Sleep in Peace (18 page)

“You can't go,” snapped Gwen. “I haven't half a crown to give you, and I don't like you appearing in public with those High School girls. The less you see of them the better.”

“But, Gwen, I'm afraid I've given in my name,” said Laura in distress.

“You little fool!” cried Gwen.

“Don't call her a fool,” interrupted Ludo. “I won't have her called a fool.”

“Who are you to say what you'll have or not have?” raged Gwen.

“I know what it feels like to be called a fool,” muttered Ludo.

Laura with scarlet cheeks and bent head began to invent the excuse she must present that afternoon for not paying for the ticket she had promised to buy. But as she was wretchedly putting on her coat in the hall after the meal, Gwen came out to her, proffering a coin.

“See,” she said. “Here you are. I suppose you'd better go, as it's Shakespeare.”

Laura took the money and tried to force out a word of thanks, but she could not bring herself to meet Gwen's eyes.

As she walked down to school she overtook Grace. Grace did not look her usual self that afternoon; she seemed pale and tense, and answered Laura's greeting shortly.

“Are you going to the theatre, Grace?” asked Laura presently in a constrained tone.

“No!” flashed Grace. “Father won't allow me to enter such a place, he says.”

“What a shame!” cried Laura, with a passionate sympathy born of her own humiliation.

The two girls exchanged a glance, and instantly both poured out a burning flood of confidences.

“Everything that's fine and beautiful, or jolly,” cried Grace, “they look down their noses at and say is against religion. I don't believe God's like that at all! As Frederick says, why should God be bound by the creed of a back street in Hudley in 1879? Father's ideas haven't changed since then, he says—they're a blight on our lives!”

“With me,” said Laura in a trembling tone, “it's Gwen.”

There was a pause; a hush; for indeed something epoch-making had been spoken.

After that Grace and Laura found that they could always say anything in the world to each other without fear. They might disagree, indeed they often did, for temperamentally they were very different, but they always examined any question with friendly interest, seeking agreement, never as hostile critics seeking to score a point. They had admitted each other to the innermost circle of their spirits, and stood there side by side.

This firm loyalty was an ecstasy to Laura. Accustomed to hear her every remark greeted with a nipping criticism by Gwen, it was a joy which never failed her to watch their so different reception by Grace, When one offered an idea to Grace, she paused, thought, then in her high, clear, pure tones offered an opinion which might praise or might condemn, but was always impersonal—if that was the word, thought Laura; it was never, that is to say, coloured by any notion of Grace's own advantage in the affair. Grace was thus a standard to which you could repair with absolute confidence; it was an exquisite pleasure, an exquisite relief, to Laura, to be thus in contact with ideas of right and wrong which, whether she thought them true or mistaken, she knew to be founded on principles in which she wholeheartedly believed. One could always and absolutely trust the purity of Grace's motives; her
desire
for justice, her
intention
to be impartial, never failed. It was something white and clear and cool and noble amid the mud and smoke and money-making turmoil of this industrial West Riding town. The moment one met her the sun seemed brighter, the sky loftier, one moved in a larger, freer air. Grace was, of course, quite remarkably clever, with a large view of every subject. Her clothes were terrible, and her naive habit of calling God “Gord”, under the impression that it was more respectful, was both priggish and vulgar; she was a Liberal Nonconformist, and so could not understand what one felt about England and playing games for one's school (though she played rather better than Laura). But in all the large decisions of life, Laura followed Grace with utter confidence.

In the small hourly details of life, Grace followed Laura. Laura was so warm-hearted, thought Grace, so quick to understand, so full of love, so personal; she liked to take one's hand, to stroke one's hair, to touch one's cheek—to a Hinchliffe this was quite amazing. Laura was quick on her feet, quick in speech, quick in thought; she wore the most charming clothes, and always knew what was right to wear on what occasion; there was an air, a style, a delicate neatness, a kind of elegance (of which she was quite unconscious) about her. In summer she wore blouses of dazzling white, and the most delicious ties; Grace petitioned Mrs. Hinchliffe to make hers of the same stuff, and wore them joyously. Yet Laura was not one of those frivolous clothes-loving, boy-loving girls whom Grace found so boring; on the contrary Laura was, of course, quite remarkably clever, with an amazing grasp of significant detail. Her voice was warm, quick and low, and much less Yorkshire in accent than those Grace habitually heard; her cheeks were bright, her hazel eyes sparkled. It was a pity that she was so snobbish and decidedly a coward, apt to take offence easily, let one down in a crisis, and burst into tears at the most surprising moments—her emotions were excessive altogether, thought Grace. She was also a Conservative, which was quite pitiably mistaken; as regards religion, Grace believed in tolerance, but had a prejudice against Churches with fat revenues, like Laura's Church. Laura, however, held these mistaken views from motives which were plainly generous and honourable. Yes, Laura was warm and bright and for all her fear somehow mettlesome; the moment one saw her life seemed to go faster and be more richly coloured, more exciting; Laura loved you; she was Laura.

