Miss Boston and Miss Hargreaves

by Rachel Malik

  When work gave her time to wonder, she wondered about Elsie. There were many things she liked: her soft way with animals, the stripy curtains made out of shirts in the parlour, her love of the wireless. She enjoyed Elsie’s food too – the pies full of garden vegetables, the peppery potato bread, the rabbit stews – but she didn’t make too much of it. After all, it was only what Elsie might cook for herself, and she sensed that compliments made her nervous. This was as obvious to Rene as it was obscure to George Townsend. Rene found herself thinking back to that first afternoon. She had offered her hand to Elsie, and Elsie had reached out hers but it wasn’t a greeting – Elsie had reached out as if she were trapped and needed to be pulled out, pulled free. And Rene had opened the door and quickly, carefully, started to take the packages out from the back, babbling quite foolishly about nothing at all. (George, meanwhile, had hoped to be introduced but, finding himself forgotten, eventually turned the car round and drove back down the lane. He didn’t beep.)

  They had both stood for a moment at the gate, saying nothing, Elsie still flustered and clenched, and then she had picked up her packages and Rene, behind, had watched the awkward figure walk down the path towards the porch. It wasn’t a long path, it couldn’t have been more than thirty feet, but to Rene’s eyes it seemed much further for, as she watched, Elsie started to unstiffen and grow taller. It was such a change to see how she smoothed and straightened, such a change and quite remarkable. The hunched and frozen creature in the car was suddenly a woman who walked ahead, tall and loose. It happened in a matter of moments before her very eyes, the same woman who showed her round the farm, who fixed roofs and smashed the skulls of rats, the same woman who had made such pretty curtains and didn’t use blackout upstairs.

  3.

  Elsie Unked

  Unked, unkind, uncanny – now dialect

  unknown, strange – from ME

  awkward or troublesome, from unfamiliarity or novelty, against the grain (1634)

  unfamiliarly lone or dreary, solitary, forlorn, lonely – Cowper (1706)

  uncanny, eerie, weird – Rosetti (1866)

  uncouth …

  Oxford English Dictionary

  When Rene cycled to Lambourn to do her shopping, she soon realized that she wasn’t the only one wondering about Elsie: So you’re working up at Starlight with Miss Boston? Is she all on her own now? Are all her sisters gone? Other questions and the same ones she was asked, over and over, and Rene could only be glad she didn’t have the answers.

  ‘She’s lucky to have the help. I’m sure she’s grateful.’

  This odd remark came from old Mrs Morris, who was taking an age to measure out Rene’s tea and sugar.

  ‘I’ve known her since she was just a little thing. She and her sisters came into the shop when they first arrived. That was before the first war; my husband was alive then. Did you say you wanted the rashers?’

  Rene didn’t but she took them anyway. She’d been a land girl long enough to know that the stand-out uniform was a goad to some.

  The shop was dark and smelt of leather and linseed oil – you could have called it cosy – and Mrs Morris seemed very eager to be friendly.

  A few weeks later she went in to find her drinking a cup of tea with another old lady, a Mrs Blyth, tiny and withered and whip-crack sharp. Once she knew who Rene was, Mrs Blyth looked at her very carefully through blurred, cataract eyes.

  ‘Oh, so you’re up at Starlight, are you? Mrs Boston named it Starlight, did you know? I always thought it was a pretty name.’ She paused and raised her cup to her mouth with an unsteady hand, keeping her eyes on Rene all the while. ‘Some people in the village said it was fanciful, Starlight. We’re very plain people here, Miss Hargreaves.’

  Rene smiled politely and kept her attention on her stamps.

  ‘Poor Miss Boston, what a time she’s had. We all thought she’d give up when her dad died.’

  ‘I never did,’ Mrs Morris said, with some satisfaction. ‘She were always very independent-minded.’

  ‘Well, Phil Townsend was sure she wouldn’t stay. He said she was going to her sister in Reading.’

  Mrs Morris said something which Rene couldn’t catch, and Mrs Blyth wobbled the cup to her lips again.

  Rene moved back from the counter.

  ‘Came from London, the Bostons. Did you know?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t,’ said Rene and immediately wished she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Where are you from, Miss Hargreaves?’

