Summer Pudding, page 7
“I shouldn’t think he’d mind. He’s very silly about names. He never thinks of new ones. It’s me that christens nearly all the animals. Sometimes the men change what I’ve called them. I called the new bull Blue-eyes, but George, he’s the cowman, you know, he just calls him ‘Bluey’. He says Blue-eyes is fancified. What lesson are we going to start with?”
“Grammar, I should think, if you are going to talk about fancified.”
“I know it’s wrong, but I was just telling you what he said, and it wouldn’t be him if I said fanciful.”
Janet looked down at the child with concern. Not a great many children had crossed her path, but she remembered them, and herself and Sheila distinctly, and none of them were at all like this child. She did hope she was going to be able to teach her; it would be awful if, after the money fuss, she was a failure.
“How far have you got with arithmetic?”
“Terrible. Do you know, I can only just add, and then not always right. You see, when Mummy teached me I was only six and couldn’t do sums. Daddy has tried sometimes in the evenings, but he says I’m a hopeless ignoramus. Mummy and me did adding with bricks, but we didn’t do it much, neither of us liked it much. We liked acting and reading. We acted all the people in the books, and lots in hist’ry. Can you act?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“I expect you could be courtiers and people, couldn’t you, who just curtsy and bow? Like this.” Iris sank in an elaborate curtsy, and Janet, laughing, made her a deep bow.
They were just inside the farm gate, and at that moment Donald came round the side of the house. He stood watching them. Iris felt his eyes on them and looked up.
“Daddy, I was making Miss Brain a courtier because she says she can’t act, but I thought she bowed beautifully, didn’t you?”
Donald looked awkward.
“Fine. Good morning, Miss Brain.”
Iris bounded to him and hung on his arm.
“Oh, Daddy, that does remind me! Gladys says I’ve got to call her Miss Brain, and I said to her need I? Could I call her Janet, and she said we must see, you mightn’t like a governess to have a Christian name, but I said you wouldn’t mind because you aren’t interested, like when you weren’t about the one for the new bull.”
Janet gazed at her feet and struggled not to laugh. Donald made no effort, he laughed out loud. Iris, uncertain of the joke, laughed too, and after a second Janet joined them.
They were interrupted by Gladys. She was leaning out of a bedroom window looking down on them. The tone in her voice would have killed any laugh.
“Everybody seems to have a lot of time to waste this morning.” Donald was apologetic.
“It was Iris. She was asking what she should call Miss Brain. She said I shouldn’t care because I hadn’t cared what she called the new bull.”
Gladys’ voice was full of expectation.
“Yes?”
“Well, that was all.”
“Then I must add to my first statement, you’ve not only got time to waste, but breath, laughing at nothing.”
Janet felt sure it would be wise to hold her tongue, but whatever Donald and Iris put up with, she was not going to be spoken to in that tone of voice.
“Miss Batten’s quite right. Come on, Iris, show me your schoolroom.” She turned to Donald. “And the question of the name is settled, since it’s of no interest to you. Iris will call me Janet.”
Iris seemed cowed by Gladys, but she gave a tiny skip and whispered “Goody.”
“Bring Miss Brain in, Iris,” Gladys emphasized the surname, “and I will show her your schoolroom.” She smiled at Donald. “Quite a breath of town, isn’t she, to we simple country folk? We’re not used to Christian names to strangers.”
Janet followed Iris with her chin high, but her heart was beating extra quickly. “What I’d like to do to her,” she thought savagely, “is to give her a good slap across the face.” There was just one small piece of balm to soothe her spirit. She had seen a look in Donald’s eye as if he would have liked to have said, “Don’t mind her.” The look had died almost at once, and had been replaced with a hard ‘I’m not going to like you, so don’t try and make me’ expression; but the first look had been there, and the thought of it was comforting.
