by Susan Hill
She knew then.
‘Pray God your father never knows. Pray God. And I forbid you to tell him. Let him retain some illusions about you in whatever time he has left.’
She got up and went to the door, head high, and without looking at Olive again, said, ‘As if you had not done harm enough by having an illegitimate child. But at least that was natural. At least that was normal. May you be forgiven. I would like you to leave here first thing in the morning and not, please, to see your father again. God knows what you might blurt out.’
For a few moments, after she had gone out of the room, Olive sat quite still, feeling nothing, but then, as if she had been put under a stream of hot water and thawed in an instant, she jumped up, fury burning through her, and banged on Peggy’s door.
‘You think what you like but you have no right to stop me. He is my father and you can’t do anything. I will see him, whenever I wish. I will see him tomorrow and find somewhere else to stay and spend every day with him. I am his daughter and you …’
She turned away without finishing the sentence, not even knowing what she was going to say, and went to bed and slept at once.
She woke to the light being switched on. Peggy was standing in the doorway, grey-faced.
‘We have to go to the hospital. Didn’t you hear the phone?’
She had heard nothing. Peggy was incapable even of calling a taxi, she was shaking so much. It was almost three o’clock and Olive had to ring several numbers before she found one who would come, and that only as a favour because it was illness. They dressed and sat in their coats and waited and the buoys blinked on and off out at sea and they said no word to one another.
In the cold-smelling taxi they sat apart looking out on their respective sides, at the deserted streets. Only the lights of the hospital shone out from the top of the rise.
He had died ten minutes ago.
He looked utterly changed since she had seen him on the previous day – changed back. He was like himself again, the self of ten or more years before. His eyes were closed. There was no distressing, blank stare and his left side looked the same as his right, now, the arm straight and still. The blind was pulled down and there was a screen across the open doorway.
Olive took his hand and held it, kissed his cheek and then simply sat, resting with him. It was as if she had not rested or been still for years. He had always been able to soothe her, after some tormenting childhood nightmare or other fright, harsh words from her mother, and so he soothed her now. He had not known the truth about her, she had not been given the chance to tell him about Thea. Perhaps she would never have done so. Peggy was certain that he had been spared by death from knowledge of her shame. But in everyone else’s eyes, having had an illegitimate child was shameful too. More so. Less?
She stroked his hand. Already the neatly cut fingernails were opaque, drained of blood and pale as bone.
‘I don’t know,’ she said to him. ‘I don’t know anything, except what I feel, and how can anyone know more?’
She lifted his hand and kissed the back of it and felt the weight of tissue and flesh and bone, and in the weight there was only the total absence of all quickness, all life.
She expected Peggy to stay for some time, and so she wandered down the corridor and out of the quiet building. But Peggy joined her within a few minutes.
‘I thought you’d left. I thought you couldn’t face it.’
‘He’s my father. What could I not face? But you didn’t have to leave so quickly. I can wait as long as you want.’
‘He’s gone. There’s nothing to say, is there?’
She took a step or two away from Olive, fumbling in her bag for cigarettes.
Dear Miss Dauncey,
I am travelling back on Wednesday, after my father’s funeral and will be in school the next day and for the rest of the term.
All good wishes.
Sincerely,
Olive Piper
28
DEAR O,
Sorry for taking such an age to reply – we’ve been moving house and can you imagine what that’s like with two children under five and both with chickenpox? We haven’t gone far but we have to rent, and although we’re not in such a nice area – or house – at least we’re saving money. I wish I could see you. I miss our old chats.
As to your news, I don’t know what to say really. It’s something I’ve never understood at all and I suppose I believe nature meant us to be two halves, male/female. That’s the way it seems to be, isn’t it? I wonder if you’re just having a bit of a crisis and that has confused you? I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it will pass, you’ll meet someone and have a family and this will just all resolve itself.
Of course I’m not condemning or disapproving – you’re not bad at all, but I think you probably need some guidance. Wish I were nearer and we could talk. You’re welcome up here at any time though it’s always chaos and there’s only the old sofa but I’d love to see you. And good luck, O, I’ll think of you and hope you get it all straight.
Love from your friend,
Margaret
Dear Olive,
Thank you for your note. It has been a difficult time for you and I hope you are up to coming in to school. I would like to see you first thing on Thursday morning, after assembly, if you are able to do that.
Sincerely,
Avril Dauncey
She had saved the envelope addressed in Thea’s hand until last, when she had unpacked, made tea, savouring the moments of anticipation. She plumped up and rearranged the cushions on her armchair, took off her shoes. Poured out and drank. Then she slit open the envelope.
Olive, my dear,
I don’t know when you are coming back but if it is before the end of term, and you go into school, be warned. AD will ask to see you. I have already been ‘summoned’, and as a result, I am not returning for the rest of this school year – officially, because I am ‘ill’. You will be asked to do the same, but in your case, because you are only a probationer still, there may be more to it. I don’t know. Nothing has been said. But be prepared.
