‘And Grandfather saw,’ said Louise, ‘and asked Daddy why he didn’t hit back.’
Grand-Nanny nodded, seeing again the mid-Victorian party.
‘I can see your father now as clearly as I see you. “Why should I hit him?” he said. “I like him”.’
‘Was he the teeniest bit a prig?’ Victoria asked.
Grand-Nanny shook her head.
‘No. Just different. I knew then, though really I had always known it, the life he was cut out for. Mind you, don’t think he didn’t play games and such, like other boys. Why, at that Cambridge he got one of those blues they talked about for running.’
Louise was bored with tales of so long ago.
‘Did you know we are going to a new school?’
‘A little bird told me so.’ (Little birds always told Grand-Nanny things.) ‘Do you think you’ll like it from what you hear?’
Louise leaned forward.
‘Did your little bird tell you Vicky had to leave Elmhurst anyway?’
Grand-Nanny laid down her darning. She looked at Louise, not crossly, but in surprise that one of her children could behave badly.
‘My little birds, Miss Louise, are never tell-tale-tits.’
Louise flushed.
‘I only wondered if you knew.’
Grand-Nanny never harped on a subject; one reproof she considered should be enough.
‘It was time for a new school for you two elder ones. You will be young ladies soon and it’s easier to make the change in a different place. I remember I said something of that to your Granny when your Aunt Hetty was becoming a little woman, or should have – but she was a sad tomboy, always wanting to do what her brothers did. “Time to change the governess,” I said. “Miss Box” – that was her name – “is all right for little Miss Sophie, but Miss Hetty needs treating like a young lady, and then she’ll feel like one”.’
Victoria rarely felt on edge or irritable when staying with Grandfather and Granny, and never when she was with Grand-Nanny. She spoke up eagerly, knowing she would not be snubbed:
‘Did Aunt Hetty suddenly feel a young lady, or did it take ages? You see, they’re beginning to tell me I ought to be growing up – have a sense of responsibility and all that – and nothing seems to happen, I feel just the same as I always have.’
‘I’m supposed to be almost grown-up,’ Isobel added, ‘but I’m not.’
Grand-Nanny looked fondly from one girl to the other.
‘You have always been halfway there, Miss Isobel; your health being poor, you’ve spent more time with your mother. But I think the change from being a child to a young lady does come suddenly. You know, though she tried hard and behaved like a little lady and down came her skirts and up went her hair, I don’t believe your Aunt Hetty really stopped being a child until the day she met Mr Samuel – now your Uncle Samuel.’
‘How old was she?’ Isobel asked.
‘I don’t remember, dear, seventeen perhaps. One of your uncles brought him to the house – a Saturday afternoon it was – to play tennis. Afterwards, Miss Hetty came up to her room to dress for dinner and I took one look and I knew. Miss Hetty had grown up.’
Louise and Dick were bored. They had finished their soup and had got up to look at Grand-Nanny’s screen. It had been the nursery screen and she had inherited it. It fascinated all children, for nothing like it was in use any more. It had a dark background on to which had been pasted pictures and rhymes thought suitable for children, and it had then been varnished.
‘Look,’ said Louise to Dick. ‘That’s Queen Victoria giving a Bible to a savage.’
Dick was searching for his favourite picture. He found it.
‘This is the first train that ever ran.’
John got up and joined them. He too had his favourite. It was a mawkish rhyme, probably thought beautiful in the previous century. He read out loud with exaggerated sentiment.
‘There’s a touch of paint off the bright new whip,
A chip off the horse’s ear,
But oh, not that to the boy’s blue eye
Brings the quickly-gathering tear:
For the baby has gone where never again
Can she ask for his toys to play …’
‘That’s enough, John,’ said Grand-Nanny. ‘It may seem funny to you, but your grandfather chose every bit that’s on that screen, cut it out and stuck it on himself, so it’s not right for you to make fun of it. And now, if you’ve all finished, you can run down and kiss your Granny and Grandfather.’
Both Grandfather and Granny believed that children were fundamentally good, but help was sometimes needed. Aunt Hetty, when young, easily lost her temper, so Grandfather had illuminated for her a speech of Katherine’s from The Taming of the Shrew: ‘A woman moved is like a fountain troubled …’ and framed it and hung it over her bed.
Direct intercession at morning prayers and in his private prayers had, he was convinced, worked wonders for all his children and grandchildren. But what, quite unconsciously for all their children and later their grandchildren, both Granny and Grandfather had exuded was faith in them. Because they believed sincerely that every child in the family was doing his or her best, there was a feeling of ease and happiness in the house, and they all tried their hardest not in any way to offend. Even Victoria behaved well, arriving to meals clean and tidy and never arguing about anything.
Apart from Grandfather’s pleading with God to give special help to the children: ‘Holy father, thou knowest into what difficulties our grandchild Vicky found herself at her last school. We humbly ask for your very special help for her in her new school. Also for help for her when at home, that she may accept correction meekly, without argument …’ Victoria always said she could see the bows which sat like small sailing ships on the maids’ praying upturned rumps quiver, when Grandfather said ‘meekly and without argument’.
