day or two she – Blanche – will have forgotten all about it.’
‘Really.’
At his tone Miss Baker nodded uncertainly, peering anxiously at him through her spectacles. ‘To tell you the truth, sir,’ she went on, ‘in my opinion Blanche is not – well – not the best company for Miss Marianne.’
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’ He sounded interested.
She shrugged. ‘Oh, I know there’s no denying that Blanche has a certain – cleverness, but nonetheless I don’t think she’s exactly the – the ideal company for a girl like Miss Marianne.’ She came to a stop.
‘Please – go on.’
‘Well, sir, for a start Blanche is inclined to be mischievous – and she leads Miss Marianne into things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, only last week, for instance, they just – vanished from the house, right after lunch, and I found out quite by chance that they had gone down to Blanche’s home. I went after them and met them on their way back. They said they had gone to look at some rabbits belonging to one of Blanche’s brothers. I don’t mind telling you, sir, I’d been very worried.’
Savill said nothing. Warming to her subject, the governess went on:
‘And yesterday, sir, when you allowed Miss Marianne to go to tea at the Farrars’, she came back with mud all over her coat and boots. She told me she had gone out for a walk with Blanche and her brother, and that she had slipped and fallen whilst crossing the heath.’
‘She wasn’t hurt, was she? She didn’t mention it to me when I saw her before she went to bed. According to what she said she had had a very enjoyable time.’
‘Oh, no, she wasn’t hurt, sir. But I just think that – well, to be honest – I think it was a mistake to have allowed her to go in the first place. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, sir, but – after all, as Marianne’s governess, then naturally I do have certain – views.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And I’ve felt the same thing on the few other occasions you’ve allowed her to accompany Blanche back to her home.’ She shook her head. ‘It just doesn’t seem somehow – fitting.’
‘You think the Farrar home is – beneath Marianne, do you?’
‘Well, in all honesty, sir – yes. I don’t really think it’s the ideal place for her to go. You know what some of those places are like, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Some of them, I do – yes …’ He paused. ‘Have you been inside the Farrars’ home?’
Miss Baker shook her head. ‘Oh, no, sir. Mrs Farrar asked me in but I – I declined.’
He was silent for some moments, then he said, ‘I don’t know what the sum of your experience is, Miss Baker, but whatever it is I don’t want it imposed on my daughter. If you recall, I told you at the start that although I wanted Marianne to have every care, I did not want her to be wrapped in cotton wool.’
‘Oh, yes – of course, sir …’
‘And as regards Blanche, it appears that you’ve made up your mind that because she’s from a poor background she is not fit company for Marianne and, in addition, only deserves some kind of inferior education. It was not up to you, though, to make such a decision. On the contrary, it was your responsibility to treat her as you would any other pupil – my daughter or any other in your care. It was not encumbent upon you to make the child feel different or inferior. I gave you your instructions at the beginning and I expected them to be carried out. If they were not – and I made it clear to you – then you would have to find yourself another post.’
‘Sir – Mr Savill – I’m afraid this is all the result of a – a foolish misunderstanding.’
‘Oh? But you assured me that you understood me perfectly.’
He continued to gaze at her for some moments then looked down at his desk and took up some papers. The governess remained standing there. After a few moments she said:
‘Do I take it that I am dismissed, sir?’
He looked up and nodded. ‘You do indeed, Miss Baker. This time, it seems, there is no misunderstanding.’ He paused. ‘I will give you references if you require them, of course. You may leave as soon as you wish, and I trust you will find your next position more suitable than you’ve found this one – and that you’re not faced with the problem of having your duties conflict with your beliefs.’
When the governess had gone Savill rang for the maid and sent her to fetch Blanche to him. He was still sitting at his desk when there came a light tap on the door. He called out, ‘Come in,’ and the door opened and Blanche entered.
‘Hello, Blanche.’
‘You wanted to see me, sir.’
‘Yes, Blanche.’ He got up, went to her and led her to the chair where earlier Marianne had sat to answer his questions. When she was seated he pulled up his own chair before her and gave her a grave little smile.
‘Are you all right now?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘Good. You mustn’t be distressed any more.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘It’s all over now, all that – that foolish business. It’s all finished with.’
‘Yes.’ She paused, then a frown touched her brow. ‘What did Miss Baker mean when she said all you felt for me was pity – and it’s the only reason I’m here?’