Yes, on the whole, agreed Grace and Laura, they were friends because
fundamentally
they thought the same about life; it was fearfully mismanaged nowadays and not at all what it ought to be, and when they grew up they were going to put it right. They would find some noble work to do for the world, and nobly perform
it. What this noble work was to be was not as yet quite decided, but meanwhile it was their plain duty to educate themselves for it to the utmost of their powers, do as well as they possibly could, at school.

“The possession of brains imposes a responsibility,” enunciated Laura.

“Yes,” agreed Grace. She spoke doubtfully, and privately wished that Laura would not sometimes talk like her father, that conceited ass (as Edward called him) Alfred Armistead. When she confided this to Frederick, however, he remarked with some bitterness:

“Ambitious people are obliged to be conceited when they're young, if they mean to get anywhere. If they have no confidence in themselves, they can't overcome opposition.”

“You're
not conceited, Frederick,” said Grace.

“Precisely. That's what's the matter with me,” said Frederick. “That's why I'm working in Blackshaw Mills instead of a University.”

Frederick was the only member of the Hinchliffe and Armistead families who knew at first of the friendship between Laura and Grace.

Everyone at school knew of it, however, for there the girls were always together.

They arrived at school together in the morning—by making a slight détour, Laura could pass the end of Cromwell Place on her way, and she made the détour every day. If she were delayed for a minute at Blackshaw House, or in Prince's Road by some errand Gwen had set her, she fumed, and ran all the way to make up the lost time. At the end of Cromwell Place occurred the moment when Laura's day was made or marred. If Grace were in sight, approaching, everything was well; one waved one's heavy school-bag joyously and ran to greet her. If Grace were in sight ahead, descending the slope, one hurried, to catch her up, sorry to
have missed even a few seconds of her company. If Grace were not in sight at all, one waited anxiously till she appeared.

In Prayers, Grace and Laura stood together. Prayers often brought a lump to Laura's throat and tears to her eyes; it was so impressive, so exciting, to see the two hundred girls file neatly in, sit, stand and sing together, just at the right moment. It made one feel that one was part of something big, one felt one was out in the world, playing one's part. Besides, merely to hear Grace beside one singing:
Let there be light ox City of God, how broad and fair
—that was ennobling.

In class, Grace and Laura had desks next to each other. Lessons were a great pleasure to them both; they loved to learn, and learned easily and well—nobody amongst the twenty-five girls in Form Five B learned more easily than Grace and Laura. Their teachers' expositions often seemed unnecessarily long to them; they fidgeted and exchanged grimaces of boredom and rage, eager to try their own hand at the exercises, the translations, the grammatical examples, to which the lesson was meant to lead. Their teachers were mostly young and energetic women, with views on women's suffrage which they darkly hinted at in break; they were all said to be “highly qualified”, and held University degrees. There was a group of three, especially, who lived together, were very proud of their economic independence, and had been heard to speak of Ibsen; Grace and Laura admired them very heartily. These young women all wore collars and ties, and never had any trouble with their discipline; the few older mistresses were rather dingy and worn and could not keep such good order in class; moreover, their explanations, as Grace and Laura took pains to point out, were sometimes illogical. No marks were awarded for lessons at the Hudley Girls' High School, but only letters; this was a new idea, meant to eliminate the spirit of competition, which, it appeared, was very shocking. Perhaps it was eliminated; Grace and Laura accepted that it was; but they could
not help knowing that nobody in the form received “A” and “A+” as often as they, and everybody else knew it too. At the end of term, too, this ban on competition seemed to be lifted, for marks were awarded for written “exams”. These marks, somewhat illegibly scrawled on long thin strips of scrap-paper, were stuck up day by day, as fast as the mistress concerned corrected the papers, on the green baize classroom board. The names of G. M. Hinchliffe and L. Armistead appeared, of course, near the head on every list. The friends were disappointed if they received less than 80 per cent., and perfectly furious if less than 75 per cent. Below 60 per cent, they were never known to fall. As if specially designed to spare them jealousy, their most marked abilities lay in different directions; Laura was better than Grace at Drawing and Literature, while Grace excelled in History and Latin. Lessons, therefore, were to Grace and Laura a pleasure shared.

