ON THE DAY OF GRANNY’S FUNERAL, OLD JOHN TOOK CARE OF TOMMY.
ON THE DAY OF GRANNY’S FUNERAL, OLD JOHN TOOK CARE OF TOMMY.
Before his love could wane she died. Thirty-five years had gone by since the night that Old John held her for the last time in his arms. In her place she left a son, and the son was more of a misfit than the mother who bore him.
“One o’ they creeperses!” was the judgement of Draeth, and Old John knew that the judgement was just. But not only was his John sly, he was idle and lazy as well.
“If I could only have had a son like Tommy, an’ a wife like ...,” then Old John checked himself sharply; there was disloyalty in the thought and he gave undivided attention to his guest.
“What be we a-goin’ to have for dinner?” Tommy was asking.
“Fish,” replied Old John.
“What did ee eat for breakfast?”
“Fish as I catched at sunrise.”
“An’ what’ll ee have for supper?”
“Fish again.”
“Seems a lot o’ fish in one day,” Tommy stated.
“Why, yes; of course. ’Twouldn’t be so cheap to live else, Tommy. Don’t ee know thicky tiddley verse:
Fish for breakfast that we ’ad,An’ for dinner ’ad a chad,An’ for tea we ’ad some ray,So we ’ad fish three times that day!”
Fish for breakfast that we ’ad,An’ for dinner ’ad a chad,An’ for tea we ’ad some ray,So we ’ad fish three times that day!”
Fish for breakfast that we ’ad,
An’ for dinner ’ad a chad,
An’ for tea we ’ad some ray,
So we ’ad fish three times that day!”
The young voice and the old one said the lines over and over in a monotonous sing-song until Tommy knew them off by heart.
Movements overhead showed that John was gettingup. Although it was nearly half-past nine he had not yet left the bedroom. When he came downstairs he looked sulky and unwashed and ate his breakfast in sullen silence.
“Fish to sell?” he muttered.
Old John pointed to his early morning catch.
As well as being sly and lazy John was also a bit soft, and never acted on his own responsibility.
“How much be I to get for they?” he asked.
It was only a small catch and Old John lifted the fish from the basket to estimate their value.
“Should fetch tenpence,” he decided, “but make what ee can. If ee can’t get tenpence, take eightpence; an’ if ’ee can’t get eightpence, take sixpence; but make what ee can. Should fetch tenpence, though,” he said again as he replaced the fish and passed the basket to his son.
John always followed the line of least resistance. Half-way to the quay he met a man who handled his fish with a view to buying.
“What do you want for they?” he was asked.
“My fäather said get tenpence if ee can, or eightpence if ee can; or sixpence if ee can; just make what ee can. So what’ll ee give for they?”
Long before his return was expected John slouched into the cottage kitchen and threw four pennies on the table. “For they fish,” he said, and walked away to join a knot of idlers on the front.
Old John sighed as he gathered up the coins. He felt very old these days: he wasn’t by no means the man he used to be, and it was very difficult to live.
“Goin’ a-whiffin’ again to-day?” Tommy asked him, and he brought his mind to bear upon the needs of the moment.
“Not whiffin’, but afore tea I must see to my lobster pots,” he replied. “Did ought to get a good catch, too. What be a-goin’ to do, Tommy, when art a grown man? Fishin’?”
Tommy shook his head. “No,” he stated, emphatically. “My Mammy says it do be starvation to put a lad to fishin’ now. I’ll be a p’liceman an’ scare they children bravely, that I will.” Tommy drew himself up in proud anticipation of his authority-to-be.
“Bit lonely, bain’t ee sometimes, Tommy?” was Old John’s next essay.
Tommy did not understand, so Old John tried to make his meaning clear.
“’Twould be nice for ee to have a baby sister to play with an’ look after,” he said. Then he knew that he had blundered.
Tommy clenched his fingers, set his teeth together and breathed hard. “Ef a baby sister do come tomyhouse,” he declared, “I shall upstairs with she, an’ out through the toppest window ’er’ll go.”
“Well, well, well!” Old John was at a loss. When you are close on eighty it is not easy to sustain a conversation with a boy of six.