‘Now – listen …’ He paused, searchi
ng for the right words, then, leaning forward, he took one of her small hands in his. ‘I want you to forget all that Miss Baker said to you up in the schoolroom today. She didn’t mean it – and anyway she was mistaken. You’re too young now to understand everything, but one day you will and then you’ll see that people have all kinds of reasons for doing the things they do.’
She gazed at him solemnly out of her wide blue eyes. He went on:
‘And I don’t only mean Miss Baker. I mean everybody. You – and me – and Marianne … Like your coming here to stay with Marianne. When you first came it was for her sake – for our sake – not for yours.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand that?’
She nodded.
‘Good. And you must remember that. You didn’t come here for what we could give to you, but for what you could give to us. D’you see?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that went on for a long time. And we were very – very glad – and thankful to you.’
‘Oh.’ A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth.
He was silent for a moment, then he went on again: ‘And if things change – the reasons as to why you’re here – then you must remember that however much they change it’s still only because of what happened at the beginning – because of what you did for us.’
She nodded. The nod came too quickly, though, and he realized that she didn’t understand.
‘When you were small, you and Marianne – when you were both very small she – she needed you.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘And because she needed you – you came here to stay with her.’
‘Ah, yes …’
‘And because of all that happened at that time, so long ago, you stayed on with her. And let me tell you that we’re very glad that you did. Both Marianne and I.’
Blanche nodded.
‘One day, of course, you’ll be going back to your own home – to live all the time with your family again.’ He paused. ‘You do realize that, don’t you?’
She said nothing to this, just looked at him. The frown touched her brow again and he could see a little shadow of concern in her eyes.
‘You do understand that, don’t you?’ he said gently.
After a moment she nodded. Then she said, ‘Miss Baker said that I –’
He broke in: ‘Look, never mind what Miss Baker said. Just remember what I’m saying to you now. And remember that you will only return home when your mother decides. It’s up to your mama. Until she decides she wants you back then you’ll stay – and while you stay you must remember that we want you here. D’you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Gently he pressed her hand. ‘Now you go on back upstairs and join Marianne. She’ll be wondering where you are.’
Blanche stayed where she was. ‘Miss Baker is upstairs too.’
‘Don’t worry about Miss Baker. She won’t say anything to you. Now, run along upstairs.’
After a moment she got down from the chair, moved across the room and opened the door. In the open doorway she turned back and looked at him. He smiled at her.
‘All right now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. No more tears?’
‘No.’ She paused then added, ‘I wish I hadn’t cried this afternoon.’
‘Oh – don’t think about that. We all cry at some time.’
She thought about this for a moment. Then she said, ‘Anyway – I’ll never cry for Miss Baker again.’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t cry for a hundred Miss Bakers.’
Chapter Fifteen
The new Trowbridge Town Hall had been opened earlier that year, 1889, by the Duchess of Albany to mark the Queen’s golden jubilee, two years before. Now at its imposing entrance Ernest and Fanny stood reading the notice there.
THE PHONOGRAPH COMES TO TROWBRIDGE!
Tonight at 7.30 pm, Saturday, 16th November an
exhibition of the lastest marvel of science
Hear, captured for eternity by means of the Phonograph, the voices of the famous! Listen to the voice of Madame Patti as she sings ‘Una Voce Poco Fa’. Listen to the voice of Tennyson as he recites: ‘O! for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still …’
Come Inside and Witness a Demonstration of Edison’s newest invention, as presented by Mr Lloyd, who will also give a versatile and interesting account of the uses of this fascinating and beautiful machine.
Admission 2/- 1/- 6d
‘It’s a wonderful thing,’ Ernest said. He stood with Fanny’s arm linked with his, she standing back slightly, a little removed from his enthusiasm. He gave a slow, wondering shake of his head. ‘To think of a machine being able to hold a human voice – and then to be able to give it out whenever you want.’ He had read of the machine when it had first come out over a year ago, but this was the first time it had been seen in Trowbridge. He began to read the notice again, but Fanny gave a little sigh and pulled on his arm.
‘Oh, come on, Ernie,’ she said. ‘It’s ‘alf over now. And besides, it’s too dear.’
He nodded. ‘Yeh, I s’pose you’re right.’