Granny had her own way of pointing a moral or correcting a fault. Every visit she would at some time send for one or other of the children to come to her room after breakfast.
Aunt Sophie would bring the message. ‘Granny would like you to run up to give her a morning kiss.’
When John was sent for on this visit he was, as he expected, cross-examined on what he intended to be when he grew up. You couldn’t lie to Granny, so he had to take refuge in a near-truth – that he did not know. Granny spoke of his father when he was a boy, of his love of sport.
‘I never interfered, John, with what my boys chose as a career. But then I was at home in England. It is natural, I think, that your father should wish you to follow in his footsteps, for life in the Indian Civil is not only a good life, but offers many advantages. In any case, since he is such a believer in games I think you could try a little harder. Do you not think so, dear?’
Somehow no one resented what Granny said, so John left her bedroom planning to give more attention to cricket.
Granny, Grandfather and Aunt Sophie never stayed in the vicarage. When they visited, rooms were taken in the town. At such times Granny noted and stored away small things she did not like which she would talk about when the children were next under her roof.
‘Isobel dear, you are such a good patient girl when you have that horrid asthma that perhaps you sometimes take it for granted that when tiresome things need to be done you will not be the one who is asked to do them. I find that Vicky’s face in repose is becoming a little sullen. That makes your grandfather and I very sad. I think – only when you are well of course – that if sometimes you could do some little task instead of Vicky, it might help her. Will you try, dear Isobel?’
Isobel saw at once that what Granny had said was true. She left the bedroom determined to watch for a chance to do just what she was asked.
Louise sat by Granny’s bed, nursing Jackie. Perhaps because she took after her mother rather than her father, Granny never spoilt Louise as most others were inclined to do. After enquiring how she was enjoying herself and what she had been doing, she said:
/> ‘A boy, Louise dear, has to go out into the world; however sad it is for his mummy, she knows that from the day he is born. That is why we send our little boys away to boarding schools; they have to get used to living without mummies and sisters. Dick is a very clever boy, but I think perhaps he finds going away to school harder than other little boys do. You could help him, Louise. You can be such a useful little daughter at home. Try and find other interests than just waiting for Dick to come back from school.’
Louise did not resent what Granny had said, she merely dismissed it. ‘Nothing never is going to separate me and Dick,’ she told herself.
Dick, when his turn came, gazed at Granny owlishly through his glasses. He loved her and Grandfather and Aunt Sophie and Grand-Nanny and the house and everything about staying there. He was always an obedient, obliging child, but he was particularly glad when, while staying in The Little House, something special was asked of him. Because, by doing whatever it was, very fast and well, everybody – including the household and, of course, Burridge – could see how much he loved them.
Granny’s heart melted in her. He was so like his father, her first-born. He was not perhaps dedicated in the way Jim had been, even as a little boy, but he had the same basic goodness. She held out her arms.
‘Come and kiss your old Granny.’
Dick ran to her and climbed on to her bed. She smelt as he expected her to smell, what he and Louise called Granny-ish. A curious smell like a Bible. She hugged him to her.
‘Dick, can you keep a secret?’
Dick looked up into the wrinkled face. He knew Granny knew that he and Louise never had secrets from each other.
‘Not from Louise I couldn’t.’
‘Especially from Louise. How would a secret be between just your old Granny and yourself?’
Dick thought about that. Then he knew the idea was impossible.
‘Louise and me tell each other everything. The first thing she will do when I come out of your room is to ask what you said to me.’
Granny, though thanking God for so truthful a child, wished – for grown-up Dick he would someday be – that what he had said was not true.
‘Everyone of us has to grow up to be able to stand by themselves. You never tie two plants together, do you?’
Dick giggled at the thought.
‘Of course not.’
‘Someday, you know, you will go out into the world and Louise will not be with you.’
Dick wriggled free from Granny’s arms and sat up to face her.
‘Oh yes she will. We have thought of that. Wherever I go Louise will come too. We are going to build a little house and live in it together.’
Granny thought of Louise and her Jackie. They said little girls who played with dolls were little mothers in the making. Jackie was not strictly a doll but Louise appeared to love him as one day she would love her babies. However, naturally that was not something which could be said before a child.
‘So you cannot share a secret with your old Granny? That’s a pity, ain’t it?’ Granny deliberately mispronounced certain words as had been the fashion when she was young.
Dick nodded.
‘Truly I’m sorry but I know I will tell Louise.’
Grandmother gave him another hug.
‘Very well. Run along.’
When the door was shut she picked up the gold half-sovereign which was to have been her secret present to Dick and put it carefully in a box on her bedside table. It must wait there until Dick could keep a secret.
Granny was particularly anxious not to seem to preach to Victoria, for she suspected her mother was at the bottom of the child’s trouble. She never said, or even allowed herself to think, ill of her daughters-in-law. When they had married her sons they became family and the family was sacrosanct. The furthest she would go was to say to Grandfather or to Aunt Sophie:
‘Vicky is a child who needs a great deal of love and understanding. I do hope dear Sylvia realizes that.’
