Chapter 6

Although, for some time, Mord Em’ly clung persistently to her attitude of reserve, there was little in the Home that escaped her attention. Conducted on the cottage system, the detached buildings bordered an oval, green space, with, at one end, the school-rooms and the infirmary. Each cottage had a “mother” in charge; usually a middle-aged woman who had been a servant, and had been selected for her ability to make her ruling respected by the ten or twelve girls under her care. When a girl defied the authority of the mother, and ran beyond her management, she was transferred for a space to Pleasant Cottage, which so far belied its title that its rules were harsher, its discipline more severe, and its food less luxurious than those of the other cottages. Mrs. Batson, the mother of Pleasant Cottage, had been a prison wardress. She was a large woman, with large hands, and had no tolerance for the vagaries of youth; her ordinary gaze was terrifying, and when it developed into a frown Pleasant Cottage shivered.

Mord Em’ly lived in Faith Cottage, where the mother, a buxom woman, with slight whiskers, had a pleasant way of boxing the ears of her boarders at regular intervals, whether they deserved it or not; arguing, with some reason, that you should administer punishment when your head was cool, and not when heated by annoyance; adding, moreover, that it did the girls good to be thus corrected, and helped to instil routine. Mrs. Wingham was never quite sure what routine meant, but she knew that it was something good, and she always told her girls that they ought to try and get as much of it as they could.

A fact that, in the early days, did not escape the silent Mord Em’ly was that the girls respected and admired those in authority who punished them, and spoke slightingly of those who were kind to them, placing these latter in the category of foolish persons. When at night the girls went to their room, in each of which were five small, scarlet-counterpaned beds with heads placed against the wall, the talk was usually self-congratulation on having fooled some adult person in the Home, or regret at having failed to do so. Veronica Hall, otherwise Ronicker, who had the bed next to Mord Em’ly, was not entirely unsuccessful at this game, and could boast that, although nearly fifteen years of age, she had not yet passed the Second Standard. Other girls, who had been unable thus to restrain their desire for educational knowledge, envied Ronicker, and wondered how she managed to remain a poplar, high and gaunt, amongst shrubs, in the infant’s class. Ronicker said it was a gift.

Mord Em’ly, for one, speedily gave up any intention that she may have had to emulate this procedure. When, after a viva voce examination, conducted, on her part, with great reticence, she found herself placed in a class where most of the girls, in their serge dresses and blue-striped pinafores, were about her own age, she discovered, after a few preliminary days of stubborn reserve, that the education she had already received was better than that of her fellows. The unexpectedness of her knowledge sometimes astonished the schoolmistress.

Maud Emily!”

“Yes, miss.”

“The capital of Spain?”

(The ruler ready in the schoolmistress’s hand.)

“Meedrid, miss.”

“Wrong!” said the schoolmistress, and rapped her hand sharply.

“How’d you mean wrong?” complained Mord Em’ly. “If it ain’t Meedrid, what—”

“I beg pardon,” said the schoolmistress apologetically; “My mistake.”

“I should think it was.”

“I thought you were going to say Portugal. They generally do.”

“Well, I don’t, miss,” said Mord Em’ly. “Remember you’ve overpaid me a dab on the knuckles.”

Perhaps it was in mathematics that Mord Em’ly scored most. Doing mental sums was her great point, and she soon obtained such a reputation for this that several of the girls stared at her with reproach. One of the most painful gibes that a girl could offer to another in school was to point her finger, and inflect it slightly—an act called “letting your little finger laugh”; and Mord Em’ly, one day, looking round when she had given what to the others seemed a ridiculously prompt answer, found four little fingers indicating derisive amusement. This only made her the more dogged. The schoolmistress told her that she would have to improve her manners, and here, also, Mord Em’ly showed obstinacy, although it was clear to the teacher and to the assistants that the matter was of urgent importance.

“Seven times five, Amelia Drum?”

“Dunno, miss.”

“Seven times five, next girl?”

