The Tender Night

by Lilian Peake

  The building had the appearance of a dolls’ house. It was high and narrow. In the early nineteenth century it had been owned by a man grown rich with the wealth he had acquired from the beginnings of the industrial revolution. He, too, had apparently thought, with its symmetry and height, it had resembled a child’s plaything. History had it that he objected to living in a ‘house made for dolls’ and, using some of his accumulated wealth, had set about providing himself with more living space.

  So two more buildings were erected, three storeys high and again exactly symmetrical. It was these two .buildings which now provided living and sleeping accommodation for the young boarders and also for those members of staff who were in residence. It was in the main building that classes were held. It was also where the headmistress, Mrs. Allard, lived in grace and comfort and administered the running of the school.

  As Shelley arrived for work the morning after Craig’s visit to the lodge, he came down the stairs into the wood-panelled entrance hall.

  He frowned at his watch and Shelley said defensively, ‘I’m not late. If anything, I’m early.’

  ‘Are you?’ he asked disinterestedly. ‘Where’s my mother?’ He followed Shelley into the headmistress’s office.

  Shelley removed her coat and scarf and hung them in a cupboard. ‘Probably with Matron. She has a talk with her every morning to discuss the health and welfare of the boys.’ Shelley took her spectacles from her case and put them on. It was easier to withstand the impact of the owner of Mapleleaf House with two pieces of glass in front of her eyes.

  ‘Where’s the deputy headmistress, Miss—I’ve forgotten her name?’

  ‘Miss Feather. She left us three months ago. Your mother hasn’t replaced her yet.’

  ‘So who does her work?’

  Shelley uncovered the typewriter, opened various drawers and took out pens, pencils and sheets of paper. It was a good way, she felt, of dodging the question.

  Craig was not fooled. He asked suspiciously, ‘Not you?’

  She refused to give a direct answer. ‘I help your mother in every way I can.’

  He came towards her. ‘You’re not telling me that in my mother’s absence you even deputise for her?’

  She said primly, busying herself with opening letters, ‘To the best of my ability.’

  ‘But with due respect, you’re hardly the right person. Neither are you paid the right salary. If my mother permits this, not only is she exploiting you, she’s breaking the rules. And, what’s more, failing to give the fee-paying parents value for money.’

  Shelley looked at him with defiance. ‘And you know all about education.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Jenner,’ crushingly, ‘I know a great deal about education. I should do, since I not only hold a master’s degree on the subject, but I lecture on it, too.’

  These items of information shook her to the extent of making her sink into her chair. ‘You’re a—’ she looked up at him uncertainly, ‘you’re a specialist in the subject? You’re an M.Ed., a Master of Education?’

  He inclined his head. ‘But,’ sardonically, ‘don’t let it keep you awake at nights.’

  She coloured under the sting of his sarcasm and gathered up her belongings. He watched her make for the door. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To—’ Should she tell him? ‘To—take a class.’

  Slowly, unbelievingly, he crossed the room. ‘To what?’ His anger unsteadied her legs as well as her tongue.

  ‘To—to teach.’

  ‘But you can’t. You’re not qualified. Are you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘So what goes on in this school? What does my mother think she’s up to? Am I permitted to ask which subject you’re going to “teach”?’ He smeared the word with mockery.

  She opened and closed her handbag uncomfortably. ‘The woman who teaches the youngest children to read is away ill. Whenever that happens I take over.’

  ‘Does it happen often?’

  She flashed at him, ‘Are you a member of the teaching inspectorate in disguise? Or a spy for them, perhaps?’ But she regretted her words immediately.

  His expression, full of anger, forced an apology from her.

  He asked sharply, ‘Does this—this charade happen often?’

  ‘Mrs. Gordon is away fairly often, yes. She has an ailing mother.’

  ‘So Miss Shelley “office girl” Jenner changes hats and becomes Miss Shelley “schoolmarm” Jenner, inexperienced, untrained, her only asset being her willingness to get her employer out of an awkward situation.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliments,’ she responded sourly, ‘but you’ve overlooked another of my assets. I happen to love children.’