In view of all this, we should not see one another but I will, of course, be in touch. I hope things have not been too hard and that you are well. I am so sorry for my part in all this – it is my fault, and all my responsibility, and I should have known better,
Affectionately,
Thea
She read the letter and read it again, and again, but however many times she did so she could not manage to extract from it a single word either of love or of comfort. Why had she written so coldly? And why on school-headed paper, other than to conceal her address? What did she mean about having to feign illness, and by telling her she had to be prepared?
She started a reply half a dozen times, and tore up each attempt. She did not want letters between them, she wanted to see Thea, to talk, to be close.
She was distraught, and hurt, and shocked, and she barely slept, and got up and left the flat far earlier than she needed to, so that there were no girls in yet. The cleaners were still mopping the corridors. As she went in, she saw Miss Dauncey ahead of her, briefcase in hand, pleated skirt swaying slightly as she walked, and seeing her purposeful back, Olive almost turned and fled. But it was the Head who turned. Stopped. Waited. Smiled. She looked perfectly welcoming.
‘Good, we can talk now before anyone else buttonholes me. Even my secretary won’t be in for another half-hour. Do come in. I expect you might like some coffee? Making a pot for myself is the first thing I do. Do sit down, please.’
Normal. Pleasant. Friendly – as much as she ever was. But she was not the opposite either. You could tell nothing. She gave away nothing. Coffee. Hot. Strong. No biscuits.
‘First of all, how are you? It is an awful shock, losing a parent. Very hard especially when it’s so sudden.’
‘Yes … it was quite bleak. And my stepmother is finding it very hard. But I am really all right, thank you.’
A look. Assessi
ng her. Shrewd. She set down her cup.
‘Olive, this has been your first year as a teacher. You are young but you have made an extremely good start. You’re a natural teacher – you’re enthusiastic and well organised, you cover the groundwork well but you also take your lessons in exciting directions – you engage the girls, you carry them with you. You open their eyes. I expect good exam results.’
She shifted in her chair. Glanced out of the window. Glanced at Olive but the glance did not linger.
‘I must tell you that speaking entirely personally, your private life, shall we call it, does not concern me – and I mean in any sense. Of course I have known teachers who have had close friendships with others – of their own sex – even lived together. In my view that is their business. But it is always necessary, especially in our profession, to be discreet. A lot of people are intolerant. The majority probably do not share my view. And I am very sorry that you have not been entirely discreet – I have spoken about this to Thea and perhaps you know by now that she is off school until the end of the term. But she will of course return in September.’
She paused, looking directly at Olive.
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No. She wrote me a letter which I didn’t fully understand. I still don’t.’
‘I see.’
‘Miss Dauncey, what has happened?’
‘I had a visit from a parent – the mother of a girl in the school – I am not prepared to give you any names. Her daughter had told her that she had, well, become aware of your close friendship with Thea – apparently she had seen you together. Once, coming out of your house very late at night – and don’t worry, I did ask what the girl was doing out herself. I had a not altogether satisfactory answer but that is beside the point.’
‘Am I not allowed to have visitors after nine o’clock? Rather as it was in college.’
‘Please don’t be sarcastic. I am trying to make this less difficult. Olive, there has been talk before now. A member of staff expressed concern.’
‘A member …?
‘As I said …’
‘People spying and causing trouble but I am not allowed to know who?’
‘No. You are not. And I have not simply been listening to staffroom gossip. I do have eyes and ears of my own.’
‘But we …’
No. She could not say any more, partly because her throat seemed to have closed over and she was fighting back tears of anger, but mainly because she knew that there was no point in arguing or trying to defend herself. Them. It was all decided. All settled.
‘What will happen now?’
‘I’m afraid you will not be asked to return at the end of your probationary year. I simply do not feel it would be in anyone’s best interests.’
‘I see. I don’t know what I shall do.’
‘Move right away, to another part of the country entirely. Apply for jobs there. I will be happy to give you an excellent reference as far as your teaching abilities are concerned. You are good and you could go on to become exceptional. I simply will not mention anything else – besides, what is there to mention? If I were asked a direct question – but I doubt if I would be. You left because you wanted to move to – well, wherever it is you choose to go.’
The corridors outside had been coming alive with the sound of footsteps, with voices.
Miss Dauncey stood. ‘I am very sorry about this.’
There was nothing that she could say in reply.
‘Shall I stay until the end of term?’
‘I think it best not. Leave now – use the side door. You can come in at the weekend to collect your things – there is always someone here on Saturday mornings who will be able to let you in.’
She held out her hand. Slim, cool hand. A slim, cool woman. The handshake was firm and swift.
‘Why don’t you just wait here and slip out when everyone has gone into assembly?’
She did not look back because she did not care, although she was both angry and humiliated. But it did not matter. The school. The pupils. Lessons. Staff. Parents. None of it mattered, only Thea. She must see Thea. Once she did, once they were together, everything would resolve itself, and be clear and very simple. Distance had blurred and confused everything. There was misunderstanding. None of it mattered. All of it would be seen for what it really was. Which was nothing.
