The Dissent of Annie Lang

by Ros Franey

  ‘Horatius isn’t girls’ stuff!’ I threw him a challenging glare, but all he said was, ‘Tiger’s different. Mother taught it me.’

  I pushed my fingers into my chin because I suddenly wanted to cry. We ought not to need a housekeeper or Auntie Vera or any of them.

  Fred jumped up. ‘Come on, Nana,’ he said harshly. ‘Let’s go out. This is dreary.’

  After a few weeks, and no housekeeper in sight, I started to get bored with spying on the grown-ups. Make no mistake, I was still watchful; I knew that as long as I kept an eye on things it would be all right, but if I dropped my guard completely a housekeeper could be sneaked in under cover. To this end, whenever Daddy was later home than usual I would ask Maisie, ‘Where’s Daddy, Maisie?’

  ‘You always ask me that, Annie. He’s a busy man, your father.’

  ‘Did he say he was going to be late?’

  ‘He’ll be home for his tea.’

  ‘Has he gone to see someone?’

  ‘I don’t know, lovie, do I?’

  ‘He might have said.’

  ‘Why should he tell me?’

  ‘But Maisie, it might have a big important effect on all our lives!’

  The first couple of occasions I said this, she just laughed. But when I wouldn’t leave it alone, she became uneasy, I could tell. ‘You’re a rum one, you are. What are you on about, Annie?’

  ‘I think you know more than you’re letting on,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Know what? What is there to know?’

  ‘About a certain thing, a certain person.’

  She stared at me.

  ‘Beginning with H …’ I said darkly.

  ‘H? What d’you mean H? H for himself is all I know.’

  This was a favourite of mine, and I forgot all about the housekeeper in an instant. ‘Oh Maisie, say it, say it!’ I begged.

  ‘A is for ’orses.’

  ‘B for mutton,’ I chimed in.

  ‘C for yourself,’ we chorused.

  ‘What’s D for?’ I asked. ‘E for brick.’

  ‘F for pheasant; G for police!’ We spun round. My father stood in the kitchen doorway. He laughed his big laugh and spread his arms wide.

  ‘There you are, you see,’ Maisie said. ‘She wasn’t half going on about you being late, Mr Lang.’

  ‘Were you, Annie?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. I was cross because I’d been outwitted by Maisie.

  ‘Well, I’m here now.’ He ruffled my hair as he walked past me into the hall to hang up his hat and scarf.

  I asked grumpily, ‘What’s “I” for, Maisie?’

  ‘I for tower.’ She went out to the scullery to get her own coat; she must have been waiting for Daddy to come home so that she could leave. All I knew about Maisie’s life was that she lived somewhere in Hyson Green with a husband she always called Mr Brown. I thought of him as Old Mr Brown, the owl in Squirrel Nutkin – Mr Brown paid no attention whatever to Nutkin. He shut his eyes obstinately and went to sleep. I imagined Maisie and Mr Brown living halfway up a tree in Hyson Green, two tubby people with kind hearts. There had been some little owls, too, but they had flown before we knew Maisie. Poor Mr Brown must have waited ages for his tea night after night since our mother died, but I never thought of that in those days, because I was only small.

  Maisie came back into the breakfast room, adjusting her hat with a pin. She knew what H stood for all right; she had her crafty smile on. I felt slightly sick. ‘YZ for young shoulders,’ she said darkly and let herself out of the back door.

  That Sunday, Auntie Vera came and met me from Sunday School. This was unusual; Fred and Beatrice usually waited after the big children’s class and we walked home on our own.

  ‘What did you do today?’ she asked.

  ‘Loaves and fishes.’ I kicked at a pebble.

  ‘Don’t scuff your boots, Annie. What hymns did you sing?’

  ‘“There’s a Friend for Little Children” and “Jesus Bids us Shine”.’

  ‘I love that one.’ She sang in her quavery voice, ‘Jesus bids us shine with a cool, clear light, Like a little candle burning in the night … something something something – how does it go?’

  ‘Can’t remember, Auntie.’ I didn’t want to sing stupid hymns with Auntie Vera. I wanted to go home for tea.

  ‘At your age you should remember all the words.’

