GOOD DAUGHTERS

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘The invisible worm

  That flies in the night

  In the howling storm

  Hath found out thy bed

  Of crimson joy . . .’

  ‘Now,’ she said when they had finished, ‘let us turn to Jane Eyre. What picture do we find here of love? Why, for example, do you think it was necessary for Mr Rochester to be blinded?’

  ‘Because of the fire?’ They were wary; aware that the simple answer was seldom acceptable to Miss Lindsay.

  ‘But why was it necessary to have a fire, do you think?’

  Katia Vaseyelin said, ‘It killed off Mrs Rochester.’

  Irene Kimberley said, ‘Because he had to be seen to pay for his past wickedness or the Victorians wouldn’t have liked it.’

  Miss Lindsay regarded Irene with favour. ‘But afterwards, what would happen as a result of his blindness?’

  ‘Jane would look after him,’ Ena Pratt said virtuously.

  ‘Ah, now we are coming to something rather interesting, aren’t we? This dominating man would become dependent on Jane, that good, meek woman. Some of you have probably read The Rosary – not, of course, a book in the class of Jane Eyre, though possibly more to your taste. Here, too, we have the blinded hero, and the heroine another Jane. I don’t suppose either Florence Barclay or Charlotte Bronte was completely aware of what she was writing.’ Miss Lindsay looked contemptuously at the portrait of the author in the front of Jane Eyre. ‘But the great artists have always known. Never mind the machinations of the plot, Romeo and Juliet end up in the tomb, as do Aida and Radames, Othello strangles his Desdemona. And so it goes in life, too: Cleopatra presses the asp to her bosom and Abelard is emasculated.’

  She wondered whether it might shock them into attention if she worked Christ into her thesis, but at that moment she noticed that she had made an impact on one of them. Alice Fairley was crying. She resumed the reading of Jane Eyre. When the lesson was over she asked Alice to stay behind.

  ‘Is something worrying you, Alice?’

  Alice had been thinking of her mother waiting to see Miss Blaize, but she had no intention of telling Miss Lindsay this. She said the poem ‘and all that’ had upset her.

  ‘Really, I don’t think we can tolerate that kind of prudery in a girl of your age!’ Miss Lindsay was far from dissatisfied. Pleasure of a kind with which Alice was not familiar glinted in her eyes. ‘These matters are a proper subject for discussion.’

  Her gaze was so keen that Alice had the feeling Miss Lindsay wanted to get right inside her skin. Alice shifted her weight from one foot to the other, uneasily aware that something was threatened here of which she had no previous experience.

  Miss Lindsay said, ‘Tell me what it is in particular that upsets you, Alice.’ She spoke softly; there was an eagerness in her eyes that made Alice feel as uncomfortable as if Miss Lindsay had peered lewdly at the private parts of her body. She clenched her hands and shouted:

  ‘I think it was vile! All that about worms and crimson joy!’ She ran out of the room without waiting to be dismissed.

  Miss Blaize was totally unprepared for what Judith had to tell her. Quite apart from the element of surprise, Miss Blaize, unlike Miss Lindsay, was constitutionally ill-equipped to deal with crimson joy. She sat gazing heavily at Judith, wondering how it could have happened that she had been so deceived in the Fairleys. They had seemed to her to be responsible, co-operative parents, attending all the school functions and appearing to appreciate what was being done for their children; never behind with the fees; only claiming her attention over matters which justified investigation – the children’s religious education, a poor school report, a decision as to which foreign language Claire should take and whether Louise should continue with Art in the Upper Fifth.

  ‘But how could it be that you had no idea that this was happening?’ she asked, her tone implying that the most unthinkable licence must have been allowed Louise.

  ‘I ask myself that,’ Judith said, feeling worse than at almost any time during the last unhappy days.

  ‘Indeed, you must!’

  ‘We shall withdraw her from the school, of course.’

  ‘And the other children? In the circumstances, you would not wish them to remain.’