The house puzzled Victoria. Why, she wondered, was she so much nicer here than she was at home? Of course she loved everybody, but then she loved almost everybody at home. Only here nobody said things to make her cross, like Mummy and Miss Herbert did.
‘Well, Vicky,’ said Granny, ‘your very last day. Have you enjoyed yourself?’
Victoria squeezed Granny’s hand.
‘It’s been perfect except, of course, we all want awfully to see the new house.’
‘Naturally, it would be very strange if you did not.’ Granny took Victoria’s other hand and pulled her gently nearer to her. ‘Of course I love all my grandchildren, but I have a very special corner in my heart for you, Vicky.’
Victoria was amazed.
‘Me! But nobody likes me best!’
‘That is what you think but you are wrong, I know somebody else who also keeps a special corner of his heart for you.’
Victoria was sure she knew the answer to that.
‘God.’
Granny smiled.
‘God loves us all. No, I was thinking of your father.’
‘Daddy! But I’m the cross he has to bear. Everybody says so.’
‘But does he?’
‘Not exactly – but from the look on his face I can see he often thinks that.’
Granny leant back against her pillows.
‘Your father is a very special person. He is, of course, a good husband and father, but beyond that he is father in a very real sense to everybody in his parish. This means that he has to give of his love and his strength to many people, and when you give yourself as he does, you often find yourself exhausted. Your dear mother has so much to do, with Isobel so delicate and Louise far from strong, and a big vicarage to look after, that she has not perhaps the time to watch for those moments when your father is most exhausted. But you could, Vicky – you could help him in lots of little ways. You will be stepping soon away from childhood to your womanhood …’
Victoria giggled.
‘Everybody says that, but I don’t feel I’m growing up.’
‘Part of being a woman is the wish to help and comfort, and who better to help and comfort than your own father?’
Victoria looked in dismay at Granny.
‘You don’t know how difficult it would be. I’m not supposed to go into the study unless I’m sent for, and if I fussed round Daddy, Mummy would be sure to say: “Run away, Vicky, Daddy’s tired”.’
Grandmother nodded.
‘It will not be easy. But you and your father have a great deal to give to each other. I am sure, when next I see you, that you will tell me you have found this to be true.’
The next morning, during morning prayers, each child was commended by name into God’s special keeping during the railway journey. An hour later Burridge, in a borrowed wagonette, drove the children to the railway junction for Eastbourne.
‘You get them all into the carriage, Master John,’ he said, ‘while I slip off to give the Guard this shilling what your grandfather sent.’
Louise, as she settled into her seat, said:
‘If I was God I’d think it rude of Grandfather to give the Guard a shilling for it looks as if Grandfather didn’t trust him.’
9
The New Vicarage
The vicarage at Eastbourne lay well back, partially hidden amongst trees. It looked from the outside dignified, even imposing, for its garden was the boundary for two streets of small houses. When the children came to know the neighbourhood well they were to learn that the small houses were largely lived in by their owners, many of whom were retired professional people, and all probably better off than their vicar.
On the day of arrival the vicarage looked like the home of the Lord of the Manor surrounded by his tenants. The house had a gracious air, it was two-storied, long and low. But one glance inside and it was clear it was very much a vicarage. There was the bench just inside the front hall on which, if several people called at once to see the vicar, they could sit while wa
iting. The hall, since so many would tramp up and down it, was covered from end to end with linoleum.
The children’s father was working, so he was not able to meet them at the station. But their mother was there, so it was she who, with some pride, led the way into the house, expecting her family to be as pleased with their new home as she was. Moreover, for a non-house-proud woman, she had worked hard to make it pleasant. But Victoria as usual blurted out her thoughts.
‘Oh why do all vicarages smell alike? I wish I didn’t have to live in one.’
Victoria was partly right. Many vicarages have a beeswax-ish, hassock-cum-parcels-for-the-jumble-sale odour. But it was an unlucky statement when her mother had been working twelve hours a day attempting, without many resources, to create a homelike atmosphere.
‘What a stupid thing to say, Vicky. You are very lucky to live in a vicarage.’
John hurried to the rescue.
‘Let’s see that drawing room you’re so proud of, Aunt Sylvia.’
The family jostled Victoria to the back of the party, giving her dismayed looks which said clearly: ‘Why must you be such an idiot?’
Nothing was more calculated to irritate Victoria so, though she said no more at that minute, the others could hear her muttering:
‘Well, I do hate vicarages. Why shouldn’t I say so if I do? I think vicarages are awful.’
Their mother wisely was at that moment deaf.
There were some new curtains and carpets, but mostly viewing the house was the excitement of seeing the old possessions in new settings and, of course, the bedrooms. John had for some time slept in his uncle’s dressing-room but, because of lack of space, his clothes had remained in the night nursery. Louise and Dick had slept in the night nursery with beds on either side of Miss Herbert’s. There had been some effort to drop the word nursery and call it the children’s room, but it had not come off.