Village Centenary Page 10

  'Strong grounds for divorce,' I said. 'Have some coffee?'

  And we went into the kitchen together to make it.

  7 July

  Speculation about Holly Lodge grew keener as the weeks passed. The preliminary announcement of its sale by auction, 'unless sold privately beforehand', whetted all appetites.

  Mrs Pringle had heard from an unspecified source, but she told me it was as true as she stood there, that nothing under fifty thousand pounds would be considered. Mr Willet observed that people must need their heads examined when it came to buying houses these days, and Reg Thorn said he could remember when Holly Lodge belonged to that miserable old faggot that drove a Liverpool phaeton. His name was on the tip of his tongue, but he reckoned it had gone for the moment. Anyway, when he had died - and no one mourned his going, that was a fact - Holly Lodge went for six hundred to a nice old party from the other side of Caxley. Six hundred, mark you!

  Later in the morning, he drew aside the tarpaulin, sending a shower of dried paint and wood splinters upon us, poked his face through the gap, and said:

  'Potter! That was the name! Josiah Potter, and a nasty bit of work he was too.'

  He then withdrew, allowing me to send Ernest out to the lobby for the dustpan and brush, whilst I continued my interrupted discourse on mediaeval farming methods.

  The sale of Holly Lodge occupied the inhabitants of Fairacre very pleasurably. The history of the house, the quirks of its various owners and, of course, the scandalous amount of money being asked for it at the moment, were all mulled over with the greatest enjoyment.

  Whether any would-be purchasers had inspected the house was difficult to say. Holly Lodge was a little distance from the centre of the village and well hidden from prying eyes by the high hedge which gave the house its name. It was one of Fairacre's more retired establishments, and as Mrs Pringle remarked wistfully: 'It's difficult to find out what goes on in there.'

  It so happened that I met Miriam Quinn and Joan Benson on separate occasions within a week. I had gone into Caxley on one sunny Saturday morning to buy a pair of summer shoes, and was still reeling from the shock of the amount I had just handed over, when I bumped into Miriam Quinn.

  She commiserated with me.

  'I can sympathise. I've just come from inspecting cotton frocks, and have decided that my present shabby collection can do another year - if not two or three.'

  I asked after Joan.

  'Run off her feet at the moment, with people coming to view. She won't have any difficulty in disposing of it, I'm sure, but she does so want to see it in good hands. Half the viewers have appalling plans for turning it into flats, or a home for delinquent boys or some such.'

  I said that it must be a trying time for them both.

  'Well, there it is. I haven't found anything remotely suitable for myself, and I'm now at the limbo stage, telling myself I may as well wait and see, and perhaps something will turn up. Somehow one gets numb after a bit.'

  'Maybe that's nature's protection,' I said, as we parted.

  Joan Benson I met in the village a day or two later. She was struggling with an overloaded carrier bag which had collapsed under the strain, and only had one handle intact.

  'I really should have brought the car, but I thought it would do me good to walk on such a heavenly day. In any case, I only intended to buy about four things, and now look at me!'

  'Here, put some in my basket, and come back with me and I'll let you have a good tough bag. I'm going to have a cup of tea anyway, so do join me.'

  The children had gone home, and I had been to the post office to send off a couple of urgent missives to the office, which would probably not be opened for days, if I knew anything about it.

  Over tea, Joan told me more about the horrors of selling a home. 'I don't know which is worse - trying to find a home, or trying to get rid of one. For two pins, I'd call the whole thing off and just stay at Holly Lodge until I'm carried out feet first.'

  'There would be general rejoicing if you did decide to stay,' I told her.

  'Well, that's nice to hear, but I really must be sensible and look ahead. This wretched arthritis gets steadily more troublesome, and sometimes I find it quite difficult to get upstairs. And the house is far too big now that I'm alone, and costs the earth to heat. And much as I love gardening, I simply cannot cope with that great one at Holly Lodge, and help gets more and more impossible to find, and more and more expensive.'

  She sighed, and shook her head at the proffered biscuit tin.

  'What a misery I sound! I'm not really unhappy, I've been so kindly looked after in Fairacre I shall miss the life here horribly. But my daughter is quite right. If I can't drive, I shall be absolutely done for in Fairacre, and I'm finding it quite painful sometimes. And I'm sorry to say that I am now refusing to drive at night, or if it's foggy or icy.'

  'That cuts it down quite considerably,' I agreed, and she laughed.

  'But it's selling the house which is the real problem. I don't want Miriam to have to go. She's been quite wonderful to me, and is so happily ensconced in that little annexe. If only we could find a nice quiet family that would be glad to have her there, and people that Miriam could get on with, it would be perfect. But that means selling to someone we know, and so far no one in that category has emerged. And some of the viewers have fairly curdled my blood with their plans for the house!'

  'They probably wouldn't get them passed anyway when it came to the point.'

  'But I love that house,' cried Joan. 'I simply hate the idea of it being torn about. If only some nice couple who like it as it is would appear, I should sell cheerfully. As it is, I still have to find myself somewhere near Barbara. She is quite marvellous about vetting places, but with young children she is very tied, and I feel I must go and stay with her before long to have a good scout round myself.'

  She began to collect her shopping.

  'I've run on far too long, but you are so sympathetic. And thank you for the delicious tea, and the bag, and best of all for listening.'

  On the doorstep she paused.

  'You won't mention my concern about Miriam, will you? I should hate her to think I was turning buyers away because of her. It's not quite like that, as I'm sure you understand, but she is so independent...'

  Her voice trailed away.

  'Never fear,' I assured her. 'I've lived in a village long enough to know how to be discreet. Though even then, it's sometimes difficult to keep the boat up straight.'

  She waved, and departed with her burden.

  Mr Lamb at the post office unearthed a handful of ancient postcards from the back of a little-used drawer. He came across one of Fairacre School which he kindly gave me, and I pored over it with a magnifying glass.

  This photograph must have been taken in the first decade of this century, judging by the dress of the children. They are all gathered in the lane outside the school and there is not a single piece of traffic in sight.

  How instantly that picture carried me into a vanished world! The boys are grouped together on one side of the lane, and every one of them wears a cap. Some are in Norfolk breeches, some in short and some in long trousers. Quite a few have jackets too big for them, some too small, with their bony wrists hanging from tight sleeves, but almost all sport Eton collars and stout boots.

  The girls, carefully separated from the boys by the width of the lane, wear black stockings and boots, white starched pinafores over their frocks, and some have hats as well. Altogether there must be around seventy children in this photograph. The staff seems to be hidden by the throng,

  with the exception of one stolid-looking young man who towers above the girls.

  I looked in vain for Miss Clare who must have been there at that time, but either she was absent that day or was engulfed by her charges somewhere at the rear of the party.

  The school building looked exactly the same, and I recognised several trees as old friends, although considerably shorter. But a magnificent barn, end on
to the road, has now gone. The rough grass still grows as thickly at the edge of the lane, and one small child holds a flower to his face, enjoying its scent forever.

  With so many memories crowding upon me during this centenary year, I found this scene particularly moving, and shall always be grateful to Mr Lamb for presenting me with such an irreplaceable treasure.

  With the end of term in sight I conferred with Miss Briggs about our plans. It seemed wise to let parents know in good time about our centenary affairs, especially those who might have costumes to prepare.

  'After all, it is next term,' I pointed out, 'and Fairacre folk don't like to be hurried into things.'

  'I should think that seldom happens,' replied my assistant. 'I've never met such a slow lot of parents. It's about time Fairacre moved with the times, and woke up.'

  I was too taken aback by this attack to answer for a moment. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, was my first reaction!

  'And I'm beginning to wonder,' she went on, 'if I don't owe it to myself to change to a livelier job.'

  I hardly liked to point out that she had had some months of unemployment before she landed the Fairacre post. Also that she would need a glowing reference from me, which in all honesty I could not supply, to take her to another job, and in any case her probationary year had at least another term to run.

  'If you do decide to try your luck,' I said at last, 'you know how much notice you must give. But if you'll take my advice I should get all the experience you can here before you think of changing.'

  'Nothing seems to happen here!' cried my discontented assistant. 'I should think Fairacre School was exactly like this a hundred years ago! And, as far as I can see, it will be exactly the same a hundred years hence!'

  Privately I hoped it would be, but I know full well that the wind of change buffets us daily, and that a school which has shrunk from that thriving community in Mr Lamb's photograph to the twenty-odd children who now comprise the school cannot hope to survive long.

  'I think you must make an effort to join some activity or other which you'll enjoy in Caxley,' I said. 'What about the Operatic Society, or Caxley Dramatic Club? You like tennis, I know, and there are two good clubs in Caxley which you might enjoy. At least you would meet other young people. I know it must be pretty lonely for you here with no other young staff.'

  'No one's asked me to join anything,' muttered Miss Briggs sulkily.

  I began to feel my small stock of patience becoming as exhausted as Herr Hitler's.

  'Well, of course, they haven't! They don't know you are there] Go along to a meeting, or find out the name of the secretary, and say you want to join. It's up to you. You can't expect these organisations to search the highways and byways.'

  'I don't know if I shall have time, with all this centenary fuss to arrange,' said Miss Briggs, as though the entire burden of our celebrations rested on her dandruff-sprinkled shoulders.

  I took a deep breath.

  'Which brings us to the point. You'd better come to tea tomorrow and we'll draft out our plan.'

  'I wash my hair tomorrow after school,' she said.

  Far be it from me to stop that, was my unworthy thought.

  'Make it Friday,' I said shortly, and got out the register.

  Amy called the following evening, and I was glad that Miss Briggs was elsewhere attending to her hair. I enquired after the progress of the autobiography.

  'Well, it's uphill work, I can tell you! As you know, I always think one's childhood is the most interesting part of an autobiography. But then, where does one begin?'

  'I should think: "I was born on May the Whatever in Nether Wallop or Somesuch."'

  'I feel that's too bald. I think people are glad to be told something about one's parents, but I dread going back too far and having sixteen, if not thirty-two, dubious portraits of forebears on each side.'

  'I rather agree.'

  'On the other hand, there were some very colourful ancestors on my mother's side. Two brothers were transported to Australia for stealing sheep and cattle.' Amy spoke with considerable pride.

  'Well, put 'em in,' I advised.

  'It would certainly swell the volume a little. You've no idea how much writing is needed to make a page of print. It's really quite daunting. I'm thinking of throwing in a distant great-uncle too. He was defrocked sometime in the last century for conduct not befitting the clergy. Something to do with the choir boys, I gather, but it's so difficult to find any clear evidence after all this time.'

  'I'd no idea you had such a disreputable background, Amy.'

  'My immediate background is blameless,' she assured me. 'And very dull too. My grandparents and parents seem to have worked hard, kept out of debt, looked after their small families, and generally been worthy and respectable. The consequence is that they make pretty dull reading matter, and I wonder if it might be a good idea to start farther back. I could have a family tree in the front.'

  'Does anyone ever look at them? All I find is that having pulled the thing out, it is impossible to fold it correctly again, and you have half a yard of tissue paper in your lap all the time you are reading.'

  'That's true,' agreed Amy. 'But going back to your first idea of plunging straight in with one's birth - do you think readers are really gripped by hearing about your being bottle fed and having your adenoids out, and the way you had hysterics at the age of four when Father Christmas kissed you, reeking of whisky?'

  'All those things might create a sympathetic bond,' I said. 'As these confounded educationists tell us ad nauseam, children should be able to identify themselves with the characters they are reading about. Though how you can identify with Sinbad the Sailor or Tom Thumb beats me.'

  'Well, all I can say is that I have spent a good hour after tea every day for the past fortnight, pushing along my reluctant ball point, and I don't suppose I have written enough to fill four pages of a real book. It's very disheartening.'

  'Cheer up!' I said. 'Think how splendid it will look piled up in the book shops with queues outside fighting to get in to buy it. And you on television. Possibly on This Is Your Life. Just think of that!'

  'I refuse to consider it,' said Amy firmly.

  Mrs Partridge, the vicar's wife, called at the school the next morning, and the children sat up with smiles wreathing their faces.

  They like Mrs Partridge. I like to think it is for herself alone, for she is a kind, warm-hearted person and devoted to the young, but I have the feeling that she is welcomed more for the bag of boiled sweets which she so often brings with her.

  Today was no exception, except that the sweets were toffees and not fruit drops. The children's response to this largesse was ecstatic, as Patrick handed round the bag.

  'Now, my dear,' said Mrs Partridge when all were busy sucking. 'I wonder if you can do me a favour.'

  What answer is there to that after such generosity?

  'Of course,' I said rashly.

  'I'm short of collectors for my Save The Children flag day next week, and I wondered if you could help.'

  'Where would you want me to go?' I asked, resigned to my lot.

  'Well, I'm doing from The Beetle and Wedge to the crossroads, and Margaret Waters is doing the other side of the road, and Joan Benson was to have done that outlying part from her house to Tyler's Row, but she has had to hare off to look at a couple of houses her daughter has found. It is that stretch that I hoped you might find time to do.'

  I agreed to take over Joan's territory, and Mrs Partridge whipped a piece of paper from the top of the basket she was carrying, and placed a collecting tin on my desk with incredible speed.

  'That's most kind of you, dear,' she said briskly. 'Could you let me have it back by Thursday? And here is your official badge, and the flags.'

  The piece of paper had successfully hidden all these things in the basket, and I noticed yet another collecting tin and more flags, still to be allotted presumably.

  'I'll do that,' I promised. Bang go the t
wo evenings I had earmarked for making strawberry jam and bottling cherries, I thought!

  She wished the children goodbye, and they replied with their diction somewhat impeded by toffee, but true love shining in their eyes.

  The door had hardly closed before Eileen Burton was sick on the floor, and one of the Coggs twins began to choke on a large piece of sweet which had gone down the wrong way.

  I hastily put the collecting box on the window sill before going to the rescue.

  Save The Children indeed! What about the teachers?

  Miss Briggs duly stayed late on Friday, and accompanied me to the school house for tea. She appeared somewhat monosyllabic and sulky, but whether she was feeling resentful at staying after school, or whether she was simply being natural - Mr Willet's 'a fair old lump of a girl' came to mind - I could not say.

  However, she cheered up a little after three cups of tea, brown bread and honey followed by a large slice of Dundee cake, and we settled down with pencils and notebooks to our task.

  'I think six scenes will be ample,' I said, 'which means something from the reigns of Victoria, Edward the Seventh, George the Fifth, Edward the Eighth - unless we leave him out - George the Sixth, and our present Queen.'

  'Good idea,' agreed Miss Briggs, sucking a sticky finger. 'If we had a scene for every decade that would make ... how many?'

  'Ten,' I told her. 'You ought to know that - child of the metric system as you are.'

  'Yes, well - if we had the scenes lasting only ten minutes that would be far too long, wouldn't it?'

  'My feeling entirely. We can't expect people to sit on the school seats for more than an hour altogether, and if we have a few songs, and then tea afterwards it is as much as the human frame can take.'