  ‘Well, you can’t remember them!’

  As soon as I said this I knew it was a terrible mistake. All my hard work to improve over recent weeks collapsed in an instant. ‘You in your small corner, and I in mine,’ I chanted loudly.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Auntie, I didn’t mean it.’ I looked up at her. I could feel the anguish tightening my face all over.

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’

  ‘It just sort of— I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Your mother is up there in Heaven and she watches over you. But when she leans down towards her little girl, what does she hear?’

  I didn’t want to see my mother leaning towards me from Heaven. I looked down at my buttoned boots. We were still walking up Robin Hood Chase. The boots swam below me, left, right, left, right.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She hears me being rude, Auntie.’

  ‘Are you snivelling?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie.’

  ‘Where’s your handkerchief?’

  I fumbled in my pocket, extracted the handkerchief and shook it to open it out.

  ‘Not with your gloves on!’ snapped Auntie Vera.

  I tried to remove the glove from my left hand by pulling at each finger as she had taught me – and dropped the handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Insolent and clumsy with it! Well, pick it up, girl!’

  I stooped. I was crying in gulps. I was up there with Mother, leaning out of Heaven watching me make a mess of everything. Then deep inside me I suddenly heard Mother say, Lay off her, Vee, she’s only seven years old. I picked up the handkerchief, wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I looked up at Auntie Vera at last. ‘I’m sorry, Auntie,’ I said. ‘It was terribly rude. I didn’t mean it.’

  She sort of made a noise like harrumpgh, as they write it in books. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it just goes to prove that you are out of control. I don’t know how your mother ever put up with you. I’m glad to say that from today, things will be different.’

  I stiffened. ‘Will they?’ I asked.

  ‘When we get home, your father’s new housekeeper will be there to meet us. This has all taken far too long, I must say. From now on, you children will have a firm hand to guide you.’

  It had happened. ‘Oh,’ I said. My feet slowed. My tears were forgotten. A firm hand.

  ‘Come along!’ exhorted Auntie Vera. ‘Beatrice and Fred will have met her already. There’ll be no scones left.’ We tramped on up the hill.

  My first glimpse of the lady who was to be housekeeper was in our sitting room. I had taken Little Sid out of my pocket as I entered, for courage and so he could meet her too. I say ‘first glimpse’ but it wasn’t, because as soon as I saw the pointed angles of her profile, I realised I knew exactly who she was: Miss A. Higgs, as it said on the Mission noticeboard, played the harmonium at the Mission. She played ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ and ‘He who would valiant be’ and I had often wondered what it must be like to sit up there sideways to the congregation with all eyes on you and pull out the mysterious stops and buttons and dance your feet on the pedals beneath. She could make snorting noises like trumpets and wobbly sounds like ghosts. I had always thought of her as something of a magician and when I saw that it was she who was to be our housekeeper I felt a huge rush of excitement. She was a musician. I played the piano. Perhaps it would be all right, after all. Miss Higgs was seated at the table behind the silver teapot with her back to the window, as tall and grave as she sat at the keyboard. I had never seen her face close up and I could not look into it now.<
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  Auntie Vera had swept into the room before me. ‘Miss Higgs,’ she announced, ‘this is Annie, the youngest.’ She said youngest with a hiss as if to nudge the new housekeeper with a you-know-the-difficult-one dig in the ribs. I dropped my eyes and was faintly aware of brown bar shoes poking out from slender ankles. I could feel the penetrating gaze on me.

  ‘Annie, say hello to Miss Higgs.’

  ‘Hello, Missiggs. This is Little Sid.’

  She recoiled. ‘Errgh. What is that?’

  ‘Not now, Annie,’ Auntie Vera interrupted.

  ‘It’s Little Sid,’ I repeated. I held him out for inspection in the palm of my hand. ‘He’s a panda. From China,’ I added meaningfully, hoping she would know that China meant Auntie Francie the missionary, and win approval. ‘Well, obviously not a real-size panda. He goes everywhere in my pocket.’

  ‘Oh!’ She scrutinised him cautiously. ‘Does he need a good scrub? You made me jump. I thought it was a mouse.’ Miss Higgs gave a sort of breathless sigh that might have been a laugh and might not. ‘Go and wash your hands for tea, Annie.’

