A Schoolmistress at War Page 2

  ‘Oh, it’s an unjust world, Jamie lad. Here’s me with a room to myself and you sharing with five brothers and sisters, and me with a new dress and your sisters in my cast-off petticoats.’ For a moment Kirsty allowed herself to realize that she enjoyed her privileges: she loved her little room with its simple privacy and she took clean clothes and good food as her natural right. Was she not the Dominie’s lassie? Then as she remembered the bruise on Jamie’s thin face, her better self surfaced. ‘Ask your father to let you stay at the school. Ask him, Jamie, ask him.’

  But Jamie did not hear and he did not ask.

  2

  THE NEW TERM STARTED AND the Dominie had a pupil teacher, his daughter Christine. Many of the older children were missing and John Robertson knew he would not see most of them until after the potatoes had been harvested in October or November. He must stop grieving over them and give himself up to the task of teaching the ones he had. He looked at the children sitting scribbling on their slates or laboriously deciphering the words in their readers. There they sat, girls on one side of the room – the side nearer the fire – and the boys carefully segregated on the other.

  The spring was still wet and had been cold, but many of his pupils had no shoes and some were without overcoats: possibly another reason for their non-attendance in the winter. He must think of something different for them to do. He stood up and immediately the room was quite silent. Gentle though he was, when the Dominie spoke it was an unwise child who did not listen.

  ‘Children,’ he began, ‘raise your hands if you come up Pansy Lane to school in the mornings.’ He counted a score of hands of varying degrees of cleanness. ‘Good. And how many walk from the direction of the valley? Ah, good. Everyone, therefore, passes meadows of wild flowers on his or her way to school.’ He stopped and looked smilingly at their expectant faces. ‘Tomorrow we will have drawing from still life for all the classes’ – again he paused, sure of his audience and their reaction – ‘and the prettiest arrangements will be taken to the town to the Infirmary to cheer the lives of the patients there. Miss Robertson will accompany the winners. In the meantime Netta Spink will wash her hands before Mrs Robertson comes to take sewing.’

  He sat down again amid an excited murmuring from the little ones who would merely be cautioned if they spoke too long and too loudly. The older pupils contented themselves with conspiratorial smiles at one another, except for the embarrassed and hapless Netta who went outside to scrub her hands.

  *

  ‘We must find a list of the flowers among our library books,’ Kirsty told her little ones, who had no seats and sat tumbled together like a litter on the floor at her feet, ‘for I am sure Mr Robertson will want to see that we have learned something in our nature studies.’

  The school library was woefully inadequate, being, apart from some weighty biblical texts and some ponderous classics, almost non-existent.

  ‘The Dominie has a book, Miss,’ began one little girl hesitantly.

  ‘Which book, Cissie?’ asked Kirsty cheerily, for children in 1908 were not usually encouraged to contribute to any discussion.

  ‘Oor Jamie says the Dominie’s got books aboot everything.’ It was Cissie Cameron, Jamie’s sister. How Kirsty longed to ask for news of her friend.

  Seeing that bold Cissie was not punished for her audacity, another spoke proudly. ‘My grannie kens the names of the flooers, Miss.’

  Kirsty smiled at her small pupil. ‘Good, then you must ask your grannie to write the names down for you and to describe the flower. It need not be a big boy or girl who wins tomorrow. If our drawings are the very best that we can do, Mr Robertson will judge them fairly.’

  A large tear was rolling down the face of Tam Grant, the little boy whose grandmother knew the wild flowers.

  ‘Why, Tam dear, what’s the matter?’ asked Kirsty when the tear was followed by sobs, loud enough to cause the Dominie to turn his head to their corner of the room.

  ‘My grannie cannae write, Miss. There’s naebody in oor hoose writes.’

  Kirsty was furious with herself. How could she have been so stupid!

  ‘My brither will write them for her, Tam, and draw wee pictures tae.’ It was Cissie who comforted her friend. ‘There’s naethin’ oor Jamie cannae do.’

  ‘Cissie’s right, Tam. Jamie will write the words for you and I will read them to you tomorrow. Are you and Cissie going to pick flowers together?’

