Emma

He wrote about this in a letter to the local paper, and the editor obliged by printing his letter prominently under the heading: ‘A Warning’. He had hoped that this would lead to a lively debate in the columns of the newspaper, but it did not. There had been one or two letters on the subject, including one from a reader who said: ‘But this is nature’s way, surely, of putting us in our place. And roll on the day when the next flu epidemic leads to a major culling of our species.’ That had drawn more responses than Mr Woodhouse’s original contribution. ‘It’s all very well for you,’ wrote one correspondent in the newspaper. ‘You have access to antibiotics. What about all those poor people who don’t have any antibiotics? What about them?’

Mr Woodhouse had shaken his head over this letter. When would people learn that antibiotics were useless against viruses, and that penicillin would not have made all that much difference to the ravages of Spanish Influenza – other than helping with incidental pulmonary infections? He had tried to explain the matter to Mrs Firhill on numerous occasions, but the message had never got through, and she continued to say that the best treatment for a cold was a course of antibiotics.

But that issue, serious though it was, was only incidental to the main question of overpopulation, to which his very own daughter was contributing so enthusiastically. The first pregnancy brought twins: two boys, and they were followed at the shortest possible biological interval thereafter by a further set of twins, this time girls. While this enthusiastic breeding programme was being pursued in London, back in Norfolk Emma continued to attend Gresham’s. At last the time came for her to leave, and she was driven away from the school one afternoon, zeugmatically, in floods of tears and the silver Mercedes.

‘I feel so silly, crying like this,’ said Emma.

‘It’s not silly at all,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I cried when I left school in Edinburgh. I cried when I left St Andrews. It would be unnatural not to cry in such circumstances. It would demonstrate, I think, a certain indifference to separation – from place, from friends.’

This set Emma off with renewed weeping. ‘All my friends,’ she sobbed. ‘Betty Slazenger,’ the name being uttered as if it were redolent of painful disaster, as are the names Titanic, Gallipoli, or the Somme.

‘Rosie’s sister?’ asked Miss Taylor.

Emma nodded miserably. ‘And Pippa. Harry. Ellie.’

‘You’ll see them again,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘You needn’t lose touch. Isabella still sees Rosie Slazenger and Kitty, too, I believe.’

Emma wept not just because she was leaving her friends, she wept because it was the end of a world – the brief, temporary world of school that we never feel is brief or temporary until it is suddenly over. But her regret did not last for long as Miss Taylor had planned a busy summer for her: they enrolled, as fellow students, on a three-week course sponsored by the Victoria and Albert Museum, The English House through Three Centuries. They went together on a fortnight’s trip to Florence and Siena – a trip to which Mr Woodhouse was eventually persuaded to accept and finance, after a great deal of anxious hand-wringing and warning about the dangers of travelling in Italy, where the men, he said, were predatory to a degree that ‘we in England simply cannot comprehend’; where the drivers were ‘quite without concern for other road users’; and where ‘even the politicians were either certifiably insane or unashamedly criminal’.

They returned to England unscathed by any of these dangers – although Emma did have her bag snatched in Florence by a dwarf on a motor scooter (‘I warned you, my dear; I warned you,’ said Mr Woodhouse). It was not this incident, though, that stuck in Miss Taylor’s memory, but something altogether different – something that showed a side to Emma’s character that people often did not see, but that, in Miss Taylor’s view at least, was the real Emma. Within us all, thought the governess, there is often more than one person, more than one self. She had even discussed the subject with Emma – there was no point talking to Isabella about such matters, as she was given to yawning ostentatiously, though genuinely, when matters of the mind were raised. Emma, though, had listened as Miss Taylor told her about Plato’s famous chariot.

‘The chariot is the soul,’ she said, shaking her finger gently into the ether as if to pinpoint the insubstantial. ‘The chariot, you see, is driven by a charioteer but is pulled by two horses – one dark and one light. The dark horse represents all the brute appetites – concupiscence and so on …’ She paused. ‘Concupiscence is to do with lust.’

Emma closed her eyes. Was concupiscence really what they called lust in Edinburgh?

‘Anyway,’ continued Miss Taylor, ‘the two horses that pull the chariot are of opposite inclination. The light horse is to do with the finer things: awareness of others, generosity, civilisation – the finer side of our natures, in other words. The job of the charioteer is to harness the energy of the dark horse and to make sure that the light horse is not pulled downwards by its companion.’

Emma looked at her governess, imagining her, like Boadicea, in command of a chariot. And then something had occurred that distracted them: a telephone rang, and Miss Taylor for a moment or two seemed to be thinking about whether to ignore it or answer it, her chariot for an instant poised between the choice of ascending or descending. It ascended and she went to answer it, but it was the end of the chariot conversation.

