(2/20) Village Diary Read online

  One of Mr Roberts' calves strayed into the garden last night. The only damage it did was to lean heavily against a wooden post which supports a rose tree, while it scratched its back, leaving the post at a sad angle.

  Mr Willet and I put it straight during play-time. I held it nervously, while Mr Willet, perched on a kitchen chair, smote it mightily on the top with a mallet. At every massive shudder I expected either to have my hand mangled or for Mr Willet to crash through the chair seat, but luck was with us.

  'There!' he said at length, surveying his handiwork from aloft. He suddenly caught sight of someone in the lane, invisible to me on my lower plane.

  'Now who might that be?' he pondered, eyes screwed up against the sun.

  'The vicar?' I hazarded, picking a few pinks. Mr Willet was applying all the fierce concentration of a villager confronted with a stranger.

  'No. This chap's got a new panama hat on.'

  'Mr Roberts?'

  'No, no. I knows 'ee,' Mr Willet said testily. Silence fell. I picked a few more pinks, while Mr Willet remained rooted to the kitchen chair.

  'Must be a gentleman,' observed Mr Willet. 'Blows 'is nose on a 'and kerchief.' I found this social nicety very interesting, but did not like to pursue it further.

  'He's coming this way,' continued my look-out. 'Why-' his voice fed an octave with disappointment. 'It's only that chap Mawne.' He checked suddenly, and added hastily: 'But there, I expect you'll be pleased to see him. You run along, miss. I'll put the chair back. You don't want to keep him waiting.'

  Mr Mawne had called to see if I would go with him to the Caxley Orchestral Society's concert next week. He has tickets for Wednesday evening's performance, and I have offered to drive him in. The Annetts and other friends will be playing, and it should be a very pleasant evening.

  Exactly twenty minutes after accepting Mr Mawne's invitation, Mrs Pringle arrived with a basket full of cleaning rags to store in her special cupboard in the lobby. She gave me an alarmingly coy smirk.

  'Enjoy yourself on Wednesday,' said Mrs Pringle.

  So much for Fairacre's efficient bush telegraph.

  Miss Clare, Mr Willet and I were gossipping in the empty classroom after school today. Mr Willet was sitting on the old desk against the side wall.

  'See this?' he said to Miss Clare. She went over and peered down at the desk, where his homy forefinger was pressed. There, carved in the ribby top were the letters A.G.W.

  'Alfred George Willet,' said the owner, with pride. 'Done 'em in poetry once. Chipped away careful under my book. We was supposed to be learning some bit about Westminster Bridge with a dud soul passing by. Old Hope was a great one for poetry, wasn't he?'

  Miss Clare, who is a few years older than Mr Willet, agreed. She was a pupil teacher in the same infants' room, when Mr Hope was headmaster at Fairacre. I have heard many tales of this interesting man, who used to live in the house I now occupy.

  He was village schoolmaster for several years. His life was tragic, for his only child, Harriet, died at the age of twelve; his wife fed ill and he became addicted to drink. Soon after the first World War he left Fairacre and took a post in the north. He wrote verse himself, and his pupils were set inordinate amounts of poetry to learn weekly. I have often heard the older people in Fairacre tell of his powers of story-telling, and his pupils produced a play by Shakespeare annually, in the vicarage garden, no mean accomplishment in a small, unbookish village.

  I should like to have known Mr Hope, that sad gifted man, whose small nervous handwriting fills so many pages in an earlier school log-book in my desk drawer. He was thought much of, but he was not beloved. As far as I can gather from latter-day comments, he was feared by many of his pupils, and looked upon as 'a crank' by their parents. One rarely hears of pity for him, which seems strange to me. I was interested to hear Miss Clare and Mr Willet exchanging memories as they surveyed the youthful Willet's handiwork of many years ago.

  'Fine old temper he had,' observed Mr Willet. '"Out in the lobby, boy," he shouted at me, when he saw this. And out I went, touched my toes and got six. You wants to try a bit more of that, miss,' he added, in a half jocular way that did not cloak his inner belief in the adequacy of Mr Hope's methods. Miss Clare shook her white head slowly.

