Rebecca Stubbs: The Vicar's Daughter Page 17

  I followed my experienced companions into a carriage and a kind gentleman offered to lift my trunk onto a luggage rack overhead. I spotted a window seat and quickly sat down in the springy, cushioned seat and peered through the glass. With much whistling, great billows of steam, and a quick shudder, we were off.

  Somehow I had expected the steam train to be like an unpredictably charging dragon, lurching around and difficult to be kept in control, but on the contrary, the train seemed dignified, steady, and controlled. The rhythmic clackety-clack of the wheels was relaxing and reassuring. I could not stop myself from smiling as I enjoyed the sensation of fast motion and watched the interesting scenery flit past the window. At every station the engine slowed down with a loud hiss to halt miraculously in a carefully calculated manner just where the platform was. People stood to greet passengers or to wave them off, porters hurried to unload crates and boxes, and young lads watched just for the fun of seeing the stoker and his fire.

  As we rattled through the countryside, I once again looked at my fellow travellers. Many of them were reading, chatting, or sleeping, looking as relaxed and familiar with their surroundings as they might in their own drawing rooms. How amazingly sophisticated they all look, I thought, unlike me, who is scared she will get off at the wrong station, take too long and miss the stop, fall under the carriage, or fail to find a stage coach at the other end. Yet none of my worries came to pass, and by mid-afternoon I had alighted at Ramsgate Station and found a cab to Broadstairs.

  As we approached the coaching inn at Broadstairs, I was pleased to see Miss Miller waving her handkerchief enthusiastically, and I felt most thankful that my travelling adventure was safely completed. As I clambered off the cab and received a rather stiff hug from Miss Miller, I was aware of the screeching of seagulls above us and a brisk breeze.

  Miss Miller helped me to carry my trunk, and we set off down a cobbled street at a business-like pace. I wrapped my shawl around me and scampered after her. The wind freed some of my hair from its bun, and the loose strands whipped my face. As I licked my lips, finding they were salty, I felt very excited to be so near to the sea.

  We turned a corner and there it was ahead of us: a vast expanse of choppy grey waves extending to the horizon, where it met an equally grey and threatening sky. Far out, it looked deceptively as if it was perfectly still and quiet, but at the shore the waves crashed against the rocks and sand, sending up a soaking spray and creating white foam. Each rolling row of waves seemed determined to beat the previous one in its vigorous advancement up the beach.

  I stood stock-still, watching the amazing sight. Miss Miller smiled at my enchanted face and said, with the air of a seasoned seaside dweller, “Ah, the tide is coming in.” We stood quietly side by side, admiring the power of the waves and their unstoppable progress.

  I broke the silence by asking, “Do you remember teaching us about King Canute proving he could not stop the tide?”

  Miss Miller laughed. “Yes, I do—a very difficult story to explain to children who have never seen the sea.”

  The coldness of the wind finally drove us away from the scene and into Miss Miller’s small abode.

  The little village school was a “Ragged School”, run by the church and it was built behind the church and rectory. The little two-up-two-down schoolmaster’s house was built alongside the school, but as no schoolmaster could be recruited for the small salary the church was offering, Miss Miller had been accepted. On entering the front door and turning right one stepped straight into the kitchen with a small range; turn left, and through a door one entered the best room, with a small hearth, two chairs, many books, and an old harmonium. This room was used only on Sundays. Just opposite the front door was a small flight of stairs leading to two bedrooms, one either side. The cottage had its own lavatory in the backyard but shared the school pump.

  As we sat down to a warming bowl of broth, Miss Miller explained the reason for school’s existence and the problems she faced. The school had been set up by the Ragged School Union, whose president was Lord Shaftsbury. The great novelist Charles Dickens was also an enthusiastic supporter of the Union, and as he had a house in Broadstairs, it was fitting that a Ragged School should be established there. The schools were to provide free basic education, especially the four Rs (reading, writing, arithmetic, and religious education) to any children too poor and ill-clothed to attend any other school.

