It was the elder; the sap was rushing up the pithy stems, the young leaves had pierced the buds, and now stuck out like green ears listening to the sounds of spring. The rich heady smell from the pale speckled branches came in waves, borne by soft winds, mixed with the pungent odour of young nettles and dock.
She wrinkled her nose with pleasure and a rabbit with her little one directly below the window, on the steep slope, wrinkled her nose, too, as she sat up among the nettles and borage.
Miss Susanna Dickory, Susan’s godmother, had stayed at the farm a fortnight, and now Susan felt lost without her. It had been a time of delight to meet lavender in pockets of air on the stairs. Such delicious smells hovered about the house, such rustlings of silken skirts, and yap-yaps of the little be-ribboned, long-haired dog, Twinkle, as unlike Roger as a toy boat is unlike a man-o’-war.
‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Twinkle,’ she called in her high silvery voice, which made Dan laugh up his sleeve. It was for all the world like the harness bells, he told Becky.
She had come to visit her dear friend, Margaret, and to see her little godchild, Susan, and if she was disappointed in the child and found her a shy young colt, she said nothing.
She was a frail old lady, delicate-looking and fastidious, but she walked in the cowsheds and sat down in the barns with her silk petticoats trailing in the dust, so that Joshua ran for the besom to sweep before her, and he actually took off his coat for her to step upon, like Sir Walter Raleigh, but Miss Dickory wouldn’t.
Every day the Garlands had dinner and tea in the parlour, and every day the Worcester china was used. Becky put on a clean white cap and apron, and Dan brushed his coat and changed his collar, and scrubbed all the manure off his boots before he sat down in the kitchen, lest she should come in.
She slept in the big four-poster in the parlour bedroom and wore a lace nightcap, for Susan saw it when Becky took up her breakfast on a tray. Twinkle slept in a basket lined with silk at the foot of her bed. It was all most astonishing, like being in church all the time, and Christmas every day.
But now she had gone and only a few little corners of sweet smells remained. Susan sighed as she thought of her, and laughed at the rabbit, and then ran downstairs. It was Good Friday and she had a holiday for a week.
Her mother met her in the hall, running excitedly to call her. There was a parcel addressed to Mr, Mrs and Miss Garland. Susan had never been called Miss before, except by the old man at the village who said, ‘You’re late, Missie,’ when she ran past his cottage on the way to school.
With trembling fingers Susan and Margaret untied the knots, for never, never had anyone at Windystone been so wasteful as to cut a piece of string.
Inside was a flower-embroidered tablecloth for Margaret, a book of the Christian Saints and Martyrs of the Church for Tom, which he took with wondering eyes, and a box containing six Easter eggs.
There were three chocolate eggs, covered with silver paper, a wooden egg painted with pictures round the edge, a red egg with a snake inside, and a beautiful pale blue velvet egg lined with golden starry paper. It was a dream. Never before had Susan seen anything so lovely. Only once had she ever seen an Easter egg (for such luxuries were not to be found in the shops at Broomy Vale), and then it had been associated with her disgrace.
Last Easter Mrs Garland had called at the vicarage with her missionary box and taken Susan with her. Mrs Stone had asked Margaret to make some shirts for the heathen, and whilst they had gone in the sewing-room to look at the pattern, Susan, who had been sitting silent and shy on the edge of her chair, was left alone.
The room chattered to her; she sprang up, wide-awake, and stared round. She had learnt quite a lot about the habits of the family from the table and chairs, when her eye unfortunately spied a fat chocolate egg, a bloated enormous egg, on a desk before the window. Round its stomach was tied a blue ribbon, like a sash.
Susan gazed in astonishment. What was it for? She put out a finger and stroked its glossy surface. Then she gave it a tiny press of encouragement, and, oh! her finger went through and left a little hole. The egg must have been soft with the sunshine. But who would have thought it was hollow, a sham?