  ‘Aye, Miss,’ said Cissie. ‘Baith oor faithers are hae jobs at Balcundrum and we walk tae school thegither. I take care of Tam. He’s only wee.’

  Kirsty smiled to herself, for Cissie Cameron was smaller than Tam even though she was almost two years older. Like her brother and the other Cameron children who were in the schoolroom, young Cissie was undernourished. Like her brother, she was also intelligent.

  ‘Well, we must attend to our reading. Look at the chart I have prepared, and everybody read after me.’

  The children’s voices went on and automatically Kirsty corrected their hesitant pronunciation. Her mind was on Jamie Cameron, who was doing a man’s job while he wrote poetry in his head. Wasn’t that what he had hinted the last time she had seen him? The wonderful words in his head were his own, were they not?

  ‘Miss Robertson, I would ask you to try to instil some appreciation of the words they are reading into the minds of the children in your care.’ Her father had come up behind her and was listening to the droning of the small bees while their teacher’s attention was clearly elsewhere. ‘Should a poem by Wordsworth and a recipe for a cough linctus be delivered in the selfsame tone? No? Good. Then have young Jock read again. Now that he has the words, let him have also some pleasure in the task.’

  Kirsty accepted the rebuke and turned her full attention to injecting some feeling into the oral reading of the children. They were so shy, they reminded her of calves grazing in the fields around the school. They would stand for a moment looking around them with big, wide eyes, and then they would turn and flee whenever an imagined danger threatened.

  ‘Good, Cissie,’ she said when the girl had solemnly finished her piece. ‘Your reading is really beginning to sound very nice. Are you helping Tam with his ABCs?’

  ‘Aye, and I’ve learned him to write his name, Miss.’ Cissie looked at her young teacher to see how her confidence was received.

  Kirsty thought quickly about correcting this grammatical error and decided against it. ‘Show me, Tam.’ And Tam, tongue firmly stuck out to help his concentration, scratched ‘TAM’ on his slate.

  Kirsty enthusiastically praised his effort and, flushed with hard work and sweet praise, Tam sat at her feet.

  ‘We have worked hard today, children,’ said Kirsty, gathering up the primers and her charts, ‘and already here is Mrs Robertson with her sewing boxes. Now, remember the flowers and your list of words, Cissie. I should like at least one infant to accompany me to the Infirmary tomorrow.’

  When the school bell announced to the waiting farms that school was over for the day, Kirsty was exhausted. Teaching, and it seemed somehow the teaching of reading, was unbelievably tiring. The infants were all at different stages. Some were as young as five and others as old as eight, and sometimes a five-year-old had as much experience of education as the eight-year-olds. The itinerant or travelling children were the hardest to teach because there were great gaps in their education. Sometimes, if they were very lucky, there were schools near all the farms where their parents worked, but sometimes there would be months when no schooling at all was available.

  ‘We must plug the gaps as best we can, Kirsty,’ consoled John when his daughter confided in him. ‘And if we can make education a pleasant experience, then the children will be eager to attend the schools in the various areas where their fathers work. Clever ones like wee Cissie will be fine. It’s the slower ones like wee Tam and Jock, poor laddies, whom we have to worry about. They can’t keep what they have learned from Friday to Monday, never mind from season to season. Our job is to accept them where they are and do the best we can with the material the good Lord has seen fit to give them.’

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t attending when they were reading this afternoon. It was just that Cissie mentioned Jamie and I felt sad and wondered what he was doing.’

  ‘Planting barley today, I should imagine,’ said her father drily.

  ‘Oh, Father, you know I didn’t mean literally. I was just thinking that he is as clever as I am.’ She blushed and hung her head as his gentle eyes quizzed her. ‘Well, I know you think he is cleverer, but I don’t see how you can prove it.’ She rushed on before he could speak. ‘I know he would be so patient with the children, and here am I, the pupil teacher, and he is working on a farm. If I wasn’t your daughter I would never have been given the job.’