  She is going to make this as difficult as she possibly can, Judith thought, clenching her hands. ‘We think it will be better if they have as few changes as possible in their lives.’

  ‘My dear,’ Miss Blaize contrived to be at once quietly sorrowful and totally without sympathy, ‘their lives cannot but be changed.’

  ‘If we take them away from the school, it will be as though they have something of which to be ashamed.’

  Miss Blaize thought that if the Fairley children left the school the matter might well be talked about until the end of term; but by the beginning of the autumn term it would be forgotten. If they remained, they would be a source of constant undesirable interest to their fellows. She said, ‘You must realize that I have to think about the other children for whom I have a responsibility.’ It was apparent that this was a matter which allowed of no compromise.

  Judith had hitherto only seen Miss Blaize in mellow mood. Now, massed darkly behind her desk, she seemed a creature whose origin lay in the days of the pagan gods, who might one moment be benign and the next destroy with a carelessly tossed thunderbolt. Here, surely, was power without mercy, a force outside human control.

  Miss Blaize began to make suggestions as to alternative arrangements for the education of Alice and Claire.

  Judith had seldom felt so helpless. Then, looking up for inspiration, she saw on the wall above the mantelpiece a photograph of Miss Blaize with the Chairman of the Governors. Mrs Brinley Harris was a large woman without Miss Blaize’s grandeur. Her lumpish face might have been carved out of a root vegetable for some Hallowe’en frolic, but it had a certain peasant shrewdness which Judith found comforting.

  Judith said, ‘We don’t intend to withdraw Alice and Claire from this school, Miss Blaize.’

  ‘But I have already told you, Mrs Fairley, that it would be best if they did not remain.’

  Judith composed herself. For the sake of the children she must not alienate this woman completely. ‘My husband has often said that you have given the children so much . . .’ What was it Stanley had said? Something about ‘abiding truths, the enrichment of the mind . . . and values which they will carry through life with them’. Judith wished that Stanley was here, he said this sort of thing so well. She did her best to sound convincing, and refused to allow herself to be intimidated by Miss Blaize, who was looking as though she was witnessing a whole shoal of pearls being cast before swine.

  ‘I don’t think there is anything more we can say about this,’ Miss Blaize said heavily when Judith had finished.

  Judith got to her feet. ‘In that case, I am sure you won’t mind if we write to the Chairman of the Governors? We would like her to know how much we value the school.’

  Miss Blaize did not rise to speed her departing guest. There was quite a distance from the desk to the door, and Judith felt it was the longest walk she had ever had.

  Miss Blaize meditated on what had passed.

  If Louise Fairley was to stand condemned, what was it that she had done? She had committed a sin against the church and she had undermined the foundations of civilized society. Miss Blaize examined this statement. Some would consider it an uncompromising judgement: Miss Blaize did not consider the matter allowed of any compromise. If Louise had not committed a sin against the church and undermined the foundations of civilized society, then she had done nothing of any great moment, and her offence was no more harmful than riding a bicycle on the wrong side of the road.

  Admittedly, Louise Fairley’s face, as Miss Blaize recalled it, was not the kind to shake the topless towers of Ilium and bring a civilization crashing down. There were, however, disturbing features. When at morning assembly Miss Blaize looked down from the platform at the young faces upturned to he
r, the one thing which flowed from them to her was an immense feeling of hope. They would not have said that they were hopeful – many would have claimed to be unhappy, bored, depressed, even – yet every morning, dark though they might consider their private despairs, they gazed at her with faces as yet unshadowed by defeat. Louise Fairley’s face was as hopeful as any, but there had been another quality which had set her apart from her fellows. That quality was delight. Miss Blaize had often thought that Louise would make the best of things in whatever circumstances she found herself, simply because Louise welcomed life. How totally she had been deceived! That very delight which she had found so attractive should have warned her that here was a girl who in the secret places of her heart worshipped at an alien altar.

  Among the many subjects on which she thought it her duty to instruct her pupils, Miss Blaize had never included sex, marital or pre-marital. As she thought about Louise she did not blame herself for this omission or ask why she should have avoided the subject. But the smell of burning from that alien altar was in the room.