“Where be my granny?” Tommy asked, unexpectedly.
Old John was confused. It did not come easy to him to talk o’ things as ’ad to do wi’ religion.
“In heaven,” he answered, hesitatingly.
Tommy went to the door and looked earnestly upwards at the clouds,
“.....white as flocks new shornAnd fresh from the clear brook.”
“.....white as flocks new shornAnd fresh from the clear brook.”
“.....white as flocks new shorn
And fresh from the clear brook.”
His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them bravely back. Mammy had said not to cry, and he tried hard to be a man.
“I wonder if God wanted she as much as us,” he said. Then a feeling of unutterable loneliness came upon him. His bravery fell from him, and he ran sobbing to Old John.
“I be frightened,” he sobbed. “I want Mammy; will Mammy have gotten home?”
Clumsily Old John held him in his arms, and, six years old though he was, Tommy fell asleep just like a little boy. Since Saturday everything had been so sad and so unusual; he had not been to school and the days had dragged. He had gone to bed late and got up early, and now he was quite tired out. Old John carried him upstairs and laid him gently upon the unmade bed. There Tommy slept until he was awakened for the dinner of fish.
Before tea Tommy left Old John’s cottage, and Old John went to see to his lobster pots.
In her unaccustomed black Mammy’s pale face looked still paler. Daddy was wearing his wedding-suit and a broad black tie. It was all so unusual that Tommy felt almost a stranger in his own house. Auntie Martha came in early in the evening andbrought with her a coat of Mabel’s which she thought would do for Tommy to wear to school in the coming winter months.
“It do be a bit small for Mabel, anyhow,” she explained, “an’ now as her do be a-wearin’ black it ain’t but little good to she.”
It was a fawn coat with brown velvet collar and cuffs—a beautiful coat, Tommy thought. This present was a gleam of brightness in a dreary day, and he wished the winter would come quickly that he might wear it at once.
“Come along to bed, Tommy,” said Mammy, “and bring the noo coat with ee.”
“All right, Mammy,” he replied, “won’t be but a minute,” and he walked to the door.
“Where be a-goin’?” Mammy spoke very gently.
“To say good-night to my Gran.”
Then realization came. “She isn’t there,” he whispered, and, turning, went silently upstairs.
In his prayers that night he stumbled. “Bless granfäather——” he prayed, and stopped. Then, “an’ please God kiss my Granny good-night for me,” he asked, “an’ make me a brave, good boy.”
As Mrs. Tregennis went downstairs Tregennis came in from the sea. “Ellen,” he said, in an awestruck voice, “Ellen, Old John ’e be drownded.”
“Can’t be,” said Mrs. Tregennis. “Why, he was here but an hour agone. You see’d ’e yourself, Tom.”
Tregennis nodded. “He was lobster-catchin’, Crudely way. The men were seine-fishin’ an’ up on the cliffs the ’ooers was a-’ooin of ’em on. Old John helooked up at the ’ooers an’ somehow missed atween the rocks and his boat and slippen down. Seiners they came up quick, but they haven’t found ’e yet. I wanted just to come in an’ tell ee, Ellen, didn’t want ee to hear accident-like. I must go back now and help,” and Tregennis returned to do what he could.
But not until late the next day did they find Old John’s body. John, his son, put on his father’s best clothes, and idled on the front while the fishermen of Draeth dragged the water near the Crudely rocks. When he found anyone willing to listen to him he spoke. “Funny thing,” he muttered, “very funny thing. Fäather’s been to sea all these years, an’ never got drownded afore. Very funny thing it do be for sure, an’ what be I a-goin’ to do now?”
MRS. TREGENNISsat at the kitchen table. With a short and rather blunt pencil she was making calculations on a half-sheet of note-paper. Never before in the month of April had they stood so well and known so little fear. Mrs. Radford had been so very difficult and had tried Mrs. Tregennis so sorely that early in January she had been asked to leave; still during all the months she had lived there her money had come in safely week after week and had been a great help. Then Tregennis had been at work more or less regularly since the beginning of January, not fishin’, ’tis true, but diggin’ and cartin’, which he found very hard, but to which he stuck doggedly all the same.