She ran and sat down again, deliberating whether to say something at once or to wait till she was alone with her mother. Mrs Stone returned with Margaret saying, ‘Yes, Mrs Stone, of course I won’t forget the gussets. The heathen jump about a good deal, they will need plenty of room.’ But before Susan could speak, a long-haired, beaky-nosed girl ran into the room, stared at Susan and went straight to the Easter egg.
‘Who’s been touching my Easter egg?’ she cried, just like the three bears.
They all looked at Susan and with deep blushes she whispered, ‘I did.’
They all talked at once, Margaret was full of apologies and shame, Mrs Stone said it didn’t matter, but of course you could see it did, and the bear rumbled and growled.
When she got home Susan had to kneel down at once and say a prayer of forgiveness, although it was the middle of the morning ‘You know, Susan, it’s very wrong to touch what isn’t yours.’
But this perfect blue egg! There was never one like it. She put it in her little drawer in the table where her treasures were kept, the book of pressed flowers, the book of texts in the shape of a bunch of violets, the velvet Christmas card with the silk fringe, and the card that came this Christmas.
Tenderly she touched them all. In the egg she placed her ring with the red stone, and a drop of quicksilver which had come from the barometer. She closed the drawer and went off to tell anyone who would listen, the trees, Dan, the clock, Roger, Duchess, or Fanny.
But what a tale to tell the girls at school! She wouldn’t take it there or it might get hurt, a rough boy might snatch it from her, or the teacher might see her with it and put it in her desk.
‘Mother, may I ask someone to tea to see my egg?’ she asked, fearing in her heart that no one would come so far.
‘Yes, my dear,’ and Margaret smiled at her enthusiasm, ‘ask whoever you like.’
She hurried through the woods and along the lanes to school, saying to herself, ‘Do you know what I had at Easter? No. Guess what I had at Easter. No. My godmother, who is a real lady, sent me such a lovely Easter present. It was a box of eggs, and one was made of sky-blue velvet and lined with golden stars.’
She was late and had to run, and when she passed the little cottage with the brass door-knocker and a canary in the window, the nice old man with a beard said, ‘You are going to be late this morning, Missie,’ as he looked at his turnip watch. It was very kind of him, and Susan thanked him politely before she took to her heels.
She toiled up the hill, a stitch in her side, and her face wet with perspiration, past the cottages with babies at the open doors and cats by the fire, past the silent gabled house where two old ladies lived, and the old cottage where the witch pottered about, and the lovely farm where she sometimes went to tea with her mother, and sat very still listening to the ancient man who lived there.
The bell stopped ringing and she was late. She would be caned, she had no excuse. She heard the Lord’s Prayer and the hymn as she took off her hat and cape, and hung them on the hook. She listened to the high voices and watched the door handle, waiting to slip in at the sound of Amen. Her little red tongue glided over the palm of her hand, to prepare for the inevitable. There was a shuffle of feet and she turned the knob. All eyes switched her way as she walked up to the desk.
‘Any excuse, Susan Garland?’
She dumbly held out her hand. Down came the cane three times on the soft flesh. Biting her lip and keeping back her tears she walked to her place, and bound her handkerchief round the hot stinging palm. Yes, there were three marks, three red stripes across it.
Curious eyes watched her to see if she would cry, and she smiled round and whispered, ‘It didn’t hurt a bit’, but her hand throbbed under her pinafore, and the fingers curled protectingly round it as if they were sorry. It was an honour to
be caned and to bear the strokes unflinchingly. Susan showed her marks to the girls round her, and then whispered, ‘I’ve got a blue velvet egg. Tell you about it at playtime.’
At break the children walked orderly to the door and then flung themselves out into the playground, to jump and ‘twizzle’, hop and skip, to dig in their gardens, or play hide-and-seek.
Susan had a circle of girls round her looking at the weals and listening to the tale of the egg. They strolled under the chestnut trees with their arms round each other.
‘It’s blue velvet, sky-blue, and inside it is lined with paper covered with gold stars. It’s the most beautiful egg I ever saw.’ The girls opened their eyes and shook their curls in amazement.
‘Bring it to school for us to see,’ said Anne Frost, her friend.
‘I daren’t, Mother wouldn’t let me, but you can come to tea and see it.’