  It was Mrs Blyth who spoke.

  ‘Manchester,’ Rene said and pushed open the door, the bell singing shrilly. She was glad to get outside. There was something heady in the atmosphere – she didn’t want to hear any more. And what did Rene know anyway? What did it amount to? That Elsie was a farmer – not a farmer’s wife, not a farmer’s widow. That her sisters had all gone and her brothers were on the memorial. That she was struggling and proud and would not give up. Rene didn’t need to know any more than that, certainly not from Mrs Blyth and Mrs Morris.

  If Rene had been willing to listen, she could have heard quite a story about her Miss Boston. Everyone agreed that Elsie was an odd one, unked since she was a little girl. The way animals attached themselves to her was the best of it. It was said, a little grudgingly, that she could gentle any animal, and as she got older she got quite a reputation for bringing sick creatures round. Old Jonas the herdsman remembered a warbler singing in her hand when she was just a little girl, and the rough black cat she kept for a shadow, it would claw anyone else to shreds.

  There were the stories about the examination of course, always told with relish, for she had been the star pupil. Elsie was going to be a teacher, it was as good as settled that she would replace Miss Davenant when she retired, but when the day of the examination came … no two stories were exactly alike. One girl said she had frozen when the papers were handed out and wrote nothing but her name in the whole two hours; another that she had torn the examination paper to shreds and stormed out of the schoolroom; another had her scribbling away like billy-o but it was all just loops and squiggles – little Vincent Crozier, who was practising his numbers, had seen it all. The only thing everyone agreed on was that Elsie had left school that day and never returned. No one could understand it, and Mr and Mrs Boston were so upset.

  There was also the tale of Tanner’s pond. The boys from Woodston, back late from a nature walk with their teacher, had come to an awkward halt on the other side of the pond, a nudging quiet. It should have been a laughing matter for the boys at least, but it wasn’t. They had stood and watched the girl who was lying in the shallows of the pond, her hair rippling in the pondweed, her body ruffled by water and light: green, pink, white. The teacher thought there had been an accident or worse. He gulped and readied to call across the water, but thankfully there was no need, for just then her hand came up to stroke the paw of the ruggy dog that sat beside her, guarding the neat pile of over-clothes. The girl didn’t stir again but the dog raised its muzzle and looked across at them steadily, as if willing them to be on their way. There were at least a dozen versions of this story – one for every boy and more, some saw a good deal more than others. When she grew older the boys and young men who liked her looks were bewildered by her manners. She was not unfriendly, you couldn’t call her high, but she wasn’t quite like other girls – she didn’t soften.

  But there was also Colonel Pinkie, who had bought one of the new villas further down Sheepdrove. In good weather he sat out much of the afternoon, reading, watching, popping inside at five to mix himself a gin. Even from the road, the colonel’s face was pink. Close up he was handsome and even pinker, his face and neck permanently reddened by the Mespot sun. He always called Rene over for a chat. He was watching for planes and birds with his binoculars and kept notes on unusual sightings. Would you tell Miss Boston I saw the goshawks again today? They must be nesting close by. And Rene felt a rush of warmth for the colonel with his handsome pink face. I’ll tell her.
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  Elsie wasn’t quite like other people, but that didn’t matter to Rene. Elsie, who had been to the pictures only twice, so long ago, and hated it; Elsie, who didn’t know how to gossip, who had never been to a dance or ever seen the sea: none of it mattered to Rene one bit, because she had fallen hook, line and sinker for Elsie’s lonely power.

  * * *

  By August, a slightly different routine had established itself at Starlight and though the two women still spent most of the day apart, the evening was shared. This change was of Elsie’s making. She invited Rene to sit with her, listening in to concerts and sometimes plays. Sometimes after the wireless ended, they played Patience. Elsie sat at the old desk beside the open window, the faint breeze making up just a little for the dull of the blackout; Rene sat in the armchair with the round japan tray on her knees. Rene only knew Clock and Soldiers but she was eager to learn. She didn’t quite ask Elsie, but she would go and stand behind her, watching – Do you mind? Oh, no – and quickly picked up Elsie’s favourites: Aces and Kings, Ladybird and Castle.