The digging and carting had been in connexion with the building of the new Council Schools, which stood rather high up above the West River, just opposite the station. Some weeks Tregennis had earned as much as eighteen shillings, and as a result of this the little sum in the bank, which represented summer visitors and summer fishing, had remained untouched.
So Mrs. Tregennis was adding up. There was over eight pound from that catch on the wreck when the boulter parted, and two weeks afterwards there was nigh on three pound, and then there had been two pound five, an’ fifteen shillin’, an’——
At this point Mrs. Tregennis lost count. Her little sums were all upset by Tommy’s return from school.
Tommy was evidently very angry. He half-kicked the door open, then banged it behind him and stamped into the kitchen. When Mrs. Tregennis looked up she saw that his fingers were tightly clenched and that he was gritting his teeth. Without speaking, she put the lead pencil to her lips and slowly made more figures on the piece of paper.
Tommy took off the coat he was wearing, threw it on the floor and kicked it into the fender.
Then Mammy arose.
“Well, Tommy Tregennis,” she said, “’an’ shall I bring some more of your clothes for ee to kick about the place? Will ee have the brown jersey suit, my son, and the long sailor trousers?”
Tommy stood rigid and defiant. His eyes flashed as he answered his mother. “I shan’t wear ’e never no more.” He pointed dramatically with his right hand in the direction of the fireplace. “Never, no more, I tell ee, no,never!”
“Pick you that coat out o’ the ashes,” Mrs. Tregennis ordered.
For a moment Tommy hesitated, then reluctantly he obeyed.
Mrs. Tregennis took it from him and put it on a chair. It was the coat that had once been Mabel’s—the coat that was trimmed with brown velvet and that had been given to Tommy on the night of Granny’s funeral.
There was a brief silence, then Tommy spoke again.“I shan’t wear ’e, never no more,” he repeated. If it had not been for the fact that he was going on seven and had not cried for more than a month, Tommy would certainly have cried now.
Mrs. Tregennis realized this. “Why not?” she asked sympathetically.
Then two tears came, but Tommy blinked them bravely back. Even to Mammy he hesitated to give his reason, for shame had overwhelmed him, and the mockery had hurt.
He clenched his fingers as he lived through the whole scene once more, then he swallowed hard and explained. “The boys they do be a-sayin’ as Tommy Tregennis ’e do wear an old maid’s coat.” Then, “Mammy, Mammy, Ican’twear ’e never no more! I needn’t, Mammy, say it, oh,sayit!” he implored.
“Well, ma lovely,” replied Mrs. Tregennis, “your Mammy would much like to wear a beautiful silk gownd like the queen wears in London, but she’ve gotten to wear just this.” As Mrs. Tregennis sat down she drew aside the apron that covered her plain serge skirt.
Instantly Tommy’s arms were around her neck. “Mammy, Mammy,” he relented, “I’ll wear ’e, sure I will; I’ll wear ’e an’ never heed they boys, then ee can have a brave silk gownd, Mammy, just like the queen do wear to London.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Mrs. Tregennis, “I’m not so set on a silken gownd if it comes to that, wool’ll do me in my line of life, an’ I’ll give your coat to somelittle boy as is smaller ’an you, an’ that’ll be fine all round.” As she and Tregennis agreed afterwards Tommy’d really wore that coat a lot, an’ so they didn’t ought to grumble, an’ he was really very good about his clothes, pore lamb; an’ if he was cold he could wear his best blue coat to school, ’twouldn’t do it no harm, not with care, and summer would be upon them very soon and no coats needed then.
This happened to be the last day of Tregennis’s work at the new school buildings, and the following morning, with something of relief, he went out shrimping. He came home with two quarts and more of very fine shrimps, which Mrs. Tregennis boiled and took round for sale in the afternoon. When she returned, having disposed of all the plates of shrimps, she found that Tommy was home from school and was in a state of great excitement.
For the first time he had been allowed to write in ink! He had made only one quite little blot and one very small smudge!
