Dancing With Mr. Darcy: Stories Inspired by Jane Austen and Chawton House Library (10 page)

THE WATERSHED

Stephanie Shields

I adopted the brace position from North Cheam to Seaford. Sandwiched between my two older cousins, I only straightened my back to draw air into my constricted lungs. Surreptitiously, Aunt Martha placed two nitroglycerine tablets under her tongue. Maggie, to my left, studied the fleeting verge. James, head tilted slightly to the right, pale-blue eyes abstracted, appeared to be focusing inwards.

Had I been the man who conducts driving tests, I would have sent Uncle Simeon straight back to the centre and prescribed another twenty lessons. Perhaps this was a harsh and arrogant judgement from a seventeen-year-old who didn’t drive yet. However, I had driven with my father since I was seven and he exemplified courtesy, common sense and restraint. Uncle Simeon lacked these qualities. If I had to single out the fault beyond all others it was this: he chose, invariably, to overtake in the face of oncoming traffic. This single fault carried a plethora of associated sins. The most embarrassing of these was his compulsion to accompany these near misses with gestures most vulgar, some of which I was unfamiliar with. All school children know the ‘V’ sign. This he reserved for the milder misdemeanours that he attributed to other, less reckless, road users.

At seventeen, you are particularly susceptible to feelings of acute embarrassment. Cheeks, eyebrows, and a certain set of the lips – each can be a ‘giveaway’. Not one to blush, my eyes and mouth were mirrors to my soul. Aunt Martha’s lips remained blue throughout the journey – I feared they were the mirror to her heart. She had a soft, kind face, but a spectral pallor and lines of worry and hurt were etched around her eyes and mouth.

Uncle Simeon was exceedingly kind to me. However, kindness should perhaps be viewed with caution if it can be seen as a way of being unkind to others. Towards his own children he was combative and antagonistic; he was a harsh taskmaster and judge.

At this time, I was not entirely at ease with myself. There were a number of reasons for this. Age was certainly one, and the second was this unfamiliar family.

In the early August of this summer of 1966, I was travelling home to Leicestershire from a pleasant, albeit troubled, holiday in Brixham, Devon. My mother was an emotional map reader. She had directed my father further east than we might have anticipated. She loved to break her journey in the Cotswolds; she was particularly fond of tea and scones at the Swan Hotel, in Bibury, so I can only surmise that elements of design and wilfulness had come to the fore in her interpretation of the best route home. Mother had these qualities in abundance. As we passed Basingstoke, she declared we would call on her cousin Simeon Cameron.

My father groaned: ‘Why, oh, why?’ Exhaustion mingled with exasperation.

‘You haven’t spoken to him in twenty-three years.’

‘Precisely the reason. “Ne’er let the sun go down on thy wrath,”’ she quipped, emphatically.

‘Excuse me, but the sun’s gone down quite a few times since you lot fell out.’

‘Look, we’re almost at North Cheam, so now is the time. It could be a long time before we pass this way again.’

There were tears of joy and hugs and kisses – ah, sweet reconciliation. The four children, veritable strangers, withdrew from the adults and twenty-three years’ worth of catching up and reminiscence, preferring to perambulate the main street of North Cheam. It proved an area conducive for cousinly bonding. We craned to see the interior of the Blue Dragon Chinese Restaurant with its maroon flock wallpaper and gilt sidelights, with red-draped nylon shades and tassels – so exotic. We studied the menu, etched with blue dragons and taped to the window; we chose what we imagined would be our favourite dishes. Chow mein sounded just right for me, with crispy noodles and soy sauce. Opportunities for culinary experimentation were limited in the Leicester suburbs. James and Maggie spoke with greater authority, having sampled some of the dishes off that very menu. My brother David always spoke with authority and plumped for Peking duck.