  As the population of Starlight had dwindled, Elsie’s determination had grown – No thanks, I can manage – but as the weeks went past she sometimes found herself saying to Rene, I’ll come and find you if I need any help. She rarely did – her own habits were so hardened – but she rather liked thinking that she could. She also found that she wanted to explain to Rene that Starlight didn’t use to be like this, that she worried things might have fallen too far back, that she was frightened for the future. There was a word Elsie had heard a good deal on the wireless in the past months in talk of allies and allegiance. The word was staunch. She liked the word, liked its sound and had an urge to use it, and then, one afternoon, she heard the sweep, scratch, sweep of Rene’s brush in the yard. She went to the kitchen window, looked out and saw Rene pausing to survey her handiwork, stroking her hair neatly back behind her ears. Well yes, yes of course, Rene was staunch and Elsie smiled out of the window, thinking she couldn’t be seen.

  She remembered little enough about the day that Rene had arrived. That awful journey back from Newbury, George Townsend. Rene had taken her hand, nice and friendly. Helpful, that was her first thought, or perhaps, not so young. Small; neat and wiry with her hair cut quite short. I’m Rene Hargreaves. She didn’t look comfortable; she didn’t have the high tones of Brockway, or look like Moira. Her worries had seemed to fall away. And they had sat in the kitchen quite easy, drinking tea and eating bread and butter. Older than she’d feared, quiet and polite, she did what she was asked. She always seemed to listen carefully, the quick nod, the serious eyes. A good listening sort of girl. Elsie also liked the occasional bursts of laughter, none of the chatter she had feared; even before the week was out, before Mrs Tranmer’s awkward visit, Elsie knew that Rene fitted. A stranger to be sure, but one who didn’t make her feel strange. The only odd thing was being called Miss Boston. Please call me Elsie, she found herself saying.

  She didn’t know much about Rene, only that she was a widow from Manchester. Her husband had died very recently, his name was Phillips – that was all. She didn’t think to ask why Rene called herself Hargreaves, she couldn’t know that she’d been told more than anybody else. Elsie didn’t ask many questions, but she did think that Rene sometimes worked too hard. Not showy work – Moira had been prize at that. Rene’s work was different: some things done too long, a yard brushed harder than necessary, the dairy tiles scrubbed and rubbed over and over – unwilling to give up the rhythm of the task.

  ‘You’re good with horses,’ Elsie said, matter of fact.

  They were standing by the stable door late one evening. Rene was rubbing the rough hair on Pickwick’s cheek with her knuckle and he whickered gently, happily. Elsie had brought the pony in because he looked lame; now she suspected he might have been shamming. He leant his head against Elsie’s then nodded it free and went back to his hay. Rene liked the warm smell of the pony in the stable. She had forked him out a deep straw bed; it was probably extravagant and she hoped that Elsie wouldn’t mention it. Rene slid the smooth bolt across the stable door with a jolt of memory for the great heads of the dray horses in the yard beside the Blue Elephant. Such gentle creatures but ghostly in the field on summer nights.

  They both paused for a moment, looking into the dark of the stable.

  ‘We had a lovely pony when we came here first, black nearly all over. He was called Prince. My dad bought him and a cart together at a farm sale. He had the kindest nature.’

  Elsie picked up the lantern but she didn’t move.

  ‘Where I grew up, there were brewery horses,’ Rene said. ‘I don’t remember their names now. The man in the yard used to pay us to brush them down. They were big – my friend Lily and I used to stand on chairs. But they were so gentle, never gave us any trouble.’

  ‘Big horses usually are.’

  ‘They had brown stains on their feathers and we tried to wash the stains out with soda.’

  Elsie laughed.

  ‘I can’t remember if it worked,’ Rene said.