  The sins of the one sister must be visited on the others: all the Fairley children must leave the school. Their removal would have to be approved by the Chairman of the Governors. Miss Blaize made arrangements to see Mrs Brinley Harris the following afternoon. The Chairman, a country woman at heart, was gardening when Miss Blaize arrived and put aside her trowel with reluctance. She sat with legs apart, displaying her bloomers, while Miss Blaize told her what was required of her. She was quite prepared to take Miss Blaize’s instructions on all matters affecting the education of the pupils. On matters of morality, however, she preferred to trust her own instincts. She noted that Miss Blaize was not proposing to trouble her with the parents’ views on the matter. A letter from the parents had been put through her letterbox last night, but she did not think it necessary to trouble Miss Blaize with this. When Miss Blaize had finished, she said, ‘Oh, these things happen, you know. No need to take it out on the other two lassies.’ Miss Blaize argued. Her aspect was terrible. Mrs Brinley Harris thought the woman might have been grieving at the fall of an empire rather than the fall from grace of one young woman. She looked impatiently towards the garden. The trees were coming into leaf and the room was green in their shadow. She decided to put Miss Blaize down with a bit of scripture: not a bad thing to let her know her Chairman wasn’t completely without scholarship. ‘When I get something on my mind,’ she said, ‘I say to myself: “. . . a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night.” ’

  Miss Blaize left shortly after this and Mrs Brinley Harris returned to the garden.

  While the fate of her sisters was being discussed, Louise was having tea at Lyons. She had been shopping for her mother in Shepherd’s Bush when she met Jacov. There had been times over the last few days when not only had Guy seemed far away, but it was difficult to imagine he had ever been close. Now, as she talked to Jacov, Louise felt Guy might come strolling towards her and, for one all-too-brief moment, he was there, standing before her, tall and upright, the soft brown hair falling across his forehead. She could see his shy smile and the way he had of watching other young men with interest and admiration, unaware of his own good looks. Oh, that lovely un-awareness! She bowed her head.

  Jacov said, ‘So I told him that if that was all he had for me to do, he could find another assistant. Very sad, but I don’t think it is what is upsetting you. Come, tell me about it. I know something has happened. Your father nearly got run over walking past me with his head in the air this morning.’

  She told him.

  His face took on a bleak look, the mournful eyes seemed to gaze at Louise across an icy waste instead of a cluttered tea table. Louise, not always alert to the complexity of mood, was nevertheless quick to note a change of climate.

  ‘How can you be shocked!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I was thinking of your father. I know now what he must be feeling.’

  Mr Fairley had made an apt choice, for there was that in Jacov’s nature which made him ready to play the scapegoat.

  ‘My father is being unreasonable,’ Louise said, finding she must comfort Jacov and not he her. ‘You mustn’t take any notice.’

  ‘No, he is right. I gave him my word and I betrayed him. It is a matter of honour.’ He lit a cigarette and she watched him, annoyed that he did not offer her one although she did not smoke. ‘Your father was very kind to me. He was my first English friend.’ There was no doubting the strength of his feeling for Mr Fairley.

  ‘Thanks for the sympathy,’ Louise said. ‘It’s been a great help talking to you.’

  He pulled on the cigarette once or twice and then enquired, ‘And Guy? Is he coming home?’

  ‘I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘If he doesn’t come, I will marry you.’ He said this with no great show of energy.

  Louise laughed. ‘You’d be the last person I’d marry, Jacov.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Although he looked mildly crestfallen he was not really surprised; he had not expected that she would want to marry him. Yet it was not confidence he lacked so much as will. If he had the will, what then? She could imagine them both in a darkened room. There would be music playing. They would lie side by side, looking at the streaks of light between the curtains, saying, ‘Shall we go out today?’ and then turning inwards towards the music, day after day after luxurious day. This fantasy and the immediate response of her body to it, frightened her. She said, ‘I don’t think you’d make a good husband, that’s why.’