  The intended beneficiaries of this provision had mixed feelings about education; some families gratefully welcomed the opportunity, while others saw it as a complete waste of time. The latter argued that no one in their families had ever been to school, and they were no worse off for it; besides, they didn’t want any “smart alec” in their family. There were plenty of useful jobs on fishing boats, at the beach, among the fishing nets, at the fishmonger’s, or in the home for little hands to do rather than for them to waste their time “getting above themselves” with “book learning.”

  Not only did Miss Miller have to persuade her pupils that education was a good idea, but she also had to keep the generous benefactors happy. Some serious minds were convinced that only religious education, “education for eternity,” was necessary, yet others wanted the lessons to be as practical as possible. Some even saw it as a training school from which they could imperially and conveniently pick suitable girls as servants. All had their own pet idea and wished to see it implemented. One kind lady wanted to ensure all the pupils had stout, warm boots for the winter, but unbeknown to her, many of these new, shiny boots were removed, sold, or pawned as soon as the children came home with them.

  In spite of the conflicting demands placed upon her, Miss Miller appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the challenges of her new post. She had a group of older girls who were ambitious to join the ever-growing number of female shop workers. This was a new avenue of work opening up to women, and to many girls, it seemed very glamorous. The girls were determined to learn to read, write, and do calculations necessary for the job. Indeed, money calculations never seemed a problem for any of the children who, through working with their parents, had learned to be savvy and shrewd.

  As we ate and chatted, I looked around the sparse room we were sitting in. Outside it was dark, the curtains were drawn, and the range was providing a good heat, making the room pleasant and warm, but yet there was no cosy feel to the house. This had nothing to do with the structure of the building; it was merely due to the fact that Miss Miller had no eye or maybe even desire for homeliness. I longed to make some cheap but colourful changes: the hessian curtains would be red and white gingham, the beige mat would be a multi-coloured rag rug, the wooden Windsor armchairs would have patchwork cushions, the walls would be adorned with cheap but colourful paintings, and on the windowsills would stand small plants. I viewed my imaginary changes with satisfaction, but that is where they were destined to remain, as I would never dare to suggest ‘’unnecessary’’ change to my former schoolmistress.

  I retired early to my chilly room (which could have been mistaken for a nun’s cell, were it not for the lack of a crucifix) and unpacked my trunk. My belongings added colour to the whitewashed room and almost looked frivolous in such austere surroundings. I quickly changed into my night dress, threw my cloak on the bed for an extra layer and jumped into the bed, which was considerably more comfortable than it looked. After reading the travellers’ Psalm and giving thanks for a safe journey, I soon fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE UNFAMILIAR screech of the seagulls awoke me. I snuggled deeper beneath the blankets, waiting to hear signs of life downstairs. The light had hardly begun to steal through the thin curtains when the noise of Miss Miller stocking the range indicated that her day had begun. I reluctantly rose from the cosy bed, wrapped myself in my shawl, and headed down the stairs to get warm water for washing.

  Miss Miller was already dressed, and I suddenly wondered if it was considered unseemly to appear in night clothes. As I lat
er washed in wonderfully hot water, I decided it was worth breaking a few finer rules of etiquette to maintain such a luxury. Miss Miller, meanwhile, had made a pan of warm, milky porridge and, as the daylight strengthened and began entering in through the front windows, we ate breakfast together before her school day began. I was keen to help with the household chores, but Miss Miller would not hear of it. She employed a pupil’s mother for a few hours every day to do her washing, cleaning, and some basic meal preparations. This was a mutually beneficial arrangement, as the woman’s husband had a liking for strong liquor and the family rarely saw his wages. The money from Miss Miller went straight into the woman’s pocket and almost immediately out again to keep the family fed.

  With a whole day ahead of me and no commitments or duties, I felt my body and mind relaxing. I had a delightful hour to myself between Miss Miller leaving and her house-woman arriving, so I sorted out my luggage in a more orderly manner than the previous night and made a cup of tea that I enjoyed as I sat near the window with the now warm sunlight streaming on my face.