“Miss Lavinia said ’twas brave an’ handsome, Mammy,” he told her. “She said to take it home, Mammy, ’cos ’twas so fine an’ lovely, so here ’t be for ee to see.”
“Tom and Sam dig in the sand. The ant can run on the sand. The sand is wet but the ant runs fast on the wet sand.”
Mrs. Tregennis and Tommy together read out the written words, and looked with pride at the “good” in red ink at the bottom of the page.
“This do be some fine, ma lovely,” said Mammy, appreciatively, and, going to the cupboard, she took her purse from the second shelf and gave Tommy a penny.
“There’s a penny and a saucer; run an’ get some cream for your tea, ma handsome, because your ink-writin’ do be that beautiful.”
Off Tommy ran to the one dairy in Draeth where cream can be bought by the penn’orth.
It was all so thrilling and exciting that Tommy quite forgot his manners, and on his return, rounding a corner, he ran up against Auntie Jessie, and Auntie Jessie had seen him lick his finger after sticking it well into the cream.
“My!” gasped Tommy.
“Well!” said Auntie Jessie, and walked on.
Tommy felt dreadful. “Now I shall get it somethin’ awful,” he muttered. “Now I shall just be ’bout half killed.” Then, holding the saucer well in front of him, he ran quickly home.
“Mammy,” he explained, somewhat breathlessly, “I didn’t know as I was a goin’ to do it. ’Twent in quite of itself, it did. They be all a-comin’ to tell ee, Mammy, but don’t ee hit I for I’ve telled ee of it first. I didn’t know as I was a-goin’ to do it, but there ’twas, an’ Auntie Jessie she saw an’ ’ll tell ee, but ’twent in of itself, it did, sure as sure it did, Mammy.”
“What be all this about, Tommy Tregennis?” Mammy inquired. “Try to talk a bit of sense, do ee now.” And then she heard the story of Tommy’s lapse from decency.
Like Auntie Jessie, Mammy merely said, “Well!”
“I’ve never done no such thing afore, Mammy,” argued Tommy, “’an’ I’ve seen other boys an’ girls a-puttin’ their fingers in pennorths of jam one, two, threean’four times.”
“Oh,theychildren!” replied Mammy, and Tommy knew that somehow his line of defence was weak.
“Mammy,” he said, very pleadingly, “Mammy, it did just slippen in, it did,” and he held the guilty finger up in front of him and looked at it sadly as he slowly shook his head.
“Don’t ee do it never no more, then,” admonished Mrs. Tregennis, “an’ here’s your Daddy so we’ll have some tea.”
“Cream on a week-day!” exclaimed Tregennis, in surprise.
“Yes,” assented Mammy, “our Tommy’s done some brave good ink-writin’, so we be all havin’ a treat.” “We’m properly livin’ high,” she continued, “just like the gintry we be,” and as she spoke she took a small teaspoonful of cream from the saucer into which Tommy’s finger had slipped by mistake and emptied it carefully on to the side of her plate.
“There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,There’s no rain left in heaven;I’ve said my seven times over and over:Seven times one are seven.”
“There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,There’s no rain left in heaven;I’ve said my seven times over and over:Seven times one are seven.”
“There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There’s no rain left in heaven;
I’ve said my seven times over and over:
Seven times one are seven.”
TOMMYwas standing at the table before breakfast, reciting in a breathless, sing-song voice. Before school closed for the summer holidays Miss Lavinia had taught him the poem so that he could say it as a surprise to Daddy and Mammy this morning. For this morning was the 29th of August, and Tommy’s birthday, and he was just exactly “seven times one.”
His parents listened to him with pride, but Mammy could not help feeling a little sad, for she realized how very quickly Tommy was growing up. Because she was always busy the months simply sped along. This spring had passed unusually quickly, and now here was the summer almost over and Tommy was actually seven years old!
Mrs. Tregennis had been very successful in letting her rooms this season; since the first week in May the house had been full. She and Daddy and Tommy were all greatly disappointed that Tommy’s Ladies were not coming to Draeth this year. They had sent some of their friends, certainly, and they proved to be verynice people and paid Mrs. Tregennis well. But, of course, it was not the same. From these friends, too, Mrs. Tregennis had heard disquieting rumours, and she was much afraid that it would be a long, long time before the Blue Lady and the Brown Lady would come again to Draeth to stay.
