A Vicarage Family: A Biography of Myself Read online

  Laughing, their father held up his hand.

  ‘One at a time please. Mummy can tell you more about the vicarage than I can for I spent most of the time in the study with Canon Moore, the retiring vicar, learning what I could about the parish. He’s ill, poor man, which is why he is leaving.’

  Their mother put down her teacup.

  ‘It’s a lovely house lying in a big garden. There is a lawn shaded with big trees – one a particularly beautiful cedar. Then, to the right of the lawn, there is a flower garden. It’s been let go rather but I saw some nice rose trees. At the back there is a vegetable garden. In front quite a good drive with shrubs on either side. Daddy’s study looks out that way so he’ll be able to see who’s coming to call.’

  Father’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘And under my study window there’s a flower bed and whatever Mummy does with the rest of the garden that is going to be properly bedded out.’

  The girls knew their father’s fondness for a formal-looking bed.

  ‘Lobelias in front, geraniums in the middle and marguerites at the back,’ Isobel suggested.

  Her mother looked at her with an experienced eye.

  ‘Are you feeling wheezy?’

  ‘Only tight.’

  ‘I wonder if that chair is too low. Victoria, get a cushion off the sofa and put it at Isobel’s back.’

  Victoria jumped up and fetched the cushion.

  ‘I don’t think it will be an attack; you said you were tight ages ago, didn’t you, Isobel, and it’s not worse, is it?’

  Victoria was undeniably difficult. But that was only a part of the explanation of the effect she had on her mother. She could see she annoyed her, often without apparent reason, but why? She only began to grasp the answer years later.

  The trouble stemmed in part from the fact that Victoria was strong and healthy. There had been another sister, Edith, who was a year younger than Dick. From birth Edith had a frail hold on life, and when still a baby she had died. Because she had died while she was still too small to have a part in family life, she had soon been forgotten by her sisters and brother. But not by her mother. Losing that baby whom she had struggled so hard to keep alive left an unhealed wound. She was helped by Isobel’s dependence on her, and by the fact that Louise was far from strong, for in part she could give to those two what she could no longer give to Edith. But lively, healthy Victoria must have opened the wound daily. Why should she have all that energy when so little of it, passed to Edith, might have kept her alive?

  Edith was never spoken of in front of the children. Victoria could remember the day she died, not because of the death but because she had seen her mother cry. ‘Go into the spare bedroom and give Mummy a kiss,’ the children’s father had said. Their mother was standing by the window with tears streaming down her face. Shocked, for grown-ups did not cry, Victoria had glued her eyes on a vase of dark red roses from which petals dropped one by one on to the dressing table. Forever she was to connect dropping rose petals with death.

  When Granny and Grandfather arrived for the funeral, Dick, who had just learnt how to do it, distinguished himself by sliding down the banisters, shouting to Grandfather as he came: ‘Did you know our baby was dead?’

  There were hideous mauve frocks made for the three girls, which were so unbecoming that they were given away to the mission supported by the school. Isobel and Victoria, passing the cloakroom, heard the head girl and one of the governesses laughing their heads off as they packed the dresses. ‘Who could want these?’ the head girl had said. Who? All that mattered to the girls was, that with the dresses out of the house, sadness left too.

  Victoria’s calm assumption that she knew anything about Isobel’s asthma must have driven her mother frantic. Victoria who was always well, who never needed taking care of – how did she dare to forecast whether Isobel would have an attack or not? Could she not imagine the dread that haunted her mother of losing another child?

  ‘I asked you to get Isobel a cushion, not to talk on a subject about which you are fortunate enough to know nothing.’

  In the children’s father’s view, his wife – the woman he had chosen to share his life and bear his children – was without blemish, or nearly so. In his childhood home to criticize either their father or their mother had been unthinkable; they were God-like figures whose least word was law.

  But there were occasions – and this was one – when the thought crossed his mind that there was sometimes something not quite kind in the way her mother spoke to Victoria. Of course it was unintentional, it probably just sounded that way, but it was something he must remember in his prayers. Sylvia was the dearest wife a man could have, but he must not forget that she had never known her own mother, that he had married her when she was seventeen, and that she had lost a much-loved child, so small mistakes in the handling of Victoria were understandable.