On our return to the Cameron semi, down the cul-de-sac, I was able to describe the oriental dishes in some detail to my father. He looked appalled. However, Uncle Simeon caught the mood of the moment and proposed a ‘takeaway’. Oh bliss! Mother had already forbidden David and me to ever buy anything from the Barbecued Chicken Van that passed our house in Leicester. In retrospect, this was wise. Mother’s rationale was based on the limited opportunity for personal hygiene in the van, and the greasiness of the rotating golden chickens. Subsequent history sided with Mum. The barbecued-chicken man was found guilty of lewd behaviour -revealing himself to two young girls from my school. I digress. On this night in North Cheam, Mother cast caution to the wind and was actually seen sucking a spicy spare rib. My own palate had been fine tuned on Vesta paella. Chicken chow mein transported me to a foreign land. My own dragons were held at bay at least for one evening.

Anecdotes, wit, conviviality and a takeaway, and just as we prepared to leave for Leicestershire, Uncle Simeon made a proposal concerning me – that I should stay for a week in North Cheam and that they would return me to Leicester with my cousins, for David’s twenty-first birthday party on 15 August.

‘That’s so kind, and so generous, but I can’t possibly. I’m waiting for my results. I must be home.’

Herein lay the third and major reason for my alienation from the world – my impending A level results. The unfairness, the iniquity, the sheer bad luck of the ‘trick question’ had haunted me throughout the summer. The results were due out on 12 August. My father, always positive, loyal and encouraging, kept saying something about the Glorious Twelfth, but I felt the reverse would be true. My apprehension concerned ‘the Watershed’.

I had been studying for English, History and Art A level. I was expected to do best in History and I had worked very hard for all of them, but History had taken a significant amount of revision. Each night I would open the curtains just at the angle to ensure the rising sun would hit my face and wake me early to resume revision. At night, as they went to bed, my parents would come and beg me to stop. But I was driven.

The library curtains wafted in the warm, gentle breeze. They were closed to keep the candidates cool. Linen with a modern pattern – mid-brown with abstract gold, turquoise and pink shapes – variations on a distorted square motif. I studied the paper: ‘A watershed in English history—’. Panic paralysed my mind and my pen. What was a ‘watershed’? I schooled myself to breathe. How could I answer the question, air my knowledge, if I didn’t have a clue what a ‘watershed’ was? My eyes rotated with fear. I cast about, surreptitiously surveyed my calm companions. I was undone.

The post-examination post-mortem did little to allay my fears, or improve my vocabulary.

‘Well, I would have thought it was obvious,’ said Mr Robertson, my tutor, quite dismissively.

At home there was discussion. My mother felt that it was a place on a river for keeping boats safe.

‘That’s a boathouse, my dear.’ My father thought it was tough to use such a term. He believed it was connected to rivers dividing, but could not be certain, for wasn’t that a confluence?

My brother said that it would be acceptable if I had treated it as a turning point. My red Chambers said, unhelpfully, that it was the line separating two river basins, and, more helpfully, a crucial point or dividing line between two phases. Something in my mind prevented me from revisiting the content of my response. Only disappointment and bafflement remained. I tasted the sour anticipation of failure.

That night there was no opening of the curtains just enough to enable an early start to revision. I felt deflated and dismal. It must have been an hour later I heard my brother’s tread on the stairs. There was a soft tap on my door. His head was silhouetted by the landing light. In his mock formal tones he said: ‘A boathouse in English history – discuss.’

Back to North Cheam, and my newly acquired relatives would brook no opposition to their invitation. I turned to my mother, who saw me as the cement for the resuscitated relationship with her favourite cousin Simeon. I turned to my father. His kind grey eyes batted back my objections – it might take my mind off the results, it would be fun to see the galleries, theatres, Carnaby Street…. He went to fetch my case from the car and slipped me two ten pound notes. He promised he would open my envelope and ring me immediately. The spectre of the envelope on our doormat prompted further dread. Panic coursed round my heart. And I had been abandoned in North Cheam.

James generously moved out of his bedroom; I was installed. A knock at my bedroom door the following morning preceded Uncle Simeon in his mid-calf dressing gown, bearing a cup of tea. I propped myself up in bed and wondered about what they might eat for breakfast. Drawn downstairs by a delicious smell of bacon, I was greeted warmly by the family. Uncle Simeon asked if I’d ever been to Seaford, and I said not. He declared that we would visit it that very day: ‘Much more pleasant than Brighton – quieter, more refined and so select.’