  Auntie Vera gave me one of her looks. I left the room and went to the kitchen sink, reaching up to sit Little Sid on the mantelpiece above the range out of harm’s way. Good scrub, indeed! I returned to the sitting-room.

  ‘What did you learn in Sunday School today, Annie?’ asked Miss Higgs.

  ‘Loaves and fishes,’ I muttered.

  ‘Loaves and fishes, Miss Higgs,’ hissed Auntie Vera.

  ‘Missiggs,’ I echoed.

  ‘Annie, please look at me when you speak to me!’ she said.

  I jerked my head up and gazed at her. The light was fading and her features were in shadow but I could make out grey eyes in a rather long, flat face, a neat, straight nose and lips in a line. I am trying hard to write what I thought about it that very first time, now it has so many layers over it that came with knowing her. But I truly think I liked her. She had the distant air of a maiden in a fairy tale, rather stately with her hair in a bun, waiting to be rescued by St George. Her hair was not dark like mine; it was brownish, between colours. But I liked her calm expression and I thought that any moment her eyes might smile at me. She looked like a person who would stick the photos into the photograph album and bring order to things.

  ‘And we sang “There’s a Friend for Little Children”,’ I finished, aware I had been staring at her rather rudely and hoping she would not guess what I was thinking about her face. Also because I knew from years of Auntie Vera and the rest of them that this question always came next. I waited for her to tell me to recite it, but after a few moments more of silence in which she looked at me with an expression I could not fathom, she asked, ‘Did you wash your hands?’

  ‘There’s a Friend for Little Children Above the Bright Blue Sky—’

  ‘I asked if you had washed your hands, Annie.’

  ‘Yes, Missiggs.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  I held up the palms of my hands for inspection, as if I was offering her a baby bird.

  ‘And your nails!’

  I hastily turned my hands over, dropping the bird.

  ‘Do you bite your nails, child?’

  ‘No, Missiggs.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘No, Missiggs. I mean, yes Missiggs.’

  Beatrice had entered the room behind me. She said softly, ‘She has to keep them short for the piano, Miss Higgs.’

  ‘You play the piano?’

  I was thinking, Like you. You play. I know who you are! We can be friends! But she made it sound like a sin. ‘I’m just learning.’ I looked up at her again. ‘I can play for you after tea, if you like.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘I can play “Where E’er You Walk”,’ I said quickly, hoping it would sound religious. She played the harmonium on a Sunday, after all.

  This seemed to go down better. ‘You’re young to be playing that,’ she said. I glowed. Beatrice passed me on her way to the sofa, giving me a reassuring touch on the arm as she went. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. Our new housekeeper said nothing so I edged towards Beatrice a little, hoping to escape further questions.

  ‘I suppose you will have milk,’ Miss Higgs said.

  ‘Oh tea, please,’ I answered, and immediately encountered a hard look from Auntie Vera who was standing to one side observing the inquisition.

  ‘You drink tea?’ The housekeeper looked shocked. ‘Does your father allow this?’

  I wasn’t sure what was supposed to be wrong with drinking tea, so I bit my lip and said nothing. Beatrice came to my rescue again. ‘Mother always allowed us to drink tea if we wished,’ she said, sounding very polite so no one could accuse her of answering back. ‘Annie takes one sugar.’

  ‘I’m not interested in what Annie takes. Today she will take milk.’ She poured some milk into a cup and handed it to me. I took it and retreated to the sofa, the cup trembling in its saucer. I hate milk. ‘The scones have been taken away,’ said Miss Higgs. She pronounced them ‘scoans’. There was no further explanation as to who had taken them or why I was to have nothing to eat.

  I plucked up courage to make an ally of Auntie Vera. ‘Would you like me to fetch you a scon, Auntie?’ I asked, unable to resist the emphasis.

  ‘Oh no, thank you, Annie,’ Auntie Vera replied. I looked covertly at Beatrice who shook her head imperceptibly: Don’t try it, said the look. But Miss Higgs rose to the occasion. ‘You may fetch a scone from the kitchen if you would like one, Annie,’ she said. I put the cup of milk carefully to one side. Yes, she was a princess that first day. As soon as the door shut behind me I slid down the shiny hall tiles in my Sunday shoes.