“And show me your nest with the young ones in it,I will not steal them away;I am old, you can trust me, linnet, linnet;I am seven times one to-day.”
“And show me your nest with the young ones in it,I will not steal them away;I am old, you can trust me, linnet, linnet;I am seven times one to-day.”
“And show me your nest with the young ones in it,
I will not steal them away;
I am old, you can trust me, linnet, linnet;
I am seven times one to-day.”
Tommy ended the surprise poem with pride, for not one stumble had he made all the way through from beginning to end. Daddy showed his appreciation by giving him a sixpenny bit, as he wished him “Many ’appy returns o’ the day.”
This awakened memories of the past, and Tommy became reflective.
“My poor Granny used to give me a half-a-crown on my birthday,” he remarked, reminiscently. “She didn’t never have ought to ’a done it,” he continued, shaking his head, “for she couldn’t rightly afford ’e. Still, she did allus give me a half-a-crown did my poor Gran!”
Further reflections were interrupted by the postman.
“Well, I be glad an’ yet I’m not glad,” Mrs. Tregennis said, when she had come to the end of her letter and passed it over to Daddy.
“He did ought to be shot!” was Tregennis’s fiercecomment when he had read to the end of the first page.
“Who did ought to be shot, Daddy?” Tommy’s efforts to balance the sixpenny-bit on the extreme tip of his nose were interrupted while he put the question.
“Miss Margaret’s been gettin’ married, ma lovely,” Mrs. Tregennis told him.
This seemed no explanation to Tommy, and he persisted in his question. “Who did ought to be shot, Daddy?” he repeated.
Tregennis looked across at his wife. “There ain’t no man in this world good enough for Miss Margaret,” he asserted. “He did ought to be shot even for so much as lookin’ at her, but as for wantin’ to marry her—well——.” Here words failed him.
Meanwhile Mrs. Tregennis had taken off the wrapper from an illustrated paper that the postman had brought, too. Turning over the pages, she came to one down which a thick, red line was drawn, and there was Miss Margaret’s likeness just staring her in the face!
Silently Tommy and Tregennis looked as Mrs. Tregennis pointed.
“‘Elliott and Fry,’” read Mrs. Tregennis, meaninglessly.
Tregennis nodded. “Them’s the chaps as took it.”
“Then this ishim!” said Mammy, and put her finger on the portrait next to Miss Margaret’s own.
Then she drew in her breath sharply. “Why, she be marryin’ aSir!” she exclaimed. “They’ll never come here no more.”
She looked sadly round the tiny kitchen. There was the line on which Miss Margaret’s wet skirts had hung, time and time again. That was the rocking-chair Miss Margaret had sat in many a day when the evenings were turning cold. Under the table was the Dobbin that the Blue Lady and the Brown Lady had given to Tommy at the very first of all.
“An’ now she be married to a Sir,” she murmured, “an’ she’ll never come here no more!”
It was Tommy’s seventh birthday, yet gloom was upon them all!
The handle of the outside door was turned and Granfäather Tregennis stood on the threshold.
“Mornin’,” he said, nodding all round comprehensively.
Then he gave his whole attention to Tommy.
“’Appy returns to ee, my man!”
Awkwardly he stood there for a moment, fumbling with something he held in his hand.
“This do be the half-a-crown as your Granny always gived ee when your birthday comed nigh.”
As he put the money on the table there were tears in his eyes, and he turned abruptly and left.
“Granfäather do be breakin’ up,” sighed Mrs. Tregennis. “Never been the same he haven’t since Gran died. He do miss her somethin’ awful, and we shan’t have him long. Ah, well,” she sighed again, as she rolled up her sleeves to the elbow in readiness for the washing-up; “there do be a sight of weariness in the world as well as joy. We’ve no cause to grumble much, ’tis true; but somehow thismornin’ I be altogether down, and there’s where ’tis to!”
Just before tea that day, when Tommy was playing on the sands, Mrs. Tregennis introduced a subject that was much on her mind.