  'There was too much of it, Alfred,' she said gravely. 'You bigger boys treated that far-too-frequent caning as a huge joke. You had to—otherwise you were afraid that your companions would think you cowardly. In fact it had two bad effects. Its frequency undermined Mr Hope's authority in the end—I'm sure that was one of the reasons that took him so often to "The Beetle." And secondly, the little ones in my room were terrified of him. They heard the shoutings and the canings, and I know for a fact that they dreaded him coming into the infants' room.'

  'I don't think they minded that much,' said Mr Willet. 'We was all used to a tight rein then—big and little. Remember how we used to sit on these forms, with no backs to rest against? Got spoke to pretty sharp too if we sagged a bit.'

  'It was quite wrong,' said Miss Clare firmly, 'to expect children to sit as they did then; and as for folding their arms across their backs—well, I told Mr Hope flatly, that I would not train the babies to sit so. It was one of the few things I did have words about. Mostly, he was very reasonable and helped me a great deal with the preparation of lessons.'

  'Never made no friends, did 'ee?' mused Mr Willet, fingering his stained moustache. 'Looked down on us working class, and tried to keep in with the gentry too much.'

  'Oh come,' protested Miss Clare, 'I'm sure he didn't look down on anyone! He found his home and family, and the school-house garden and his books and poetry, filled his free time. As for the gentry, don't forget that those that he had dealings with were his school managers, and it was necessary to see quite a bit of them, as a matter of school routine. No, you're not quite fair to Mr Hope.'

  Mr Willet lumbered off the desk lid that had set so many far-off things stirring, and unconsciously summed up the enigma of Mr Hope.

  'Fact is, I never understood the chap. He was a fish out of water in Fairacre, and to us folk—well, he smelt a bit odd.'

  Mrs Pringle collects our metal milk-tops 'for blind dogs,' as she herself asserts. Despite careful explanation on my part to the children, I am quite sure that they imagine that Mrs Pringle purchases spectacles in various sizes to fit myopic pekes or bloodhounds, as this phrase is in general use. It was while she was stuffing these tops into her shiny black bag, that she told me a little more about education in Fairacre over forty years ago.

  'Not all this playing about when I was in the infants' room,' she said flatly, 'we was kept down to pot-hooks and hangers, on our slates, and then on paper, until we could do 'em absolutely perfect. Time I was six I could write a good copper-plate hand better than your top ones can these days.' Even allowing for Mrs Pringle's self-esteem, and the rosy veil which covers distant years, I could well believe this assertion. I have come across old exercise books, and 'fair copies' which have won prizes in their time, and certainly the standard of penmanship was far ahead of anything that I can get my own pupils to produce.

  In arithmetic and reading too Mrs Pringle's generation, as a whole, reached a high standard, rather earlier than the present Fairacre pupils. Of course, there were the ineducable and, I suspect, several rather backward children who were dumped with the ineducables, and might have done better with more individual help which they would have had these days. Discipline was rigid, and almost all the hours of the timetable were devoted to the three R's in some form. I do not regret the somewhat lower standard of early attainment in the three R's—except for the modern laissez faire attitude to reading which is a personal hobby-horse of mine and on which I entered the lists against Mr Arnold recently—for there is no doubt that today's children have a much wider and better balanced grounding. Physical training, personal hygiene, school milk and meals, the medical services and better school conditions have all contributed to the wonderful improvement in their physiqu
e. The timetable embraces handwork of every description, music—both to listen to and of their own making with the percussion band and singing—educational visits and much valuable material put out by the schools broadcasting service and the mobile film units, which range the countryside.

  There is no doubt that the children today are much more responsible, friendly and alert, and though their ability and dexterity in the basic three R's may not compare favourably with their parents' at, say, the age of eight years, yet I am positive that they become as proficient in the end, and have a multitude of other interests in addition.