  When I had drained my cup and tidied up, I wrapped up a roll of bread and chunk of cheese in a clean handkerchief, dressed in my warmest clothes, and left the cottage, determined to do a long coastal walk. The clouds and high winds had disappeared and the sky was blue. Instead of being grey and tempestuous, the sea was calm and sparkled merrily in the sunshine. Its blue mirrored the sky, and I was amazed at the difference in mood from last night. The pleasing sight and fresh atmosphere put a spring in my step, smile on my face, and energy into my limbs.

  The little harbour was busy and noisy with fishing and bargaining activity, but the farther I walked, the quieter the shoreline became, until soon I was alone. I slowed my pace and walked to the newly emerging rock pools. It was interesting to lift up large stones and disturb the crabs, which scurried off sideways to hide themselves. My pockets soon became full and damp with interesting stones and shells. I was exploring the little pools for fun, but a small group of local women approached with wooden pails to pick mussels off the slippery, seaweed-clad rocks. Their reddened, swollen hands bore testimony to the harsh conditions they were used to battling against to earn a meagre living. Some women’s swollen bellies indicated there would soon be another small mouth to feed and body to clothe.

  I felt like an intruder, so I continued my walk along the shore line, watching the gentle waves retreating, revealing more golden sand, chalky rocks, and shallow pools. To my right, rising from the beach was the huge and impressive wall of white cliff that ran for miles, creating such a dramatic contrast between the sea and the dry land that I could easily imagine it emerging majestically from the waters on the third day of creation and wholeheartedly agreed with the Creator that “it was good.”

  The coastline was made up of a series of bays, some large and busy and some small and secluded. Each bay had a means for climbing the great cliffs; some had a properly cut out gulley and staircase, whilst others merely had a weather-beaten rope ladder dangling from the grassy top of the cliff. The ladders swung challengingly in the off-sea breeze—a challenge irresistible to school boys, of no consequence to hardy seafarers, but unthinkably dangerous to me. I imagined getting cut off in a small bay by a rapidly advancing tide and having to climb up a swinging, slippery ladder with water lapping menacingly at my feet, waiting for me to make a false move. With a shudder I (rather over-cautiously) promised myself never to walk along the water’s edge when the tide was coming in.

  Meanwhile, the sea was out almost as far as it would go, the sun was shining and the walk had given me an appetite, so I sat on a rock and ate my bread and cheese. As I sat munching, my mind wandered back to Agnes and her forthcoming marriage. She seemed so perfectly content with the arrangement, yet could not positively state that she loved the man. Was I expecting too much of life? Would I not be happier if I lowered my aspirations and learned to be content in every situation? Miss Miller seemed content in her little nunnery, and Agnes with her selfless, dutiful decision. How could she share her life, her house, her bed, even her body with a man she did not love? Again I shuddered, stood up and, shaking off the bread crumbs as if they were disagreeable thoughts themselves, continued my walk.

  Rain clouds began to gather over the sea and the wind picked up, reminding me it was only April, so I changed direction and headed back to Broadstairs. The return journey seemed much quicker than the outgoing, and I was in the house before Miss Miller. I pulled my shell and stone collection out of my pockets and arranged them along the hitherto bare windowsill. I was pleased with the result and put the kettle on to boil. The tea had just brewed when Miss Miller entered, and she seemed pleased to sit down and relax. I was bursting to tell her of my walk, but she looked so exhausted from her day in the classroom that I kept quiet, and soon I was rescuing the half-full teacup from her lap as she nodded off.

  The afternoon sun did not shine in the living room and the range had been burning low all afternoon, so the room was chilly. I found a blanket and carefully wrapped it around Miss Miller and then retired to my room and laid on the bed. Much to my surprise, I too quickly fell into a deep sleep. I awoke cold and hungry an hour later and was pleased to find Miss Miller had the range roaring to cook the meal and warm the house.

  Much refreshed from our sleep and meal, we pulled our chairs by the range and sat down for an evening of handiwork and chatting. I was knitting squares for a blanket, and Miss Miller was embroidering a text. I burbled on about the delights of the sea, coastline, and the rock pools.