‘Anyway,’ she added, her tone dismissive. ‘It’s only another nine days wonder. Do they truly think folk have nothing better to do than sit down and listen to machines all day long?’ She pulled on his arm again, and reluctantly he turned and they moved off.
Trowbridge was the usual venue of those from the nearby villages who wanted a more alert, lively atmosphere than that found on their own doorsteps, and Ernest and Fanny were no exceptions. Finding little to do in Hallowford on a Saturday night they had walked the four miles from the village. They knew Trowbridge well, particularly Fanny who, like her father, worked as a machine operator at the Castle Court Mill where the world-famous West of England broadcloth was produced.
From the Town Hall they crossed Silver Street into Fore Street where they stopped to spend an hour over coffee in a small coffee shop. Outside again they strolled hand in hand, passing by the cattle marketplace where a brief, pale smell of dung came to them on the November air. They made their way on down Castle Street, coming at last to the bridge over the Biss. There they stopped, standing side by side in the light from the gaslamp, looking down into the dark of the moving water below. Now, very faintly on the breeze, came the smell from the malthouse. Straightening and moving nearer to Fanny, Ernest put his arm across her shoulder and drew her closer to his side. She gave a little sigh and briefly laid her head on his shoulder. He turned her to him and bent his face to hers.
‘Ah, Fan,’ he murmured, ‘I do love you so.’
‘I love you too, Ernie.’
He kissed her, lightly at first and then more insistently. After a few moments she drew back her head. ‘It’s too public in the lamplight,’ she said. ‘Someone’ll see us.’
‘Ah, to hell with ‘em.’
She chuckled. ‘All right for you to say that.’
Ernest and Fanny had seen one another about the village for most of their lives, during which time they had barely taken notice of the other’s existence. But then in the late summer of last year they had found themselves together at a village dance. Since then they had spent more and more time together, meeting two or three evenings during the weeks and at weekends.
Now, in a sudden rush of affection, Ernest drew her to him, kissed her again and then stood looking down into her face. Sometimes lately he felt hardly able to believe his luck. Fanny was just about the sweetest, prettiest girl he had ever seen. Coming up to just above his shoulder, her neat, trim little figure was dressed in a woollen coat of olive green with a paler green braiding. On her red-gold hair she wore a little bonnet of green velvet, trimmed with ribbon. Her eyes, laughing up at him now, were a greenish-grey. She had a short, pert, freckled little nose and a soft, pink little mouth that turned up at the corners and which, when she smiled, as now, set tiny dimples in her cheeks. It was no wonder at all to him that Charlie Durbin from Hallowford, and Tim Higham who worked near her at the factory, should
both be trying their luck with her. Neither one of them would have her, though; he was determined on that score.
He kissed her again and she returned the kiss. Then as they broke apart she said with a sigh, ‘I suppose we’d better get back home. There’ll be ructions if I’m late.’ She pulled up the collar of her coat and sighed again. ‘Oh, I wish I didn’t have to live at home.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s no privacy – no room. Having to do what you’re told all the time. I ‘ates it.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d like to go away from Hallowford. There’s never anything to do there.’
‘Where else would you live, then?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind livin’ here in Trowbridge. Would you? For a start you could get a better job. One that paid better.’
‘Work in the brewery or in one of the mills? No, I wouldn’t want to be cooped up all day long in some factory. Anyway, I like Hallowford all right.’
‘But you wouldn’t want to live there after we’re married, would you?’
Fanny had brought up the subject of marriage on several occasions over the past few weeks. Ernest wanted marriage, but it just wasn’t possible yet. They were too young.
‘When d’you think it’ll be, Ernie?’ she said, ‘– our getting married?’
‘Oh, Fan – we’ve got some time yet before we seriously start thinking about that. It’s too soon yet.’
‘I don’t know why you say that,’ she responded quickly, ‘– Robbie Soames is getting married – and he’s only eighteen, same as you.’
‘Yes, maybe, but perhaps Robbie Soames can afford it.’
‘Well – I don’t think ‘e’s got that much in the way of money.’
‘No, and ain’t got that much in the way o’ sense, neither. Anyway – I couldn’t leave our mam yet. She depends on me.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I’ll ‘ave to wait a while till the others are a bit older. Our Arthur’s earnin’ a bit now – and our Agnes, too, so maybe after a while, in two-three years –’
‘Two-three years?’
‘Don’t say it like that, Fan. It’s not a lifetime. It’ll soon pass.’