On the last day of term I received an answer. It asked if I would call on Dr Ravelin at his hotel any afternoon between four and six during the following week. I had already packed up, so I decided to go up to London at once. I took my trunk with me and left it at Waterloo Station cloakroom while I went by bus to Great Russell Street. I was a little worried about my expenses as, after paying the fare from Towerton to Waterloo, I had only £.4 10s. left out of my scholarship allowance, the next payment of which is not due until the beginning of the Autumn Term. I didn't know how much it would cost to spend a night in London: Miss Corrigan had given me the name of a hotel, but she was vague about the price. Out of my four pounds ten I had to pay my fare to Whitehill, which is two pounds twelve and fourpence.
I had been feeling rather shy of going by myself into a big London hotel, but I found that Beeches was quite a small place and the Hall Porter was very kindly. When I asked for Dr Ravelin he took me at once along a corridor and showed me into a high room furnished with old−fashioned mahogany and horse−hair furniture. A small, grey−haired man was sitting at a table on which a number of books lay open.
I saw Dr Ravelin then as a neat elderly gentleman; dapper, in an old−fashioned way. He wore what Daddy used to call a Gates−of−Heaven collar with a white−spotted blue bow tie, and a dark grey suit with all four buttons of the jacket buttoned. I thought his manner was rather formal and my nervousness wasn't helped very much by his trick of cocking his head sharply on one side and raising his bushy eyebrows at each answer I made, as if I surprised ruin. The horse−hair easy chair he invited me to sit on had been made for some kind of anatomy quite different from mine, for I slipped and slid about on it and felt anything but easy.
He questioned me about my course at Towerton, my age, hobbies, games and so on, and his questions were so much at random that I began to suspect that the business of engaging a temporary governess or coach or nursemaid or whatever I was supposed to be was something out of his line. He asked me about my family—where I lived, how long I had lived there, what other relations I had besides my Aunt and Uncle (he made no comment except “Hm!” when I told him I had none). Then about my school and my childhood until I think we had pretty well covered my complete biography.
He put the tips of his fingers together and appeared to think hard. Then he said:
“Very good, Miss Hazel, very good. Now you must want to ask me something.” He cocked his head on one side, waiting.
“The children, sir,” I said, not knowing at all what questions I ought to ask. “Do they speak English?” “Some. Some. Yes, one of them speaks English quite well. Yes, you will find him quite far advanced.” “They're boys, then?” I said.
“One. One boy. Fifteen or thereabout. Yes, fifteen. You have no experience of teaching boys?”
“Well, no,” I said. “But then I haven't any experience of teaching at all, except two weeks' school practice and that was simply taking little girls for gym.”
“It's not important,” he said. “What I envisage is not regular lessons by any means. After all, it's the summer holiday, eh?” He smiled a rapid little smile. “What I conceive to be most useful is that the children should be encouraged to practise their English with someone capable of correcting it, and that there should be someone there to keep an eye on their general health and welfare. I am somewhat occupied myself.”
“Their parents aren't with them, then?” I asked.
“No. No. As you say, their parents aren't with them. These children belong to some very old friends of mine. They like being at Ringstones. I like them to be there. But I feel now that, my habits and pursuits being what they are, I cannot really look after them without some more qualified assistance.”
I privately thought my qualifications were a bit thin. I thought of Fourth Form boys at Whitehill and profoundly hoped that this foreign boy would be better−mannered and more manageable. I wondered how I ought to frame the question I wanted to ask about the pay and my board and lodging. I suppose I took so long to think it out that he thought I had finished, because he patted the tips of his fingers together and said, “Very good. Very good, Miss Hazel. I shall let you know my final decision in the morning. May I know where you are staying?”
I told him the Empire Hotel, that being the name of one that Miss Corrigan had given me. He rose and shook hands with me and I moved to the door.
As I reached it he said, quite sharply, “Miss Hazel!”
I turned round, surprised, to see him indicating the chair again.
“Miss Hazel,” he said, when I had sat down again. “You may think it curious, but when I saw you walk to the door I made up my mind. A person's back, you know, can be very expressive in motion. You are quite suitable for the employment I have in mind. If you please we can settle the necessary details here and now.”
I remember feeling both puzzled and amused at this; but it was rather pleasing to think that I had acquired enough of the Towerton style to impress him to that extent. So, after a few awkward hums and ha's on his part it was settled that I should begin work that day week and get £30 for the three months. I hadn't the vaguest idea whether this was much or little for the job, but it sounded a lot of money to me. Dr Ravelin wrote down the exact address for me: Ringstones Hall, Blagill, near Staineshead. My wondering whether I could borrow the money for the train and bus fare from Uncle Fred was cut short by Dr Ravelin writing me out a cheque for five pounds.
“Let me see,” he said. “My reading at the British Museum will occupy me for several days more. I hope I shall be at Ringstones in time to welcome you. But in any case I will write immediately to Mrs. Sarkissian, my housekeeper, and she will have everything ready for you. I ought to tell you that Ringstones is a very quiet country place: you might even call it remote. We lack many of the amenities of town life, but I hope you won't find it uncomfortable. Whether you find it enjoyable depends on whether you can amuse yourself with outdoor activities. I think, from what you tell me, that you can.” He smiled and added: “It's only fair to warn you that you'll find life with these children quite strenuous. But then, that was why I applied to Miss Corrigan to help me to find someone for them. Finally, let me persuade you not to stay at the Empire. These big places are never very comfortable. I happen to know that there is a room vacant here and you'll find Beeches a great deal more to your liking.” I took his advice and was looked after very well.
(2)
My Aunt and Uncle take pleasure in asking questions and refusing to understand the answers. Back in Whitehill I encountered a weight of disapproval that left me with just the same suffocating feeling in my chest as one of my Aunt's Yorkshire puddings does. I have been away from Green Street long enough, however, to put up a better defence than I once could. I made great play with the argument, not strictly true, that the job had been found for me by the College; but the one that weighed with Uncle Fred in the end was that I should be earning money instead of spending it. (I did not tell him how much I was going to get.) In any case, I had firmly made up my mind that no amount of Green Street disapproval was going to rob me of a holiday to which I was looking forward with such excitement, I had already sent on my trunk as passenger's luggage in advance from King's Cross and, according to my promise, I set out on the Tuesday after I arrived at Whitehill and reached Ringstones Hall safe and sound that evening.
I have never been in this part of the North before. I found it very different from the country round Whitehill, and a world away from the rich meadows and woods and sleepy little rivers round about Towerton. This is a country of bleak, blunt moorland hills, black stone walls, stone cottages roofed with black slabs, wind−twisted thorns and sycamores crouching in hollows of lonely hillsides and gurgling brown peaty burns foaming like beer over black rocks in narrow and rough little glens. The very air seems wider, emptier than it does in the South, and there is a loneliness in these tracts of shaggy boggy moor such as I never knew one could feel in England before.