Not all our adventures on the pond could be so easily hidden. Barnholt and Edgar were once in possession of the raft, when Edgar invited me to come on too. ‘It’s all nonsense, said he, ‘about its only holding two, and you are only a little girl—your weight won’t count,’ and he held out his hand. Now I liked Edgar and trusted him, so on I stepped. The boys used their poles very carefully, and for a couple of yards all was well. But soon it was clear that our feet were wet. Another yard, and we were ankle-deep. ‘Women and children first,’ shouted Barnholt, and as the whole thing slithered into the pond, Edgar gave me a mighty push towards the shore. It was more mud than water after the first foot or two, and we were all too filthy to do anything but go straight back to the house and be hearty, and awfully sorry and generally comforted with baths and clean clothes.
Of course Lucy came out strong on the pond. She could not wait for her turn on the raft one day, and searched the barn for some rival craft. She found a large wooden case, without a lid, that seemed the very thing. There were visible chinks between the planks, but she didn’t stay to caulk them. In the poultry-yard she found a tin bowl for baling purposes, and with her broom-pole leapt aboard the Arethusa, proclaimed herself Nelson off Copenhagen, and fiercely made for the raft, splashing the water at it as much as she could with cries of ‘Surrender’. The boys sprang to the sea-fight with whoops of energy, one of them pushing towards Lucy, and the other splashing her. All were soon drenched, but that only heightened the excitement. We others on the shore shouted encouragement to both sides. But Lucy had the odds against her. Baling had to be constant, and although she managed a few swiping blows at the boys with her pole, every time she lunged at them the old chest listed heavily, and let in more water than any baling could cope with. Sinking, but fighting still, she was at last obliged to strike her colours, but we all felt that hers was a moral victory.
Many a time when the boys were off on some excursion of their own, far afield, and Beatrice was absorbed in domestic or social duties, Mina and I were left to ourselves. We had trained the grown-ups not to worry if we were late coming home. Tony was apt, however, to get fidgety if we did not turn up at dusk. ‘Oh, my dears,’ she would say, ‘I was getting so hurried. I was afraid one of you had gone “over cliff.”’ ‘Hurried’ in Cornwall means ‘anxious’; hence the saying: ‘There was once an old woman who died in a hurry.’ A tale was current about two little boys who went to the cliffs, one fell over, and the other was too paralysed with fright to go home until nightfall. This incident would seize Tony’s imagination if any of us was late.
Apart, then, from a decently early return, nothing was expected of us. The authorities could rely on us to look after our own food-supply. I suppose no better education could be given two children than this freedom of the farm and countryside, and some of the happiest days of my life were spent with Mina, wandering about as chance directed. The grounds were so large that we were continually discovering some copse or hidden path or plantation that even Mina had not observed before. As a London child my ignorance about trees, poultry, and animals was complete, and all their ways were astounding. Warm eggs, eggs in the act of being laid, warm, foaming milk, a newly-born calf able to walk at once, absurd little chicks…, and Mina explained everything to me. The mill was a never-failing show-piece: we saw how the water managed to turn the wheel; we liked the jolly clack-clack of the works, and to bury our arms in the grain as it poured out of a wooden shoot. Another star place to visit was the forge. The old blacksmith generally had something going on. Bible miracles paled for me beside the incredible way in which he twisted a piece of red-hot iron just as his whim directed.
It was in the lane by the smithy that Mina and I had our one and only quarrel. I have no recollection of what it was about, but I was more blindly furious than at any other time in my life. I stammered out, ‘You are a carcass.’ I had no idea what the word meant, but it seemed to satisfy me and certainly roused Mina. We agreed to fight it out, and asked the blacksmith to see fair play. Mina was a little older and heavier than I was, but I hadn’t had four brothers for nothing, and knew some bits of the noble art. Mina was soon running indoors, calling heaven to witness her wounds. Tony appeared, looked at the ‘bruises’, declared them to be only dirt, and to Mina’s intense chagrin washed them off. I was then rather sorry for her, apologized handsomely for my dreadful word, and all was well again.
