Fanny was to stay at the end of August. Afterwards Edwina would go back with her to Whitby. Now, it was just to wait for her coming. Through a succession of rainy days she played the piano in the library, infuriating Philip. He told her: ‘You’ll go mouldy like cheese if you sit indoors all the time. You heard the Pater say-you ought to play with Cora…’
‘You play with Cora,’ she said savagely.
‘And I ought to tell you this, you’re awfully rude to the Mater. I thought you were the one being brought up a Catholic. I thought you were meant to be holy…’
‘Saint Philip,’ she said angrily, letting fall a cascade of notes. And then, triumphant discords-I hate you, Philip Illingworth, you’re hateful…
Fanny’s visit was a great success. Mother thought her beautifully-mannered. During her stay they were allowed down to dinner wearing their best white dresses. They drank a glass each of half wine, half water. A lot of the time Fanny spent seated in the park, drawing with great care and verisimilitude a picture of the Hall (complete with peacocks) which she coloured in and gave to Mother as a present.
On the fifth day of Edwina’s visit to Whitby, she and Fanny went over to Bay. It was to be an all-day excursion and they were to take with them sandshoes and enough food and drink for a picnic on the beach or up on the cliffs. Marmee said: ‘I trust you girls to do whatever Cook says.’
Cook was as trying as last time. Worse really. She hinted at reasons why she didn’t feel her best. ‘You girls will know soon enough,’ she said, ‘and I’ll thank you in the meantime to show a little more thoughtfulness…’ Later she said, ‘Nature doesn’t bother if it’s a lady or a cook when it’s a certain day of the month…’ She was going to make a nice cup of tea in the train, she said, and proceeded to set up the spirit lamp and all the paraphernalia. Edwina was very alarmed and thought that the carriage, which she imagined to be all of wood, might burst into flames. For most of the journey she read anxiously the fire precautions and instructions set between the framed sepia views of Whitby and Sandsend and Scarborough.
But then they were rid of Cook and might go down on the beach. Oh, but it was lovely to be back. It was almost as if she, and not Fanny, belonged here. She was a Foreigner, she knew that (Fanny had explained to her, furiously turning the gramophone handle for ‘Everybody’s Doing It’, ‘You’re a Foreigner, Edwina, I belong…’).
Fanny’s aunt told them, ‘Ben’s off sick.’ A fish-hook had caught in his eye, and though it wasn’t damaged for ever it hadn’t healed yet. He wouldn’t be going out with the boats for another two or three days.
The tide was more than halfway down. They sat on a rock not far from where King’s Beck ran into the sea, and had their picnic early because the air made them hungry. Further out among the rock pools there were the summer visitors. The little girls had tucked their dresses in their knickers – such an expanse of prints and hollands and dimity. Some of the boys were very foolishly dressed, Fanny said. She and Edwina were still hungry and when Matussi’s icecream cart came down they both bought strawberry ices.
Edwina was trying to get her tongue down to the bottom of the cone, when Ben appeared. His eye looked bad, the bandaging important and serious. It had brown marks on it. Edwina asked him if it hurt.
‘Did it –’ he grinned. She asked, when did it happen? Fanny was taking off her shoes and stockings and looked uninterested.
‘Monday was a week. I was up at Dr Wilson’s Tuesday, when he’s over from Whitby. He saw to it.’
He sat beside them on the rock. ‘Since you’ve stockings off I’ll show you summat in pools.’ when he took them out over the scaurs he had them on his left so that he could see with his good eye. He showed them brittle stars, crouching down by the pool. Edwina bent close to him. She watched his hands – they were shaped like hers, but worn clear, polished almost so that they reminded her of pebbles just washed by the tide. Her own had dry scaly patches – a bout of eczema just ended.
They walked up back a roundabout way because Edwina wanted to explore. Fanny, who’d hurt her little toe on a stone, took the direct path. Alone with Ben, Edwina talked. Between being shown this house and that, she told him about the piano. They’d just had a Visitors’ Concert, he said – she should have come and played then…
Later, for tea, they were very crowded. There weren’t really enough chairs. Instead of going to borrow more, Robert said: ‘Edwina can sit on Ben’s knee then. I’ll take Fanny –’
‘No, thank you,’ Fanny said, pushing her fingers through his hair. ‘They smell fishy,’ she said, sniffing them. He gave her a playful smack. ‘Cousin.’
