(11/20) Farther Afield Page 11

  We were late arriving at Heathrow and we seemed to wait for hours around the revolving contraption that disgorges one's luggage. Why is it, I wondered, that other people's luggage always seems superior in size, quality and polish to one's own? I was somewhat cheered by watching a red-faced man, very much like our local farmer Mr Roberts, collecting his pieces of battered luggage, each securely lashed with orange binder twine.

  'I've lost two good leather straps up here in my time,' he said, catching my eye. 'They won't bother with binder twine, and if they do there's plenty more where that came from.'

  Amy rang the garage whilst I collected our bags, and hours later, it seemed, we settled ourselves into her car.

  The air was chilly, the clouds like a grey tent, low over us. Rain lashed the tarmac, umbrellas glistened all around, and goose-pimples stood on our arms. One could almost feel the tan fading.

  We were in England again.

  'What an extraordinary woman that was,' commented Amy, as we drove from the airport. 'I noticed her once or twice when we were walking about the town. She seemed to be holidaying alone.'

  'I'm not surprised.'

  'A typical case of someone who lives alone,' continued Amy, hooting at the motorist in front of us who had signalled that he was going left for the last half-mile, then right, and eventually went straight on.

  'How do you mean?'

  'Well, there's a tendency for solitary people – some of them, I should say – to tag on to complete strangers and engage them in conversation. Lonely, of course, that's all, but a trifle disconcerting for those button-holed. And then these loners never stop talking. Most exhausting. I must say, you choked off that poor dear in a brutally efficient way.'

  I began to feel qualms on two counts.

  'I hope I wasn't brutal,' I said.

  'Let's say decisive,' said Amy, 'and I really don't blame you after such cheek on her part.'

  'And I hope I don't waylay people and talk too much,' I added, expressing my second fear.

  Amy laughed indulgently.

  'You silly old dear! You've always talked too much!'

  I digested this unpalatable truth as we drove towards Bent. We had arranged to go straight to Amy's house from Heathrow, when we planned the holiday. It was nearer than Fairacre, and we both felt that a good night's sleep after our flight would enable us to face the home chores before us.

  As always, Amy's house presented a calm and beautiful aspect. There were flowers in every room, no sign of dust, everything immaculate and welcoming. There was even a tray laid ready for two complete with biscuit tin, and Amy lost no time in putting on the kettle.

  A pile of letters stood on the hall table, and Amy looked at it anxiously as we brought in her luggage from the car.

  'I'll tackle that later,' she said.

  I was in my old bedroom overlooking the corn fields. In the driving rain nothing was moving. No doubt the farmers were cursing all around, I thought, for some of the fields I could see were only half-cut.

  But despite the rain, my spirits were high. We were home again, back among the wet fields, the dripping trees, the little runnels of brown rainwater chattering along the roadside. I thought of those two parched lawns at the hotel, as I gazed at Amy's lush slopes before me. A thrush, head cocked on one side, was listening for a worm, and three sparrows searched among the plants in the border, with raindrops splashing on their little tabby backs. Somewhere, far away, a sheep bleated, and another answered it. The fragrance of wet earth and leaves was everywhere, and I thanked heaven for the sights and scents of home.

  Later that evening, Amy read her correspondence, sorting it into piles very tidily, while I read a gardening magazine and learnt about all the things I should have done last spring in order to have a flourishing flower border next season.

  'Too late,' I said aloud.

  'What is?'

  'Taking pipings and cuttings, and sowing seeds ready for planting out this autumn, and a hundred other things. It's an extraordinary tiring, but whenever I rush to the nurseryman in autumn, fired to have some particular plant, then the right time to put it in was last spring. And, of course, when I rush there in the spring, the particular plants I'm mad for should have gone in last autumn.'

  'I must remember to give you a basic gardening book for Christmas,' said Amy severely. 'You sound the most haphazard gardener. It's a wonder yours looks as well as it does. Mr Willet, I suppose?'

  She patted her piles of correspondence into neat stacks.

  'Friends who won't mind waiting. Friends who will mind waiting. Business and bills,' she said, surveying them.

  'Well, bills could go on the won't-mind-waiting stack, I should think.'

  Amy shook her head.

  'I was brought up as you were, my dear, to pay as I went along. I've a perfect horror of owing money, born of a frugal upbringing. As for hire purchase, my blood runs cold at the thought. Suppose I suddenly had no money – '

  She stopped, and looked out at the grey evening. When she spoke again, her voice had altered.

  'A letter from James among this lot.' It was in the friends-who-will-mind-waiting pile, I noticed. 'He's still pressing for a divorce. What a hopeless situation this is! I wonder what the outcome will be? I felt so strong and sensible while we were away, but now I'm back I feel as wobbly as a jellyfish.'

  'Put it out of your mind,' I advised. 'You've had a long day travelling. Things will seem saner after a night's sleep. And. if I were you,' I added, 'I should transfer his letter to the friends-who-won't-mind-waiting pile.'

  Amy laughed, and did so. It seemed to give her some comfort.