  ‘I’m sure Vicky was only trying to help,’ he said gently. ‘All the same, Vicky, of course Mummy’s right. You should not talk about things when you know nothing about them. Now, wasn’t the next question about a school?’

  Victoria had a lump in her throat. Why must Daddy add that bit about Mummy being right? He always did that and it wasn’t fair because she did know about tightness before asthma. Isobel, who sympathized with Victoria, panted into the breach.

  ‘Have you chosen a school?’

  Their father nodded.

  ‘I think so. Eastbourne is packed with schools. But most of them are the opposite end of the town from the vicarage, which would mean a walk across the golf links. This would be all right in fine weather but impossible for you, Isobel, if it was wet or blowy.’

  Their mother broke in.

  ‘But there is one which sounds very nice, it’s called Laughton House, you can get almost all the way there by omnibus if necessary. It’s a boarding school but we think you can go as daily boarders.’

  ‘Do we wear uniform at Laughton House?’

  Isobel could not wait to ask her question.

  ‘Is the art good?’

  Louise, hugging Jackie, looked at her mother.

  ‘Will I go as a day boarder too – like the big ones?’

  Isobel had to be answered first.

  ‘That is one of our reasons for thinking Laughton House is just the school we are looking for. I understand the art standard is very high. Girls of sufficient promise are taught by a real artist, who comes twice a week.’

  Isobel’s blue eyes shone.

  ‘I do hope I’m allowed to learn with him.’

  ‘I think we can take that for granted,’ said her mother fondly. Then she turned to Louise. ‘You’ll be a day boarder too, darling, but for little girls like you it will be mostly play in the afternoons.’

  Victoria was wriggling in her chair she was so anxious for an answer.

  ‘And the uniform? Do we wear a uniform?’

  Her mother looked questioningly at her father, who shook his head.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, it’s a small select private school. I’m sure Miss French, the headmistress, would not care for it.’

  Isobel thought the idea of school uniforms terrible. She could see Victoria’s point of view, which she had heard over and over again, that if only they had to wear uniform at school they would never look worse dressed than anybody else. But her taste was for bright, clear colours, and the thought of spending her days in a navy blue gym tunic or something of the sort was abhorrent. Still, she was sorry Victoria was disappointed. In case Victoria started to argue and demand a school that did wear uniform she changed the subject.

  ‘What about Miss Herbert and the maids?’

  Her father answered her.

  ‘Miss Herbert is coming to start with anyway. There will be a lot of work for Mummy when we move and she will need her.’

  Louise was anxious. What was this? Mummy would want Miss Herbert?

  ‘If Mummy has Miss Herbert who is going to look after me?’

  Her father laughed.r />
  ‘Don’t you worry, Louise, you won’t be neglected. During the move, which will be during the Easter holidays, you are all going to Granny and Grandfather’s.’

  ‘All?’ asked Victoria. ‘John too?’

  ‘And Dick?’ Louise queried.

  Their father smiled wistfully. Though he and Sylvia had been married for over fourteen years, the mere thought of that solid, restful house in the Kent weald even now made him homesick. He knew himself to be a fortunate man with a beloved wife, splendid children and work to which he was dedicated. But somehow he had never succeeded in reproducing his parents’ home life in his own home. In some way the atmosphere was different. It was always a joy to him when the children stayed with his parents. Who knew but that being under the roof they might catch that special something which had made his own and his brothers’ and sisters’ home life so perfect. He got up.

  ‘Of course you’re all going, as if John and Dick would be left out. I must go and do a little more work on tomorrow’s sermon. Don’t wear Mummy out with too many questions.’

  Their mother looked at the clock.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s time you went to your room, Vicky.’

  Victoria got up. It was a nasty anticlimax to all the exciting news to sit alone in her bedroom sewing braid loops on to hassocks. But she was used to punishments and accepted them calmly. Besides, Isobel would save up all the rest of the news she got out of Mummy and would tell her when she came up to bed.