  ‘You were given the opportunity because of your education, Kirsty, not because you are the Dominie’s lassie. Jamie, poor lad, doesn’t have the knowledge that you have. He can read and write, but he knows nothing of mathematics or Latin or Greek, and the only history or geography he knows comes out of the books he reads. And how many books does he read in a year? A book of poetry between now and winter will not make him a teacher, lass.’

  ‘His father should be forced to send him to school.’

  ‘Jamie is only one of thousands. Don’t waste your energy worrying about him, but concentrate on doing your best for his brothers and sisters.’

  Kirsty said nothing, for she knew well that no one worried more about the bright children he could not reach than John Robertson. She had read his logbooks: the books he filled in every night when he had dismissed the children.

  March 19th, 1908. Today Matthew Scroggie was given permission to leave school because of family necessity. I said ‘Goodbye’ to this boy with a heavy heart for since his first day in this school, Matthew Scroggie has shown by his diligence, ability and demeanour that he is capable of benefiting from the highest education. A great loss to all.

  Oh, yes, John Robertson did not easily dismiss from his mind or heart the children whom he taught.

  ‘Mrs Robertson says if you twa dinnae come fer yer tea noo, ye’ll get naethin.’

  ‘Thank you, Angus.’ John looked up at the school janitor. ‘We’ll thankfully leave the rest to you.’

  *

  ‘Did Father tell you we are to have a drawing from life lesson tomorrow, Mother?’ asked Kirsty later as she washed the dishes after their meal. ‘They are to pick wild flowers. We will hear the children in the lane hours before school, I should imagine.’

  Jessie Robertson looked at her husband as he sat reading by the window. ‘What a lovely idea, John. And who is to judge your competition?’

  He looked up in surprise. ‘I hadn’t considered an outside judge. It’s nothing great, not like the annual exhibition of your sewing, my dear.’

  Kirsty turned with a swirl of blue skirts. ‘Mother’s right. It would be so exciting for the children. Now, who could we find at such short notice?’

  ‘The Colonel,’ suggested Kirsty and her mother together, and when John looked doubtful, Kirsty set herself to assuring him. ‘He takes his responsibility as laird seriously, Father. He is interested in the children, and if they are to decimate his wild flowers he might as well see them in their jam jars.’

  John looked at his silver pocket watch, but he was already rising to his feet. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock. No time to be calling on a man.’

  ‘He’ll be at his dinner,’ said Kirsty, hurrying into the hall for her father’s hat. ‘The gentry eat later than plain folk. No doubt he will invite you to coffee, and if there are ladies there, you must remember their dresses and their jewels to tell us about.’

  ‘Make sure you are in bed before I return, Miss. Dresses and jewels, indeed! Have I taught you nothing of what is truly valuable?’ was his parting shot as he left the house for his mile-long walk to the home of Colonel Granville-Baker, a small thirteenth-century castle which the English Colonel had bought and set himself to restoring on his return from the Boer War.

  Kirsty and her mother watched his tall figure as he walked off down the road until he disappeared from sight.

  ‘Has Father not become very thin this year, Mother?’ asked Kirsty. ‘He works too hard. Perhaps I was wrong to suggest the Colonel.’

  ‘No, no, you were quite right, and if Colonel Granville-Baker is at home, he will offer your father some refreshment. He is a true gentleman. And then, the walk in the lovely evening air will do John good. He spends too long over his books. Now, you must take yourself off to bed before he returns. You have a longer walk than to the castle before you tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Mother, it’s hardly five miles to Arbroath,’ said Kirsty lightly. Her healthy young body relished the idea of a long walk to the hospital and back and, in her brand-new position, she relished the thought of being seen: C. Robertson, Pupil Teacher, in charge of the children. ‘The children will be overjoyed to be released from lessons and, just think, I shall be being paid for taking a walk. We should have such lessons every day.’

  Kirsty dawdled over her preparations for bed and, since her bedroom lay at the back of the house, even left her door open in the hope of hearing her father return. He smiled quietly to his wife when they closed it on their sleeping daughter after midnight, for John had found the Colonel at home, and not only had he been offered brandy and coffee as they chatted, but he had been driven home by the Colonel’s chauffeur. How Kirsty would have enjoyed seeing that!