  ‘Love of children is an emotion. It’s hardly a qualification which the teaching fraternity looks upon as a hallmark of teaching skill.’

  It was time, she thought, to defend herself from this man. ‘I get results. If you don’t believe me, come and listen.’

  He looked her over and there were no compliments in his eyes. Shelley became conscious of her drawn-back hair and colourless cheeks. She recalled his words to her sister the night before which told her, Shelley, exactly what he thought of her appearance and personality.

  ‘So now,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘having in a roundabout way accused me of professional spying, you invite me to sit in on your class? That, Miss Jenner, is an invitation I intend to accept.’ His hand indicated the door. ‘Lead the way.’

  There were eight five-year-olds in the class, eight small boys, well fed and cared for, nurtured on near-luxury at home and with every physical comfort at school. At the moment they were running about the schoolroom, and it echoed with their shouts.

  When Shelley appeared in the doorway, they surrounded her and fought to be the favoured ones to sit beside her. It was difficult to shut her mind to the presence of the man she had unwillingly invited to supervise her lesson, but with a supreme effort she managed it. While she sat amongst the semi-circle of lively, bright-minded children, Craig pressed his back against a windowsill and stood with folded arms and a sardonic expression, blocking out a large portion of daylight.

  As Shelley listened to the children’s efforts to read, some of them halting, some remarkably fluent, a thrill of triumph ran through her and she stole a defiant look at the spectator. But he was contemplating his shoes at the end of his crossed legs with a detached, unreadable expression. Certainly there was no praise in it for her achievement.

  During the lesson, which lasted half an hour, he wandered about, studied the words on the blackboard, gazed out of the window and at last sat cornerwise on the teacher’s desk, swinging his leg. All the time Shelley felt he was listening, that he had not once allowed his attention to wander from the teacher and her eager young pupils. But what annoyed her most was that, no matter how many times she glanced at him, she could not tell what he was thinking.

  The children scampered away along the corridor to their next class and Shelley prepared to leave the schoolroom.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, smiling and deliberately provoking, ‘you found it hard to descend to the abysmally low level of children learning to read? Maybe you’ve become so accustomed to the pinnacle of learning you occupy in the academic world, you can’t stoop low enough any more to appreciate the difficulties of those at the bottom of the educational ladder?’

  ‘If I were you, Miss Jenner,’ he spoke quietly, ‘I should not set out to annoy, I should subside unobtrusively into a corner and put on a fur coat to counteract the effects of the cold, cold criticism which might come your way.’

  ‘But,’ she said, bewildered, ‘what did I do wrong? You heard how fluently those children read, although the oldest was only five and a half.’

  ‘All right, so they could read. Who taught them last week?’

  ‘Mrs. Gordon.’

  ‘And the week before that?’

  ‘Mrs. Gordon. But she was away the two weeks prior to that.’

  ‘And Mrs. G
ordon is a qualified teacher?’ Shelley nodded. ‘Then it’s Mrs. Gordon who should take the credit, not you. All you did was, educationally speaking, baby-sit. You merely heard the results of Mrs. Gordon’s work.’

  So he was not even prepared to give her the credit of teaching one single new word to those children! She said, defiantly, ‘But as you said, Mr. Allard, I’m not a real teacher, so what did you expect? And as you said, I’m not paid a teacher’s salary, so did you really expect me to put myself out?’

  She flounced out of the room, ran down the stairs and burst into Mrs. Allard’s office. To Shelley’s disappointment, the headmistress’s chair was still empty. Craig Allard followed her all the way. He had not finished with her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but you had no right to take that class. It was against all the rules. I shall speak to my mother about it. A secretary teaching children to read! No local authority would tolerate such an arrangement, let alone the teacher’s trade unions. In some schools there would be a strike on the headmistress’s hands.’

  Shelley felt like crying. ‘Thank you,’ she said bitterly, ‘for your gratitude to me in helping your mother out, for taking time off from my secretarial duties and for—for letting my work pile up and getting behind for the rest of the day...’

