Farnsworth and Miss Heald know the ropes. They know all about admissions policies, and grants, and interviews, and examination boards. Mr Farnsworth himself has a Cambridge degree. Leeds and Sheffield and Northam and Bingley are not good enough for Bessie, their prodigy. (They alone know that in the secret national register of marks, ‘never on any account to be seen by the pupil’, Bessie has scored some marks so high that they are almost off the map.) Bessie must go forth like a dove from the ark across the swollen waters. She may come back to visit, to attend reunions, to present prizes on speech days, but forth she must go. Dissatisfaction is slumpily brewing in South Yorkshire, and Bessie must depart.
The strain of all this makes Bessie feel sick. But she cannot resist the pressure. She accepts it, gives in to it. She is taken over by it.
Her parents are a little in awe of their daughter, though they try not to show it. How can they have produced this swan child? Is she a freak, a throwback, a throw-forward? They support her. They might well not have done, but they do. Breaseborough Secondary School has indoctrinated them well.
Nobody has any high expectations of little sister Dora. Dora, of course, is not as clever as Bessie, or so everyone assumes. She has to struggle to keep up at school, and finds Latin and Botany difficult, though she manages a Pass in both, she cannot think how. (She passes with Credit in English, French, Mathematics and Geography, but thinks that too must have been a bit of a mistake—or perhaps everyone gets a Credit?) Dora prefers needlework, and is disappointed not to receive higher praise and higher marks for her collars and buttonholes and garment repairs. When Dora thinks about her future, she thinks she might like to be a dressmaker, like her Ferrybridge aunt or Auntie Florrie in Makin Street, or to run a little corner shop and sell potted meat and jelly babies, like Auntie Clara. Or she might like to marry and have some real babies. She likes babies. She walks a neighbour’s baby round the cemetery on a Sunday afternoon. (Bessie thinks this is mad, and says so.) She also likes to borrow Auntie Florrie’s dog. She likes dogs, and cats, and canaries, and all small pet creatures. She has small, domestic dreams. Dora is at home in Breaseborough. Breaseborough is quite good enough for her, and she often wishes Bessie wouldn’t sneer at it so much. Dora looks up to Bessie, but Bessie does have a way of trying to spoil things for other people. Bessie never says anything nice to Dora, or about her. She shouldn’t expect it, but she can’t help hoping that one day Bessie will praise her for something. For anything. That’s all she asks.
Bessie hardly ever thinks about Dora at all. She had successfully neutralized Dora years ago, as soon as she started to pose any kind of threat, and now her mind is on more serious things. Bessie Bawtry has nightmares about examinations. She will have nightmares about examinations for the rest of her life. She will remember for the rest of her life the questions, the set texts, her answers, her mistakes. The examinations now upon her are the most important ordeal of her life. If she fails now, she fails for ever.
Her granddaughter Faro will not see life in these melodramatic terms. Will she? Things will ease up. For everyone.
Bessie swots and revises. Shakespeare, Browning and Keats. French verbs. Lamartine and Verlaine. General Knowledge. The League of Nations. Universal Suffrage and the Women’s Vote. John Stuart Mill on Liberty, Ruskin on Manufacturing. Miss Heald ponders: perhaps a touch of the moderns? May one admit to reading D. H. Lawrence, Edith Sitwell?
The nightmare of the forced brain trapped in its skullcage. Bessie sits in the corner by the fire at a low little hexagonal wooden glass-topped table, which they call a vitrine: it serves her as desk. There is nowhere to put her legs, but she ignores the discomfort. She is lucky that her
The strain of all this makes Bessie feel sick. But she cannot resist the pressure. She accepts it, gives in to it. She is taken over by it.
Her parents are a little in awe of their daughter, though they try not to show it. How can they have produced this swan child? Is she a freak, a throwback, a throw-forward? They support her. They might well not have done, but they do. Breaseborough Secondary School has indoctrinated them well.
Nobody has any high expectations of little sister Dora. Dora, of course, is not as clever as Bessie, or so everyone assumes. She has to struggle to keep up at school, and finds Latin and Botany difficult, though she manages a Pass in both, she cannot think how. (She passes with Credit in English, French, Mathematics and Geography, but thinks that too must have been a bit of a mistake—or perhaps everyone gets a Credit?) Dora prefers needlework, and is disappointed not to receive higher praise and higher marks for her collars and buttonholes and garment repairs. When Dora thinks about her future, she thinks she might like to be a dressmaker, like her Ferrybridge aunt or Auntie Florrie in Makin Street, or to run a little corner shop and sell potted meat and jelly babies, like Auntie Clara. Or she might like to marry and have some real babies. She likes babies. She walks a neighbour’s baby round the cemetery on a Sunday afternoon. (Bessie thinks this is mad, and says so.) She also likes to borrow Auntie Florrie’s dog. She likes dogs, and cats, and canaries, and all small pet creatures. She has small, domestic dreams. Dora is at home in Breaseborough. Breaseborough is quite good enough for her, and she often wishes Bessie wouldn’t sneer at it so much. Dora looks up to Bessie, but Bessie does have a way of trying to spoil things for other people. Bessie never says anything nice to Dora, or about her. She shouldn’t expect it, but she can’t help hoping that one day Bessie will praise her for something. For anything. That’s all she asks.
Bessie hardly ever thinks about Dora at all. She had successfully neutralized Dora years ago, as soon as she started to pose any kind of threat, and now her mind is on more serious things. Bessie Bawtry has nightmares about examinations. She will have nightmares about examinations for the rest of her life. She will remember for the rest of her life the questions, the set texts, her answers, her mistakes. The examinations now upon her are the most important ordeal of her life. If she fails now, she fails for ever.
Her granddaughter Faro will not see life in these melodramatic terms. Will she? Things will ease up. For everyone.
Bessie swots and revises. Shakespeare, Browning and Keats. French verbs. Lamartine and Verlaine. General Knowledge. The League of Nations. Universal Suffrage and the Women’s Vote. John Stuart Mill on Liberty, Ruskin on Manufacturing. Miss Heald ponders: perhaps a touch of the moderns? May one admit to reading D. H. Lawrence, Edith Sitwell?
The nightmare of the forced brain trapped in its skullcage. Bessie sits in the corner by the fire at a low little hexagonal wooden glass-topped table, which they call a vitrine: it serves her as desk. There is nowhere to put her legs, but she ignores the discomfort. She is lucky that her
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