by Leah Fleming
Cora Bulstrode put down her basket in the hall and sniffed a pungent odour wafting from the scullery where Susan, the live-in, stood over Miss Herbert as she dunked her head of hair in a bowl of green smelly water. Susan looked up warily at her mistress as she tried to pour the mixture over the young teacher’s tresses, splashing liquid in all directions. ‘What on earth are you doing, Miss Herbert? Look at the mess, Susan, get a mop quickly!’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the maid as she scurried to clear the mess but in her haste she tipped the jug of sassafras oil onto the floor, sending poor Cora into a paroxysm of splutterings and mutterings under her breath.
The arrival of this woman had turned their quiet regime upside-down; poor Ezra was a virtual recluse in his study and she had had to yield up her precious sitting room to make way for this whirling dervish of noise and activity. It could not go on – her nerves would not tolerate another week of incessant requests and clutter of books, papers, hare-brained schemes and washing. Had she never heard of a weekly wash? The madam flung her garments down and expected Susan to wait on her like a lady’s maid.
Zillah Herbert was like no other teacher she had ever met. Oh, she was refined, with a loud plummy accent which commanded respect and a wardrobe of the most unserviceable clothes: trailing skirts and delicate underwear, a hatbox full of frivolous concoctions with full-face veils. Silly girl thought if she toned down her colours she would look less like the wealthy missionary she certainly was. From her silver-topped toiletry bottles, silk parasols and calfskin boots she was as conspicuous as a glasshouse blossom on a compost heap.
Only the voice belied her station. It was more suited to a porter on a station platform. Cora could hear her bawling out to the children in her classroom even through the brick walls of the schoolhouse. She screeched at the piano in a high-pitched voice, slightly off-key, which had poor Ezra gritting his teeth in horror at the awful hymns she would have them shout: Sankey and Moody Revivalist choruses more suited to an Evangelical crusade than a schoolroom, clapping hands and jingles. Never had Scarsbeck national school had to endure such caterwauling. Being high church the Bulstrodes were unused to such cheerful renditions of Christian hymns but the children seemed to like the action songs and jerky tunes, singing out of key with gusto.
Cora and Ezra were positively besieged in this citadel of Evangelical zeal, like two outcasts exiled from their routines by this woman’s boisterous enthusiasm. Now she was taking over Cora’s domestic domain in some strange baptismal ritual. It was all too much.
‘Miss Herbert, explain yourself.’ Cora could not bring herself to pronounce her first name. It was too familiar. It might invite intimacy and a reason to stay longer in this house.
‘I think I’ve got visitors,’ said Zillah from the bowl.
‘Visitors?’ cried Cora in disbelief.
‘Yes, in my hair, I’ve been itching for days and then something dropped on the page of my book and hopped.’
Cora jumped back three paces and clutched her chest in anguish at such indelicacy. ‘Spare me the details. God preserve us! Now you’ve brought an abomination into my house. How could you? That is it, it really is. We’ve had enough, Miss Herbert. It’s time you found yourself lodgings elsewhere in the village. It was only a temporary arrangement to see you settled in. I can’t have you contaminating our haven of tranquillity with . . . with this filthy infection. This is what comes of mixing dirty children in a clean school. What will village parents think?’ Cora conveniently forgot the number of times the village children had been infested. ‘How can dear Mr Ezra maintain discipline if you undermine it at every turn with your fancy notions? Now you sour our home with some foul lotion stinking to high heaven. How can we concentrate? It turns my stomach just to think of food. Really, Miss Herbert, I’m sure your parents would be appalled to think of you in this condition. If you will wear a flimsy little lace cap on your head then you are a walking invitation for such, such . . . things to take up residence.’
‘I’m sorry, but once I treat my hair they will disappear, I promise you. If Susan would be so kind as to comb through it with this instrument of torture, that will dispose of the wretched beasts. I promise I will wear a plain mobcap from now on to remind myself of the vanity which caused this little accident. Dear Miss Bulstrode, bear with me, please,’ pleaded Zillah but Cora now had just the excuse she needed to rid them of this nuisance.