She paused at a café which had just opened, realising that she was hungry. She ordered coffee and two eggs on toast, and sat, the only customer so far, at a window table overlooking the street and the ruined city wall, the side of the Abbey.
Thea would return to school as usual in the autumn, or so it was assumed. But there was no need. They could find somewhere, go a long way, and get jobs but in different schools, and live together distant from either. No one here would know. No one there would know. It was very straightforward.
29
SHE HAD HER thick hair cut that afternoon, into a swinging bob. She also found a bottle of Tweed perfume, given to her by Peggy, and which Thea had said she liked. She felt calm. When she caught the bus to Thea’s village she felt in control of herself and her emotions for the first time since seeing the Head.
It was quiet country they travelled through. The wayside grasses were bleached pale, the trees dusty-looking. There was nothing dramatic. It was ordinary rural England and she felt warmly towards it and realised how little of it she had seen since first coming here, how unaware of it all. She had turned to John Donne the night before, looking for her feelings.
Only our love hath no decay;
This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,
Running it never runs from us away,
But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
The words, and others, danced in her head, and stencilled themselves on the window between her eyes and the view, so that she was never afterwards able to look at meadows and hedgerows and gentle hills without seeing the impress of the words upon them.
She got off outside the village post office. It was empty. She bought a packet of mints and a bar of Fry’s chocolate cream, Thea’s weakness, and always safe, as she said, if she left one around, because Olive disliked it. They had never given one another anything other than small presents like this. Later, Thea had said. One day. Lifetime presents.
‘Are there ever any houses to let in the village?’
The woman behind the counter gave her a questioning look. How she assessed Olive, it seemed, might influence her reply.
‘There are. Sometimes.’
‘Now?’
‘I know 2 The Green is waiting for a tenant. And Oddstock Cottage, but that one’s still in a terrible mess after Mr Parsons died. He hadn’t left home for over twenty years and it shows. There was talk of Wren House coming vacant. Very nice, but large of course, if it was for yourself. 2 The Green would suit.’
‘Thank you. That’s very helpful. Now, I’ve got to call on a friend – Miss Pengelly?’
‘At number 3 The Green, which you would expect to be next door but is actually the far end and don’t ask me for an explanation of that.’
She walked slowly down the short main street, lined with terraced cottages on either side. The road curved and there was the green. Iron swings. A slide. The cottages were along the north side, stone-built, fenced, with long, profusely flowering front gardens. Bean wigwams. Sweet peas clambering. Last roses.
Number 2. Why had Thea not mentioned it? Perhaps she didn’t know.
She could live there. She looked over the gate. Neglected front garden. A side path to a gate in an arch. No one about. She wanted to live there, now, today.
A woman passed on a bicycle. Glanced. Good morning. Lovely morning. A cat sat in the sunlight on the path in front of her. Crown imperials, like the garden in Alice in Wonderland. She longed to go in. Walked on.
She reached the end of the row and saw Thea’s car. Stopped, her heart thumping, then scurrying. Thea. She put her hand in her pocket and touched the bar o
f chocolate cream. It was a larger cottage, because it was at the end. A row of pea sticks. More sweet peas in abundant flower. A row of sunflowers against the fence. Hollyhocks. Thea.
She took a breath and walked up the path. She dared not look in the windows.
No one came to her knock. She waited. Perhaps they were at the back, in the garden there. She knocked again.
The door was opened almost at once, startling her. Opened by Sylvia Neale. Olive took a step back.
The smile was an odd one, not welcoming, nor friendly, but small and knowing. She held the door and called over her shoulder.
‘Thea? Darling – your girl is here to see you.’
30
IT WAS A small grey stone building, like so many of its kind, with an asphalt playground, tall windows, and three steps up to the main door.
But not so many of the others had such a view. It stretched gently away from the top of the slope on which the school stood, an open plain of meadows and lanes, with low hills rising to higher hills and, beyond them, a distant Cumbrian mountain, and in some weathers, some lights, the mountain became violet, and seemed nearer. You could stretch out your hand and touch it.
Across the green plain ran the river, broad and curving like a snake as it went, sometimes sparkling silver, more often grey.
The view had taken her breath away the first time she had seen it and it did so still. She had been here almost a year. Easegarth St Aidan’s Church of England Primary School.
It was spring. It was May. But although the sun shone, it was chased across the landscape by the breeze that always blew here, running ahead of the shadows, which caught it and hid it and sped on.
She stood now, beside the iron handrail leading to the front door. All around her, small colourful figures, like children in a Flemish painting, played, ran about, skipped, jump-roped, or squatted in huddles of three or four, around a set of jack stones thrown onto the ground.
She had done as she had been advised. She had come as far away from the old place, the old school, as she could, in reply to an advertisement. But not one for a teacher. She had recoiled from the idea of teaching, though perhaps, in ten or twenty years, it might draw her back.
