So Long At the Fair (37 page)

‘I see. So you and your Mr Gilmore are no longer engaged.’

‘That would seem to be the position.’ She looked away again. From the other side of the lake the children’s shouts and laughter rang across the water. And suddenly Louis’s hand was there once more, lighting on hers, his palm on the back of her hand.

‘Abbie, that’s so sad,’ he said. ‘I had no idea. The loss of your mother. The ending of your engagement. It’s no wonder you feel somewhat low.’

Her hand was burning under the touch of his and, as casually as she could, she withdrew it. ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she said. ‘I told you, it’s just the time of the year – with not enough to occupy my thoughts, my time.’ She picked up her bonnet, moving to put it back on her head. The conversation had taken an uncomfortable turn. ‘I think perhaps we might start back,’ she said. ‘I could do with some tea; I’m getting thirsty.’

Back at the schoolhouse Abbie made tea and they sat drinking it in the little parlour. Their conversation now, however, remained on safe ground; there was no talk of bereavement or broken engagements and gradually the mood between them lightened. Later on, when Louis left it was with the agreement that they would write and make arrangements to meet again in the near future.

Over the weeks, the months, they met from time to time. Sometimes, weather permitting, they walked or drove out into the countryside. On other, rarer occasions, they went to Trowbridge or another nearby town to look around the shops and perhaps take lunch or dinner at a restaurant. And as they continued to meet Abbie felt herself relaxing more in his company and looking forward to the times when they would be together.

Always, though, at the back of her mind, was the sense that there was something missing in her life. And she soon came to realize that its main cause had nothing to do with her work at the school. It must surely, she eventually told herself, be because of Arthur, and the unsatisfactory way in which their relationship had ended.

She said nothing of it to Louis or anyone else, however, telling herself that it was in the past, and best forgotten.

Neither did she speak to anyone of her renewed friendship with Louis. Though if truth were told, she knew it could only be a matter of time before it was remarked upon. The time came when one Sunday afternoon she was visiting Eddie and Violet, and the subject came up. They had obviously discussed it, for Eddie said, smiling at her, ‘I reckon you’re something of a dark ’orse, our Abbie. Or a darker ’orse than I thought you were.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this young gentleman friend of yourn. You’ve never spoke of ’im.’

‘And what gentleman friend would this be?’

‘Oh, look at ’er!’ Eddie’s laugh was infuriating. ‘Sittin’ there like butter wouldn’t melt in ’er mouth. You know who I’m talkin’ about. Manny said he saw you in a carriage with the man a week or so back. And Violet saw you walkin’ with ’im near the village.’ He laughed again. ‘Come on, own up.’

His teasing was so irritating that Abbie almost snapped back a reply. She bit her tongue, however, and said, hiding her annoyance, ‘If you must know, his name is Louis Randolph. He’s a doctor, living and practising in Frome.’

‘A doctor, yet!’ Eddie, impressed, gave a little whistle. ‘A doctor. You’re doing well for yourself, ent you?’

‘And,’ Violet broke in, ‘a very good-looking doctor. Oh, very handsome indeed. You’ve got good taste, Abbie.’

Quickly Abbie said, ‘Listen, it’s not like you think it is. He’s a friend and nothing more.’

‘Oh, ah,’ Eddie said nodding. ‘We ’eard that one before, ent we?’

‘It’s the truth.’ Now Abbie let her annoyance show. ‘We met – well, years ago. And he was the doctor I called in to see Mother that time – though he was too late to help her. So please – stop making more of it than there is.’

‘All right, all right.’ Eddie raised his hands. ‘You don’t need to sound so damn rattled about it.’

‘Well – the way you go on. I can’t have a simple friendship without you making some huge affair out of it.’ And it was true, she said to herself: her friendship with Louis was simply that, a friendship and nothing more. Granted, there were times when she had suspected that perhaps Louis wanted more from their relationship, but she did not, and he seemed to be content with things as they were. And that was the way it would remain. Neither one of them, she told herself, now expected anything other.