  Elsie started to come in from the fields a bit earlier on Friday afternoons. It was Rene’s half day and the day she cycled to Lambourn to do her shopping (now taking Elsie’s ration book with her too). She enjoyed Rene’s return, the packages, the little bits of talk … no wheat flakes today … the bacon’s good and streaky … I didn’t get the gloves in the end … She enjoyed it all the more because she hadn’t had to run the gauntlet of the shops herself. There was quite a little routine on Fridays. Sometimes Elsie would be back before Rene returned from Lambourn and she would make the tea. Sometimes, and Elsie rather liked this, she would come in to find Rene already there: the tea made, the biscuits, which she would once have thought wasteful, laid out so neatly on the willow plate. And there was always the newspaper to read, if she so wanted. In the evening, once they had eaten and all their jobs were done, they would sit up quite late: first with the concert or the play on the wireless and then more tea and on with Patience, and the shuffle and slip-plat of cards on desk and tray would get slower and sometimes stop altogether as they talked about this and that. Rene had seen Colonel Pinkie up on Barrel Hill with his binoculars; Elsie had been talking to their other neighbours, Miss Troughton and Miss Lyle – they had asked her advice about their goat. And then Elsie was telling Rene all about Miss Troughton and Miss Lyle, who lived in the first of the new villas on Sheepdrove; retired schoolteachers, they kept a little car which was always breaking down, but they took it in good cheer. Over the weeks the never voluble Elsie found herself talking about all sorts, about Starlight and the land around, the other farms and her creeping fear of the Townsends, about Bert dying, and just a bit about Moira: a little Moira went a long way. Rene didn’t have much of her own to say, but Elsie did notice how carefully she listened, how much she remembered, and yet she never pressed her nose in too deep.

  No sign of Rene today, but she must be back because the water was heating on the stove and there was the Courier, open on the table. It was opened in the middle, a spread of advertisements which took up the whole two pages. Elsie walked round to the other side of the table to look. She could smell the print, strong and heady, as she read the slew of names: Gaumont, Savoy, Pavilion, Electric. Strong and heady in another way: items in a long list of places that Elsie didn’t want to visit; busy, crowded places she didn’t want to know. The cinema halls were suspect. I’m meeting him at the Electric, she could hear Moira say.

  A sound from upstairs – she nearly jumped. But then Elsie recognized Rene’s footsteps on the stairs, light and quick.

  Elsie looked down at the paper again: ALL NEW PROGRAMME FROM SATURDAY. Laugh It Off, A Window in London, Somewhere in England.

  She turned to see Rene watching her, smiling.

  ‘We used to go every Friday at the billet,’ Rene said. ‘Sometimes we went Sundays too. Is it very far to Reading? Could I get there and back in an afternoon?’

  Elsie busied herself at the sto
ve, poured the water into the pot, looked around for the lid.

  ‘You’d have to leave early,’ she said, ‘to get to Reading.’ Where was that lid?

  But Rene had it. She passed it to Elsie without saying anything. That little bubble on the rim always made it difficult to fit; she got it finally and then stood facing the stove, not knowing quite what to do.

  All at Sea.

  Rene folded the paper away, out of sight, set down the cups.

  They both moved to sit down. Rene smiled, quick and tentative.

  ‘I don’t especially want to go to Reading,’ she said. ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to go off early.’

  Elsie looked down; maybe she smiled very slightly.

  She took a biscuit; they tasted like sawdust.

  ‘The biscuits aren’t getting any better,’ Rene said.

  ‘I don’t know why you get them, it seems wasteful.’

  ‘I don’t know either. It feels like a treat to buy them.’

  Elsie said nothing but she definitely smiled.

  ‘There’s a play on tonight …’

  The Girl Who Forgot.

  * * *

  Elsie didn’t see Rene’s letter till lunchtime. A little surprised, she took a moment to admire the handwriting before she opened it. It had been a long time since she’d seen her first name written out and here it was again inside, Dear Elsie – she liked that too. She sat down at the kitchen table with her cup of tea to read.

  Only last night there had been bombing, heavy enough, far enough away to have them rush out into the dark. They had climbed to the very top of the hill and, turning their backs on Lambourn and the valley, they had watched the bright come and go and heard the rumbling and spitting of the bombs, like distant weather. Unable to do anything but stand and wait, they watched as a glow built slowly on the horizon – Portsmouth or Southampton, Colonel Pinkie thought, for he was out there too. They had felt jittery and oddly excited, but then a plane shrieked over Inkpen Hill.