The schoolroom was an attic. It had a sloping roof, and windows looking across the fields. It was a charming room, perfect for a child. In the windows were yellow curtains with nursery rhyme figures appliqued on in gay cottons with wool hair. The walls were distempered white and showed up the glorious oak beams. There were pictures blazing with colour. A flower group, a winding road through cornfields, some children playing on wet sand, all beautiful reproductions. The furniture and mantelpiece were the same gay yellow as the curtains. In the centre of the table was a bowl of buttercups. Janet’s irritation disappeared; she turned, smiling, to Gladys.
“My word, this is nice!”
Gladys, too, forgot herself.
“It’s Iris’ mother’s doing. She furnished this and Iris’ bedroom. The rest of the house is full of what Donald has been left. What a difference!”
“Mummy made the curtains, and she did all the painting. She gave me the bowl and she said I was always to keep it pretty in winter and in summer, and I always have except when I’ve got a cold and can’t go out.”
Janet was fingering the curtains.
“Did she design these figures as well as applique them on?” Iris danced over to her.
“Yes, every single one. Her and me sat together and she asked me what to draw an’ I chose, and sometimes it was a person like Goldilocks, an’ sometimes an animal like this.” She pointed to a whale cut out of black sateen. “That’s the one that sicked up Jonah.”
Janet looked, at Gladys.
“She was an artist?”
Gladys gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.
“She did a little of everything.” She turned away, her manner suggesting, “I could, tell you more if I would, and if the child were not here.”
“Well, I must get on with my work, and I should think it’s time you started, isn’t it?”
All Janet’s irritation was back, but she controlled herself this time. She nodded and told Iris to show her where she kept her books.
The morning passed quickly. Janet discovered that Iris had practically nothing to learn from. There was no atlas, there were two exercise books full of her early efforts at letter making. There were three or four Beatrix Potter’s, and one Babar, which had been bought to teach her to read. There was a box of lettered bricks, and the little library of books from which her mother had read aloud to her. She and Iris made out a timetable of things that must be learned, and things which Iris wanted to learn. Things which should be done in the schoolroom, and things which could be done out of doors. They had just finished a rough list when a bell clanged. Iris jumped off her chair.
“Come on. That’s my milk. Is my hair tidy?”
Janet had a comb in her bag, she ran it through the child’s hair, and straightened her bows on her plaits.
“You’ll do; anyway, I don’t expect it matters very much just for drinking milk.”
Iris led the way downstairs.
“Oh, it does,” she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “It matters awf’ly to Gladys. Ben says she’s so tidy she won’t be able to lie quiet in her grave if her shroud don’t sit sweet.”
Gladys was flying round the kitchen apparently doing three jobs at once. On the table was a glass of milk and a plate with two biscuits on it.
“Sit down, Iris, and eat tidily,” she said in a voice which made Janet bristle. “You can have a cup of coffee, Miss Brain.”
“Thank you, I don’t want anything.” Janet pushed Iris’ chair a little nearer the table. It was all right where it was, but in the gesture she intended to show she too had authority over the child. Evidently Gladys was not only house-proud in the way she kept a home, but over food; she was one of those women who do not like to see people in her kitchen without a cup of something in their hands. She paid no attention to what Janet said, but with a flare of colour in her cheeks, poured out a cup of coffee, and with a you-dare-not-to-drink-that look, put it in front of Janet. Janet was cross with herself for the number of times her hackles had stood up that morning. She was cross, too, with herself for the way she had pushed in Iris’ chair. She was being petty, and it was foreign to her nature. She stirred the sugarless coffee and managed to smile. Gladys, who was turning back to her pots and pans, hesitated as if she would like to say something, and from the softness round her mouth something friendly. Then her mind changed, and she was back at her stove making an unnecessary clatter with a saucepan lid.