So the days, the weeks, the months had gone by – with little change showing in Abbie’s life. And now here it was winter again.

From her seat at her classroom desk, she glanced up at the clock. A quarter to three. Not long to go now and school would be over for another day. She watched her pupils for a few moments as they worked, then got up from her chair, moved to the window and gazed up at the grey sky.

She sighed, aware again of a sense of restlessness. It was with her so much of the time now – like some constant companion. Here it was, mid-December; she had expected that such feelings would have long gone by this time, but instead they seemed to have been growing stronger. So much time had gone by. Was it a year since she had returned from London after spending Christmas with Arthur? Her plans at that time had been to leave Flaxdown in the spring for a life in London, but her mother had returned, causing upheaval in so many ways. Changing Abbie’s life – changing it for ever.

Abbie remained standing at the window for a minute or two longer, then turned her attention back to her pupils. They were writing, some on slates, some on paper. The younger and less able ones were working on words, phrases and short sentences, the others on short compositions she had set them.

‘Thomas? Thomas Gilpin . . . ?’ She spoke the boy’s name as she moved back to her desk and as he looked up from his work she beckoned to him, smiling. ‘I’ll see your composition now, Tom, if I may.’

The boy, just over nine years old, got up from his seat and came towards her, a paper in his hand. He was the son of a farm labourer from the other side of the village, a boy with a warm, pleasant manner and unexceptional academic abilities.

As Abbie took the paper from him his hand brushed against her own. ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said, ‘your hand is so cold.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Do you feel cold?’

He did not answer. Not that she was surprised; he would not happily admit to such a thing. She took in his thin, darned woollen jumper, the frayed collar of his shirt. ‘While I look at your work, Tom,’ she said, ‘perhaps you could do something for me?’

‘Yes, miss?’ His voice was low and grave.

‘Go and put some more wood in the stove, would you?’ She gestured to the old stove with its stack reaching up into the ceiling. ‘It might need a good old poke, too. I’m afraid I don’t have the right knack with it.’ She added as he moved away, ‘And give your hands a good warm while you’re there.’

‘Yes, miss.’

He turned away. Abbie added: ‘Take your time. And don’t burn yourself.’

‘No, miss.’

She watched him as he bent over the stove, his face set in concentration. How little chance such children had, regardless of their abilities, she thought. Being from very poor families, most of them were doomed to follow in their parents’ footsteps, rarely getting even a step further ahead.

She looked down at the paper before her. Christmas was only days away and her pupils were looking forward to it. Tom Gilpin, she saw, was no exception. In his small, surprisingly neat hand, he had written that Christmas was his favourite time of the year. On Christmas morning, he wrote, he and his brothers and sisters would find an orange in their stockings, and for Christmas dinner they would eat chicken or pork. Christmas was spelt with a small ‘c’. He had continued:

‘Is it all right, miss?’ The boy had finished tending the stove and was now standing at Abbie’s elbow.

‘Indeed it is, Tom. It’s very good.’ She smiled at him. ‘You make it sound like a very special day.’

He nodded and smiled gravely. She turned back to the paper. There were numerous errors but she would not remark on all of them; there was no sense in discouraging him. ‘Christmas must start with a capital letter,’ she said, ‘and there’s no “e” in skating. Also there’s no “y” in union. Apart from that it’s excellent.’

He nodded, pleased. ‘Yes, miss.’ A pause, then: ‘I’m not sure exactly what a union is, miss. What is it?’

‘What is a union?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Well, a union, a trades union – which is what you’re meaning here – is a band of men – a group of workers who stand together. They get together and say, “Look, we can do nothing on our own, but if we all stand together, side by side – if we form a union – stand united – we shall be stronger than if we’re alone.” Do you understand?’

‘I think so, miss.’ But he sounded uncertain.

Abbie said, ‘In the case of your father – well, he works on a farm, doesn’t he?’

The boy nodded.

‘Right, so he was almost certainly speaking of the National Agricultural Labourers’ Union. It was formed just last year – 1872 – by farm labourers – so that they could protect themselves.’