“School begins Monday, Tom,” she reminded him.
“Both?” he asked, laconically.
Mrs. Tregennis nodded affirmatively.
“Seems on’y right to tell Miss Lavinia,” she went on to say. Then, after a rather long pause, “I suppose she’m well enough off; I suppose she’ve enough to live?”
“Should think th’ old doctor ’e left she a bit,” answered Tregennis, reflectively. “Her’ve enough to live I should reckon.”
“Seems hard like to take the children away; she be such a kindly dear soul is Miss Lavinia,” and as Mrs. Tregennis cut the bread and butter she pondered as to what was the best thing to do.
On Monday the new Council Schools would open. The buildings were very grand and modern, and the head master was coming down from a college in London. There was no school-money to pay, it seemed, although the education was to be of the best. Mrs. Tregennis knew that nearly all the children were leaving Miss Lavinia’s for the new school, and she and Tregennis had decided that Tommy should go too.
For years past there had been so many parents anxious to send their children to Miss Lavinia that she had made no rule about giving notice. If, on the morning that school reopened, she found that one ortwo of her scholars had left, she sent round a message at once to some of the addresses she kept written down in a note-book in her desk, and in the afternoon the vacant places were always filled.
This time Mrs. Tregennis knew that there would be many vacant places, and she felt somehow that Miss Lavinia was not prepared for the change the new school must inevitably mean to her. So she talked the matter over with Tregennis, and they decided that after tea she should go on and just tell Miss Lavinia that Tommy was leaving, it would seem more polite like. So after tea Mrs. Tregennis and Tommy went on.
They found Miss Lavinia standing on her door-step; she was dressed for walking and was locking the door behind her when they approached. At once she unlocked the door, re-entered the house, and showed her visitors into the best parlour. Here she left them for a few moments while, with old-fashioned courtesy, she went upstairs to remove her bonnet and mantle so that Mrs. Tregennis should not feel that she must hurry away.
Tommy had never before been in Miss Lavinia’s parlour, and he stood by the highly polished round table in the centre of the room, lost in admiration of the stuffed birds and wax flowers that were placed under glass shades on mats of gaily coloured wool. There were piles of books, too, on the polished table. These were arranged corner-wise with regard to each other. They all had leather bindings, and there were three or four in each pile.
When Miss Lavinia came into the room she walked across to the window and drew up the dark green blind half-way, so that a stream of evening sunshine darted across the parlour and myriads of tiny dust-particles danced in the shaft of light.
Miss Lavinia bade Mrs. Tregennis be seated, but Tommy still leaned up against the polished table.
There was a moment’s awkward pause, then “Is Tommy tired of holiday and ready for school?” Miss Lavinia asked, smiling.
Mrs. Tregennis found difficulty in answering. “’Tis just about that I’ve come, please, Miss,” she said, after some hesitation. “You see, Miss, all the others is goin’, too, and there’s nothin’ at all to pay, an’ we’m only poor, an’ they say the learnin’s to be of the best, and all the other boys be goin’, so I suppose our Tommy did ought to go, too.”
“Go? Where?” But even as Miss Lavinia’s lips framed the question she knew what the answer would be.
“To the new Council School, Miss Lavinia,” faltered Mrs. Tregennis.
Then the two women looked at each other without speaking. Both were troubled, and there seemed nothing more to say.
It was Mrs. Tregennis who broke the silence. “We know what we owe you, Miss Lavinia, his Daddy an’ me. You’ve done a lot for our Tommy, Miss. He’ve come on well and learnt a lot. Not only schoolin’ I’m thinkin’ of, Miss Lavinia, but in his manners an’ all, an’ in doin’ right and tryin’ to be brave. He’ll not get that at the new school, I’m thinkin’.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tregennis,” Miss Lavinia was smiling bravely. “Tommy has always been one of my best little boys, and, for myself, I am very sorry that he must go.”
Again there was a pause. Miss Lavinia seemed to pass through a little struggle with herself. Then, “And did you say there were others?” she asked.
Mrs. Tregennis flushed deeply. “Yes, Miss Lavinia, Ma’am, and didn’t you know, Miss? All they boys be goin’: Jimmy Prynne, and David Williams and the Tomses, an’ all of they.”