One place was our special home from home, and when we determined on a long visit to it serious supplies had to be collected. We raided the pantry for splits, the dairy for ‘apple-meat’, and the kitchen garden for any fruit in season—strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries. A bottle of skimmed milk, or cider from the cask, a mug, and a book to read—all were stuffed into a basket, and we set off for the drive. About halfway down we plunged through the trees, crossed a brook, and found our objective, a giant oak. Now this tree had some strategic advantages. The trunk sloped at a convenient angle, but had no branches low down. At great pains we had cut little foot-holds which we knew how to use, but which escaped general observation. In fact the tree itself was barely visible from the drive, and when we were up the leaves hid us completely. The branches had contrived to twist themselves into comfortable seats with backs, and places to hang our basket.
When all was arranged we brought out the book. Only one, because a great point was its being read aloud in turn. We chose from the library shelves any book of Tales for the Young, and took much pleasure in prophesying the events. We could rely on Providence to punish the naughty and bring to notice the heroism of the good, and generally grant an early death to both. Why was there a bull in a field? To gore the disobedient. Why did cholera break out? To kill the child who went down a forbidden street. The names told us much: Tom, Sam, or Jack were predestined to evil, while a Frank could do nothing but good. Henry was a bit uncertain: he might lead his little sister into that field with bravado, or he might attack the bull to save her life at the cost of his own. We had bettings of gooseberries on such points.
One of our stories ran something like this:
THE LAST SHOP
A little girl who had a very rich mamma behaved herself so well one day that her kind parent said, ‘Rosy dear, we will go for a walk down the street where the shops are, and you shall buy whatever you like, because you have been so good.’ Skipping for joy little Rosy began to think of all the things she had been longing for. But mamma made one condition—that Rosy must buy something out of each shop. That seemed very easy, and the walk began well. A doll’s perambulator in the first shop, some expensive lollipops in the next, some tarts at the confectioners, a pair of crimson slippers, some fancy-coloured note-paper, a whole pineapple, and a real writing-desk with secret drawers in it. In each case the purchase was ordered to be ‘sent’, and Rosy soon became anxious to go home in order to be ready to receive them. But mamma’s face grew solemn.
‘Have you quite finished, my child?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you, dear mamma, pray let us return home.’
‘I fear, my child, that there is one shop that you have omitted.’
So saying, she led Rosy to the undertaker’s, and had her measured for a coffin. In this kind way, my dear young readers, little Rosy was early led to realize that death was the necessary end to all her pleasures.
This was among the more cheerful of the tales, for death itself usually befell the leading characters. Indeed, the mortality among children was so great that Mina and I wondered how any of them remained alive to grow up.
‘How to improve Birthdays’ was the promising title of one story. We were disgusted to find that it was all about a certain Caroline, who thought a great deal about her ailing mamma, ran upstairs to fetch things, amused baby, gave her dinner to the poor, and was beloved by young and old. Her new idea for a birthday was to give away to her friends, especially the poorer ones, all the things she liked best. At the head of the tale was a picture of unselfish Caroline, dispensing her books and toys to the poor, and am
ong these gifts I noted a perfectly good paint-box. You can guess the text that was printed under this picture. We showed it in disgust to Tony, whose only comment was a snort, and ‘Caroline’s left hand seems to know all about it.’ I studied the picture again, but could see nothing peculiar about Caroline’s left hand.
As for the strategic advantages of our tree, an incident will best show what I mean. A certain visitor had been invited to tea. It must not be supposed that having any one to tea was the casual affair of today. An invitation would run a week ahead, special ‘company’ cakes would be prepared, involving much beating of eggs and squeezing of lemons, the table would be laid early with the crown Derby cups and saucers, and almost immediately after dinner would come a dreaded ordeal of extra washing and hair-doing and getting into best clothes, followed by a sitting quiet in case we got dirty again.
Now the Miss Tyack who was expected was an elegant young lady, pretty, polite, well dressed, and devoid of a single endearing failing. ‘An oyster without a pearl’ was mother’s description of her. She neither talked nor functioned in any way beyond a watery smile and gentle assent to everything. Her visit therefore meant some three hours’ hard work.
Mina and I got together and shabbily decided that we would escape. No sooner was the midday meal over than we faded out separately, selected some sample buns and cakes from the dishes already loaded for tea, and repaired to our ark. An afternoon of fearful joy lay before us—fear that we should be caught and brought back, and joy at out-witting the authorities.
Settled in the tree we found to our dismay that neither of us had thought to bring a book, and we didn’t dare to go back to fetch one. So we agreed to play at being Charles II and Richard Penderel at Boscobel, with Miss Tyack filling the role of Cromwell’s soldiers. The oak was in full September leaf, but now and again Mina would say to me, ‘Your Majesty must keep your head a wee bit lower,’ to which I would reply, ‘A king fears nothing, my worthy Penderel.’ Stories of Cromwell’s cruelty were related, until the dramatic moment arrived.
‘Hark, your Majesty!’ whispered Mina. ‘They approach!’
Hardly daring to breathe lest a twig should snap and betray us, we heard the mincing steps of Miss Tyack, and caught a glimpse of the pink ribbon of her hat. She drew level, and then passed, and as her footsteps died safely away we came near falling out of the tree with triumphant laughter.
Yes, we might laugh, but we hadn’t reckoned on an hour or two of imprisonment. To make our game more real Mina had gone down several times into the wood and returned with ‘food captured at the point of the sword from villagers’. In this dramatic way all our stock of provisions had been eaten. We began to think enviously of Miss Tyack, how she was eating and drinking her fill, and being pressed to a little more. I was all for going boldly along, and bursting in on the company with some hearty tale of adventure, delay, mischance, no idea of the time, and what not. Mina didn’t object to such deceit, but was horrified at the idea of appearing before visitors in her everyday frock.
Nothing would shake her, so at last I said, ‘Well, Penderel, ourself will come to the aid of our distress. Do you remain here and keep watch.’ So saying I slipped down the tree and made my way across a field at the back, and a long round that led eventually to the kitchen garden. Here I picked a large cabbage-leaf, filled it with raspberries, gathered a few apples, and stuffed them into the pocket of my pinafore. With enormous difficulty I made my way back to the faithful Penderel, spilling only a few raspberries en route.
When this spoil had been disposed of, and time began to hang heavy, I broached the idea that the enemy had already retreated, while I was away. Mina stoutly maintained that she had never ceased to watch, and we had to set our teeth and wait.
After what seemed like a year or two the longed-for sound of mincing footsteps broke on our ears like the strains of ‘The Campbells are Coming’ to the survivors of Lucknow. Running home we were too tired and out of spirits to think up any good excuse, and when we were greeted with a chorus of ‘Where have you been?’ we merely looked pathetic, fell upon the remnants of tea, and endured in silence the description of Beatrice’s noble struggle to keep the conversation going with Miss Tyack. She and another elder cousin, Emily, were gaining such glory from their unselfish behaviour that we began to feel that we had positively occasioned it by our modest retirement.
To give a tea-party was bad enough, but to go to one was worse. An inevitable return invitation from the Tyacks arrived in due course, with the usual week’s notice, precluding all chance of evasion. Beatrice and Mina, who had been well brought up with consciences in working order, immediately put this down to a ‘judgement’. But Emily and I were more worldly, and as Emily pointed out, why should Providence be so stupid as to drag in herself and Beatrice, who deserved the best? These views were expressed at a private meeting in the garden.
‘We shall have to play the piano,’ said Beatrice.
‘We shall have to go over the family album,’ said Emily.
‘We shall have to look through the stereoscope,’ said Mina, ‘and keep on saying how marvellous it is.’
‘And they put sultanas into their saffron cake,’ said I.
‘I tell you what,’ cried Emily excitedly. ‘Let’s not go.’
We laughed derisively, but she was full of her idea. ‘Let’s all be ill.’
As it was in mid-holiday, and we were in the rudest health, we looked at her inquiringly.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘we’ve got a whole week, and if we refuse to eat all that time, we shall be too ill to go.’
‘But how shall we keep from eating?’ said I.
After a pause Beatrice had an idea for curbing our appetites. ‘I will give two prizes to those who eat least in the time. We can watch one another and make a note of all that is eaten.’
‘Let’s see the prizes!’ we exclaimed, and followed Beatrice up to her room, where she selected from her most sacred drawer two hidden treasures. The first was to be a gilt cross some four inches long, and the second was a wooden disk, with tiny toys in compartments round its edge; fixed to the middle was a pointer which you spun round and took the toy indicated. This was called a teetotum, and promised to be a wealth of magic delight. What was a little starvation, when such a prize could be secured?
We began well, for having made good dinners we were able to face a meagre tea. Nibbling our own bread and butter slowly, we watched one another’s every mouthful. After tea Emily, who had been appointed to keep score, pronounced us all level. When supper-time was a repetition of this, Tony began to take notice.
‘Whatever possesses the children? Have they been eating deadly nightshade, or wrong mushrooms, or something?’
‘They’ve been stuffing themselves in the garden,’ said Uncle Bill, and the matter passed.
Next morning Beatrice remained in bed with a ‘sick headache’, and asked for a cup of tea and one slice of dry toast to be sent up to her. This was grossly unfair, for by this means she was sure to get the first prize. Never mind, thought I, she is welcome to that old gilt cross, and there is still a chance of winning the teetotum. A scanty breakfast was followed by a Pacific Ocean of time to dinner. Either by chance or craft Tony had contrived a specially appetizing dinner, and when she pressed me to some chicken with ‘eat it for my sake’, I flung all chance of the prize to the winds, and fell upon it. At a meeting of the competitors in the afternoon, Emily confessed to having eaten raspberries on the quiet, and as I of course was out of the running, the teetotum fell to Mina. We all had to go to the party, and enjoyed it heartily in the mere fun of finding all our forebodings more than fulfilled.
Sometimes I would go forth quite alone, on some little errand for Tony, who said that a stranger from ‘London town’ would be impressive and entertaining to the numerous cottagers whom she befriended. I think that it was myself that was the more impressed usually. For instance, I was sent off to one of those cottages that have no privacy at all. I entered straight from the road, t
hrough the open door, into the living-room, and shall never forget the scene. Mrs. Polglaze, a cripple, was perched on a high chair in one corner of the tiny space. Seated on a couple of benches opposite her were seven or eight little children, mumbling aloud together, and laboriously pointing their fingers along what I supposed must be books. So black were these with use that no one could possibly read them, and the children must have been chanting from memory. Making my way through to Mrs. Polglaze I delivered Tony’s pasties and fruit and butter, and was uncomfortable at her extreme gratitude. I returned to Tony full of questions.
‘Yes, dear,’ said she, ‘’tis a real school. Poor old Mrs. Polglaze gets a penny a week for each child she takes.’
‘But does she live on that?’ I asked.
‘Well, not entirely,’ replied Tony, pushing off to her work.
Another task she gave me was more formidable. One of our numberless family cousins was an old lady of strong Wesleyan convictions, who lived in a large house in the town. She had expressed a wish to see Cousin Mary’s little girl. Consequently I was made tidy and despatched. Mina stood by and darkly suggested that Cousin Jane would be certain to try to convert me. But Tony encouraged me by saying that I need not stay more than ten minutes, and ‘You can go in on these’, she added, giving me a bunch of fine geranium-blooms.
A London Child of the Seventies Page 12