  He relived it for her in the morning, but a motor car did not hold the same fascination as London dresses.

  ‘I regret, for your sake, that I did not see Lady Sybill Granville-Baker, Kirsty. She was in the drawing room, where I believe she sits for a while after dinner. The Colonel’s son was at home though; a charming young man, a student at Sandhurst, the Military College, you know.’

  Kirsty had no interest in students at Sandhurst. Colonel Granville-Baker’s son might be the man in the moon for all the chance Miss Kirsty Robertson had of seeing him.

  When John vigorously tolled the school bell at precisely nine o’clock, he did it in the very ears of most of his students. For once there were few stragglers in the lanes that led to the little school. The children, their faces rosy from exertion, were already massed in the small playground. Almost everyone, boys and girls alike, carried huge straggling bunches of flowers, and most had a jar in which to arrange them.

  ‘Put your flowers here in the shade,’ ordered John, ‘and when we are ready we will come for them.’

  The day progressed. Attendance. Bible study. Dictation for the older ones, prepared by John and given by Kirsty while the Dominie examined the little ones in their retention of number facts. He stood towering over them, his gown making him seem even taller, but few faces registered any fear. His delight in Jock’s awareness that two times eight did indeed make sixteen was as great as Jock’s own.

  And now there should be the dreaded parsing and analysis which had to be the Dominie’s favourite since he did it every spare minute, but eyes darting from the slates where they were transcribing Miss Robertson’s dictation could see no sentences with innumerable and terrifying clauses. Perhaps they were on the back. The Maister was leaving the wee ones: he was moving to the board, he would swing it round to reveal the sentences . . . There was the release of a collective sigh. He was standing before it waiting while Miss Robertson finished.

  ‘Children, we will adjourn for five minutes to refresh ourselves. Each child will visit the conveniences.’ His dark eyes dwelt for a moment on Tam. ‘When I ring the bell you will bring in your flowers, arrange them artistically and commence drawing. This afternoon we are to have an honoured guest. Colonel Granville-Baker has kindly agreed to judge your arrangements. I know he will not be greeted by dirty hands or jammy faces.’

  He finished by giving some of the older children the responsibility for seeing that the younger ones did not disgrace the school or their illustrious guest. Kirsty smiled to herself as she pictured the harsh scrubbing of little faces that would go on in the school lavatory in the dinner hour.

  After dinner the children stood in rows before their flowers, waiting breathlessly. There was the sound of a motor car. They would see it: they would actually be able to see the exciting machine close up when they went out to bid goodbye to the Colonel. Kirsty stood with the children while her father greeted his guest. She was almost as excited as they were.

  John followed Colonel Granville-Baker into the room and then behind him came the most beautiful creature Kirsty had ever seen. Hugh Granville-Baker was a very handsome young man. He stooped to enter the classroom and then straightened up and looked at Kirsty with blue eyes that were sparkling with suppressed merriment. His clothes had that mixture of carelessness and good tailoring that can only be worn well by the self-assured.

  ‘Christine.’ Her father’s voice alerted her to the fact that not only was she staring at the slender, dark-haired apparition as avidly as eleven-year-old Netta, but that she was ignoring the Colonel’s outstretched hand. She coloured furiously and desperately sought to recover her poise. He would be laughing at her; she just knew he would.

  But Hugh’s eyes registered only friendliness. ‘Miss Robertson,’ he said, and shook her hand.

  She almost pulled her hand away. He had to have felt it, whatever it was that had shot from her fingers up her arm and across her shoulder to the very point of her small breast. She could hardly breathe. Father would be furious. Oh, dear God in Heaven, what was happening to her?

  No one noticed, and certainly not Hugh. Already he was wandering around chatting to the children. If he thought their unsophisticated arrangements amusing, his feelings did not show.

  ‘Miss, Miss.’ A horrified whisper from her side, a small hand tugging at her arm. ‘Tam’s peed.’

  The excitement of a visit from not one but two deities had been too much for small Tam’s control, but Kirsty welcomed the interruption.

  ‘Wipe up the puddle, Cissie, and I’ll take him outside.’