“I’m sorry,” said Valerie. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to disturb. I’m sorry. May I come in, my darling?”
“Just a moment,” said Susan, and she put on her dressing gown, turned on the light, and answered the door.
Valerie was smiling at her, but it was a brave smile; she had been crying. She came with a bottle of brandy, and two glasses. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“What’s the matter?”
Valerie came in, and sat upon the bed. In her beige dressing gown, with her hair loose and messy over her shoulders, she looked even older than she had by day. She smelled of brandy, and Susan supposed she’d had rather a lot of it.
“Sometimes I have bad nights,” said Valerie. “May I confide in you? Can I trust you enough so I can confide?”
“I imagine so,” said Susan.
Valerie then burst into tears, and told Susan some ghastly little story about how she’d once worked as a governess, many years ago now, and how she had been seduced by her employer—or perhaps she had seduced him, the story wasn’t very clear. She had fallen pregnant, much to the horror of the man, who had thrown her out of his house and away from his children, denouncing her as a slut. She had tried to lose the baby, she really had, she’d drunk gin, she’d even thrown herself down the stairs once. But it was no good, the baby had been born, and had been taken away from her.
“Would you drink with me?”
“No, thank you.”
“Please drink with me! So I’m not drinking alone…!”
Susan sipped at her brandy, and it didn’t sit well with the stew, and she felt a little sick.
“My life was over,” said Valerie. “Until I found this place. The school took me in. They forgave me.”
“Yes.”
“Did something like that happen to you, my darling? Do you need to be forgiven?”
“No,” said Susan. “Absolutely not.”
If Valerie was offended by the vehemence of this, she didn’t show it. She just nodded, poured herself another glass. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The first day of term does this to me. Seeing the children again. And thinking, one of them could be mine! Do you see? Any one of them, how would I ever know? I’ve never told anyone this before”—and Susan rather doubted that, Susan imagined Valerie Bewes told the same story to every new teacher who arrived, maybe that’s why Miss Fortescue had fled H___ Priory as soon as she got the chance—”but you’re like a little baby, aren’t you? You look just like a baby doll. You could be my daughter. You could be. I know you can’t be, you’re too old, but. You could be mine.” She stroked at Susan’s cheek.
“Yes,” said Susan.
“May I stay here tonight?”
“No.”
“No. Of course. You need to sleep. Yes. I’ve been selfish. I’ll see you in the morning. Yes.”
Susan didn’t think Valerie was all that drunk, she got up from the bed and made it to the door steadily enough.
Before she put out the light, Susan removed every bird picture from the wall, and put them, face down, under the bed.
Most nights Susan dreamed of Edwin. And sometimes they weren’t nightmares. Sometimes she actually missed him.
Susan hadn’t much liked Edwin Exley at first. She preferred his little sister, Clara. Clara was six, and shy, and not very pretty, and Susan’s heart went out to her. At eight years old Edwin was already tall and arrogant; Mr Exley told Susan on her first day that Edwin was going to have a stellar career in the army, and that there was no limit to what the boy would achieve for his country. Edwin himself certainly seemed to believe that. His father had already taught him a lot of the basics of being a soldier, and when he met his new governess he stood to attention, and gave her a salute that Susan suspected was a little too clipped and far too ironic.
Mr and Mrs Exley were kind to Susan. They let her eat with them of an evening, and treated her quite like she was an elder daughter rather than an employee. They gave her a comfortable bedroom, with a soft bed, and drapes, and lots of pretty pictures on the walls. When the family took a few days in the south of France during the autumn, they wanted Susan to come with them; she still was required to teach the children in the mornings, but the afternoons were her own, and they encouraged her to sit on the beach with them and enjoy the sun.
The nursery at Exley Hall was turned into a little classroom. All the toys and games were put away each morning before lessons started; for a few hours, at least, this was to be a place of learning. Susan directed most of her classes towards Clara in particular; Edwin was not exactly bad mannered, but he made it clear he wasn’t much interested, and any attention he gave was bestowed upon his teacher as if it were a great gift for which she should be grateful. He was not very good at mathematics, he enjoyed history only when it was something he’d already heard about from his father. He discovered he had an aptitude for Latin which delighted him, and his face lit up like a little boy when Susan complimented him upon it.
Both Clara and Edwin would listen when their teacher told them ancient stories of heroism and derring-do. Edwin liked the tales of King Arthur, but only when there were quests and fighting; he didn’t like Guinevere or Lancelot, he didn’t want to bother with all that mushy stuff.
One night Susan couldn’t sleep, and she went downstairs to Mr Exley’s study. It was even better furnished with books than her father’s, and she thought something to read would help her rest. She was surprised to find a light burning. There on the floor was Edwin, and all about him were texts he had taken from the shelves. He started when he realised Susan was there.
“Don’t tell my father,” he said.
“Your father wouldn’t mind,” Susan told him. “He’d be pleased you want to learn things!”
“No,” said Edwin. “He wouldn’t.”
Susan often found Edwin in the study at night times. They never discussed their secret rendezvous during the day, and Susan tried not to go down there too often—maybe no more than once, say twice, a week. Edwin would show her new books he had found; sometimes they were geography, and as he enthused about Africa and the colonies she rather got the impression that he was teaching her. He was taller than she was, he had no problem reaching the higher shelves. And he had no fear of the step-ladder, he’d race up to the very top of it to fetch books that were brushing at the ceiling, with a fearless speed that sometimes made Susan’s heart stop.
She showed him some poetry. He was resistant at first. She made him read it out loud to her, and he began to like it more, he began to enjoy the rhythm of it.
On his birthday she bought him a little notebook in which he could write his own poetry. She bought him a sketchpad, so that he could draw.
One day Mr Exley put down his newspaper at the breakfast table, and the rare act of that caused his wife to stop her chatter. Mr Exley said to Susan, “And how are the children getting on? Learning things, are they?”
Susan told him they were both doing admirably.
Mr Exley nodded at this. “That’s good,” he said. “What they learn now, they’ll never forget. I’ve got such stuff in my head, all the kings and queens from William the Conqueror, times tables, things like that. Useless, of course, but it’s nice to have.”
Mrs Exley said that the children seemed very happy.
Mr Exley said, “We should have a demonstration some evening. Nothing too fancy. Just you and the children, showing us what they’ve learned.” Mrs Exley looked quite excited by that. Susan told them she’d make preparations.
Edwin could soon list all the kings and queens, just like his father, and as an added bonus Susan felt he should also indicate the dates of famous battles they had fought; Hastings, Agincourt, the Boyne. Clara could read some poetry; for all her shyness and plain features she had such a sweet voice. And both children could conclude with a recitation of their times tables, five, six, seven and eight, all the way to a hundred.