But Ben sat down and quite simply put Edwina on his knee. ‘Pass us our tea then,’ he said.
His knees felt firm and hard, when he shifted a little the bony part went into her. She rocked a little and unbalanced. But even when it was uncomfortable, she felt happy-where she should be, strange but familiar. She had that feeling she had sometimes when she was very tired, light-headed, I have been here before. She thought she would like to stay for ever.
That night, she wrote to Uncle Frederick:
‘I’ve been twice now to the most beautiful marvellous place, it’s called Robin Hood’s Bay because they think Robin Hood hid here one time when the sheriffs were after him. Not so long ago there were smugglers and Fanny’s cousin Ben showed me a place called the Bolts, where they got away. I am sending you four pictures of Robin Hood’s Bay…’
She asked Marmee for a stamp and posted it at once. Fanny looked at the name and address. ‘I must write to my Uncle,’ she said. ‘Uncle Clive. Any day now he may invite me to go out to Rhodesia. He’s probably struck gold, which will be very convenient for me…’
Mother Scholastica read to them while they embroidered: Three Daughters of the United Kingdom. It was about three girls at a convent and she read it in a light uninterested voice. Edwina guessed that the holy girl who was certain she had a vocation would never become a nun. It would be the most unlikely one, which was Beatrice de Woodville, noble scion. ‘I bet you a bob,’ Fanny said.
Edwina had graduated to drawn-thread work. She thought the most lovely moment was when, triumphantly, all the threads cut, she was able to pull – one lovely long stream. She saw herself already, a whole tablecloth made: point de Venise, araignée: then those intricate bobbles which hung from the antimacassar in the convent parlour. What Aunt Adelina did with such skill she too would be able to do. She would make it for Uncle Frederick, tossing it at him carelessly, in front of that smelly cow. ‘By the way, I made this…’
‘Uncle Clive sent me a photograph,’ Fanny said at the beginning of term. ‘I asked for one because I’m sick of seeing your funny floppy-faced Frederick in your cubicle.’
‘He’s floppy-faced too,’ Edwina said when she saw him. It was a snapshot only and he had screwed his eyes up against the sun. ‘It’s fearfully hot out there,’ Fanny said, ‘it’s Africa, you see. I wish photographs could be in colour then I could see what sort of eyes and hair he’s got.’ She read from the letter: ‘I am the one in the middle – pig in the middle. The other two sport rather splendid moustaches, as you see, but I have never favoured one. What about your sending me a new picture, and one too perhaps of your friends?’
Both pictures were taken in the garden in the early autumn sun with Fanny’s new Kodak. They sat grinning in their school dresses. when a few weeks later the pictures were developed, Edwina looked at them unbelievingly. She thought that she would never forget that afternoon, that it was preserved for ever on the sepia paper: she and Fanny with their arms about each other. Because it was the very next day that they had the Fight.
White Peter Pan collars – worn with their school dresses. Often they washed them at night, drying them on the hot pipes. Edwina washed hers, she remembered doing so, but then in the morning, Fanny’s was missing. ‘That’s mine,’ she announced, coming into Edwina’s cubicle. ‘It’s not,’ Edwina said.
Is, isn’t. Is, isn’t. ‘Giv
e it to me!’ Fanny cried, for all the world as if it were something of importance. As suddenly it did become. For she snatched it from Edwina. ‘You shan’t have it!’ Edwina ran after her out into the aisle of the dormitory.
‘I always get what I want,’ Fanny jeered. ‘Always. I would die if I didn’t.’ Holding on to the collar she leaned forward and tugged at Edwina’s hair. Edwina pulled hers back and at once, as soon as it was in her grasp, she wanted never to let go. That great handful of red hair, horrible, how could she ever have thought it beautiful? I hate her, she thought.
They’d begun to kick and struggle. Other girls had come out of their cubicles. Someone tried to separate them: ‘For heaven’s sake. There’s a nun coming.’ Fanny’s forehead, white and stretched, the hair pulled back, eyes popping. A vicious kick from her. Then like cold water, Mother Anselm’s voice.