A pause, and an anxious look around at the Old Testament pictures on the walls.

“Seven times five, did you say, miss?”

“I said seven times five.”

“Seventy-five, miss.”

“Wrong. Maud Emily, can you tell us what’s seven times five?”

“Thirty-five, miss.”

“Good!” said the mistress.

“Good be blowed!” exclaimed Mord Em’ly, indignant at this moderate approval. “It’s right!“

It was this attitude of independence, following the period of sullenness, that demanded all the efforts of the mistresses. They conspired to make a special effort; one or two of them were maladroit enough to let this be seen, with the result that Mord Em’ly, fearing that she had encouraged them by a too complaisant manner, broke out one summer afternoon, sang a comic song, and on the floor of the schoolroom, with the sun blazing through the windows upon her queer figure, danced a frenzied, excited solo. She thought that this would clear the air, and place her in the position that she desired to occupy in the opinion of her fellows, and she looked forward to the congratulations that she would receive that night in the bedroom at Faith Cottage. In this she was disappointed. The directress held a special inquiry into the incident, and Mord Em’ly was sent for two weeks to Pleasant Cottage, where the large, severe Mrs. Batson took her in hand. She spent the first night in a small, solitary room, with Mrs. Batson sleeping a wide-awake sleep in the next; in the morning, a basin of bread and water was brought to her, which she promptly emptied out of the window; at dinner-time (when she began to experience a fierce hunger) the empty basin was brought to her. At four o’clock she begged for the bread and water.

“Are you goin’ to be good?” demanded Mrs. Batson sharply. “Because, if not—”

“I’ll be good,” said Mord Em’ly.

“Sure?”

“Ain’t I promised?”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Batson, “I know what some of you girls’ promises are. You’re as artful as a waggon-load of young monkeys.”

“If I break my promise,” said Mord Em’ly, “Don’t you never trust me again.”

“It’s a bargain!” said Mrs. Batson, closing with the offer promptly.

There were one or two girls whose home in Pleasant Cottage was almost permanent, and these possessed a viciousness that appalled Mord Em’ly. They did things which assured her that they possessed some kink in the brain preventing them from applying reason to ordinary matters; it was one of these who had been found placing carbolic in the tea-urn at Pleasant Cottage, and had acknowledged, with perfect candour, that her only desire was to do for the whole blooming lot. Detection of such acts as these had a good effect on the other girls, and made them recognise the necessity of adhering to laws which had been made for the community’s benefit. The amount of scrubbing done in Pleasant Cottage was enough to keep white the deck of a liner; Mrs. Batson had strong ideas in regard to the usefulness of labour to the labourer, and enforced them with a persistence that would take no denial. Certainly, in many regards, she was a difficult lady to propitiate, because she would sometimes ask one of her lady boarders a question; as for instance, “What on earth do you mean, you depraved creature, by crossing your knife and fork at table?” and if the offending young woman kept silence, she would be condemned for not listening; if, on the other hand, an attempt was made to frame an apology or an explanation, the command would be snapped out, “No back answers, miss!” Mrs. Batson had, too, an inconvenient habit of knocking girls’ heads together when one of them found disfavour in her eyes; a reproof that was, perhaps, merited by one, but seemed, impartially considered, somewhat hard upon the other. The lodgers at Pleasant Cottage, in addition to their troubles, found themselves easy targets for those who aimed weak jests at them in school or in the work-rooms, and any attempt to retaliate appropriately placed them in peril of a longer residence under the control of Mrs. Batson. The evenings at Pleasant Cottage differed from those in the other houses; Mrs. Batson, with all the predilections of her younger middle-age strong upon her, prescribed a prison-like silence, which she permitted no one but herself to break, and the agonies of pent-up conversation so afflicted Mord Em’ly that, one evening, on retiring to rest, she put her head under her pillow, and told herself, in a whisper, a long story. It was rare indeed that anything like an outbreak of rebellion occurred at Pleasant Cottage. Once a girl, on being punished with the leathern tawse, said, through her tears “Mind mind you jolly well report that to the ‘Ome Office” (it being known that this was required by the State regulations), on which occasion Mrs. Batson made a few remarks regarding that department which probably caused the responsible Minister, seated, thirty miles off, on the Treasury Bench, to tremble and grow pale.

