‘Yes.’ Miss Bowler handed her a piece of cloth.
Ann paused to take one final look at her words, then cleaned the slate and sat with the chalk poised, trying to force herself to think. Her memories of her mother were few and, in truth, all came tarnished with a suffering and sorrow which she preferred to forget.
Miss Bowler sensed Ann’s reticence and wrongly attributed it to her inability to begin the poem. ‘Allow me to re-read My Love’s like a Lily; I shall clap out the syllables as I read, so you can hear the rhythm:
My love’s like a lily, my love’s like a rose,
My love’s like a smile the spring mornings disclose;
And sweet as the rose, on her cheek her love glows,
When sweetly she smileth on me.
Do you hear it?’ Miss Bowler asked. ‘The rhythm of the poem?’
Ann nodded, dragging her mind out of the awfulness of childhood recollection.
‘At the end of the first three lines in the stanza, you have a rhyming triplet: rose, disclose, glows…but of course, for a first attempt you needn’t be so adventurous.’
For a long time, Ann sat and thought. Then she wrote isolated words. Then she scrubbed them out and wrote a line. The next line appeared, as if by itself. The third line she found difficult to relate to the previous two and it took several attempts to satisfy her. Finally, she had written her poem. She checked it, made a correction, then passed the slate to Miss Bowler, who cleared her throat and then read aloud:
‘Sophia
Life for you were like a wave
So short and difficult to save
Another minute with you I do crave
But you be returning to the grave’
She placed the slate down and raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Ann.’
‘Do it be awful, Miss Bowler?’
Miss Bowler shook her head. ‘I don’t think I have ever read a first poem so beautiful.’
‘Really?’ Ann asked.
‘Really, it’s lovely.’
The sound of the street door opening, and the diffident entrance of two young girls to the back of the hall, signalled the end of the lesson, though Ann could tell that neither she nor Miss Bowler felt ready to stop. Ann sensed that there was more to be said; encouragement, perhaps, or a critique of her poem. For she knew that it lacked punctuation and, now that she had heard it read back to her, she disliked the word ‘returning’, thinking that it sounded as though her mother were some kind of a half-dead, coming and going freely to the grave.
‘Sorry, Ann,’ Miss Bowler said.
Ann half-smiled, quickly trying to commit the poem to memory before wiping it from the slate. ‘See you next week,’ Ann said, standing to leave.
‘See you next week,’ Miss Bowler answered. When Ann had reached the street door, she called out, ‘Well done for today. You’re doing brilliantly.’
Ann nodded, strolling out into the chilly late morning air. She walked briskly back towards Strond Street, her mind in a blur. Usually she left Miss Bowler’s academy with her thoughts spilling over with what she had learned, and she would practise the new spellings or a poem that she had learned, happily chanting them over and over in her head, or writing the words with an imaginary piece of chalk on her palm. Today, the elation which she had felt at writing her very own poem was dwarfed by the shadow of recollection of her mother and her past.
Ann reached the street door to J. Minet, Fector & Co. bank and took a long breath in. ‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly, as she entered.
Mr Claringbould—she now knew him to be called—welcomed her: ‘Ah, Miss Fothergill.’ He bent down behind the counter and hauled up the usual ledger. ‘I trust we are well, today?’
‘We are very well, thanking you kindly,’ Ann replied grandiosely. Having raised questions with Miss Bowler over her interactions with the bankers, she had rehearsed answers and now followed the script perfectly on each visit. ‘And your good self?’
Mr Claringbould nodded, seeming to take great pleasure in Ann’s clumsy attempts at formality. ‘Very good, thank you. How much would madam wish to deposit with us, this morning?’
‘Two pounds, two shillings,’ Ann said, placing the money onto the counter.
‘You have been saving hard, Miss Fothergill,’ Mr Claringbould said. ‘Well done.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Ann replied. She shifted on the spot, wondering how best to ask something which deviated from their set script. ‘I were wondering…’
‘Oh, yes?’ Mr Claringbould said, looking up sharply from the ledger.
‘What be the chance of me buying a public house or an inn?’ she asked, quickly looking down in embarrassment from the snickering and derision which she knew was about to follow.
‘Freehold or leasehold?’ Mr Claringbould asked.
She met his serious eyes, uncertain of his question. ‘Pardon? What do you be meaning?’
‘Ah. Freehold you would be purchasing—with a mortgage, of course—the business in question. Leasehold you would be…well, leasing it.’
Ann continued to stare at him blankly.
‘Of course, it all depends on the terms of sale for the business, but…’ he looked down at the ledger for a moment, ‘I would suggest, looking at your current financial position, that you consider a leasehold with a mortgage—from us, of course.’
‘Right,’ Ann muttered, taken aback at the positive response.
‘Do you have a property in mind?’ he asked.
‘No, not yet.’
Mr Claringbould nodded. ‘Well, speak with us when you do.’
Ann grinned. A well-respected banker had just told Miss Ann Fothergill that she could buy her own public house. She thanked Mr Claringbould with an off-script shake of his hand, took the receipt for her deposit and left the bank, beaming.
Although she walked slowly along Strond Street, her thoughts were moving fast. Thoughts about a possible future. It was high time that she moved on. Her current