  Something about Victoria’s calm acceptance of her punishment moved her father, while his wife’s quickness in remembering it disturbed him. Perhaps this was a moment when leniency would not come amiss. He put an arm round Victoria.

  ‘I think you have been punished enough, Vicky. At Eastbourne you’ll be able to make a fresh start. It will mean a new leaf for all of us – but it’s come just at the right time for you. Don’t forget to thank God when you say your prayers tonight.’

  3

  Sunday

  All the children, especially the boys who sang in the choir when they were home, detested Sundays. But it was an underground detestation never spoken of in front of a grown-up because Daddy must never know. He thought his children loved Sundays just as he had loved them when he was a boy, and this was why their Sundays were modelled on Sundays in their grandparents’ house.

  On Sundays the girls were called at seven thirty by Miss Herbert, who gave each of them their prayer book open at the collect for the day, which had to be learnt by heart before they got up at eight. On Sundays breakfast and lunch were eaten in the dining room which was, as Isobel and Victoria agreed, the one nice thing about Sundays. For breakfast there were always sausages, and for the children crusts of white bread. This was because the Communion bread was made in the house, but before the loaves were taken over to the church all the crust was cut off and, since ‘waste not want not’ was a family motto, the children ate them and eating them was supposed to be a treat. ‘Though actually,’ Isobel had told Victoria, ‘I’d much rather have toast like the grown-ups.’

  Special clothes belonged to Sundays. They were not necessarily better than those worn on weekdays, but they were newer and supposedly smarter. Even those families with large wardrobes, though they had no clothes labelled ‘Sundays’, always wore something good for church.

  The poorest families in the country, and there was a great deal of poverty in those days, would have thought they had sunk low indeed if they could not manage special clothes for Sundays. It was unthinkable to send the children to Sunday School unless they wore what was obviously their best. Dad, though he was only going out to buy a drink, was spruced up even if all that could be managed was a clean handkerchief round his neck. And on Sunday evenings Mum would not be seen in church or chapel without a Sunday hat and probably a slightly less shabby dress than her weekday one.

  Only too often those cherished Sunday clothes were only in the homes of the poor on Sundays. For most Monday mornings would see Mum hurrying round to the pawnbroker’s clutching a bundle.

  The girls never looked their best on Sundays for they always seemed unlucky with their Sunday frocks. ‘It won’t show under a coat,’ their mother would say, so actually Sunday frocks, though conforming in that they were different, were less good than the skirts and jerseys they wore for school. That winter Isobel was wearing a fawn-coloured dress of Ursula’s with embroidery round the yoke, which was startlingly unbecoming. Victoria also had a dress of Ursula’s; it had been Isobel’s last year, it was sage green and the elbows had worn out so new sleeves had been made of a material which did not match.

  Louise looked the best because she was still small enough for smocks and her mother smocked beautifully. Unfortunately she never realized it was a waste to put hand-done work into poor material so, though the smocking was still good, the wine-coloured material was rubbed and worn, but it took more than a worn frock to dim Louise’s beauty.

  Collect and catechism time Sunday after Sunday were wrestling matches between Victoria and her mother. A devil got into Victoria and she had to argue. If she put in a wrong word she swore she had not; if she gave a right answer she managed to say it in a defiant you-thought-I-didn’t-know voice. Isobel usually stumbled more or less successfully through her collect but she was apt to dream when it came to the catechism. Louise, who had only to read a thing through once to know it, was the star turn, and week after week Victoria heard: ‘If Louise can learn it surely you ought to be able to, Vicky.’ It was a relief to everybody except Louise when at half-past ten they were sent up to get dressed for church.