  ‘All right, you’ve made your point. I’ll write you a formal letter of thanks.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ she snapped, goaded by his sarcasm. ‘Just keep out of my way, that’s all, Mr. Allard.’ She knew she had broken not only the rules of politeness, but was even endangering her job by speaking in such an insubordinate way to her employer’s son—the man, in fact, to whom the great residence belonged—but she did not care. She would get this man off her back even if as a result she found herself applying to the town’s employment bureau for another job, even if he threw her and her sister out of their home. This, as she was aware, he was quite entitled to do.

  He said frigidly, ‘I appreciate the sentiments behind the order you’ve just given me, Miss Jenner, but unfortunately I can’t promise to act upon it. If I wanted to sit there,’ indicating his mother’s chair, ‘with my feet up on that desk, watching you all day and tearing your work to pieces, I could do just that. Remember that, the next time you feel like flinging your spite and bad temper in my face.’

  Shelley sat at her desk and inserted some paper into the typewriter. The door opened and a head came round it. A tall, thin young man stood in the doorway and seemed to be wondering whether to advance or retreat. Shelley, delighted at his timely appearance, stretched out her hand.

  ‘Emery,’ she said, ‘come in.’

  As he walked past Craig Allard, he eyed him like a student demonstrator eyeing a policeman, and sat himself awkwardly on the edge of Shelley’s desk. He pushed a lock of hair from his eyes—it immediately fell back again—and studied the well-worn carpet beneath his brown suede shoes as if the faded pattern on it held some mysterious meaning.

  Shelley made a sketchy introduction. ‘Mr. Allard, Emery Slade, teacher of art. Emery, Mr. Craig Allard, the headmistress’s son.’

  Emery raised his head sufficiently to give a strained, insincere smile.

  ‘We have met,’ Craig said curtly. ‘Miss Jenner?’ Shelley looked up at Craig with the bold smile of someone shielded from censure. ‘Let me know when my mother is available.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr. Allard,’ she replied, all honey and perfect secretary.

  He gave her a cutting look, transferred it to the drooping head of her companion and went out.

  ‘There was no need to introduce us,’ said Emery. ‘I’ve seen him around the place before. He’s been away, hasn’t he?’

  Shelley nodded. ‘Abroad for six months. He apparently left England the day I was interviewed for this job. I never met him until yesterday.’

  ‘From his look, I’d say he’d taken to you like a duck to an oil slick—to be avoided at all costs!’

  ‘The compliment’s returned,’ said Shelley sharply. ‘The man’s poison as far as I’m concerned. And like all poisons, I wish he’d stay out of reach.’ She looked anxiously at her watch. ‘Did you want something, Emery?’

  He eased himself off the desk. ‘Only to ask if I can call and see you this evening. I’ve got the urge to paint and there are too many people around this place, which is bad for my artistic health.’

  Why not? Shelley asked herself. Janine would be going out with Craig. Having agreed on the time of his arrival, Emery wandered out. When Muriel Allard returned to her desk, Shelley gave her Craig’s message, but' she said she had already spoken to him. Then she read the letters Shelley had placed in front of her and handed them back. ‘Answer them for me, dear, will you? I haven’t the time.’

  A little exasperatedly, Shelley nodded. Craig Allard would hardly have approved of his mother’s action and Shelley herself was feeling the faintest stirrings of resentment. Not only was she expected to act as deputy head but also as the headmistress herself.

  But, she argued, trying to quieten her ruffled feelings, it wasn’t difficult writing tactful replies to anxious parents. Mrs. Allard had been so good to her and was such a reasonable employer, she could not now stand on her rights and say she was there to obey orders, not to give them.

  Muriel Allard took out her compact and touched her nose with powder. ‘I’m off, dear. The Ladies’ Guild in the village have asked me to an informal coffee morning.’

  If it wasn’t the Ladies’ Guild, Shelley thought, it would have been the vicar’s wife. There was always someone, it seemed, prepared to invite Mrs. Allard into their homes and inveigle her away from her work. And Mrs. Allard was constantly willing to be so inveigled.