‘Frances, Edwina! In Mother Bede’s dormitory too – like little animals. Into your cubicles, please.’ She clapped her hands. But almost at once she called Fanny and Edwina out again. ‘Apologize to each other, please. A shocking exhibition. You should be ashamed. Girls who made their First Communion.’ Edwina knew suddenly that if they’d been able to go on, if she’d been left to it with her fists, she’d have won. I am a witch, she thought. My pricking thumbs, the power in my hands. I can always win.
‘Ashamed, Mother Anselm repeated, turning to go.
All through the first classes, Edwina felt sick, shaky. Then at break, as if nothing had happened, Fanny pulled her aside: ‘We’re not supposed to know, have you heard? Meresia’s parents are getting a divorce – It’s all round the big girls.’
‘I thought they were Catholics,’ Vita said. Clare added: ‘It’s not allowed ever – Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder – Even if he’s drunk or beats you or things like that –’
‘You can tell it’s wrong anyway,’ Babs said, ‘because when you’ve done it even the King and Queen who are Protestants don’t allow you to walk anywhere near to them at Ascot.’
‘That just shows,’ Marion said. ‘I bet Meresia’s ashamed…’
And indeed Meresia did look ashamed, or upset, or both. Edwina forgot all about the morning’s fight: thinking of, sorrowing for Meresia, remembering the picnic.
He jumped up and down on the little piano stool beside her, his short legs swaying to and fro; every now and then giggling happily, throwing forth some excited comment, some new idea.
‘We shall have the most wonderful times together. I see that already. Let us try… Ah now – listening finger always, thinking wrist – Remember that… Now an exercise. We come down on the keys, like this – but from different heights
– so…’
His name was Franz Hengelmiiller. His sister and Meresia’s father had studied the ‘cello together. Although he had an Austrian father and many cousins over there, he himself had been born and bred in Yorkshire. ‘I die here, of course. But first I live…’
She was to come every Wednesday from three to four, travelling on the train from Ravenscar with the visiting art teacher, then coming back alone. One of the lay sisters met the train.
Third teacher lucky. ‘Lovely, wonderful,’ he cried at once, the very moment her first piece finished. He took her seriously too. ‘We are going to work very hard – together.’ All that excitement and enthusiasm she had: well, he had even more. Talking, urging, whirling round on the stool: Think, please – now we stop to think. The great teacher, Leschetizky, he said always – ‘Think ten times, play once.. •”’
She was to stay to tea every week. Cristina, his sister, was small too. Together they made Edwina feel a giant. The bread was cut very thin – or perhaps it only seemed so after school – the butter very lavish. Cristina wanted Edwina to take some cakes back with her.
Franz said: ‘You don’t have sufficient. I know. No school feeds enough.’ He himself barely stopped to eat. He couldn’t keep off the subject of music, letting his tea grow cold: ‘But Chopin – he wasn’t really at home on the piano – not the way Beethoven was. You know, in a large place, in a hall he could scarcely be heard? No, that is true-It was the approach for clavichord. The way you think Chopin played,’ (but she had not thought at all), ‘that was Liszt, perhaps Kalkbrenner. How they played him. You see, you need to remember this…’
Both grew excited when she said she didn’t know Scarborough well. ‘Oh, but you must, you must.’
The sea,’ he said. ‘I am always happy by the sea. We are back from the Alps and it is the sea again. I like to listen. It is my music.’
‘I love it too,’ Edwina said.
‘How are the lessons?’ Meresia asked. Her eyes were no longer pink-rimmed. During the first half of term they had looked always as if she cried a lot and they never had a chance to heal.
They’re capital,’ Edwina said, using without thinking and she didn’t know why, a Philip sort of word.
‘I’m glad they’re capital,’ Meresia said, smiling. And it was then she added, so casually, almost as if it were a nothing – standing there on the parquet floor of the hall, just in front of the big Sacred Heart statue: ‘Daddy and I were wondering, would you like to come and spend a few days at Christmas? You could play, and perhaps meet some people and Daddy could give some more advice. Mrs Aveling, she’s a singer –’ she hesitated –’she’s coming to stay too. There could be some lovely music. Anyway,’ she said, turning to go on, ‘do think about it.’