‘Can I?’ asked one. ‘Can I?’ asked another.
Susan felt like a queen and invited them all. Big girls came to her, and she invited them. The rumour spread that Susan Garland was having a lot of girls to tea. Tiny little girls ran up and she said they might come too. She didn’t know where to draw the line, and in the end the whole school of girls invited themselves.
They ran home to Dangle and Raddle at dinner-time to say that Susan Garland was having a party, and they were brushed and washed and put into clean pinafores and frocks, with blue necklaces and Sunday hair-ribbons.
Susan sat on a low stone wall eating her sandwiches, excited and happy. She was sure they would all be welcome and she looked forward to the company in the Dark Wood.
After school she started off with a crowd of fifty girls, holding each other’s hands, arms entwined round Susan’s waist, all pressed up close to her. They filled the narrow road like a migration, or the Israelites leaving the bondage of Egypt.
Mothers came to their doors to see them pass, and waved their hands to their little daughters. ‘Those Garlands must have plenty of money,’ said they.
Susan was filled with pride to show her beautiful home, the fields and buildings, the haystacks, the bull, and her kind mother and father and Becky and Joshua who would receive them.
They went noisily through the wood, chattering and gay, astonished at the long journey and the darkness of the trees, clinging to one another on the little path lest an adder or fox should come out, giggling and pushing each other into the leaves. The squirrels looked down in wonder, and all ghostly things fled.
Margaret happened to stand on the bank that day to watch for Susan’s appearance at the end of the wood; she always felt slightly anxious if the child were late.
She could scarcely believe her eyes. There was Susan in her grey cape and the new scarlet tam-o’-shanter, but with her came a swarm of children. She had forgotten all about the vague invitation.
Was the child bringing the whole school home?
She ran back to the house and called Becky and Joshua. They stood dumbfounded, looking across the fields.
‘We shall have to give them all something to eat, coming all that way,’ she groaned.
‘It will be like feeding the five thousand in the Bible,’ exclaimed Becky, and Joshua stood gaping. He had never known such a thing. What had come over the little maid to ask such a rabble?
‘What will her father say?’ was everyone’s thought.
They went to the kitchen and dairy to take stock. There was Becky’s new batch of bread, the great earthenware crock full to the brim, standing on the larder floor. There was a dish of butter ready for the shops, and baskets of eggs counted out, eighteen a shilling. There was a tin of brandy snaps, to last for months, some enormous jam pasties, besides three plum cakes.
They set to work, cutting and spreading on the big table, filling bread and butter plates with thick slices.
Joshua filled the copper kettles and put them on the fire, and counted out four dozen eggs, which he put on to boil. ‘We can boil more when we’ve counted the lasses.’
Roger nearly went crazy when he saw the tribe come straggling and tired up the path to the front of the house. Susan left them resting on the wall and went in to her mother.
‘I’ve brought some girls to tea, Mother,’ she said, opening her eyes at the preparations.
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Mrs Garland. ‘How many have you brought?’
‘A lot,’ answered Susan. ‘Where’s my egg, they want to see it?’
‘Susan Garland,’ said Margaret severely, taking her by the shoulders, ‘whatever do you mean by bringing all those girls home with you? Don’t talk about that egg. Don’t you see that they must all be fed? We can’t let them come all this way without a good tea. You mustn’t think of the egg, you will have to work.’
Susan looked aghast, she realized what she had done and began to cry.
‘Never mind, dry your eyes at once and smile. I don’t know what your father will say, but we will try to get them fed before he comes.’
Margaret began to enjoy herself, she was a born hostess and here was a chance to exercise her hospitality.
She went out to the children and invited them to have a wash at the back door, where she had put a pancheon of hot water and towels. Then they were to sit orderly on the low walls, along the front of the house, and wait for tea which would come out in a few minutes. She chose four girls to help carry the things, and then she returned, leaving smiles and anticipation.
The fifty trooped round the house and washed their hands and faces, with laughter and glee. They peeped at the troughs, and admired the pig-cotes, but Susan shepherded them back to the walls where they sat in their white pinafores like swallows ready for flight.
