Committee and his Scotch and a daughter who will not embarrass him and who will keep out of the way.
The attic is a place apart from all that, a lost and forgotten space, like Calypso’s Island.
‘I am not afraid of you,’ I say to the brooding room, the silent, listening house.
And with that, I leave the attic to its cluttered emptiness, and clump back down the cramped little staircase again, the shadows leaping around me like dancers as I go.
5
I T SNOWS ON the Friday, and I am driven half mad by the sight of the fat flakes falling, dark against the lighter sky. I am in the front room, and Miss Hawcross is waving her ruler about with more than her usual testiness, and it cracks down on the table in front of my nose time after time.
‘Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept,’ I say obediently, all the while looking out the window at the world beyond as it slowly transforms. Is there anything more magical than snow? I am aching to be outside in it, and the local children are out scraping up snowballs and hurling them at each other, as loud as a flock of crows.
‘Huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze –’ Fifteen escapes me. I am watching the flight of the snowballs and wondering if I could throw one that far. I know I would be accurate. I am a very good shot with a stone.
Miss Hawcross smacks the ruler down on the table three times. ‘Quinze, quinze, quinze!’ She is quite red-faced. ‘You are impossible today Anna!’
I lower my head. ‘Sorry Miss Hawcross.’
‘Ignore what the hooligans outside are at and attend to your work. Life is not all about playing in the snow.’ She follows my eyes.
‘But it almost never snows,’ I complain. And in a low tone I mutter, ‘Why can’t I be like them?’ Looking out at the laughing children in the street.
‘You must not confuse yourself with the likes of them, my girl. Do you want to be a disappointment to your father? Because you are going the right way about it. You must improve yourself if you are to maintain any kind of station in this world. Otherwise, you will end up in the street outside with those hopeless urchins, and believe me young lady, it is a hard and cold world out there.’
Something in her voice takes me by surprise. There is a catch of emotion to her tone, and as I meet her stare, I see that Miss Hawcross is in deadly earnest.
‘Is that how you see yourself, Anna?’ she asks me, more quietly now. ‘A scallywag of the streets, scraping by hand to mouth? For that is what they are. Poor little beggars who would pick a pocket as soon as wipe their nose, who are destined for the workhouse and a pauper’s grave. Do you see them, laughing? Half of them are barefoot in the snow, and the other half will not see a hot meal tonight. The lucky ones will grow up to black boots or wield a spade. The girls will sew, or pick flax, or do laundry until they are worn to nothing but rags and bone. They are not even refined enough for service in a decent house. This is what a proper education will spare you from, Anna.’
I cannot keep her gaze, but look down at the French words on the primer before me. ‘What use is French to me?’ I murmur.
‘It supples the mind, it adds accomplishment. It marks you out as a cut above the common herd. As do mathematics, history, grammar. You must apply yourself to these things here and now, Anna. There is no other time or place for you to learn them. The world is changing all around us. Ever since’ – she falters a little – ‘Ever since the War, there are no more certainties in life.’
She looks away, and her voice lowers. ‘The War swept everything away – you are too young to know what is cost this country. Nothing can be counted upon to endure anymore.’ She seems almost to be talking to herself. For a moment, I feel quite sorry for her, and I set my hand on the fingers that clasp the quivering ruler.
‘I am so sorry Miss Hawcross. I will try harder, I swear I will. I am sure you
The attic is a place apart from all that, a lost and forgotten space, like Calypso’s Island.
‘I am not afraid of you,’ I say to the brooding room, the silent, listening house.
And with that, I leave the attic to its cluttered emptiness, and clump back down the cramped little staircase again, the shadows leaping around me like dancers as I go.
5
I T SNOWS ON the Friday, and I am driven half mad by the sight of the fat flakes falling, dark against the lighter sky. I am in the front room, and Miss Hawcross is waving her ruler about with more than her usual testiness, and it cracks down on the table in front of my nose time after time.
‘Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept,’ I say obediently, all the while looking out the window at the world beyond as it slowly transforms. Is there anything more magical than snow? I am aching to be outside in it, and the local children are out scraping up snowballs and hurling them at each other, as loud as a flock of crows.
‘Huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze –’ Fifteen escapes me. I am watching the flight of the snowballs and wondering if I could throw one that far. I know I would be accurate. I am a very good shot with a stone.
Miss Hawcross smacks the ruler down on the table three times. ‘Quinze, quinze, quinze!’ She is quite red-faced. ‘You are impossible today Anna!’
I lower my head. ‘Sorry Miss Hawcross.’
‘Ignore what the hooligans outside are at and attend to your work. Life is not all about playing in the snow.’ She follows my eyes.
‘But it almost never snows,’ I complain. And in a low tone I mutter, ‘Why can’t I be like them?’ Looking out at the laughing children in the street.
‘You must not confuse yourself with the likes of them, my girl. Do you want to be a disappointment to your father? Because you are going the right way about it. You must improve yourself if you are to maintain any kind of station in this world. Otherwise, you will end up in the street outside with those hopeless urchins, and believe me young lady, it is a hard and cold world out there.’
Something in her voice takes me by surprise. There is a catch of emotion to her tone, and as I meet her stare, I see that Miss Hawcross is in deadly earnest.
‘Is that how you see yourself, Anna?’ she asks me, more quietly now. ‘A scallywag of the streets, scraping by hand to mouth? For that is what they are. Poor little beggars who would pick a pocket as soon as wipe their nose, who are destined for the workhouse and a pauper’s grave. Do you see them, laughing? Half of them are barefoot in the snow, and the other half will not see a hot meal tonight. The lucky ones will grow up to black boots or wield a spade. The girls will sew, or pick flax, or do laundry until they are worn to nothing but rags and bone. They are not even refined enough for service in a decent house. This is what a proper education will spare you from, Anna.’
I cannot keep her gaze, but look down at the French words on the primer before me. ‘What use is French to me?’ I murmur.
‘It supples the mind, it adds accomplishment. It marks you out as a cut above the common herd. As do mathematics, history, grammar. You must apply yourself to these things here and now, Anna. There is no other time or place for you to learn them. The world is changing all around us. Ever since’ – she falters a little – ‘Ever since the War, there are no more certainties in life.’
She looks away, and her voice lowers. ‘The War swept everything away – you are too young to know what is cost this country. Nothing can be counted upon to endure anymore.’ She seems almost to be talking to herself. For a moment, I feel quite sorry for her, and I set my hand on the fingers that clasp the quivering ruler.
‘I am so sorry Miss Hawcross. I will try harder, I swear I will. I am sure you
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