Miss Anthony

The starlings were still screaming as the girl slowly closed the heavy studded door behind her, inhaling the sharp frost beginning to form on the lady shaped gravestones. Elen Pevensey always wanted to meet an adventure, but not a blonde haired fairy book prince or even one of the beautiful stained glass creations, hers became a half naked man asleep in the church porch. She knew he hadn’t been there when she’d gone in to clean, Wednesday was always the Pevenseys’ day, the family were supposed to take it in turns, sharing the load between the sisters, but Elen usually found herself clutching a cloth and tying up her hair in preparation. Ida and Mary always found excuses and the Mam believed them because they were pretty girls and she was desperate to marry them off. Elen was the smallest and plainest, brains counted for nothing, no one wanted a clever girl when her function in life was to look after her man, scrub his floor and breed his children. No one. For all Elen’s intellect she was very much alone. Her parents didn’t understand, Father believed she should have left school at the earliest opportunity but Miss Anthony the schoolteacher had begged him to allow her to stay on to help out with the little ones. She loved teaching them, watching the struggle with the unfamiliar shapes miraculously forming into letters and finally words. Occasionally she was still allowed to visit Miss Anthony in the evenings and they’d share thin tea and conversation. Miss Anthony thought Elen could make something of her life, but of course Father wouldn’t have it. He didn’t hold with the over educated Miss Anthony, she’d arrived in the village complete with qualifications and found herself an outcast. It wasn’t natural a woman should find more companionship in her books than neighbours and in spite of her undeniably pretty face the young men refused to barely acknowledge her existence.1

So she’d remained untouched, although rumours about the curate and the schoolteacher refused to die long after he’d been elevated out of the parish. They still whispered about evenings spent about the piano, everyone knew what that type of thing always led to, no wonder he hadn’t stayed long. Broke her heart they said, left her with a locket of memories and an unfulfilled life to fritter on her students. Miss Anthony wasn’t the kindest or most patient of teachers, she firmly believed in corporal punishment, the dunce’s cap and other familiar humiliations but she loved books and she could recognise a fellow hunger in Elen. From the moment Elen Pevensey learnt to scrawl her name firmly on her slate with dusty chalk she knew that this skinny serious faced child could make something of herself if she, Miss Anthony could help it. Together they discovered the genius of Shakespeare, Swift, and Byron, devouring the Brontes and Scott’s romances in those snatched after school hours when Elen should have been helping at home. 2

Miss Anthony was harmless enough in most people’s eyes, they just didn’t understand her love of literature, but the sisters hated the attention their strange little sister received from her teacher. They’d watched with increasingly bitter eyes as prize after prize was awarded to Elen Pevensey whilst they laboured to produce a coherent hand. Elen of all people seemed to have a future, it wouldn’t do especially after she spilt ink on the bedclothes again. Ida had pulled away her copybook, dancing about the bedroom with the volume held aloft in triumphant arms, crow cackle voice desecrating Elen’s world. Mean spirited Mary for all her piety, prayers twice every day, held her down, ensuring the nails left little imprint in the soft flesh. They’d laughed as the dark blue pool spread through her sheet, each drop an indelible reminder of the wasted education. By the time Mam, alerted by the banshee shrieking, rushed into the room, the sisters were innocently in bed, leaving Elen kneeling amid the glistening ink.3

‘Elen Pevensey!’ she screeched. ‘What in heaven’s name have you done now? How many times have I had to tell you? Can’t a body be left in peace at night? You’ve ruined that sheet and you know I can’t replace it. Do you think I have money to throw away?’4

Protest was futile with the girls simpering about her, denying all knowledge of the incident, it was Elen Mam, they blinked guilessly, she spilt the ink, we tried to tell her but she wouldn’t listen, she never does. All Elen could do was sigh weightily before handing over the offending book and watch helplessly as it was flung onto the dying embers. Briefly it blazed, one final triumph before disintegrating into ash and murdering hope.5

Miss Anthony herself said very little when Elen finally admitted what had happened to the book, she merely smiled sadly as if she’d always known this would be the outcome of all her efforts. There were to be no more extra evening lessons, cosy teas and conversations, Elen’s place was at home, completing her chores like every other girl. She prayed the schoolteacher might understand, although she knew in her heart she wasn’t the first to suffer from parental ignorance and most certainly wouldn’t be the last until women had a measure of status, that day might fall only when her hair was silver thread and she probably had grandchildren of her own.6

Christmas had fallen, as ever she’d helped with the cake and pudding, watched Father drink too much, the girls sneak out to dance late with the local idiots and continued to maintain the journal Miss Anthony had given her for her eighteenth birthday. It lived beneath the loose floorboard under her bed, desperately hiding from the sisters’ cruelty. Snow remained heavy in the air, it had threatened for days, the wind was bitter and bit into bones like a ravenous dog but still the ground remained free. She loved to watch the fat feathery flakes float gently to the ground, stitches in the blanket she knew would swiftly engulf the village. Life drifted onwards, the sisters continued to torment her, the parents quarrelled, and only Miss Anthony offered her a flicker of release. 7

Elen knew the porch had been empty when she entered the church and she’d heard nothing as she hummed to herself, polishing the eagle lectern until it gleamed gold. Occasionally she permitted herself to read a passage from the massive bible Mr Barnett still used for the Sunday lesson, relishing the beauty of the fragile wafer paper between her fingers. Even her parents couldn’t object to her reading the Bible, ignorant of the real messages behind the stories they vaguely recalled of Jezebel and Delilah. She loved the feel of the thick soft air inside the squat church, each breath pregnant with memory. Endless generations had worshipped there since the stonemasons left their monument, married, baptised, confirmed, died, and returned to the earth. The church had been luckier than most, fat Henry’s thieves had barely touched it, neither had sick Edward’s zealots. They’d washed over the frescoes and smashed the saints and rood screen but left the stained glass windows alone. Elen was grateful for that, loving the mastery of the faces, certain that above all the angels knew love. She could spend an eternity watching their unchanging smiles, the tumble of hair they always wore disgracefully long, like Christ himself who rose above them as he ascended.8

The cleaning always took at least two hours, sweeping, dusting and polishing, the sorting of hassocks and prayer books. None of the others ever really bothered to straighten the hymnals or organise the hymn numbers, they were just pleased to shift the dust, aware that the minister was grateful for anyone to clean his church. He liked Elen Pevensey, like Miss Anthony he recognised a brain but he had enough wit and experience not to interfere in family matters. He knew the ways of the village well enough now, fingers burnt early swiftly heal and the injury is seldom repeated. His first days in the parish had brought unexpected conflict and humiliation, he’d rapidly learnt the wisdom of necessary silence and had gradually found himself accepted. Unlike Miss Anthony. Occasionally he’d find an excuse to potter about the church as Elen cleaned, happy to exchange pleasantries with the girl, and included her in his prayers when he remembered. More often than not the air remained undisturbed apart from her contented humming and she would have heard anything outside in the silence. 9

Her habit was to close the inner door carefully, lifting the latch back into place before opening the main door into the churchyard. It was a relatively small porch, barely accommodating more than two people at a time, plain washed with a single shelf bearing church literature. As ever she’d closed the first door, mind roaming before she found herself stumbling over the figure curled as if asleep on the porch floor.10

‘What? Oh my word,’ she began, barely knowing what she ought to say. She’d never seen anyone, not even her own family undressed in such a fashion but the man remained motionless. He was reed thin, pale parchment skin barely covering the spare frame and his dark hair hung limply about his narrow shoulders. His knees were drawn protectively towards his chest but they failed to disguise the dark sticky trail running across his breast and his eyes were closed. She wondered at first if he were dead, but as she bent her head towards the inert form she discerned a barely distinguishable rise and fall. 11

‘Hello?’ she called quietly, feeling he was probably unconscious but attempting the expected. ‘Are you hurt? How did you get here? Do you need help?’12

Elen found herself gazing at the man as if hypnotized, he seemed unearthly rather than the vagrant he probably was and she knew she couldn’t just leave him there. The clutch of frost would soon fall and still the sky threatened, if she walked away he’d probably die, but she couldn’t explain how she’d discovered an injured naked man asleep in the church porch. No one would understand, no one except Miss Anthony, she never doubted Elen even if she pitied her. Feeling he’d probably survive another half hour, she closed the outer door praying no one might discover him and hurried as fast as she could without arousing suspicion towards the teacher’s cottage.13

Fortunately the woman was emptying the dregs of yet another pot of tea in the garden when she arrived breathless and wide-eyed, barely able to organise a sentence.14

‘Why Elen?’ she began, concern already growing in her features. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’15

‘Oh Miss Anthony, you have to come, please. I can’t tell you out here, but please, I beg you, let me in. I must tell you, there’s no one else I can trust.’16

‘Are you in trouble?’17

She shook her head. ‘No, not at all, it’s just, I’ve found something, something in the church. Oh Miss Anthony, please.’18

The woman seemed to suddenly wake up, and still clutching the china teapot ushered her into the tiny kitchen. 19

‘Now sit down, tell me what you’ve found.’20

So she did and watched the incredulity smear itself across the woman’s still delicate features.21

‘A man? You’ve found a man in the church porch?’22

Elen nodded, embarrassed by the need for truth. ‘But that’s not all Miss Anthony, he, he’s naked and if we don’t do something he’ll freeze to death. Can you come please and bring something to cover him with. I don’t know what to do.’23

‘Well,’ the teacher paused, ‘by rights we should tell Mr Barnett, it is his church after all.’24

‘But Miss Anthony, I don’t think he’d understand and he’d pack him off to the workhouse and he seems too ill for that. When you see him you’ll know what I mean, please, I beg you, come and see for yourself.’25

Miss Anthony shook her head but found herself infected by the girl’s concern and gathering a quilt to cover the naked shivering figure who still lay asleep in the cold of the doorway.26

‘Who is he?’27

‘I have no idea. He doesn’t look like a beggar, he’s too clean even if he does seem half starved. Oh my!’ she exclaimed noticing the scarlet dribble for the first time. ‘You didn’t say he was hurt. He should see a doctor.’28

‘Can’t we take him to your cottage Miss Anthony?’ 29

Miss Anthony gaped incredulously. ‘My cottage? I can’t do that Elen, it wouldn’t be decent.’ But the girl had read too much to be thwarted and the gleam of adventure glinted in her eyes. 30

‘Yes you could Miss Anthony, it’d be a romance wouldn’t it? A romance worthy of Sir Walter Scott himself.’31

‘But what if he’s a criminal or an escaped lunatic?’32

‘Or an innocent victim of theft? A traveller set upon by highwaymen on his journey home?’33

‘Elen Pavensey,’ the woman pursed her lips if only to stop herself from smiling. ‘This is not medieval England and this man is a stranger, if he was on his way home it most certainly wasn’t to anywhere in the village. We can’t do this.’34

‘Why not?’ the girl was persistent. ‘He needs help, you can’t deny that, and by the looks of him he’s too frail to do much more than breathe. You surely recall the story of the Good Samaritan and how the priest passed by the traveller on the road? Well we can do the same now and help this man, oh please Miss Anthony, if we leave him he’ll die and we can’t do that, can we?’35

Slowly the woman shook her head, impressed by the girl’s courage in defying common sense and falling a little in love with the idea of adventure herself. Little happened beyond the books she devoured, her students were especially dim witted and reluctant to learn even more than the rudiments she crammed into their lice ridden heads. Here was her own small romance for the taking, a foundling on the doorstep couldn’t be bettered and she knew she would never turn this damaged creature away.36

‘Do you think we should wake him before we move him?’ Elen began but Miss Anthony didn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes were gleaming as they travelled the contours of his body, noting the sinew and muscle barely concealed by the parchment skin, the lashes fringing the sleeping lids, the curve of bloodless lips and suddenly Elen felt superfluous.37

‘Miss Anthony!’ she repeated, Elen was never one to give up. ‘Miss Anthony.’38

‘What?’ the woman’s voice was distant. ‘Elen?’39

‘Miss Anthony, we should wake him to move him. We won’t be able to help him back to your cottage if he doesn’t.’40

‘What? Oh, yes you’re right. He doesn’t seem to be very badly hurt, but I don’t like the look of that wound on his chest.’ Crouching to her knees the schoolteacher grasped the sleeping man by his shoulders and deftly shook him. ‘Hello? Can you hear me? We’re here to help you. Wake up, wake up. We’ll help you, wake up will you?’41

The figure remained inert, the thick silence broken only by his breathing.42

‘Do you think he can hear us?’ inquired Elen never taking her eyes from the man and the kneeling Miss Anthony.43

‘Oh yes, I think he can hear us,’ she replied without looking up. ‘He’ll stir. He can’t stay here, heaven alone knows how he reached here in the first place.’44

‘Not heaven,’ the raw gasp shook both women from their reveries and two silver grey eyes stared unblinking up at Miss Anthony.45

‘No, maybe not heaven,’ smiled the teacher, her eyes still fixed. ‘But we are here to help you. Come sir, cover yourself with this. Elen,’ she instructed over her shoulder, ‘look away a second. You don’t need to see.’46

‘But,’ began the girl but catching the threat in her teacher’s tone did as she was bid. What did the woman expect her to do, faint at the sight of the man’s naked body? Didn’t she realise that the church alone housed images of a Christ wearing little more than their foundling and nobody was ever shocked at those. Perhaps one day Miss Anthony and the others might stop regarding her as a child and let her live.47

He didn’t speak again, not even when Miss Anthony had the quilt securely wrapped about his decency and was helping him to his feet but seemed content for them to gently guide him.48

‘We’ll take you to my home. Don’t worry about anything,’ the woman’s voice was low, and Elen noticed that her thin fingers seemed drawn to the stick like wrist that clutched the quilt about his meagre form. ‘It’s not far, can you walk?’49

The man nodded slowly, and allowed the woman to lead him through the churchyard, leaving Elen to trail petulantly after them. Miss Anthony seemed to have forgotten her altogether.50

As they approached the cottage, Law, Miss Anthony’s querulous cat was watching, imperiously washing his face, his yellow green eyes unwavering. 51

‘Oh, Elen,’ began Miss Anthony discovering her manners. ‘Would you heat some water whilst I put our guest to bed in the back room? Some sweet tea I think. This poor soul must be frozen to the bone. I know I am.’52

They disappeared, Miss Anthony still murmuring to the silent figure leaning into her shoulder and Elen watched with a gnawing envy. She pictured him folding into Miss Anthony’s spare cot, the pale limbs livid against the dark counterpane and the teacher deftly removing the quilt before pulling the blankets about his shoulders.53

‘Thank you,’ the rasped platitude reached Elen and she knew the woman would stay with him, patting his hand, just watching the sculpted face fall into peace. A slow smile spreading itself indelibly through her features as finally a man slept in her bed and Elen began to hate her.54

The tea was mashed, sugar, milk and crockery laid in anticipation before Miss Anthony reappeared, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.55

‘Oh, thank you Elen, it’s just the two of us, our patient’s asleep again,’ she smiled but carefully avoided the girl’s watchful eyes. ‘You did right in telling me about him.’56

‘Well I couldn’t tell anyone at home could I?’ muttered Elen, ‘especially with him being how he was. Is he badly hurt?’57

‘No, not really, I’ve staunched his wound, it’s not too deep fortunately but sore. I think he’s exhausted more than anything else, he’s lucky the cold seems to have prevented further infection.’58

‘Where do you think he came from?’59

‘I have absolutely no idea. Now tell me exactly how you came to find him.’60

Elen found herself sighing impatiently, already she was beginning to resent the teacher’s intrusion but repeated her tale of cleaning the church and almost falling over him as she was leaving.61

‘And you’re certain you heard nothing?’62

‘As I said, nothing at all. He most definitely wasn’t there when I started cleaning, I didn’t see or hear anyone else all the time I was there.’63

‘He was lucky you did find him, a few more hours and I’m sure you’d have fallen over a corpse, especially now. Look.’ Miss Anthony pointed to the window, where fat floury flakes danced their way to the ground. ‘It’s been threatening this for days hasn’t it? There’ll be no school whilst this lasts. Just as well really.’ A faint distant gleam flooded her eyes and Elen was sure the woman seemed grateful for an excuse to remain at home.64

An uncomfortable silence grew between them, Elen found herself caught between curiosity and anxiety. In all the time she’d admired her teacher Elen had never doubted her integrity and friendship but the coming of the strange man had already wrought a division between them. She knew she ought to envy his presence in enticing Miss Anthony’s attention, but it was Miss Anthony who she resented and the hours she would spend watching him sleep. Mistrust and jealousy, unfamiliar emotions to Elen’s habitual generous nature strangely found themselves rooted in her reaction, after all it was she who’d found the man, not Miss Anthony. She was the one who’d insisted the teacher follow her to the church, persuading her to take the man home, but it would be Miss Anthony who’d watch him awake, spoon soup gently between his parched lips, sponge the ague from his limbs and know the grateful silver of his eyes.65

Finally Elen drained her teacup and dredged her voice from the despair she could feel seeping through her. 66

‘Would you like me to stay and help you with him? I mean, if you think someone needs to watch over him and you, you need to rest,’ she added lamely knowing how the woman would respond.67

‘Thank you no, there’s no need. I should think he’ll be up and about in a few days. Now, you should be getting home, heaven alone knows what they’ll be thinking. Do they know where you are?’68

‘It doesn’t matter,’ muttered Elen, rising. ‘I’ll call tomorrow if I may?’69

‘Weather permitting Elen,’ the woman smiled, revealing her tight white teeth. ‘Now you be careful in the snow it’s sticking. Good-bye, and thank you for,’ she paused. ‘Goodbye Elen.’70

In a breath the door was firmly shut but the girl lingered, the flakes twirling about her head and floating soundlessly to the earth. It had already formed a light blanket, tracks would imprint themselves from the cottage to the gate, Miss Anthony would know she’d waited outside, watching, but she couldn’t help herself. Shivering, the sudden sharp bite of the snow lacing her skin, Elen watched the woman moving stealthily about her kitchen. It wasn’t yet dark, there would be no need to draw her curtains for at least half an hour, and all the time Elen would watch, uncaring of her mother’s temper, she needed to know what the teacher would do. 71

She was clearing away the tea things, humming softly to herself, pausing occasionally to smile, a slow lazy smile of a woman who knew what she wanted. Her eyes were wide and Elen noted the sharp flick of her red tongue against her lips. Miss Anthony had never seemed so definite, so sharp in relief against the soft focus light of her table lamp as slowly she began to loosen her hair. Elen was frozen with shock, never before had she seen Miss Anthony appear without the tight bun drawn into the nape of her neck. Always immaculate and constrained Miss Anthony never lost control, even when her passion was aroused by the outrages of Heathcliff or the heroics of Ivanhoe she remained within herself. 72

Still smiling, her fingers began to comb the uncharacteristic waterfall of yellow hair about her shoulders and for the first time Elen realised that her teacher was an attractive woman. The hair fully released, the narrow fingers roamed towards the tiny mother of pearl buttons at her throat and one by one they fell open, revealing the creamy skin beneath. Elen found her breathing grow hard as she watched the woman slowly slip from her outer clothes, leaving them in an untidy puddle as she rose and turned slowly. 73

Grateful the snow muffled her footsteps the girl edged her way towards the darkened square where she knew Miss Anthony was drawn, where she wished she could follow but he was grateful to the teacher not Elen. The silver grey eyes had opened towards Miss Anthony, the rasped gratitude was aimed at Miss Anthony, Miss Anthony, Miss Anthony, she hated even the letters forming the teacher’s name. Crouching beneath the sill, eyes screwed shut against the inevitable, her heart pounding, Elen was certain. She wished she could find the courage to run, to flee through the garden gate, her own loosened hair flying in her wake, but Elen had no sanctuary awaiting her. Home was never a release, only Miss Anthony had ever offered her a momentary haven but all that had melted with the falling of the snow. All she could do was crouch like a chastened child, listening, listening, listening as Miss Anthony softly closed the door.74

Her words were distinguishable, even though she spoke with her characteristic quietness, Elen heard each word, smelt the connection.75

‘I know who you are,’ was all she said because there was nothing else to say. 76

Elen was certain she saw what happened between them, in spite of the reality that dictated she remained crouching under his window, the snow landing soundlessly on her skin, melting softly into her hair and clothes.77

Miss Anthony was standing in her petticoats and chemise, her hair tumbling down her narrow back, and her hands playing about the white skin above her breast. Her eyes were focused on the sleeping figure who’d shifted in his sleep to rest on his stomach, the blankets barely covering his upper body. Miss Anthony’s eyes drank in the tight muscles, pausing over each knot and sinew, resting at the curve of his hip before the blanket restored decency. 78

‘I know what you are,’ her fingers began to trace a thin line about his shoulder blades, a languid caress that bit into Elen’s soul. 79

‘You do?’80

‘Yes.’81

The man turned slowly to face Miss Anthony, her fingers paused in mid air, his silver grey eyes searing into hers but his arms were outstretched. He rose in his bed and pulled her downwards until they were touching. Suddenly it seemed the room was on fire with light, Elen had to screw her eyes tight shut to guard against the blinding whiteness filling the window. Her head was bursting with the music of the snow and a beating of wings, spiralling, soaring towards the feathery skies.82

It was Law who cradled Elen back to sensibility, his rough fur wet against her face. A single light still burnt in the kitchen but the window above her head was dark. It was still snowing, and Elen found herself laced with a frosting, she must have been unconscious for some time. She wondered if anyone had missed her yet, but didn’t find herself caring anymore. Her parents could punish her all they liked, she no longer had to stay with them, she had her own home now and Law needed a new mistress.83