Mrs. Tregennis rose from her seat. “I be so sorry, please, Miss Lavinia,” she said, impulsively, holding out her hands to the little figure, sitting perfectly upright on the Chippendale chair. “Oh, Miss Lavinia, I do be that sorry!” Then, hesitatingly, “If I may make so bold, does itmatter, Miss Lavinia?”
It was now Miss Lavinia’s turn to flush. Her eyes were very bright and her chin was uplifted.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tregennis,” she said, and lied bravely; “I am very sorry to lose the children, more sorry than I can tell you, but of course it does not matter in that sense.”
Mrs. Tregennis was relieved. “That’s just what Tom said; he said ’twould be all right in that way, did Tom. Still, I do be very sorry for Tommy to go.”
Mrs. Tregennis moved slowly to the door, then turned again. “Tommy said his piece beautiful this mornin’, Miss Lavinia. Thank you for teachin’ him. It was lovely.”
At first Miss Lavinia was puzzled, then she remembered.
“Why, of course, it’s Tommy’s birthday,” she said, and walked across the room to the polished mahogany table.
From the top of a pile of books she took one that was much smaller than the rest, and had a padded binding of crimson leather. After turning over the pages she put it down in front of Tommy, dipped a pen into the ink, and bade him write his name upon the dotted line, to which she pointed.
“This is my birthday book, Tommy,” she explained, “and when you have written your name there I shall always know when your birthday comes round each year.”
Slowly and carefully Tommy wrote, his tongue curling round the corner of his mouth the while. The one dotted line was not long enough, so he finished on the line below. His name looked very beautiful when it was written there, and Miss Lavinia blotted it carefully before replacing the little crimson book on its own pile on the shining table.
When her visitors had left Miss Lavinia sat alone in the best parlour, looking out across the river with tired, unseeing eyes.
Tommy and Mrs. Tregennis walked slowly home. Tommy was very silent, for his thoughts were fully occupied with Miss Lavinia’s crimson Birthday Book in which he had written his name so lovely.
At first he was perplexed and wondered why Miss Lavinia had wanted to have his name written there,but after a little thought it became quite plain to him. Every year, when the twenty-ninth of August came round, Miss Lavinia would remember him, Tommy. Every year, on the evening of that day, she would enter the best parlour, and, after closing the door behind her, she would walk across to the window and raise the dark green blind a little way. When the blind was drawn a broad shaft of light would cross the room and hundreds of little bits of dust would come in with the light and dance gaily all together in the golden beam.
Then Miss Lavinia would push to one side the piles of books, and, kneeling, facing the stuffed birds and the gay wax flowers, she would rest her elbows on the brightly polished table and pray for him, Tommy, that he might be a good boy and grow up to be a brave, true man.
Tommy had no doubt at all that this was just exactly what Miss Lavinia would do. He could see it all quite clearly as he walked slowly home with Mammy.
On Monday morning, at a quarter to nine, an unaccustomed sound broke over Draeth. It was the ringing of the big bell in the tower of the new Council Schools.
Against her better judgement, Miss Lavinia was drawn by the sound to the window of the best parlour. Here she saw the boys and girls who had once been hers trooping, laughing, and heedless of her pain, to the big new school.
Tommy and Ruthie were the last to pass beneath Miss Lavinia’s window.
At Miss Lavinia’s open door Tommy paused.
Ruthie laughed. “Come on, Tommy,” Miss Lavinia heard her say as she pulled him towards her, and hand in hand, the two children ran along the street and over the bridge.
Miss Lavinia saw them enter the big iron gates, and saw their hesitation when they were parted. For Tommy had to turn to the right and pass through the doorway, over which “Boys” was moulded in the stonework, while Ruthie walked across the playground to the entrance for the girls.
Miss Lavinia clasped her hands together for a moment. Then, as the clock was striking nine, with firm lips and head erect, she turned from the window and walked slowly to the schoolroom, where Annie Geach, Ruby Dark, Lizzie Wraggles and one little new girl were waiting for her to read the morning prayer.