  What I do feel that the modern child lacks, when compared with the earlier generation, is concentration, and the sheer dogged grit to carry a long job through. Teaching through playing is right. It is, in fact, the only way to teach young children. But as they get older they find that any attainment needs application, and fun alone will not bring completion to a project. This is the danger-point. The older generation, resigned to hum-drum methods and a whacking here and there if there were any marked falling-off from hard work, got almost ad their satisfaction from seeing the job completed and perhaps a word or two of approval as a titbit. They were geared, as it were, to low returns for much effort.

  The child today, used as he is to much praise and encouragement, finds it much more difficult to keep going as his task gets progressively long. Helping children to face up to a certain amount of drudgery, cheerfully and energetically, is one of the biggest problems that teachers, in these days of ubiquitous entertainment, have to face in our schools; and the negative attitude, in so many homes, of 'How-much-money-can-I-get-for-how-little-work?' does nothing to help them in their daily battle.

  I have been forced to have a day off from school—the first since I have taught here—as I have been the prey of rending toothache.

  It began last night, soon after I had got to bed, and recurred every twenty minutes with awful intensity. I spent the night roaming the house, completely demoralized with pain, and quite powerless to overcome it with aspirin, od of cloves, hot bottles or any other comforts.

  It made me realize how much one's mind is at the mercy of one's physical well-being, as at times I felt quite demented. My admiration for people who withhold information under torture has increased ten-fold since this ghastly night, for I am quite certain that even the threat of such pain would be enough to make me blab out any secret, and even to make up further disclosures if I felt that these might mitigate the pain at ad. Truly, a most shattering revelation.

  My kind dentist in Caxley sees emergency cases at nine-thirty each morning, and having explained the position to Miss Clare, who was ad sympathy and understanding, I left her in charge, drove to Caxley and presented my woebegone visage for inspection. Mr Chubb, that angel of mercy, decreed 'a little snooze, and they'd never hurt again.' Never was a patient so eager to breathe in gas, and within an hour I was back in Fairacre, minus two back teeth, and brimming with thankfulness.

  Miss Clare insisted on my going to bed, brought me hot milk, and tucked me in. I am ashamed to admit that I slept like a top from eleven o'clock till four. I awoke to hear the children whooping and laughing as they ran out of school, and to hear the clock on St Patrick's spire striking. A most unusual day for a headmistress. Most assuredly, the blessing of good health, which I blithely take for granted, will be more esteemed by me in the future.

  The vicar called in to bring me news of the Scripture examination which is to take place next week. This is an annual affair, under the auspices of the diocese, and usually a clergyman from a nearby village examines the children orally in the morning, and the afternoon is given as a holiday. The children usually enjoy this departure from school routine, and we have had some very interesting talks and sound teaching from most of our visiting examiners. This year, an old friend of Mr Partridge's, recently returned from Africa, and newly settled in the neighbourhood, has been selected by the board to visit Fairacre and to donate the Bishop's Bibles to the most worthy pupils here.

  He also brought an invitation to tea from Mrs Partridge, so that after school, I put on one of my new frocks made by Mrs Moffat, and made my way to the vicarage.

  The Gloire de Dijon rose which scrambles over the front of the vicarage was a mass of bloom, and bumbling with bees. I remembered how much Mrs Bradley had admired it at the fête last year, and enquired after the old lady's health.

  'Excellent, excellent!' said the vicar plummily, through a mouthful of rich fruit cake. 'Told me to burn my gloves! Just think of that!' He beamed delightedly at the idea. Privately, I was in complete agreement with the irascible Mrs Bradley's direction, for the vicar's aged leopard-skin gloves moult far too often on my own desk for my liking.

  'I laughed,' said the vicar, repeating the process heartily, 'I just laughed! "They'll do many a winter yet," I told the dear old lady. She will have her little joke, you know.'

  'She has her likes and dislikes, as we ad have,' commented Mrs Partridge, filling tea-cups placidly.

  'Loves and hates, I should have said, in Mrs Bradley's case,' I added. 'She is a person of strong feelings.'

  'Who isn't?' said Mrs Partridge, stirring her cup lazily. 'Even the mildest person has some particular private hatreds locked up like tigers inside him.'