  Miss Miller quietly put her needle down and said, “But there is a dark side to this seemingly happy community.”

  “Why, whatever do you mean?” I could not discern anything unseeming in this idyllic setting.

  “Until 1840, local people lived in constant fear of smuggling gangs, but new laws slashing import duties to realistic levels put an end to all that—gradually. There was still a bit going on only ten years ago, but the memories and scars are still there, as are the family feuds.”

  Miss Miller explained the smuggling background. For generations, ruthless gangs of smugglers played cat and mouse with coastguards along the coves and bays. Innocent fishermen had been drawn into their grip by the promise of quick money or merely by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Many a man disappeared for knowing too much and had either been forced to join the gang or ended up in a watery grave. Many a grieving woman had been relieved to hear that her husband’s corpse had been found, washed up on the beach, rather than having to live in constant uncertainty of his fate.

  The darkness gathered, and a gust of wind rattled the back door, causing me to almost jump out of my skin. We both laughed at my reaction, but it was clear that Miss Miller had a lot more to share.

  “The gangs were so aggressive and ruthless that most men feared their treatment more than the hangman’s noose, so they dabbled in criminality to stay on the right side of the smugglers. Everyone in the community knew something of what was going on, but no one knew how much everyone else knew, so no one fully trusted anyone. Coded messages were whispered in dark alleys. Half-truths and tall stories of captures, escapes, ghosts, and pirates were told at firesides until everyone was scared of his own shadow. This has left us with a community that dabbles in crime and trusts no one, Rebecca, especially not those in authority.” Miss Miller shook her head with sadness. “Families hold ancient grudges against each other for crimes and violence committed by the previous generation, and this leads to frequent fights, even in the school playground. And children grow up knowing there is more money to be gained from criminal activities than from honest labour.”

  As I thought of the beautiful glistening sea, the stately cliffs, and God’s amazing creation and then of the sad broken world we live in now, I realised again how awful sin is and how it has polluted God’s wonderful earth.

  CHAPTER 25

  LATER THAT EVENING AS I lay in bed, my overactive ears hearing every outside noise, I despaired of ever
falling asleep, only realising I had done so when I woke up the next morning. Much to my disappointment, it was a wet day. Before she left for the school room, I asked Miss Miller if she would like me to do any baking. After some consideration, she replied that she rarely ate cake but that I could make some rock buns if I so wished.

  Now some people enjoy rock buns, and it is nice that they do, but I find them crumbly, non-descript, dry, and hardly worth eating. They were the first thing my mother taught me to make, and having satisfied her that I had mastered the rubbing-in method, we never bothered with rock buns again. The only way to get an amount of pleasure from eating them is eating them when they are still warm from the oven, or failing that, dunking them in tea. To please Miss Miller I duly made a batch of rock buns and had them cooling on the table when she came in for lunch. I poured out a cup of tea to go with the fresh buns, but Miss Miller was busy finding a tin. She congratulated me on their appearance, but immediately stowed all the rock buns away into the tin, saying, “They will be a nice treat for Sunday.”

  Sunday! That was three days away. By then they would be most unpalatable and I sensed that dunking was strictly forbidden.

  We ate bread and dripping with our cup of tea, and Miss Miller returned to her class. The rain had eased somewhat by the afternoon. I felt in need of escaping, so putting on my shawl, I left the house to explore the high street. Away from the noise and smells of the harbour and fish market was an altogether more upmarket row of shops boasting of a green grocer, an ironmonger, a dressmaker, and a bookseller. In the same street one could buy a bonnet, a basket, and a bread-tin.

  I had not had the luxury of browsing such a comprehensive collection of shops since the day of our furniture auction. Now I had both the time and the means to wander around at my leisure, and I headed straight for the bookseller. A bell on the door jingled merrily as I entered, and an elderly, bearded man emerged from behind a pile of books and acknowledged my presence with a grunt. He then busied himself with sorting the tomes, humming and muttering to himself as he worked.