And then, in Siena, on their Italian trip, while Miss Taylor sat at a table in the shell-shaped Piazza del Campo, looking down on to the bowl of the shell, Emma detached herself from her governess for a few minutes while they were waiting for their order of coffee to be fulfilled; and found herself in a small side street lined with shops selling Sienese ceramics. One shop window had caught her eye for the sheer beauty of a bowl that it was displaying. This bowl was white and lemon-yellow in its colouring. Around its sides were glazed figures of young men in Renaissance costume picking fruit, while a troubadour plucked at a stringed instrument. A hunting dog, its back arched, as the backs of such dogs so often are, pranced ready for the pursuit of some creature not shown. Emma stopped and stared, and then entered the shop hesitantly.

Fifteen minutes later she was back with Miss Taylor, who remonstrated with her, as the coffee was getting cold.

‘I began mine. I couldn’t wait.’

Emma ignored her cup. ‘You have to come with me,’ she said. ‘I have to show you something.’

Miss Taylor shook her head. ‘I’m not leaving until I have finished my coffee. You can’t just leave such a beautiful place and dash off somewhere on a whim.’

She waited impatiently until Miss Taylor was able to accompany her back to the shop. The window now had a large space where the bowl had been.

‘These places …’ began Miss Taylor, but was silenced by the effusive greeting of the proprietor.

‘It is here,’ he said. ‘Then I will pack it and send it over for you. We guarantee its safe arrival.’

‘Safe arrival of what?’ asked Miss Taylor.

The bowl was produced and placed on the glass surface of the counter. ‘Eccolo!’ said the proprietor.

Miss Taylor reached out and touched the rim. ‘You understand,’ she muttered.

‘It’s for you,’ said Emma. ‘It’s for you, from me.’

It transpired that she had spent her entire spending allowance on the gift and during the remainder of their trip to Italy she would be able to buy nothing except essentials.

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Cadit quaestio.’

There was no arguing with the finality of cadit quaestio, and Miss Taylor, who had introduced the phrase, of course knew that. She knew, too, that there was a time to accept gifts, even the most extravagant ones, and to cherish them. She reached out and took Emma’s hand and knew, at that moment, what the true nature of her young charge was. But then she thought of the chariot and the two charioteers, and she lowered her eyes and hoped.

Once back, there was university to think about, and the challenges of the decorative arts course at the University of Bath on which she had been offered a place. The choice of Bath had surprised Mr Woodhouse, who said that he had not even known there was a university there. Miss Taylor had been more encouraging, even if she had her reservations; she would have preferred St Andrews, which was, she pointed out, a mere six hundred years older. ‘Not that these things matter all that much,’ she said, in such a way as to indicate that they mattered a great deal.

For others, though – and this included her teachers at Gresham’s – Bath somehow seemed a natural place for Emma to choose, although it would be difficult to say exactly why this was so. ‘She’s that sort of girl,’ said the English teacher enigmatically. ‘She’ll fit.’ And then, as an afterthought, expressed as if only to herself, ‘Perhaps she has Bathos.’ This reference eluded the chemistry teacher, who simply remarked, regretfully, ‘She never grasped chemistry. I tried, you know, but she never grasped it.’

The course was certainly ideal: Emma had long been interested in patterns, whether in wallpaper, carpets, or in clothing. For her fourteenth birthday she had been given a book on the work of Edward Bawden, and had responded immediately and instinctively to his pictures of the English countryside – all plough horses and wayside pubs with suspended board signs; all fields of wheat and old-fashioned tractors; all open skies and wispy clouds. She tried to imitate his style, and that of Ravilious and the Nashes, succeeding sufficiently to be encouraged by her art teacher to persist; but what she really liked were Bawdenesque fabrics and wallpapers. She could gaze at these for hours, luxuriating in triangles and trompe l’oeil.

She had not given much thought to the need to work – Mr Woodhouse had never mentioned the subject to his daughters – but Emma was far from lazy and she felt that if she had a destiny it was in working with designs like these. She could start off as an interior decorator and progress to designing her own curtains and wallpaper; she would create fabrics for sofas and bedspreads. It was ambitious, but clear enough, at least, for her to find a course that would equip her to do just this. Her friends agreed. ‘Emma Woodhouse Designs,’ said one. ‘Brilliant. The name works, Emma – it really does.’

Now that Emma was away at university, the question of Miss Taylor’s continuing employment at Hartfield could hardly be avoided. Miss Taylor herself had tried to raise the subject several times even before Emma left, but had been fobbed off by Mr Woodhouse, who either quickly changed the subject or, when more deliberately cornered by the governess, put it off until later that day. Then, of course, he failed to return to it or managed to ensure that he was not around at a time when it could be discussed. It was obvious that he was reluctant for her to leave, and that he simply wanted the normal routine of the house to continue as it always had, even if there was nothing for her to do. There was no reason why he should not continue to pay her – he hardly noticed her salary going out of his account each month, and, anyway, there was not very much for him to spend his money on, given that he rarely, if ever, left the house.