  Word got around. Had the Fairleys known that Louise had talked to Jacov they would have blamed him; failing that, they blamed their doctor’s wife who was known to he indiscreet. Alice and Claire, released from their bond, lost no rime in making their own disclosures.

  Heather was in the playground doing her jazz band act to a group of enthusiasts. Fingers pinching her nostrils, the other hand flapping across her mouth, she emitted nasal bleats and moans, at the same time jerking hunched shoulders and stamping her feet to the rhythm. Claire waited on the edge of the group until the Broadway Baby had finally said goodnight, then she signalled and Heather broke away from the group.

  Heather flung her arms round Claire and swore to stand by her. Further consolation was not called for, but Heather, generous in all things, must attempt to provide it. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘The same thing happened to my cousin.’

  Claire was taken aback that Heather should think there might be a comparison between what happened to her cousin and the same thing happening to a member of the Fairley family. She wondered whether their friendship could continue in the face of such lack of discrimination. Fortunately, the bell had gone while Heather was offering her disastrous comfort, and they were swept up in the press of girls making their way back to the building. By lunchtime Claire had decided to overlook Heather’s aberration, though she felt a reprimand would be necessary were the cousin to be mentioned again.

  Daphne assured Alice of her support in less flamboyant terms, but her loyalty was none the less sincere. Daphne would always be ready to stand by her friends whatever happened, so long as it wasn’t dull.

  Only Irene was shocked. ‘I’m surprised at how shocked I am,’ she said to Alice. ‘I hadn’t thought of this happening to anyone I know.’

  Alice could see that Irene was troubled by her own attitude and she was grateful for this. She needed someone as confused as herself to talk to; they would be able to puzzle things out together. Hitherto, Alice’s friendships had tended to be with girls whom she admired for qualities different from her own – Daphne for her daring, Katia for her intensity and foreignness. In Irene she had a friend with whom she could share, discuss, explore; whose understanding deepened and whose enjoyment enriched her own.

  On one subject, however, they seemed unable to help each other. They talked a lot about Louise and Guy and about how their own inexperience might best be remedied. Neither felt very intereste
d in boys, and it was this lack of interest which most concerned them.

  ‘Katia gets worked up about the way men look at her on the bus,’ Alice said. ‘She even gets so excited reading Jane Eyre she can hardly sit still in class.’

  Irene thought perhaps they should do something practical. There was a youth club attached to her church which she was sure they could both join.

  ‘After Louise and St Bartholomew’s, my parents wouldn’t let me join a youth club.’

  ‘We’ve got to meet boys sooner or later.’

  ‘Now isn’t a very good time, though.’

  It seemed that in the cinema lay Alice’s only hope of illicit excitement. She spent some time at night thinking about her ideal man and did indeed get rather excited. She saw him as someone who might bawl at her one moment, but let anyone else say a word out of place and he would risk his life to ram the words down the offender’s throat, for at heart he was chivalrous – as were they all, the screen heroes, chivalrous to a man. She was growing up with a clear idea of what the chivalrous man was like, and would never be put off by a rugged exterior. Rugged exteriors, in fact, were essential. Humphrey Bogart might have been said to cast a long shadow over Alice’s youth.

  During the following week, the cinema and life briefly came together.

  It was just before supper that there was a knock on the front door, Judith, who was beating eggs, said to Alice, ‘That’s probably the groceries. Can you take them in?’

  Alice opened the front door and there was Guy, a suitcase beside him.

  ‘I’ve come back,’ he said. His eyes went beyond Alice to where Louise was standing on the stairs. ‘My mother wrote,’ he said. ‘I came at once. I haven’t been home.’

  It was the most perfect moment. Alice could not understand why Louise waited so long before she came down the stairs. He had come to her when she most needed him, just like the hero of a film. Alice wished Louise could have crumpled a little more in his arms, instead of saying, ‘You are glad, aren’t you?’ leaning back and looking into his face as though she really wanted an answer, when his arms around her should surely have told her all she needed to know.