Mord Em’ly found in Pleasant Cottage no trusted companion such as Ronicker. This she mentioned to Ronicker, and that young woman, with no trouble, arranged to get herself sentenced to a fortnight in Pleasant Cottage, but, with her usual awkwardness, contrived that her period there should commence on the very day that Mord Em’ly’s term expired. Mord Em’ly returned to her own mother, Mrs. Wingham, with the conviction in her acute little brain that running amuck was unwise, and that, in regard to behaviour, the golden mean was desirable. After the company of a dozen of the worst characters in the Home, with their persistent whispering of
bad language, their venomous and furtive mischief, it was like mixing with the highest ranks of society to be again at Faith Cottage.

A girl named Dorothy Lane, who had been renowned as a story-teller, with glowing powers of invention, having been promoted to the select band who lived in the mistresses’ house, where they prepared for public life as domestic servants, Mord Em’ly was unanimously requested to take Miss Lane’s place. At first, her efforts were marked by the daring unconventionality of the amateur, and a habit of killing off everybody in the romance had the effect of making Faith Cottage rebel. One young woman, with nerves, could not sleep at nights after these terrible recitals, and strong representations made to Mord Em’ly induced that gifted young artist to give to her inventions a less harrowing flavour. A few weeks of practice enabled her to arrive at the tone required; the memory of a wild course of desultory reading in penny libraries of books supplied at the small shops in Walworth came usefully to her assistance. Mrs. Wingham herself, having tested the quality of Mord Em’ly’s stories, would listen at the slightly opened door with as much eagerness as any of the occupants of the small camp bedsteads within. From a sense of dignity, Mrs. Wingham concealed for a time this weakness, but one day it had to be disclosed.

“Who married the countess,” asked Mrs. Wingham confidentially, “in that tale you were telling the girls last night, Mord Em’ly?”

“The countess? Oh, she married the painter chap.”

“Thought so,” said Mrs. Wingham. “Her ‘usband died, then?”

“Drowned,” said Mord Em’ly. “Drowned by a collision with an iceberg in the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Phew!” Mrs. Wingham gave a whistle of surprise. “That was rough on him. He was a good bit older, though, than her, wasn’t he?”

“Twice her age.”

“And the will that that old beggar of an uncle perduced? How did they get over that? She wouldn’t ‘ave a penny to call her own, poor soul!”

“Turned out he’d forged it,” explained the young raconteuse. “There was a water-mark on the paper, with a date after the date of the will.”

“Well, I never did!” declared Mrs. Wingham amazedly. “Did they lock him up for it?”

“How could they when he went and swallowered a mugful of poison d’rectly minute he was found out? He died,” added Mord Em’ly, with a relish, “enduring ‘orrible agonies.”

“Serve him jolly well right, too,” declared Mrs. Wingham. “He deserved all he got. Now, you girls, off you go to school; and the one that’s the best, and gets most routine, shall ‘ave some of them new petaties with her dinner. And all the rest I’ll punish, I will, till they won’t know whether they’re in Europe, Asia, Africer, or ‘Mericer.”

