Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre

  Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre

  Miss Read

  * * *

  Illustrated by J. S. Goodall

  * * *

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

  Boston New York

  * * *

  First Houghton Mifflin paperback edition 2001

  Copyright © 1989 by Miss Read

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from

  this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Visit our Web site: www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Read, Miss.

  Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre

  ISBN 0-618-155 88-0 (pbk)

  I. Title.

  PR 6069.A42M58 1990B

  823'. 914—dc20 90-4669

  Printed in the United States of America

  QUM 10 9 8

  * * *

  To Vicki and Horace

  with love

  CHAPTER 1

  Face to Face

  It is snowing again. We shall certainly have a white Christmas this year, a rare occurrence even in this downland village of Fairacre.

  I have been the head teacher of Fairacre School for more years than I care to remember, and the school house, where I write this, has been my home for all that time. It is particularly snug at the moment: the fire blazes, the cat is stretched out in front of it, and Christmas cards line the mantelpiece. Very soon the school breaks up for the Christmas holidays, and what a comforting thought that is!

  Comfort is needed, not only from the snowflakes which whisper at the window, but also from the aftermath of a recent skirmish with Mrs Pringle, our school cleaner, who has lived in the village even longer than I have.

  She does her job superbly, but is a sore trial. It is generally agreed that she is 'difficult', the vicar's expression, and 'a proper Tartar', as Bob Willet our handyman and school caretaker puts it.

  During term time our paths cross on most days. It is no wonder that I relish the school holidays and the peace that they bring. How long, I muse, putting another log on the fire, will I be able to stand her aggression? Stroking Tibby's warm stomach, I look back through the years at my tempestuous relationship at Fairacre School with the doughty Mrs Pringle.

  I first encountered Mrs Pringle one thundery July afternoon.

  It was a Friday, I remember. The vicar, the Reverend Gerald Partridge who was chairman of the school governors, had invited me to tea before looking over the school house which was to become my home at the end of the month. I had recently been appointed head mistress of Fairacre School.

  There were puddles in the playground, and we splashed through them on our way to the school house. A strange mooing noise, as of a cow or calf in distress, was coming from the deserted school building. The children of Fairacre had already started their summer holiday.

  'That,' said Mr Partridge, 'is Mrs Pringle, our school cleaner. It sounds as though she is singing a hymn. She is in the church choir.'

  We paused for a moment, listening to the distant voice and the plop of raindrops into puddles.

  'I don't recognise it,' I ventured.

  'Probably the descant,' replied the vicar. He did not sound very sure. 'In any case, perhaps I should take you to meet her before we visit the house.'

  We changed direction, and the vicar pushed open the door into the lobby.

  Mrs Pringle, bucket at her feet and floor cloth in the other, stood before us. She was short and stout. Her expression was dour. She made no attempt to smile, offer a hand, or make any other gesture of welcome as the vicar introduced us.

  Eventually, she jerked her head towards the floor where our feet had made wet prints.

  'I just done that,' she remarked, the four words dropping as cold and flat as the stones upon which we stood.

  Although I did not know it at the time, it was the first shot in a war which was to last for many years.

  I was the first woman to be appointed head teacher of Fairacre School, and I looked forward eagerly to taking up my duties.

  The downland village and the market town of Caxley were known to me, for my good friend Amy who had been with me at college, had married and lived south of Caxley in the village of Bent. On my frequent weekend visits we explored the countryside, and often drove up to the downs for a picnic and an exhilarating walk. We drove through the villages of Beech Green and Fairacre and sometimes stopped to look round their churches, or to buy something from Beech Green's village shop.

  When I had seen the headship of Fairacre School advertised in The Times Educational Supplement I had applied for the post.

  'I'm not likely to get it,' I said to Amy, 'I doubt if I shall even get called to an interview.'

  'Rubbish!' said Amy stoutly. 'You are better qualified than most, and I'm positive you'll get the job.'

  Although I was grateful for this display of support, biased though it was, I had private misgivings. Consequently, when I was appointed, I felt both pride and trepidation. Could I fulfil the governors' hopes, and would the children and parents be co-operative?

  I need not have worried.

  Any initial suspicions or doubts on the part of the inhabitants of Fairacre were soon hidden from me, and as the years passed I was accepted as part of the village community. I could never expect to be in the same category as a native, born and bred in Fairacre, but to be welcomed was quite enough for me.

  But on that humid thundery afternoon I was still at the apprehensive stage, and my encounter with the school cleaner aroused my fears.

  I tried to put them aside as I followed the vicar round my new home. It was a snug well-built house with a good-sized sitting room, and a decent kitchen flanked by a small dining room. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a tiny box room, later destined to be a bathroom.

  At that time the house was empty, for my predecessor, Mr Fortescue, had moved out just before his retirement. It was Mrs Pringle, the vicar told me, who had a key and kept the premises clean.

  'In fact,' went on the vicar, 'she has cared for this house for many years.'

  'I see,' I said, my heart sinking.

  'Of course, it is entirely up to you, but if you felt like continuing to employ her, I am sure she would carry on.'

  'Thank you for telling me.'

  'She is really a wonderful worker,' persisted the vicar as we went out into the dripping garden. 'Her manner is a little off-putting, I know, but she is diligent and honest, and has always taken a great pride in her work.'

  I did not reply, determined not to commit myself at this stage, to being hostess to Mrs Pringle for years to come.

  'What a lovely garden!' I said, changing the subject.

  There were a few mature fruit trees displaying small unripe apples, plums and pears, and an impressive herbaceous border flaunting lupins, delphiniums and oriental poppies.

  The flowers were looking rather battered from the recent rain, the border was undoubtedly weedy and the lawn shaggy, but basically it was a splendid garden, and my spirits rose.

  'Yes, Mr Willet gives a hand,' said the vicar. 'In fact, he gives a hand at most of our activities, as you will find.'

  He drew out a watch from his waistcoat pocket.

  'Dear, dear! I think we should get back to the vicarage. My wife will have tea ready.'

  We retraced our steps to rejoin Mrs Partridge and Amy who had brought me over, and who had spent the time, I learned later, in unravelling the sleeve of a cardigan which the vicar's wife was engaged upon. She had misread the directions for increasing, and the sleeve was ballooning out in an alarming fashion, to say nothing of u
sing up all the wool before the whole thing was finished.

  As the vicar and I walked up the drive to our tea he returned to the subject of Mrs Pringle.

  'Do consider the matter of employing her,' he urged. 'I feel sure she is expecting it.'

  He sounded, I thought, somewhat nervous. Was he frightened of the lady, I wondered? Was she really as fearsome as she undoubtedly looked? It only strengthened my determination not to commit myself.

  'I'll certainly consider it,' I assured him, as he opened the front door.

  'Ah, good!' he replied, sounding much relieved. 'And good again, I think I can smell toasted teacakes.'

  On the way back to Bent, I prattled happily to Amy about the school house and garden, and how much I looked forward to living there.

  'You must let me give you a hand in getting it ready,' said Amy, hooting at a pheasant who strolled haughtily across the road intent on suicide.

  'I should enjoy your company,' I replied.

  'It's not so much my company,' said Amy severely, 'as my advice you will need. You know you've never been much good at measuring accurately, and I haven't much opinion of your sense of colour.'

  'Thank you,' I said, trying not to sound nettled. That is the worst of friends who have known you from youth. They remember all those faults which one has done one's best to eradicate over the years. However, Amy always means well, despite her undoubted bossiness, and on this occasion I managed not to answer back.

  In any case, I reminded myself, I had quite a few memories of Amy's early indiscretions, and should have no hesitation in using them if she continued to rake up the infirmities in my own past.

  But I was too euphoric about my future to take serious offence as Amy's car swished through the puddles. The sky remained lowering, and it was obvious that the thunderstorm was not yet over.

  'Of course, the garden needs tidying,' I continued, 'but the vicar seems to think that someone called Bob Willet will give a hand. I must get in touch with him.'

  'And what about the house?'

  I felt a slight pang as I recalled Mrs Pringle's visage, quite as dark and menacing as the sky overhead.

  'Well,' I began, 'the school cleaner seems to have looked after the head teacher's house before, but I didn't really take to her.'

  'Taking to her or not,' said Amy, 'is beside the point. You're not exactly the model housewife, as you well know. I should advise you to take whatever domestic help is offered.'

  'But, Amy,' I protested, 'you haven't seen this Mrs Pringle. She's quite formidable. Why, I believe the vicar himself is afraid of her, and after all he's girt about with righteousness and all the other Christian armament. What hope for a defenceless woman like me?'

  'You exaggerate,' replied Amy, swinging neatly into her drive. 'I'll come over with you next time and meet the lady.'

  And what a clash of the dinosaurs that could be, I thought with some relish as I clambered from the car.

  James, Amy's husband, proved to be a welcome ally later that evening when the subject of help in my new abode cropped up.

  'I shouldn't saddle myself with that lady if I were you,' he said. 'Fob her off. Say you want to see how things work out. Play for time.'

  'My feelings entirely,' I responded. 'I didn't like to press Mr Partridge too much. He seems so anxious not to offend her, but perhaps a few discreet enquiries among other villagers would be useful. This Bob Willet might be helpful.'

  'There are no such things as discreet enquiries in a village,' said James. 'Everything is known within a flash. I should make up your own mind. Keep your ears open, by all means, but your mouth shut. I was brought up in a village and I know what I'm talking about.'

  'I've had some experience of living in a village myself,' I responded, 'but not as one of the pillars of society as I suppose I will be in Fairacre. I shall have to watch my step.'

  'If you are going to be a public figure,' remarked Amy, 'and an example of right living to the children and their parents, I should think that a clean house might be the first step in the right direction.'

  She sounded rather waspish, I thought, probably rather cross with James for taking my part.

  'Well, I haven't turned down Mrs Pringle absolutely flat,' I pointed out, 'but I'm not being rushed into anything.'

  'Wise girl,' commented James.

  Amy gave a snort.

  In bed later, I recalled the pleasures of my first sight of the school house and garden. It gave me great joy to remember the pleasant rooms awaiting my furniture, and the pretty garden awaiting urgent attention by both Bob Willet and me.

  I refused to be put off by the malevolent shade of Mrs Pringle.

  'A mere fly in the ointment,' I said aloud, settling into my pillow.

  I fell asleep within minutes.

  CHAPTER 2

  Settling In

  What with one thing and another, it was the beginning of August before I could make my next visit to Fairacre.

  Amy, hospitable as ever, was going to put me up, but I made the journey by train, and then caught one of the rare buses which went from Caxley to Fairacre.

  It was market day in the little town, and the stall holders were doing a brisk trade in the square. It was hot and noisy, and my case was heavy. I was glad to climb aboard the bus and find a seat.

  Fairacre was several miles distant, and the bus chugged gently uphill from the valley of the river Cax, stopping at the villages for laden shoppers to alight.

  At Beech Green, the village before Fairacre, the bus stopped beside the village school, and I wondered who my next door colleague might be.

  It was a scorching afternoon, the very best time to see this downland country. In some distant fields, harvest had already started, combines crawling like gigantic toys around the fields.

  The hedges were heavy with summer foliage, still starred here and there with late wild roses and the creamy flat heads of elderflowers. The grass on the roadside banks was sun-bleached, and as the bus swished by it undulated like ripe corn before a strong wind.

  Amy was coming to pick me up at the school house at half past four, and meanwhile I had over two hours in which to visit Mr Willet, the Post Office and, best of all, my new house and garden.

  It was no wonder that my spirits were high as we rattled towards Fairacre.

  Mr Willet was hoeing in his remarkably neat vegetable patch. Despite the heat he was wearing a cap, and although he was in his shirt sleeves he had a tweed waistcoat as his outer garment.

  After greetings and my compliments on his vegetables, I broached the subject of help in the garden at the school house.

  'Now I was hopin' you'd be along,' said Mr Willet. 'I've looked after that for more years than I can count. It may look a bit rough at the moment, as I didn't like to be too forward and trespass-like in there when I'd not been given permission.'

  'But you'll come?'

  'Of course I'll come. Be up tomorrow evenin' if you like. There's a row of shallots should be lifted by now. I wondered if I ought to do that, but thought Mrs Pringle might catch sight of me and tell all and sundry I was pinchin' 'em.'

  This gave me an opening for further enquiries.

  Mr Willet pushed back his cap and leant heavily on the hoe.

  'Let's put it this way. I don't like to speak ill of anyone,' he began, obviously about to do just that, 'but you wants to start as you means to go on with that one. I'm not sayin' she's all bad. She done a lot for us when my Alice was took ill one winter, but she's a proper moaner. If you gets a smile out of her, you'll be the first as has.'

  'Well, thank you for telling me. Forewarned is forearmed, so they say.'

  'It isn't arms as is the trouble with her. It's legs. She's got one that gives her a mort of trouble, so she says, and everyone else too come to that, when she's crossed in any way. Ah, yes! Mrs Pringle's leg is a force to be reckoned with, as you'll find.'

  We walked together to the gate.

  'You lettin' her do your house-cleanin'?' he asked, coming to the
point with a directness I already respected.

  'I haven't decided..."

  'You think it over well, Miss Read. 'Tis easy enough to ask people in, and a durn sight more tricky to get 'em out. Not that she isn't a good worker, I will say that,' he added.

  'I'll be over tomorrow evening,' I promised, 'and we'll look at the garden together.'

  'I'll tell Alice you called. She's over at Springbourne on some W.I. lark. She'll want to hear all about you.'

  And so will the rest of Fairacre, I surmised, as I made my way to the Post Office.

  After the few obligatory comments on the weather (nice to see the sun, but the peas need some rain to plump up), I introduced myself to Mr Lamb.

  'Hope you'll be very happy here,' he said, shaking my hand. 'Thought it was you getting off the bus. Been to see Bob Willet?'

  'As a matter of fact I have.'

  'Good chap, Bob. Going to give you a hand in the garden?'

  'I hope so.'

  'Nothing that chap can't turn his hand to. Looks after the school a fair treat, and the church and graveyard. And always cheery.'

  He stopped suddenly. 'You met Mrs Pringle yet?'

  I said that I had.

  'She'll be cleaning the school still, I suppose?'

  I said that I hoped so.

  'Excuse me asking, but is she going to work for you too? In the house, I mean?'

  I said that I had not yet made up my mind.

  Mr Lamb gave a sigh. It sounded like one of relief.

  'Yes, well. She's a good worker, I'll grant, but I'd take time in deciding to have her regular myself.'

  I thanked him, bought some stamps and a packet of biscuits, and made my way to the school house.

  Amy had already arrived, and was wandering about the garden. She was smiling in a dreamy fashion.

  'What a blissful spot. Absolute peace!'