Think about it. How could she think about anything else? All through lunch – the hard-boiled eggs in batter unable to nauseate her, watery cabbage not needing to be offered up – she made plans.
She was floating, dreaming still when later that afternoon she went off to practise. Today there were no rooms free. She would have, she supposed, to go in one of the dormitories. No fun that, because you could never be certain a nun wasn’t behind the curtain saying her Office. But luckily this afternoon she’d seen someone she was sure was Mother Scholastica going along the cloister to Chapel. Her dormitory, St Lucy’s, was one of the three with pianos.
There was a horrible painting of St Lucy up above the piano. Her eyes, like two peeled grapes, were on a plate which she was holding. But the painter had been cowardly because instead of dark empty sockets he’d given her a new pair of eyes, gazing heavenward. Today though the picture didn’t worry her as she sat, eyes closed, dreaming again. Her hands were too icy to play so she warmed them a few moments on the hot pipes, singing to herself a tune that she made up as she went along. Then to the piano: scales, arpeggios, up and down, faster and faster. She took out her music, propped it up but it was no good. She was too excited.
She danced the length of the dormitory. O my love my dove my beautiful one. The shadow of Meresia’s departure this term was lifted. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and shook her head, then with hair all about her face went over to the window. It was difficult to open and there was a wide sill, but it was unbarred. Resting on her stomach she leaned out, breathed in sea air.
A discreet cough behind her. She jumped down and saw, coming out of her cubicle, Mother Scholastica.
‘Piano practising, Edwina?’
‘Yes,’ Edwina said defiantly.
‘It looks like it. Very like it. Fasten your hair, please.’ Then as Edwina fumbled, bending down and looking for the ribbon: ‘Should you like Mother Anselm to know of this?’
‘No, Mother.’ The answer came out more cheekily than she intended. She held her breath a little anxiously but Mother Scholastica said only, ‘You are a very odd child.’ Then suddenly, in an exasperated tone, ‘You’re good at the piano, aren’t you? Something quite special? Why then why, when your life is mapped out for you so plainly, can’t you appreciate it?’
Edwina, puzzled, stared at her. What did it feel like to be Mother Scholastica?
‘You have been thoroughly irresponsible, is that not the case, Edwina?’ She turned her head away, sighed heavily: ‘Oh, I don’t know. Really I don’t –’
Edwina said, suddenly bold: ‘Do you like being able to tell us off?’
‘What did you say? You do realize how impertinent, how rude a remark like that is? Does your mother allow you to speak in that manner? Oh, I don’t know,’ Mother Scholastica said again. ‘I’m wasting my time. Why am I here at all?’ She shook her finger at Edwina: ‘You have special lessons, set yourself up, you are not to be trusted.’ She was very flushed. ‘Little fool,’ she said as she went towards the door.
Horrible, yes, to be reported. In fact she never heard anything more about it. Afterwards she realized that she had not expected to: in some odd way she felt almost that it was she who had caught Mother Scholastica out.
It was too good to be true and perhaps because of that, hugging it to herself, she didn’t write home about it until nearly the last week of term. Meresia’s father would of course have written. That first homecoming meal she could hardly wait to mention it. Philip wasn’t back yet. Aunt Josephine was upstairs with a feverish cold and Cora was ill too, with a septic throat.
They didn’t answer at first.
‘Didn’t you get it – my letter?’
Mother said crisply: ‘We can talk about it after, Edwina.’ Then in a bright voice: ‘You are invited, you know, to a party at Clare’s. Has she mentioned it?’
Edwina shook her head, splashing some soup as she did so.
Her father, looking up, said: ‘Behave yourself. Those manners may do at the convent. They will not do here.’
Her soup plate was cleared away. when she tried to speak, Mother raised her hand, a signal that she was to say nothing while there were servants there.
It could only mean something awful, that they should keep her waiting like that. But then immediately after, Father said: ‘Come along, Edwina,’ and led her into the library. Mother was there too. She was sitting very upright, her hands folded in uncharacteristic manner: Edwina imagined suddenly that perhaps she wanted to smoke.
Men On White Horses Page 14
