Alfred and Emily by Doris Lessing Page B

keeping a room for herself. But she liked better her flat in the house in Beak Street.
    Within six months, the first William Martin-White school was open, and already a great success.
    After the first school was opened, Mary Lane often came to London, though at first she was shocked by what she saw, the unhealthy little children of the East End: ‘We do have poverty in the country, yes,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never seen anything as bad as this.’ She stayed with Emily, when she was there, but there was a good bit of travelling to be done: requests for information about these Martin-White schools came from other cities. And soon there was a bonus, because Daisy, now the fuss and flowers were over, came often to observe and to help when she could. She planned to retire soon, so intriguing did she find the schools. Then Harold retired, and he too visited London, though never without saying how shocking he found it, a feverish, hysterical place. He had a ‘lair’ inRupert and Daisy’s house and there he and Rupert might sit to discuss the world and its affairs. Though not often, for Rupert was so busy.
    Mary Lane told Emily that ‘the two wives’, which was how she described Betsy and Phyllis, had set up a school, and it was doing well, using all kinds of tips from the Martin-White schools – there were soon three in London alone.
    Why did not the Longerfield school ask to be a Martin-White school? They did, and were refused: a stipulation was that there must be a Montessori teacher in every accredited school.
    â€˜Well, never mind,’ said Mary. ‘It’s a good little school and I am sure you would think so. So, come down and see it.’
    She did not press, and Emily might have wondered why. Something had happened that involved her, and perhaps it would be better, people decided, if she did not know about it. And she never did know: this was a credit to everyone’s discretion.
    Bert, who really couldn’t stand Emily, though he wouldn’t have been able to say why, had taken to mocking her storytelling – the mice and the cat and the birds, and so on. He mimicked her well, and people laughed at his ‘And then the dear little rats ate up all the cats and soon the mice…’ and so on. The venom of his dislike for Emily made his mockery upsetting to her friends, and he was asked to desist, but he did not. And then the surprising thing happened. Some small children, hearing Bert’s rather nasty mimicry, did not ‘take in’ that this was criticism of their dear aunt Emily, and cried out,‘Uncle Bert is telling stories, he is telling stories. Tell us a story, Uncle Bert…’
    Bert was quite affronted, then shooed them away and even physically went away himself, to the end of the farm, but as soon as he reappeared, it began, ‘Here’s Uncle Bert, tell us a story…’
    â€˜And now,’ said his wife, Phyllis, ‘you aren’t going to be able to get out of this one, are you, Bert?’
    Alfred, at first, laughed, for it was funny, this clumsy, shambling man, who had always seemed to be in the act of turning away from whomever he spoke to, or from a situation. How could he turn away from these children – two of them his own, all of whom he had known since they were born?
    â€˜Well,’ said Alfred to Bert, ‘why don’t you have a shot at it, then? They aren’t a critical audience.’
    Bert could not bring himself to descend to mice and cats but there were horses now on the farm, and he tried to make up tales about them. But he really didn’t have the knack. The children were indulgent: they sat around him, mouths open, eyes expectant always for the magic of Aunt Emily. And Bert could not do it. He simply could not.
    He would say, ‘You know that new horse, Grey Boy? Well, we bought him at Doncaster for fifty pounds but he isn’t worth that. He can’t keep his