‘I will enquire in the village immediately and find you other accommodation, personally. We will not, of course, mention this little hiccup. Doubtless there are other houses who’ll be used to this sort of occurrence and I think you would be far happier knowing that you were not upsetting Mr Bulstrode. This is a church school, not a Revivalist tent meeting. What happens in your classroom is your own affair and that of the Mission. We do think it noble of them to bother educating such unfortunates but thank goodness we insisted that they do not mix with ours. We would now have an infestation on our hands. Poor Ezra has enough on his plate with his search for a Fawcett scholar to coach. I don’t want him bothered with this now. Please clear up this mess yourself. I don’t want Susan to catch anything either. I feel my scalp itching just at the very thought of it all.’ Cora fled to the living room, shutting the door in disgust.
Zillah sniffed up the noxious fumes with dismay. Poor Cora got so overheated. Her first impression of her hostess was of a worrier who somehow got only the leftovers in life; the scrapings which got lumped together but never quite fitted. Cora was so thin, honed too finely at the edges; her home-made clothes hung badly on her flat breasts. Her face was severe, her chin jutted and her neck looked scraggy and dimpled. She waited on her brother like a slave and he sat there calmly never lifting a finger to aid her or say thank you. Zillah watched her darting anxious glances at herself, envying her jaunty air, suspicious that perhaps she might be going to flirt with her precious brother and steal him away.
Heaven forbid. Ezra Bulstrode had a fat face like a toad, with bulbous stary eyes which never even glanced in her direction unless it was to deliver some instructions. He seemed to live cocooned in his own little world.
They were a strange pair, wrapped up in their own joyless concerns, and any comment Zillah offered at mealtimes seemed to disturb them deeply. She would not be sorry to leave this stifling suffocating atmosphere. The rooms were cluttered with dark heavy furniture and Cora fussed over details and ornaments. Everything was crocheted, tatted, edged, covered over with dark greens, maroons, and sombre furnishings at the windows. Even the fireplace was unwelcoming with a mean little fire which was always short on coal heat. The food was frugal and plain with two sittings; one for themselves and then Ezra sat alone undisturbed with plates full to the brim while Cora hovered silently as he tasted the food to see if it was hot enough, salty enough. Everything seemed to exist for his satisfaction alone. The rest of them had to live on scraps.
Now Zillah’s scalp was stinging badly and the dark ripples of her chestnut mane hung lank and stiff with the treatment. Praise the Lord for the manual of instruction and Nanny Brewer’s little bottle. Lice hopped from head to head and loved to forage in clean hair so she was a sitting target. For one moment Zillah was tempted to take a pair of scissors to the lot of it, rid herself of this shaming in the twinkling of an eye, but somehow she could not chop her waist-length silky tresses. She loved the way they cascaded down her back like gleaming waves.
Vanity, vanity, Zillah Herbert. Haven’t you learnt your lesson yet? How are the mighty fallen, humbled and brought down low, shame on you! She admonished herself as she braided the hair into tight plaits which she roped across her head severely and then sought out a starched linen Quaker cap, tied it under her chin and peered in dismay at the hall mirror. She looked such a plain Jane Eyre, her spirits sank to her boots. No winged squatters would dare trespass on this domain again!
Today she was going to pin down the elusive Reverend Hardy into organising Janey’s baptism as she had promised. Four times she had called
at the vicarage and left her calling card and four times it had been ignored. The wretched man was never at home. For four Sundays she had endured his dirge-like services at St Oswy’s, sitting with Cora Bulstrode peeking out of a high boxed pew while Ezra droned on the little pipe organ and the choirboys whinnied from their stalls and the parson muttered sweet nothings from the pulpit, hardly looking up from his manuscript to address the congregation.
He was one of those preachers who paused overlong on each phrase of his text for dramatic effect. Occasionally she caught sound of a rich deep voice with a southern accent but most of his renderings seemed to seep through the woodwork or evaporate like candlesmoke through the vaulted ceiling.