  Last autumn Aunt Helen had sent Isobel the most artistic of her creations for Ursula. It was a pale fawn coat in fine cloth with many collars, known as coachman-style. With it came a fawn felt hat swathed in ribbon which was tied under the right ear with a large bow. The coat was a little long for Isobel but the slim line under the many-collared coat suited her admirably, and she looked charmingly pink and white under the fawn beribboned hat. Victoria’s copy of this outfit was a disaster. No cheap fawn material could be obtained so instead a pale brown hairy cloth had been bought which Victoria said with truth looked as though it was a blanket. Ursula’s hat had been made by a good hat shop; no bending and twisting of brown felt in a cheap shop could achieve the same effect. Victoria looked a comic and knew it. Stumping upstairs to put on these clothes, still seething from her fight with her mother, she muttered to Isobel:

  ‘I wish something awful would happen, like our all getting scarlet fever, so there would be no more collects and catechisms or church for weeks and weeks and weeks.’

  Isobel, anxious that Victoria should cause no more trouble, merely said:

  ‘Don’t forget your clean handkerchief or your penny for the collection.’

  Louise, looking charming in a pale blue coat that had been first Ursula’s and then Isobel’s but was still in good condition because it had skipped Victoria, walked sedately into church clutching a picture book of Bible stories which she still, being a child, was allowed to read during the sermon. Behind her, gloved and wearing what the children called church faces, walked Isobel and Victoria. The vicarage pew was on the left of the aisle. In front of them sat the vicar’s church warden and his family, opposite the people’s warden and his family. The vicar’s warden’s daughter, Joyce Sedman, was supposedly a friend of the children’s. She was about Victoria’s age, a spoilt only daughter, endured by the Strangeway girls because her father and their father were friends. In exactly the same way their mother managed to seem friendly with Mrs Sedman though actually the two women had little in common. The question of friendship with the people’s warden, Mr Sergeant and his family, did not arise. The Sergeants owned a big drapers’ shop, and therefore were trade; in those days professional families – still less landed gentry to which Father’s family belonged – never knew ‘trade’ socially. It was something which needed no discussion, it just did not happen.

  This Sunday, after the family had arisen from their
knees and were looking up the hymns in their hymn books, something unusual happened. Mr Sedman, who had been creeping about supervising the sidesmen and seeing that strangers had hymn and prayer books, came to the vicarage pew and quietly laid an envelope in front of Isobel. On it was written ‘The Misses Strangeway’. Church rules were rigorous if not always perfectly observed. Nobody might turn round, not even if somebody behind fainted or, as had once happened in the row behind, a man had sat on his top hat squashing it flat. There must be no whispering and no nudgings. In fact the family should be a model of how to behave in church. The envelope was a temptation, church had not started, the organist was still playing the voluntary. Isobel started at the envelope and so did Victoria. Victoria jerked one gloved finger towards Joyce’s back.

  ‘Birthday,’ she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

  Louise too was interested. She leant across her mother to see to whom the envelope was addressed. Their mother thought it was stupid of Mr Sedman to give it to the children before church, so she picked up the envelope and shut it in her Bible, but not before she had shown Louise to whom it was addressed. Satisfied, Louise relaxed, but Victoria had not finished with the situation. She waited until the choirboys had filed in behind the cross bearer, and her father and the curate were in their places and the Service had begun. Then, leaning so slightly towards Isobel that it was unnoticeable, she sang with the face of a saint her own version of the Venite. She was a past mistress at singing her own version of any part of the Service.

  ‘“O come let us sing unto the Lord: Let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation.” What’s the chances we’ve been asked to her party? But if we have, bets I, Daddy won’t let us go. I know he likes Mr Sedman but he’s never let us go to parties in Lent.’

  Victoria had a good ear and she managed to fit the words perfectly to the plainsong of the Venite.

  Isobel had no ear for music but even had she been able to reply it would have been impossible for her to do so, for when Victoria decided to sing her own version of a psalm or hymn it invariably made her giggle. She began to giggle now and to cover it pretended to be choking into her handkerchief. Her mother looked anxiously at her. She had seemed all right when they came out; the suspicion did stir in her – was Victoria being naughty? – but if she was there was no sign for there stood Victoria, her prayer book properly held in two gloved hands, singing beautifully in her clear, choirboy voice. Their mother opened her bag and took out a box of cough lozenges and pushed it towards Isobel, who somehow mastered her giggles while with a shake of the head she denied the need for the lozenges.