  'Oh come, my dear,' protested the vicar, and rushing in where angels feared to tread, 'I'm quite positive that you, for instance, have no such violent passions.'

  'On the contrary,' replied Mrs Partridge, with the greatest composure, 'I have two great ramping, roaring hatreds, of which, happily, you are unaware, Gerald.'

  The vicar's gentle countenance clouded over, and his mouth fed slightly open. His wife surveyed him blandly.

  'They are—cruelty to animals and spitting,' she announced with decision, passing the sugar basin to her astounded husband.

  'My dear! Ready, my dear—' stammered the poor fellow. And so flustered was he, at his wife's shocking revelation, that he put a large lump of sugar into his mouth instead of his cup, and crunched unhappily while our conversation turned to the happier subject of the pageant.

  Mrs Pringle, it appears, has taken umbrage because some malicious busybody saw fit to report Arthur Coggs's comments on Mrs Pringle's probable appearance in armour. A much bowillerized version of Arthur Coggs's remarks was to the effect that Mrs P. would resemble a so-and-so bulletproof tank and that she would be enough to make a cat laugh. This insult Mrs Pringle retailed to Mrs Partridge, and declared herself not only a deserter from the Roman army but hinted at a possible removal from the low company of Fairacre altogether, drawing a gloomy picture of the village's future without her indispensable support.

  Mrs Partridge had not batted an eyelid evidently, and had soothed the savage breast with honeyed words. Mrs Pringle had allowed herself to be persuaded against such a dire decision and returned to her cottage with honour avenged and an armful of dowers.

  'I've asked her to count heads for us at the outing,' went on Mrs Partridge. 'She loves to be in charge of something, and Gerald finds counting two busloads of fidgety people almost impossible.'

  'Where is it to be this year?' I asked. We have an annual church outing comprising the school children and their mothers, the choir, bellringers, and anyone else remotely connected with St Patrick's.

  'Barrisford again,' said Mrs Partridge. 'It takes a lot of beating, and Bunce's always do such a good tea. Gerald says almost everyone has put Barrisford on the list in the church porch. Oh yes—and another piece of good news! Mr Mawne has asked if he can come with us! Now, isn't that nice?'

  She smiled at me with a mixture of triumph and gratification which I found almost insupportable.

  'Poor man!' she continued happily, 'he leads such a lonely life. So sad that he has lost his wife.'

  'When did she die?' I asked. Mrs Partridge looked momentarily disconcerted.

  'Well, do you know, I've never quite found out. I gathered from John Parr that Mr Mawne had been alone for several years.'

 
; 'He has a portrait of her in his rooms,' vouchsafed the vicar. 'A handsome gel.'

  'Of course he never mentions her,' went on Mrs Partridge, 'but naturally he wouldn't, would he?'

  '"Thoughts that do often he too deep for tears,"' quoted the vicar sadly, and was about to add a gusty sigh, which luckily, took a wrong turning, and was transformed into a mighty sneeze, which considerably relieved the melancholy of the moment.

  'Well, we must all do what we can to cheer him up,' said Mrs Partridge briskly, in her president-of-the-W.I. manner. 'I have promised him a seat by you, so that you can both enjoy a really long chat on the way to Barrisford. You do him a lot of good, you know.'

  I felt quite unequal to responding to this alarming speech except in strong terms which I knew I should later regret; so I made my farewells as civilly as I could under such provocation, and returned through the golden evening to my own quiet house, debating meanwhile which was harder to bear—Mrs Pringle's roguish innuendos or Mrs Partridge's business-like and unwelcome forwarding of my affairs.

  The Moffats are taking their summer holiday early this year which means that Linda has to miss a fortnight at school. The little kitten has grown into a bigger cat than my Tibby, and I offered to feed him while they were away. Mrs Moffat was delighted, and refused to take her proper payment for a skirt she had altered for me.

  'Shall I give you the key? Or shall I put it in the usual hiding place?' she asked. 'We always put it behind the oilcan in the shed.'