St Oswy’s was a lovely old church with Norman arches in the chancel and little windows, arrow slits, in the stone walls. It was simply decorated, the whitewashed walls ingrained with the prayers of generations long past. It smelt damp and musty in a churchy sort of way and the view from the ancient porch was breathtaking in its beauty and majesty. If only the people were more alive with the spirit of Christian joy and enthusiasm. It was what St John the Divine, or was it St Paul, called ‘lukewarm’ in its worship and welcome but she could change all that if only they adopted some of the newer, livelier hymns.
As she sat in her tiny boxroom she surveyed her bed of rock, the dark chest of drawers, wooden floor and simple rug. How different from her large bedroom at home with its four-poster bed, soft downy mattress, feather counterpane and draped damask curtains, her own washroom and dressing room, large fireplace and bay window overlooking lawns where peacocks screeched her awake each morning. This room was more like a plain cell for contemplation. She must not complain, for that was the life she had chosen for herself now. This was how ordinary people lived, without cooks and maids to wait on them. It was a novelty to be looking after herself.
How her life changed forever on the night that the Mission preacher came to St Maximilian’s and assailed her with the consequences of a doomed condition! There she was all unawares, on the wide road to Hell, living in sloth and idleness, a life of luxury mapped ahead but doomed for eternity! Just the timely jolt she needed to get herself away from Nottingham. Now she was taking a narrower way, a harder road, trying to live independently of her wealthy parents, making a new life in strange hostile territory and loving every minute of it, or was, until she caught nits. That was something she would not be adding to her letter to Aunt Jane, the only relative who was bothering to reply to her regularly.
Poor misguided parents, they still could not stomach all her recent decisions to take up paid work for herself. How could she live off twenty-five pounds a year? It would scarcely cover her millinery bill at Madame Modista’s but she would try. Zillah gathered up the long screed she had penned to her aunt, knowing it would be shown to Mama, hoping they might warm to her exploits if she told them about her teaching experience so far.
Dearest Aunt Jane,
I am writing to inform you I am still alive despite being caught up in a snowstorm in April. Would you believe I delivered a girl child to a mother stranded in the snow and now we both have a namesake! Janey is thriving despite her humble condition in the navvy camp. It was all very exciting and not a little frightening at the time but I am fully settled in a charming schoolhouse and have taken up my first teaching post but it is very much like being a teacher in Sunday school so do not worry.
On my first morning I was so nervous I scarce could lace up my stays. I dressed very carefully in my plain grey woollen skirt and striped blouse. I have had to remove the hoop from my skirts as I would not be able to walk up and down the extension room between the benches where the children sit with their slates. I see my classroom as an oasis of light and learning in this dark desert.
I was full of expectation as I prepared my lessons but it was to turn out a little differently. Suddenly I was aware of being inspected by bobbing heads outside the window. I think they thought I would be an easy victim for their pranks. My children are transported on a large cart from the camp, some in the morning and some in the afternoon. Some stay all day. They have to assemble away from the village children and are not encouraged to mix for fear of disease.
I heard the school bell ring and opened the door to the yard. A stampede of twenty-five pupils nearly knocked me over in the rush to find a bench, all shouting and behaving in a rough manner. Needless to say this was not allowed to go unnoticed. I drew in a deep breath to descend like forked lightning blasting forth like a cannonball over their heads, making them walk outside again. ‘Walk, don’t run,’ says I! For a second they stood to see who was capable of deafening them so they shuffled out meekly, still shocked by my surprise attack. I picked up the bell and walked out to the yard and stood as tall as I could on my tiptoes to tower over them. Many are of stunted growth and look ill-clad and puny.
‘In future when this bell is rung you stand in two lines, boys to the right, girls to the left, no talking and no fidgeting and don’t move a muscle until I say so. No slouching and caps off. Forward march.’ They were as meek as lambs after that especially when I got one of the tallest boys, called Billy Widdup (I will tell you all about him later), to inspect them as they went through the door. He grew three inches with pride at being chosen out of the ranks to do the honours. We did this exercise four times until I was satisfied with their standard.