Janet thought that enough time had been spent indoors; the moment Iris had swallowed her last crumb, and had gulped her last drop of milk, she had her out of doors, and the rest of the morning was spent on what Iris grandly described as ‘bot’ny’, which meant that Janet picked every flower she could see and asked Iris what its name was. Dinner at the farm, Janet learned, was at one o’clock. As the time drew nearer her sandwiches became important. She could not, she told herself, face a drawn-out meal with either Gladys or Donald; she would like the time to herself sitting under a haystack. She was not going to be about at dinner-time, but if the question of where she should eat arose, she would say right out she preferred having the time to herself. She took Iris in at a quarter to one and brushed and replaited her hair, and saw her wash her hands, then she gave her a kiss.
“Read a book until you are called, darling. I’ll be back to tuck you up for your lie-down after dinner.”
“Where are you going to have dinner?”
“Outside, I’ve brought sandwiches. Look!” Janet held up her parcel.
Iris looked worried.
“It sounds awfully queer to me your sitting outside eating and us inside.”
“It isn’t, really; be a good girl and run down directly Gladys calls you.”
In books there always seemed to be haystacks standing about under which people ate their meals. Donald’s farm seemed badly laid out in this respect, there were none standing in a handy and picturesque position. Janet did not want to be seen hunting about so as to attract notice from the farm hands, so she walked quietly out of the yard and through the gate. There was some rough grass and a hedge between the garden and the cornfield; the hedge was just what Janet was looking for, handy, and screening her from the house. She sat down and undid her sandwiches, then, because it was hot, and peaceful, and the view lovely and restful, she forgot to eat, and instead fell into a daydream, a daydream in which Donald was the central figure, saying—they were on Christian name terms in the dream—“Janet, can you forgive me for being a parsimonious beast? How could I have grudged you two guineas! You are a wonderful governess and worth at least five.” She was brought back to the world by a shadow which fell across her, and she looked up to see Donald with a frown between his brows glaring down at her. “What is this nonsense?”
“What nonsense?”
“Eating sandwiches out here.”
“There was no mention of meals in our agreement. I don’t want to sponge on you.”
He looked as if he was going to shake her.
“Please come in at once, lunch is getting cold.”
She was just as angry as he was.
“Thank you, I prefer to stop here.”
He made a noise of utter exasperation, and before she knew what he was thinking of, had stooped down, gripped her by the arms and stood her on her feet. Then he released one arm and gave her a pull to make her walk beside him.
“Come on at once, and don’t behave like a fool.”
“And don’t you behave like a bully. I suppose this is how you treat your farm hands and the cows and sheep, but you can’t treat me in this way.”
He gripped her more firmly.
“As you can imagine from my behaviour, I flog my farm hands, and as for the sheep and cows, it’s pitiful the way I knock them about, so it won’t surprise you when I tell you that you’re either coming quietly, or I’m carrying you in.”
Janet, with a supreme effort, dragged her arm free.
“You are the most insufferable man; such a way to treat a governess.”
“My dear girl, I don’t look upon you as a governess. Seeing how we know each other, it’s hardly likely that I should, is it? I’m doing my duty, that’s all. I know what’s expected of me, and leaving you sitting like a tramp in a ditch is not what would be expected, is it?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but if, because the first time you meet a person you find them crying, you think it gives you the right to throw it in their teeth for ever more, you’re quite wrong.”
“Will you come on and not talk rubbish! I’m throwing nothing in your teeth, I’m asking you to lunch. It’s spoiling, I should think, and I can’t spare much time, but I’m not going in without you.”
“You are mean, you know.” She fell into step beside him. “You’re taking advantage of the war, in farmers being busy, and everything. If I have lunch here I’ll bring my rations.”
“You can arrange that with Gladys, I expect she’ll be glad of them.” He opened the yard gate. “Come on.”