  THREE

  For the first few weeks, we all tiptoed around each other carefully. It reminded me of the fish tank at the Arboretum in which each fish goes about its business opening and closing its mouth, being polite to the other fish but never bashing into them. I was relieved that there was no sign of Maisie leaving; she still spent weekdays with us so whatever the job of housekeeper was supposed to be, Miss Higgs must have been doing something else. Looking back, I don’t think she quite knew what was expected of her, but she seemed anxious to do the right thing. She took Elsie in hand with the housework and introduced a few touches to the décor that, while I didn’t much like them, were not offensive. She hung a picture called The Light of the World outside her bedroom door. Beatrice said it was meant to be Jesus, but it didn’t look much like him to me; it was just a fellow with a lamp. At least Miss Higgs seemed to understand that it would not be a good idea to interfere with our mother’s style of things. We were grateful for that.

  ‘Did you know our mother, Missiggs?’ I ventured to ask her one day.

  ‘I knew who she was, of course,’ she answered. ‘I saw her at the services every week. I didn’t know her, as you might say, well.’

  I told her I always watched her there at the harmonium, pulling out the stops and doing the pedals. Sometimes she’d move her hands really quickly – in between verses. ‘I’d love to have a go,’ I said. ‘All those different sounds you get. It must take lots of practice.’

  ‘Well, I’m in good hands.’

  Even then, I knew when Mission people spoke like that, they were talking about Jesus. I had a sudden vision of the Light of the World standing behind Miss Higgs at morning service. ‘Did you see me, Missiggs, on Sundays?’ I blurted out. It sounded a bit bumptious; with her having the Light of the World to bother about, she’d not have time to look out for Beatrice and Fred and me.

  ‘The grandchildren of our dear Pastor Eames must always sit at the front,’ said Miss Higgs gravely. ‘So yes, I saw you. I knew who you were.’

  I wondered if she might have a family of her own and took a deep breath, steeling myself to ask. But her face was turned away from me and I had a strong sense that this was not a conversation she was enjoying, so I breathed out again and said nothing.

  The curiosi
ty stayed with me, though, and I returned to the subject one day when we were folding sheets. Elsie boiled the sheets in the copper with the blue bag and put them through the mangle; they came in from the washing line rather board-like, as if starched, with wrinkles along the creases.

  ‘Ends together. Now pull …’ instructed Miss Higgs. I leaned backwards, putting my weight on the sheet to stretch the creases out. We repeated the action and then advanced towards each other; I carefully gave her my two ends and as I did so my hands brushed hers. The skin of her fingers was dry and tight, a little shiny with carefully trimmed cuticles. I picked up the new, shorter end and backed away, stretching it as before. When the sheet was a manageable size she took it from me and finished it off herself, laying it neatly in the ironing basket for Elsie. She seemed to be well practised at the art of sheet-folding.

  ‘When you did this at home, before you came here, Miss Higgs,’ I asked, ‘who did you do it with?’ Sheets could not be folded by one person. I used to sometimes do them with Mother if Maisie or Beatrice were not around. She looked at me curiously, not understanding the question. Then she said, ‘Are you asking me who I lived with at home?’

  I was immediately on my guard. This could well be construed as rude. ‘Not exactly, but, well yes, perhaps sort of,’ I replied.

  ‘In that case,’ she said evenly, ‘you should ask what you mean to ask and not ask sly questions.’

  ‘I was just thinking of how difficult it is to fold a sheet without another person,’ I answered, adding, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  She considered this and must have decided she believed me, which was good because it was true. I hadn’t meant to be nosey; but I was curious.

  ‘I fold sheets with my sister,’ she answered. ‘We lived together before I came here.’

  ‘Is she far away?’ I asked.

  ‘Not far.’ She hesitated. ‘Beeston.’

  ‘What’s her name? Does she live on her own now?’

  ‘She is called Gwendolen. Gwen.’

  ‘Gwen.’ I repeated it. It sounded like a quill pen going into an inkwell but I did not say this. ‘Does Gwen play the harmonium, too?’ I asked.