Then I said a prayer and handed them out some hymn books but few could read and we endured a dismal hymn which all too soon became my solo. I decided then to teach them some action songs and this seemed to cheer up the service to everyone’s satisfaction except Mr Bulstrode who came rushing in to see what the noise was about.
The poor man has worn a perpetual look of worried bemusement since my arrival.
Then I had to make a register of sorts which became difficult because half my pupils did not seem to know their real names or when they were born. So I put things like: ‘Sam (son of Whisky Mac) thinks he is nine.’ Each gave me their weekly penny contribution towards funds except Billy Widdup who tells me he is now ten and three-quarters which sounds promising. Sorting them out by size is misleading for many have old faces and little bodies and bandy legs which does not help.
Mr Bulstrode gave me old reading primers, dog-eared and ancient, and I tried to test them on their reading which was a sobering education in itself, Aunt. Only Billy Widdup and a girl called Poll could read fluently. Then I gave them a slate to write their name on and this produced nothing but scribbles from all but Billy and Poll. I decided to write on the blackboard and easel and let them copy my letters. ‘God is Good.’ That was a revelation too. So you see the task is immense, I fear.
I plan to divide them into groups and let Poll and Billy help with hearing the children read the alphabet. The afternoon flew by but before the cart came to collect them I gave them each pencils and paper to draw something from the world outside which interested them. The children looked puzzled so I told them that I had noticed strange machines and cranes, steam engines and hoists, roller carts and locomotive engines pulling wagons in Paradise camp. ‘What do you see?’ says I.
‘Muck and rubble,’ said one boy. ‘Only hills, nowt but hills,’ said another in disgust. So I asked them to think about something they liked drawing and waited for them to begin. One child started to cry because she did not know how to use a lead pencil. Another folded his paper into a dart and tried to whizz it across to the Widdup boy but he was engrossed in a complicated drawing of a steam engine, all cogs and wheels and lots of intricate detail. I asked him how he knew such detail and he told me he was a tea boy, running from gang to gang with hot water and tea cans. Sometimes he was allowed to clean spades and instruments or grease wheels at close quarters.
This class will be wasted on Billy Widdup. He is far brighter than the others and I fear will become bored and disruptive if left to his own devices. He should be with the older children in Mr Bulstrode’s class but I doubt if that will be permitted. At the end of the session I ask
ed for helpers to hand out books and hands shot up across the room.
‘Helpers have to wear clean pinafores and shiny boots, have tidy hair and clean fingernails.’ The hands went down. Then Mr Bulstrode came to inspect the children and they were dismissed.
After they left the room he took one look at our efforts and tossed the papers off my desk in disgust, saying I was wasting paper on such drivel. ‘You are paid by the Mission to drum the essentials into these children, Bible texts and basics, not waste time on these folderols. I hope you aren’t one of these newfangled teachers who want children to enjoy learning!’ He thumped on the table. It was the first time I have seen Mr Bulstrode bestir himself. I told him that the children were paying for teaching and the Mission would provide suitable materials for them to grow as healthy Christian citizens. Some bats and balls for them to exercise might be a step in that direction. Games would run off some of their spare energy and teach them discipline too. I suggested a sewing class might be useful for older girls. Teaching economy and thrift would not be a waste of resources either.
Mr Bulstrode went very red in the face and I don’t think it was the heat! I showed him Billy’s excellent drawing but he was not interested. I shall have to tread softly with the headmaster if we are to remain colleagues.
So you see I am filling my days with useful work and look forward to the challenge ahead. Do not worry about me. Any deficiency in my pupils is more than compensated by the beauty of the village and dale, the hills and grandeur of this district are like a pearl hidden in an oyster. Sometimes I find myself climbing up onto the high road just to breathe the air, upwind of the camp of course. I never expected such landscape to exist in Yorkshire!
Please write to me soon.
Your loving niece,
