fellow committee members: pretty, but the possessor of a rather strident voice. I took an instant dislike to her. Ma, enclosed now in her hypochondriac world of impending motherhood, paid little attention to the new governess, apart from briskly interviewing her on the day of her arrival. Summoned to a freezing morning room, she found Ma reclining on a mauve velvet chaise longue, placed strategically under an open window, through which blew a chill north-easter.
‘ My daughter needs a strong hand, Miss Bellingham,’ she informed the shivering governess, herself warmly enwrapped in an assortment of woollen shawls. ‘But above all, she must have stimulation for her over-active mind. I am, as I told your aunt, hors de combat for the time being and must therefore rely on you to provide that stimulation, within, naturally, a solid framework of discipline. The means by which you choose to enforce that discipline are your own affair, but let me make it clear, no child of mine will ever be the recipient of corporal punishment. Now, my dear...if you will excuse me...’
Miss Bellingham was a good teacher, no doubt of that, but I hated the routine of the schoolroom and Bobby Prescott was such a little ass. He used to cry when I kicked him under the table and when I borrowed his pen one day (the nib to mine had gone funny and spluttered ink all over my writing book) he went straight home and told his mother I was a thief.
‘ Mama says God punishes little girls who steal,’ he informed me smugly the following morning. ‘He’ll send a thunderbolt to kill you.’
‘ No, he won’t, he doesn’t do things like that, and you’re a nasty little tell-tale-tit.’
‘ Children,’ shouted Miss Bellingham, getting rather red in the face. Doubtless her fingers itched to bang our heads together. She refrained, wisely, perhaps remembering Ma’s embargo on corporal punishment. ‘Get on with your lessons. Charlotte, you’re the eldest and must learn to set a good example. Any more nonsense and you will stand in the corner.’
‘ I don’t mind standing in the corner in the least, it’s better than stupid old arithmetic...’
Pa, on a walking tour in France at the time of Miss Bellingham’s arrival, returned a few days later. He encountered her on her way back from the village. A tendril of hair had escaped from under her hat, her cheeks were rosy from the wind and her tight-waisted jacket accentuated the slimness of her figure. Pa, his blue eyes alight, looked her up and down in that special way he had, then held out his hand smiling. ‘I’m Charlotte’s father; you must be Miss Bellingham. And how are you managing with that little monkey of mine?’
‘ She’s a lovely child, Mr Osborn, just a bit mischievous at times, but a ripping little learner.’ At that precise moment a sudden gust of wind blew Miss Bellingham’s hat off.
Pa laughingly retrieved it. ‘Always remember to hang on to your hat, Miss Bellingham,’ he said and looked straight into her eyes. And how do I know all this? Because I saw and heard it, from my secret look-out post at the nursery window. How ridiculous grown-ups were, especially Pa and Ma.
To be fair, however, despite the hours spent standing in the corner — imagination was not one of Miss Bellingham’s many attributes — there was no doubt I did benefit greatly from her tuition. Anyway, one can get used to almost anything if one tries hard enough.
Week followed week and spring slowly turned to summer. The grass in the paddock grew green and lush, the first cuckoo was heard, Ma grew steadily bigger and everyone in the household, apart that is from Ma, became aware of a change in Miss Bellingham. She was softer, more lax in discipline and frequently inattentive. She even giggled at one of my rude drawings (I was a great one for rude drawings) and never even noticed when I stuffed the unfortunate Bobby’s inkwell full of little bits of blotting paper. The schoolroom party took to having
‘ My daughter needs a strong hand, Miss Bellingham,’ she informed the shivering governess, herself warmly enwrapped in an assortment of woollen shawls. ‘But above all, she must have stimulation for her over-active mind. I am, as I told your aunt, hors de combat for the time being and must therefore rely on you to provide that stimulation, within, naturally, a solid framework of discipline. The means by which you choose to enforce that discipline are your own affair, but let me make it clear, no child of mine will ever be the recipient of corporal punishment. Now, my dear...if you will excuse me...’
Miss Bellingham was a good teacher, no doubt of that, but I hated the routine of the schoolroom and Bobby Prescott was such a little ass. He used to cry when I kicked him under the table and when I borrowed his pen one day (the nib to mine had gone funny and spluttered ink all over my writing book) he went straight home and told his mother I was a thief.
‘ Mama says God punishes little girls who steal,’ he informed me smugly the following morning. ‘He’ll send a thunderbolt to kill you.’
‘ No, he won’t, he doesn’t do things like that, and you’re a nasty little tell-tale-tit.’
‘ Children,’ shouted Miss Bellingham, getting rather red in the face. Doubtless her fingers itched to bang our heads together. She refrained, wisely, perhaps remembering Ma’s embargo on corporal punishment. ‘Get on with your lessons. Charlotte, you’re the eldest and must learn to set a good example. Any more nonsense and you will stand in the corner.’
‘ I don’t mind standing in the corner in the least, it’s better than stupid old arithmetic...’
Pa, on a walking tour in France at the time of Miss Bellingham’s arrival, returned a few days later. He encountered her on her way back from the village. A tendril of hair had escaped from under her hat, her cheeks were rosy from the wind and her tight-waisted jacket accentuated the slimness of her figure. Pa, his blue eyes alight, looked her up and down in that special way he had, then held out his hand smiling. ‘I’m Charlotte’s father; you must be Miss Bellingham. And how are you managing with that little monkey of mine?’
‘ She’s a lovely child, Mr Osborn, just a bit mischievous at times, but a ripping little learner.’ At that precise moment a sudden gust of wind blew Miss Bellingham’s hat off.
Pa laughingly retrieved it. ‘Always remember to hang on to your hat, Miss Bellingham,’ he said and looked straight into her eyes. And how do I know all this? Because I saw and heard it, from my secret look-out post at the nursery window. How ridiculous grown-ups were, especially Pa and Ma.
To be fair, however, despite the hours spent standing in the corner — imagination was not one of Miss Bellingham’s many attributes — there was no doubt I did benefit greatly from her tuition. Anyway, one can get used to almost anything if one tries hard enough.
Week followed week and spring slowly turned to summer. The grass in the paddock grew green and lush, the first cuckoo was heard, Ma grew steadily bigger and everyone in the household, apart that is from Ma, became aware of a change in Miss Bellingham. She was softer, more lax in discipline and frequently inattentive. She even giggled at one of my rude drawings (I was a great one for rude drawings) and never even noticed when I stuffed the unfortunate Bobby’s inkwell full of little bits of blotting paper. The schoolroom party took to having
Similar Books