Becky and Joshua carried out the great copper tea-urn, which was used at farm suppers and sometimes lent for church parties. Margaret collected every cup and mug, basin and bowl in the house, from the capacious kitchen cupboards and tallboy, the parlour cupboards, the shelves, the dressers, from corner cupboards upstairs, from china cabinet stand, and what-not, from brackets and pedestals.
There were Jubilee mugs, and gold lustre mugs, an old china mug with ‘Susan Garland, 1840’, on it, and several with ‘A present for a Good Girl’. There were mugs with views and mugs with wreaths of pink and blue flowers, with mottoes and proverbs, with old men in high hats and women in wide skirts. There were tin mugs which belonged to the Irishmen, and Sheffield plated mugs from the mantelpiece, pewter and earthenware. There were delicate cups of lovely china, decorated with flowers and birds, blue Wedgwood, and some Spode breakfast cups, besides little basins and fluted bowls.
Margaret gave out the cups and mugs herself, choosing clean, careful-looking girls for her best china. The social position of each girl could be detected at once from the kind of cup she had, which was unlike Margaret’s usual procedure, but this was an exceptional occasion. If only they had been round a table she would have trusted them, but now she had to use her judgement.
Becky poured out the tea, and Susan took it to each girl, with new milk and brown sugar. Old Joshua, wearing an apron, walked along the rows with a clothes basket of bread and butter and a basket of eggs. As soon as he got to the end he began again.
Margaret took over the tea, and sent Becky to cut more and more. Susan’s legs ached and an immense hunger seized her, she had eaten nothing but sandwiches since her breakfast at half-past seven. But there was no time, the girls clamoured for more, and she ran backwards and forwards with her four helpers, who had their own tea in between.
A clothes basket was filled with cut-up pieces of cake, pastry, slabs of the men’s cake, apple pasty, and currant slices. Then the box of ginger snaps was taken round, and some girls actually refused. The end was approaching, but still Joshua walked up and down the line with food.
Dan came from out of the cow-houses with the milk, and Tom followed. Nobody had been in the smaller cow-houses. What was Joshua doing in an apron, and Becky too when she should be milking?
He stared at the rows of chattering c
hildren and walked in the house. Margaret ran in to explain.
‘Don’t be cross with her,’ she said.
He said nothing till Susan came in for more cake.
Then he stood up and looked at her, and Susan quailed.
‘Dang my buttons, Susan Garland, if you are not the most silly soft lass I ever knew! Are you clean daft crazy to bring all that crowd of cackling childer here?’
Then he stamped out to the byres and Susan walked back with her slices of cake, thankful she had not been sent to bed.
At last the feast was finished and Becky and Margaret washed up the cups and mugs, and collected the eggshells, whilst Joshua went milking, and Susan ran for a ball to give them a game in the field before they went home. They ran races and played hide-and-seek, and lerky, they played ticky-ticky-touch-stone round the great menhir, and swarmed over its surface.
At the end of an hour Margaret rang a bell and they came racing to her. ‘Put on your coats now, my dears, and go home, your mothers will expect you, and you have a long walk before you.’
So they said goodbye, and ran off singing and happy, down the hill. Two little girls had come shyly up to Susan with a parcel before they went.
‘Mother said if it was your birthday we were to give you this,’ and they held out a ball like a pineapple. But Susan had to confess it wasn’t her birthday and they took it home.
She went indoors and sat down, tired and famished, at the table. ‘And, Mother, I never showed them my sky-blue egg after all! But they did enjoy themselves.’
15
Spring
Soon the plum blossom came out on the knotted black tree which climbed all over the Irishmen’s Place, at the gable of one of the buildings, covering the long window slits with a network of close branches. A chaffinch built her nest in a crook in its boughs. Cream petals came thick among the pointed leaves of the pear trees, and a little brown bird lived right in the midst of the fragrance. Susan could put her head out of her mother’s window and peep at the bright eyes among the leaves.
The Country Child Page 15