In break, Grace and Laura stood together, or walked about the garden arm in arm.

The middle of the day was always a terrific scramble, as school ended at one o'clock and began again at two-fifteen. Laura, having further to go than Grace, rushed home without waiting for any talk, gobbled her meal amid remonstrances from Gwen, who complained with justice that her digestion would be ruined, and rushed back, arriving only just in time, several minutes after Grace.

The afternoon was spent in preparing lessons for the next day, diversified occasionally by games of tennis. The solitary tennis-court could be secured for forty-five minutes by inscribing one's name in a book provided for the purpose; the names of Grace and Laura appeared there together with great regularity. Laura was selfishly disappointed if two other girls added their names for that hour, but Grace was not disappointed. Grace liked company, Grace was sociable. But then, Laura was better at tennis than Grace. On some afternoons the class visited the municipal swimming baths; Grace and Laura shared a cabin. Nobody was
better at swimming than Grace. Presently—for the school was always expanding—a mistress was appointed to the staff who taught only games and gymnastics, nothing else at all. She wore a gym tunic which came above her knees! And insisted that all her pupils should do the same. She also insisted that Grace's hair should be plaited, and Grace was glad to be obliged to yield. It was stringently enacted at first that no girl should wear her gym tunic out of doors or in the classrooms, but after a while this latter prohibition was relaxed. Gwen was cross about the cost of the tunic, and made one for Laura herself, at home, from Blackshaw Mills cloth; while Mrs. Hinchliffe enquired in amazement whether Grace really attended Scripture lessons in such a garment. Grace was better than Laura at gym. The games mistress also introduced the school to hockey; here Laura had the advantage at first, as she had often played on the lawn at home, with Ludo. The games mistress was very bitter about the severe slope of the High School games field, but Grace and Laura thought this unreasonable— after all, most fields in Hudley sloped. Soon Grace, with her exuberant vitality, her glowing health, caught up Laura in hockey prowess, so that both the girls were good; Laura as a nimble forward, Grace as a stalwart half.

“Don't you ever talk about anything, at that school, but what you're good at?” exclaimed Ludo impatiently. “I never saw such a place!”

In the afternoons, when school was over, Grace and Laura walked home together, swinging their school-bags, heavy with work for the following day—for the afternoon was quite inadequate for the conclusion of their homework. Orange time-tables, with minutes scrupulously allotted, required two and a half hours, sometimes three, to be spent each night on preparation; but it was rarely possible to get through the work set in that time, and the minutes spent by Grace and Laura, scrupulously recorded, were often underlined in red ink correctively by the headmistress. Grace rather resented the amount of homework demanded, as
there were so many other interesting things she might have done in the evenings, with her brothers; but Laura rather liked it—at least it excused her from the housework she loathed. On the evenings when their homework was least heavy, they walked a good deal further together than merely to their respective homes; between the end of Cromwell Place and the end of Blackshaw Lane they paced up and down together, oblivious of the traffic, talking, talking, and munching chocolate almonds—bought by Laura, who, in spite of Gwen's eternal complaints of financial stringency, always had more pocket money than Grace. Sometimes in summer they crossed Prince's Road and sat in the Park, amid the fountains and the old cannon and the statues and the sparse flowers struggling against the Hudley smoke, and prepared a piece of translation, or rapidly knocked off an Algebra problem. Gradually they fell into talk—about school, about books, about (for instance) the Brontës. Laura adored the Brontës, and secretly had thoughts of emulating them; but Grace considered it rather unnecessary to have consumption tragically and die; much better, thought Grace, to have opened the Parsonage windows, and lived. Suddenly the buzzers boomed on the air; good heavens! could it be half-past five already? They packed their books and fled. Sometimes, especially in winter, they dropped into the Municipal Library, to which Grace had introduced Laura, to change a book. It was here that they met Frederick occasionally; as they passed by he grinned kindly up at them from beside some lower shelf where he was sprawling, and dipped his head again into his book and forgot them. On these occasions Grace always seemed troubled.