The dining-room was hideous. It had been papered and furnished by Donald’s grandfather. The walls were covered in red paper and there was some horrible heavy mahogany furniture about. On the walls were several bad oils of immensely fat cattle, under each was a glass case of medals. Gladys was sitting with an aggravatingly resigned expression at the bottom of the table. A chair with arms stood at the head of the table for Donald. Iris sat on Donald’s left. Janet, as she walked in before Donald, felt like a foolish schoolgirl. She sat in the vacant chair on Gladys’ right and heard, with crimson cheeks, her ring the bell, and when the door was opened by a cheerful, stout woman, listened to her saying in an exaggeratedly patient voice:
“You can bring the things in again now, Mrs. Honeywell. Miss Brain has been found.”
“You were silly to go out,” Iris said cheerfully. “We always have dinner and there’s plenty for you.”
Janet glanced down at her neat frock, and thought of her tidy hair, and of how like a governess she was looking, and pulled her pride together. It was ludicrous to feel like a badly behaved child.
“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” she said to Gladys, “but you see I’ve always worked in an office, and expect to arrange about my own lunch; if I’m to lunch here I must have a talk with you about rations.”
“Where on earth were you?” Gladys asked. “I thought one call from Donald would bring you.”
Mrs. Honeywell carried in a joint and put it in front of Donald. Janet took advantage of her being in the room not to answer. What on earth was she to say? Would Donald describe the scene? Donald watched Mrs. Honeywell waddle out to fetch the vegetables, then he said:
“She was only under the hedge in the home field, but you know what I am when I’m outside, always get sidetracked by something.”
Janet had her eyes on the tablecloth so she could not see his face, but she listened to his words with thankfulness and exasperation. What a mixture the man was, making you like him one minute, and dislike him the next! Mean about money, odiously domineering, and yet she couldn’t really hate him; she had always relied on impressions, and she could still feel the glow of companionship as they talked in the spinney, and the friendliness there had been between them when they had discussed Iris in the stable; he was two people really. Perhaps if she subdued herself to what a daily governess ought to be, she would only see the nice side; being a docile governess ought to bring all the best out of him, because then the two guineas wouldn’t rankle, for he would feel he was getting his money’s worth.
Gladys leant back in her chair while Mrs. Honeywell put the vegetable dishes in front of her.
“What lessons did you do this morning, Iris?”
“Nothing, really. Me and Janet had a lovely morning making plans.”
Janet felt this was a deplorable picture of how two guineas’ worth of governess spent her time. She turned to Donald.
“We worked out a timetable. It seems to me special hours will have to be given to arithmetic. Iris is very weak in that subject.”
“Dear! Dear!” Donald’s voice was so grave that it was clear he was making fun of her statement. “What a dreadful thing! I hoped to hear she was sufficiently advanced to start algebra.”
“Silly Daddy!” Iris said contentedly. “Me and Janet did some bot’ny.”
“Janet and I,” Janet corrected.
“Is Janet making you learn the Latin names of the plants?” Donald teased.
The Christian name had fallen off his tongue with the unforced ease which means that is how the mind is normally thinking. Janet found that his using it gave her pleasure; she was not introspective, she did not reason why, she just knew that it made her feel less ruffled. It had the exactly opposite effect on Gladys. Her deep voice broke up the intimate, happy atmosphere the lesson talk was creating.
“Sit up, and eat tidily, Iris. How often am I to tell you not to talk when you’re eating!” Then with a complete change of tone: “It’s your fault, Donald, you lead her on, you naughty man.”
The kittenish tone of the last words went badly with her appearance. To Janet the effect was embarrassing. Donald was evidently too used to it to find it that, but he clearly felt that Gladys needed soothing.
“I’m sorry, but she’s only just got her plate; I won’t speak another word to her until she’s finished.”
Janet blazed. What was a governess for if Gladys was to order the child about? She knew that for peace and a quiet life it would be better to remain silent, but on the other hand she wanted opportunities to show Donald she intended to earn her salary. No wonder he grudged paying it if he thought Gladys Batten was going to do half her work. She had no real views on a child’s behaviour at meals, but she had Maggie’s upbringing to quote.