Mord Em’ly’s powers in the direction of anecdote so far endeared her to the heart of Mrs. Wingham that the excellent woman more than once forgave her for outbursts of rebellion, and saved her from terms in Pleasant Cottage. When winter arrived, and the nights became long, and there was less opportunity for going out of doors, Mord Em’ly became increasingly useful at the Home, in that she suddenly developed an ability to sing alto in part songs that were rehearsed, two evenings of the week, in the schoolroom. Other girls also sang alto, but they put too much trust in each other, and were easily led into wrong keys, with results to the part song that were disastrous. Mord Em’ly had a strong voice, and where she led the other contralto young women followed, and she always led them through the devious wanderings to a safe and confident note at the last. The directress of the Home spoke a word of approval—”Made me turn ‘ot all over,” confessed Mord Em’ly to the other girls—and the young secretary took her for a long walk one moonlight evening when it was fine, and to Mord Em’ly confided the information that she was leaving. The young secretary was going to marry an officer on a P. and O. steamer, and Mord Em’ly grew quite important on being told the details of the engagement. For the three weeks during which Mord Em’ly’s little brain was burdened with this secret she made all the heroes of her stories naval officers, who did surprising deeds of valour on behalf of lovely women at places with such distracting names that Mrs. Wingham declared it made her head ache to try and remember them. The young secretary, at the end of three weeks, did go away, and did get married, and in a month came back, because her husband had gone out again for a voyage to Sydney, and because, moreover, there had been a difficulty in filling her place. Mord Em’ly, delighted with the romance of it, touched by the special favour shown her, determined that her page in a volume called the “Progress Book” which the little secretary kept—it was oddly named, because, really, it contained a record of each girl’s retrograde movements in regard to conduct—should not have any further entries.

And, until a new secretary was appointed, she kept her word.

Mirrors at the Home were rare decorations, but it was a lazy young woman indeed who did not find some opportunities for examining her features, and Mord Em’ly, ignorant as she was of her mental evolution, could scarcely overlook her physical improvement. Her skin was clearer, her cheeks more plump; the afternoon drill to marches, picked out gingerly on the pianoforte by one of the young mistresses, had given her a habit of walking upright, so that she made now the most of her five feet two. Also she felt in better health. Sometimes she missed the gorgeous Saturday night suppers of frizzling sausages, the frying-pan noisy with liver and bacon; for menus at the Home were not enlivened by rare dishes, but the large, round, flat loaves of brown bread, and the vegetables, and the meat, and everything else that came out of the big store-house near the iron gates, were good and wholesome, and Mord Em’ly was one of the many girls who improved under this course of treatment. With some there always remained the sharp, eager, ferret-like appearance that belongs to the Cockney of many Cockney generations. Of these the most notable in Faith Cottage was one who was celebrated, not for knowledge, not for good behaviour, but only for the fact that she once ran away from the Home to her father and mother at Canning Town. She stayed there for twenty-four hours, and then ran, with all convenient dispatch, back to the Home again.

“Never no more,” said the ferret-faced girl from Canning Town cunningly. “No more doing a scoot for ‘ome sweet ‘ome for me. I’ve had some.”

The experience of the Canning Town girl had long since cancelled an intention of Mord Em’ly’s, and she had put aside all thought of escape for the present. She was sufficiently far-sighted—aided by the example mentioned—to see that, whilst it would be easy enough to leave the Home, difficulty would occur when she reached Pandora. Ronicker Hall, resisting the wiles of the Third Standard, agreed with Mord Em’ly’s proposition, which was that it seemed better to remain in the Home at the expense of the State until one grew old enough to earn one’s own living. Before that time arrived Mord Em’ly would have become a member of the band to which Dorothy Lane had been promoted. They saw Miss Lane sometimes in the laundry, in her print dress and snow-white pinafore and white cap, ironing desperately at white articles, and the younger girls yearned for the day when they, too, would be allowed to wear skirts that nearly touched the ground, and to have their back hair done up in a bunch.

Mord Em’ly had been in the Home for nearly a year when her mother called to see her. Parents were sometimes allowed to visit the Home upon application to the directress, a staid, middle-aged lady, whom everybody but the young secretary feared. Not infrequently it happened that parents had no desire to pay calls upon their daughters; sometimes they awoke to parental duties upon the daughter arriving at an age when it was possible for her to earn money for their pockets. Mord Em’ly, called out by the little secretary, went rather slowly, and with something of reluctance.

“She’ll be boozed,” whispered Ronicker. “I’ll lay a dollar.”

“No, she won’t.”

“Well,” said Ronicker, “Mine always is.”