‘Why do they need to protect themselves? Why do they want to be stronger?’

Abbie hesitated. The concept of trades unions wasn’t something she wished to get into; still, the boy had asked. She glanced up at the class. While most of the children were working at their slates and papers, others were listening to the dialogue. She turned back to Tom.

‘Let me try to explain,’ she said. ‘If you worked for a man and he took advantage of you – let’s say he made you work too hard and too long for your wages – what would you do?’

The boy thought about this, then said, ‘I’d tell him, miss. I’d tell ’im ’e was making me work too ’ard.’

A boy in the front row chimed in: ‘Yes, miss, if it was me I’d tell him ’e’d have to give me more wages.’

‘Yes,’ Abbie said, ‘but supposing he refused. What if he said, “No, I won’t give you any more wages”?’

All the children were listening now. A small girl, from her seat in the second row, said: ‘Miss, if he wouldn’t pay me no more wages I’d tell ’im I wouldn’t do ‘is work.’

‘And if he still said no?’ Abbie said. ‘What would you do then? And don’t forget that if you’re a farm worker you’re probably living in a tied cottage – one owned by the farmer. If you left your job on the farm you’d have to leave the cottage, too, wouldn’t you? And if you’re a man with a wife and children to look after, what would happen then?’

Tom Gilpin said, ‘Get another job, miss? And another tied cottage?’

Abbie shrugged. ‘Perhaps you could – if you were very, very lucky. But your next employer might do the same thing to you. It could go on like that. And what would happen if you gave up your job and your home and couldn’t find another, no matter how hard you looked? What would happen then?’

No one spoke for a moment, then Tom said, ‘It’d be the workhouse, miss. That or starve, I reckon.’

Abbie nodded. ‘There you are.’ Her glance moved over the faces of the children. ‘This same thing can happen to men in all kinds of work. Although they might protest at their conditions there’s not a lot they can do about it – because so often their employer just turns round and says, “Well, if you don’t like it, go and find another job.” And of course, that can be a very difficult thing to do. So what happens is that the worker is forced to stay in his job and put up with the same conditions – no matter how bad they are.’

‘But – how does a union help them, miss?’ Tom said.

‘Well, working together the members of the union try to decide what is fair – what is best for them, for all of them. And they can say to the bosses, “Look, if you don’t play fair then
none
of us will work for you.” And if they all say that, all those thousands of men, then the bosses have to listen. If just one worker refuses to work it doesn’t make any difference to the employer, but if
all
the workers stop then the employer finds himself in a real pickle.’

‘Going on strike,’ one of the boys said. ‘That’s going on strike, isn’t it, miss?’

‘That’s right,’ Abbie said. ‘When a body of men decide not to work it’s known as going on strike. And they can stay on strike until the boss says, “All right, I’ll listen to you.”’

‘But,’ said another boy, ‘if they go on strike they don’t get any wages, do they?’

Abbie was about to reply when she heard the sound of the door opening. Turning, she saw appear the short, thin figure of Mr Carstairs, the school inspector. What was he here for now? She could feel herself touched with a little of that same fear and apprehension which always accompanied any sight of him. As he came across the room towards her she got to her feet, the pupils, as one, following suit.

‘Miss Morris,’ Carstairs said, acknowledging her with a slight nod. Turning to the class he motioned to the children to be seated. Obediently they sat, with the exception of Tom Gilpin who remained standing at Abbie’s desk, looking undecided as to what to do. With a faint smile at the boy, Abbie murmured that he also might go and sit down. Needing no second bidding, he moved back to his seat.

She turned back to the man. There was no hint of pleasure in his cold eyes or his thin-lipped mouth. She wondered again what he was doing there. His visit was unannounced and she could only suppose that he had come in the hope of catching her out – of finding her to be wanting in some way. Well, let him go on hoping, she said to herself; the Board would have difficulty in faulting her teaching – she made sure of that – added to which her pupils’ exam results had been generally very good under her tuition – better than they had been under the previous schoolmistress, Miss Beacham.