Few families can have arrived in Seaford at such speed. It was a relief to disembark. I regained the power in my knees as we walked up towards Seaford Head. The sea shimmered silver, backlit by the morning sun rising in a cloudless sky: silver sea with ice-blue blotches, becalmed, with a fast-evaporating low mist. We walked towards the cut-away cliffs. Thin dark flint strips lined the shocking white chalk face. Gulls whirled high above, calling, and we strained to see them in the bright light. I was entranced. Consciously I drove my demons away and allowed myself to be overwhelmed by the sheer majesty of the moment.

‘Why, Uncle, it’s beautiful. Look at the light on the sea. Is there a word for the twinkling? A “silver coruscation”?’

Uncle Simeon shrugged, baffled, but he beamed at my delight.

Back in the centre of Seaford cousins called for fish and chips, to be eaten ‘alfresco’, a new word for me and one I could certainly use with my friends in Leicester. Seaford itself did not disappoint, with its gorgeous vistas and special shops. The family went its various ways and I found a second-hand bookshop on Place Lane, a veritable treasure trove. And there I found it – cerise cover, bonnet in beige with ribbons like tendrils, creeping across the front; black print proclaiming:
Pride and Prejudice
by Jane Austen. One and thruppence was pencilled in the inside cover. This was the treat that I had promised myself for after the exams. I’d held back from securing a copy, fearing defeat. But now I reasoned that it would be better to embark on the novel before my anticipated disappointment could spoil it.

My brown paper bag attracted James’s attention.

‘What’s this then?’ He took the package from me and gasped in horror. ‘What are you going to do with this?’

‘I’ve always wanted to read it.’

‘Even if you don’t have to? How weird.’

Maggie sprang to the novel’s defence, but James warmed to his theme.

‘I had to write an essay for my O level on “The humour of Jane Austen”. Imagine that! It’s like being asked to write something on snow in summer.’

That evening, back in the bedroom at North Cheam I took my book out of the brown paper bag. I snuffled in the delicious mustiness of its yellowing pages. I began to read. At 1 a.m. I found myself opening the curtains, at just the right angle, for an early start – the first time since the exams.

Each day in North Cheam was like a chocolate plucked from a rich and delicious selection box. Footsore, yet indefatigable, Maggie and I set off, negotiated the Tube, and explored more delights of the capital city. I was entranced and the days passed most pleasantly.

One morning, as I was savouring Elizabeth’s interrogation by Lady Catherine de Bourgh at Rosings, I was faintly aware of the telephone ringing downstairs. I was called. It was my father. My knees began to fail me.

‘Well, my darling, it certainly is the Glorious Twelfth for you! I am so proud of you, so very well done.’

I sat on the bottom step of the stairs and cried; a quantum shift in my own world had just occurred. No tired return to school in September, for the intended third year in the sixth. A curtain had been drawn open, and there was light.

Later that day I stood before Spencer’s ‘Resurrection’, and felt great awe. I decided to treat Maggie to lunch to celebrate. She steered me to a Lyons Corner House. For ‘afters’ we had vanilla ice cream, topped with stem ginger, ginger syrup and double cream. It was gorgeous. As I queued to pay the bill, Maggie declared: ‘You have done awfully well, you know.’ I looked down a little bashfully, and saw my smile reflected in the toes of my new, shiny, black, ‘strappy’, patent leather shoes.

As we hurtled towards Leicester I sat up proudly in the back of Uncle Simeon’s car. We overtook every car on the M1. I reflected on the exhilaration of driving fast and taking risks.

There were already guests arriving at our house. Students had cadged cars, hitched lifts, taken taxis, borrowed vans, and were taking over my home: hairy young men and long-legged girls, squeals of laughter and joy unbounded. I slipped up quietly to my bedroom. One task I had yet to complete. Before the holiday, I had sewn a new silk, Empireline mini dress, in a tiny rose pattern, especially for my brother’s party. Mum had marked the hem up for me. I laid it out on the ironing board and systematically turned it up a further inch and three quarters. I hemmed it carefully, and tried it on. There was a soft tap on the door. It was my brother. He hugged me, and then his look took in the whole me. He focused, a little surprised, on the area above my knees. In his mock-formal voice, he quoted: