Виктория Холт - The Captive

The next morning, rather to my surprise, she was in the schoolroom at the appointed time.

I told her I had worked out a timetable. We would start with English, perhaps for an hour or so; we would see how that worked. I should want to test her reading ability, her spelling, her grammar. We should read books together.

I had found a collection in the cupboard. I picked up The

Count of Monte Cristo and when I opened it I saw “Simon Perrivale’ written on the flyleaf in a childish hand. I felt my own hands tremble a little.

I managed to hide my emotion from her alert eyes. I said:

“Have you ever read this book?”

She shook her head.

“We’ll read it one day and, oh, here’s another. Treasure Island.

That’s about pirates. “

Her interest was aroused. There was a picture on the frontispiece of Long John Silver with his parrot on his shoulder.

She said: “In that other book … that was his name … you know, the murderer.”

“We don’t know that he was,” I said, and stopped myself abruptly, for she was looking at me in surprise. I should have to go carefully.

“We shall then do history, geography and arithmetic.”

She was scowling.

“We’ll see how they fit in,” I said firmly.

The morning passed tolerably well. I discovered that she could read fairly fluently and I was pleased to discover that she had a definite taste for literature. The personalities of history interested her but she shut her mind to dates. There was a revolving globe in the cupboard and we had an interesting time discovering places on it. I showed her where I had been shipwrecked. The story intrigued her, and we finished off the morning by reading a chapter of Treasure Island; she was absorbed by the book from the first page.

I was amazed at my success.

I had decided that we should work until midday. Then she could follow her own pursuits if she wished until three o’clock when we might walk in the gardens or in the surrounding country and learn something about plant life, or take a walk. We could resume lessons at four and work until five. That was our scholastic day.

In the afternoon she showed no wish to be on her own and offered to show me the surrounding country. I was rather pleased that she sought my company and seemed to retain her interest in me.

She talked about Treasure Island and told me what she thought would happen. She wanted to hear about my shipwreck. I began to think that it was this which had made her ready to accept me . perhaps briefly as had not been the case with the other governesses.

She took me to the top of the cliffs and we sat there for a while, watching the sea.

“We have rough seas here,” she said.

“There used to be wreckers along these coasts. They had lights and they lured the ships on to the rocks, pretending that it was the harbour. Then they stole the cargo.

I’d like to have been a wrecker. “

“Why do you want to be evil?”

“Being good is dull.”

“It’s better in the long run.”

“I like short runs.”

I laughed at her and she laughed with me.

She said suddenly: “Look at those rocks down there. A man was drowned down there not very long ago.”

“Did you know him?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “He was a stranger here.

He came from London. He’s buried in St. Morwenna’s churchyard. I’ll show you his grave. Would you like to see it? “

“Well, I suppose it is hardly one of the local beauty spots.”

She laughed again.

“He was drunk,” she said.

“He fell over the cliffs and right down on to the rocks.”

“He must have been very drunk.”

“Oh, he was. There was a fuss about it. They didn’t know who he was for a long time.”

“How you love the morbid!”

“What’s that?”

“Unpleasant … gruesome.”

“I like gruesome things.”

“It’s not the wisest of preoccupations.”

She looked at me and laughed again.

“You are funny,” she said.

Looking back over that day when I retired to my room that night, I could say it had been unexpectedly satisfactory. I had some hope however flimsy of coming to an understanding with Kate.

A few days passed. To my secret delight, I was discovering that my somewhat unorthodox methods of teaching were more successful with a pupil like Kate than more conventional ones might have been. We were reading together a great deal. In fact, I held those reading sessions as a sort of bribe for good conduct during the less attractive projects. She could have read by herself but she preferred that we do it together.

She liked to share her enjoyment, which was a sign in her favour, I thought; moreover, she liked to talk about what we had read afterwards; then sometimes she might be held up because she did not know the meaning of a word. She was avid for knowledge, in spite of the fact that she had expressed her contempt for it; and she was completely intrigued by Treasure Island.

It was too much to expect a complete change in the child merely because our relationship had progressed more favourably than I had dared hope. I think it was on my fourth morning that she did not put in an appearance in the schoolroom.

I went to her room. She was looking out of the window, obviously expecting me, and I could see she was preparing to enjoy a battle.

I said: “Why are you not in the schoolroom?”

“I don’t feel like lessons today,” she replied jauntily.

“It doesn’t matter how you feel. This is lesson-time.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I certainly would not attempt to take you there by force. I shall go to your mother and tell her that you have made up your mind not to learn and there is no point in my being here.”

It was a bold step. I could not bear the thought of leaving now. Yet I knew I could get nowhere unless I had some authority over her.

She looked at me defiantly. My heart sank but I hoped I hid my feelings. I had gone too far to turn back.

“You really mean you’d go?” I saw the fear in her eyes mingling with disbelief. I sensed that she was as uneasy as I was.

I said firmly: “If you will not come to the schoolroom I have no alternative.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“All right,” she said.

“Go, if you want to.”

I walked to the door. I must not show my despair. If this was to be the end, what good had I done? But there was no turning back now. I went out. She did not move. I started down the stairs. Then I heard her.

“Come back, Cranny.”

I paused and turned to look back at her.

“All right,” I said.

“I’ll come.”

I felt flushed with victory as we made our way to the schoolroom.

She was in a difficult mood all day. I wondered why. Perhaps she felt she had been good too long and it was not in her nature to be so.

I found a dead shrew mouse in my bed that night. I carefully wrapped it up in tissue paper and went along to her room.

“I think this poor little thing belongs to you,” I said.

She looked aghast.

“Where did you find it?”

“Where you put it. In my bed.”

“I bet you screamed when you found it.”

“I did not think it frightening or funny. It’s just a rather silly cliche really.”

I could see her pondering on the word cliche. She loved discovering new words; but she was not in the mood to ask me what it meant.

I went on: “I wonder how many times some mischievous child has put a shrew mouse in someone’s bed. It’s really rather silly. You do the expected thing, Kate.”

She was a little downcast. Then she said: “Well … you brought it back, didn’t you? You were going to put it in my bed.”

“I should have done no such thing. I merely wanted you to know that your silly trick had not had the effect you thought it would. Now, if we are going to have a truce, we should put an end to these childish tricks. It would be more interesting to get on well together. There are many exciting things we could do. We don’t want to waste time having tantrums and playing silly tricks. We can talk …”