Disinclination to discuss a subject that needs to be discussed is never a solution: the topic merely assumes increasing prominence the longer it remains untouched. Every conversation that is then embarked upon, even if on a totally unrelated subject, will be conducted in the fear that it might suddenly be interrupted by the forbidden issue; every pause might be read as a sign that what has been unsaid so far might now suddenly be said. Eventually, of course, the strain tells, and the matter can be put off no more.

‘My position,’ blurted out Miss Taylor one morning as she sat at the breakfast table with Mr Woodhouse.

‘On what?’ he replied. ‘Your position on what?’ It was a desperate, last-ditch attempt to evade the issue.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You know what I’m talking about: my position here at Hartfield. You may have observed that Emma is no longer here.’

There were untapped wells of denial. ‘But she is!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s away at university during the term, and then she comes back. How can she be said to be away when she always comes back? If I go to London for a day or two and then return, I can hardly be said to be no longer here.’

It was an improbable example. Mr Woodhouse had not been to London for eight years, and showed no signs of changing his views on the undesirability of ever doing so.

‘She is effectively now in Bath for more weeks of the year than she is here,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘In my view that means that she now lives in Bath. And anyway, she’s eighteen, and an eighteen-year-old does not need a governess.’

He looked at her with dismay. ‘But eighteen is so young,’ he said. ‘Remember what we were like at eighteen? We knew so little.’

Miss Taylor shook her head. ‘That’s not the way eighteen-year-olds look at it. When you’re eighteen you imagine you know everything. An eighteen-year-old will not accept guidance, I can assure you.’

‘But Emma doesn’t have a mother,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘You’re the closest thing she’s had to a mother since my wife died. If you were to leave …’ He left the sentence unfinished; even this hypothetical talk of departure made him feel bereft.

‘But I can’t sit here and pretend to be a governess when both my charges have grown up,’ she said. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘It’s your Presbyterian background,’ muttered Mr Woodhouse.

She stared at him. ‘What has the Church of Scotland got to do with it? I frankly do not see the connection.’

‘If you were a Catholic,’ said Mr Woodhouse, ‘you would have no difficulty with the idea of sitting around and doing nothing. That has never been a problem for Catholicism; it is only the Protestant outlook that makes us feel guilty about not being busy.’

‘Oh, really,’ she began, ‘this is nothing to do with John Knox, or Calvin for that matter.’

‘I beg you to stay,’ he continued, ‘I beg you, Miss Taylor. If you were to leave, then Emma would feel that a vital part of her home life was lost to her. I know that sounds extreme, but it really is true. You represent stability to her. You represent home.’

She stared down at the floor, avoiding his anguished gaze. It would be easier to stay than to leave; she would not have all the bother of looking for a new job – who wanted governesses these days? – and she had to concede that Hartfield was extremely comfortable. The salary was generous, too, and since she did not have to pay for her board – or for anything else for that matter – it would enable her to continue to build up her savings, now standing at a total of eighty-seven thousand pounds. Reading that figure, recorded on her quarterly statements of account, filled her with pleasure: a governess had to look after herself and to ensure that she did not find herself, at sixty, penniless and homeless. And that meant saving, and not indulging oneself in non-essentials, unless, of course, a husband should materialise and bring with him financial security. But husbands, she reflected, did not appear that easily; there were plenty of women who lived in hope that a husband might suddenly descend; that they might draw back the curtains one morning and see, standing outside their window, a husband; or that they might take a seat on the train to work and find themselves sitting next to … a husband. That happened, of course, for some, but for others it did not, no matter how hard they wished, and no matter how much they deserved a husband.

Mr Woodhouse suddenly brightened. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought I needed a secretary.’ He looked at Miss Taylor with the air of one about to make an important announcement. ‘You could be my secretary – the pay and conditions would be exactly the same, but the job description would be different. You would not have to worry about being governess to a young woman who was away much of the time.’ He made a gesture of supplication. ‘Please say yes, Anne.’

She had been about to concede, with a suitable show of reluctance, that she should continue as governess, but this new secretarial post – which she knew was almost certainly a sinecure – would do as well.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I accept.’ She paused. ‘What will the duties be?’

For a few moments he looked blank, but then he smiled and said, ‘Secretarial.’

She nodded. There was no need to discuss the matter further, as everything, she imagined, would be exactly the same as it always had been. And that, of course, was what Mr Woodhouse wished for above all else, and what Miss Taylor, for want of anything better, was prepared to accept.

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