  Janine was excited about her date with Craig Allard. She dressed with care, putting aside her patched jeans and wearing instead a floral dress with a scooped-out neckline. She pulled on long black boots.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Shelley asked, trying not to let her anxiety show.

  Janine glanced out of the window into the darkness and watched the headlamps of a car approaching along the drive, throwing light in front of it like two enormous torches. ‘Here’s Craig,’ she said. ‘Ask him.’

  Janine let him in. Shelley, who never bothered to dress up even when she went out with Emery, lifted a face empty of make-up and expression and asked, ‘Where are you taking my sister, Mr. Allard?’

  His eyes raked her and the contempt in his face told her the opinion he had formed as a result of his survey. ‘Janine’s over age, Miss Jenner. I can take her where I like.’

  Shelley's fingers curled at her sides. ‘Where are you taking her?’ she repeated.

  He leaned sideways against the wall. ‘Shall we tell her, Janine? Put your sister out of her misery? Or shall we let her squirm with worry all the evening?’

  Janine laughed gaily. ‘Shelley wouldn't let worry about me spoil her evening. She keeps saying she’s got no feelings left, so how can she worry?’

  The eyes had not lost their contempt. ‘I’m taking her to a pub, Miss Jenner. I’m going to get her drunk, then I’m going to take her on to the moors in the darkness and rape her. There now,’ he straightened, ‘that should keep your mind healthily occupied for the long, lonely evening.’ He smiled, without warmth, at Shelley’s pale face.

  ‘She won’t be lonely, Craig,’ Janine said. ‘Emery’s coming.’

  His eyes flickered. ‘Is he? Have your own back, Janine, and ask your big sister what she’s going to be up to while you’re out with me. Is it safe, do you think,’ he flung a careless arm round Janine’s shoulders, ‘to leave her alone with that curiously effete, ragged sort of creature who wandered into my mother’s room this morning and sat on your sister's desk?’

  ‘Safe?’ said Janine, laughing. ‘It’s safe to leave Shelley with any man these days. Even if Emery tried anything on with her, she’d slap him down fast. She’s vowed not to let another man touch her as long as she lives.’

  The pale cheeks which were lifted so
defiantly to Craig became flooded with colour. When would Janine stop giving away her secrets to this monster of a man?

  ‘The touch barrier,’ the guest mused, ‘intriguing thought. Even the sound barrier has been smashed, Miss Jenner, so beware. Barriers were only ever put up to be broken down.’

  Shelley was at her desk one morning when she heard the sound of muffled crying. It puzzled her because the children should at this time have been gathered in the hall for morning assembly. The door creaked on its hinges and a small boy sitting on the stairs raised a tear-stained face, drawing in his breath on a convulsive sob. Shelley joined him on the bottom step, putting her arm round him. This was the boy she had found so many times sobbing in a comer, hiding his loneliness from the others. He was a withdrawn and solitary child, who did not seem to mix easily with his own kind.

  Shelley often silently condemned his parents for allowing so young and sensitive a child to stay as a boarder at the school. He was not yet seven and needed the security of his home and parents. No doubt they argued, she reflected, looking at the abject little figure beside her, that by tearing him away from their constant company they were helping him to stand on his own feet. Their drastic cure for his shyness seemed to be having the opposite effect.

  Shelley’s usual remedy was to take the boy to her desk and produce a sweet. This normally satisfied him, although even then it would often take some time to persuade him to leave her and return to his class.

  This morning Shelley pulled him close. ‘Jamie,’ she said, ‘what’s wrong? Tell Shelley.’

  He rubbed his head against her arm. ‘My mummy,’ he said, ‘I want my mummy.’

  ‘But you’re a big boy, Jamie—nearly seven. Big boys can manage without their mummies.’

  But not Jamie. It seemed he found in Shelley’s arms a substitute for the mother he craved and he abandoned himself to his misery. The phone rang on Mrs. Allard’s desk, but Shelley ignored it. Whoever it was could call back later. At last the ringing stopped, but not Jamie’s tears. There seemed to be no end to them.