  Next morning the sky was blue, and our breakfast table was bathed in sunshine. I presented Amy with the plaited gold belt, with which she was agreeably delighted. Beside my plate was a large square parcel which turned out to contain a splendid book of photographs of Crete with short accounts of the different places. It was a perfect memento of a perfect holiday.

  We drove back to Fairacre by way of the kennels, where Tibby sat on top of her sleeping house, looking aloof. I stroked her head, and muttered endearments to which she responded with a yawn.

  Only when she was safely in the car, secured in the cat basket, did she deign to give tongue, and then only to keep up the nerve-racking caterwauling by which she registers strong disapproval of car travel.

  'I hope you've got a supply of the tenderer portions of the most expensive rabbit,' shouted Amy, above the din.

  'It's "Pussi-luv" or nothing,' I shouted back. 'If she can eat it in the kennels, she can eat it at home.'

  We turned into the school lane. My hedge seemed to have grown six inches in the past fortnight, and the lawn needed cutting. But the border was full of colour, despite my abortive forays to the nurseryman.

  I felt under the third stone on the right of the porch, and withdrew the key. The door was difficult to open, because there was a pile of letters still on the mat. One was stuck in the letter box.

  It was a note in Mrs Partridge's handwriting, and I put it aside to read later. Probably, a change of date for the W.I., I thought.

  We picked up the letters and put them on the hall table. Tibby was released, and bounded into the garden, giving us time to look around us.

  Something was wrong. The house smelt musty. Everything was tidy, but a fine layer of dust was everywhere. Unlike Amy's house, there were no flowers. Usually, Mrs Pringle does me proud with a handful of marigolds stuffed in a mug, but today there was nothing.

  'Come and sit down,' I said to Amy. 'This is all very strange. Something must have happened to Mrs P. There may be a note in the kitchen.'

  But there was no note. The paint had been washed, the windows cleaned, the sink whitened with bleach, the dishcloth draped along its edge, stiff and dry, but here too, dust lay.

  I filled the kettle for coffee, remembered Mrs Partridge's note, and read it while the kettle boiled.

  It said:

  So sorry to tell you that Mrs Pringle is in hos
pital – probably appendicitis, nothing very serious, but she was worried because she could not get in the last-minute provisions.

  If you are not too tired, do have dinner with us tonight. Very simple. About 7.30. Longing to hear about Crete.

  Cordelia Partridge

  I handed it to Amy, and set about putting out the cups. I was sincerely sorry for my old sparring partner in hospital, and remembered how kind she had been to me at the beginning of the holiday when I had had my accident.

  'Poor old girl,' I said, spooning instant coffee into the cups. 'I must ring the hospital later on. I suppose she'll be at Caxley.'

  'I expect all this "bottoming" brought it on,' said Amy, gazing at my dazzling paintwork.

  'Don't rub salt in my wounds,' I begged her. 'I'm already suffering from remorse for all the things I've said to her in my time.'

  'She can take it,' said Amy robustly. 'And anyway, she gives as good as she gets, from all I hear.'

  She finished her coffee, and stood up.

  'Must be off. Dozens of things to do at Bent, and you have just as many here, I can see.'

  I waved goodbye to her, watching until the car turned the bend in the lane, and went back to the garden.

  My new rose bush had a dozen or more coppery buds on it, and the lavender hedge was in full flower. A few bumble bees buzzed lazily among the blossoms, and Tibby approached and weaved herself round my legs affectionately.

  I picked up the exasperating animal and gave her a hug.

  'Tibby,' I told her. 'We're really home!'

  Part Three

  Return to Fairacre

  14 Mrs Pringle Falls Ill

  THERE is no doubt about it, going away does one so much good because, for one thing, it makes one's home seem doubly desirable.

  I pondered on this truth as I walked round to the vicarage under my umbrella. The hotel could not be faulted, but how much cosier the small rooms of the school house seemed, and what a blessing it was to drink cold water straight from the tap, instead of having tepid mineral water, tasting faintly of soda, from a bottle!

  And how green everything was! I looked with approval at the glistening hedges, the flowers drenched with rain, and the great green flanks of the downs where the sheep were grazing. I even felt kindly towards a worm which was struggling on Mrs Partridge's doorstep, and transferred it to a luscious wet garden bed. There had been no worms in Crete.

  'Come in! Come in!' cried the vicar, and to my surprise he clasped me close to his Donegal tweed jacket, and kissed me on both cheeks. I felt as though I had returned from some long exile in the salt-mines.

  'My dear, she's come!' he announced, ushering me into the drawing room where Mrs Partridge sat knitting.

  'Bootees,' she said, after we had exchanged greetings and I had been supplied with a glass of sherry. 'For the sale, dear, but I've made a most unfortunate mistake. Can you see?'

  Certainly, there was something strangely awry with the garment.

  'I think you've knitted a row or two with a piece of wool that was hanging down, and not the main line, if you follow me.'

  'Oh dear, it's these glasses! I've mislaid my others. They're bound to turn up, they always do. Last time they were in the laundry book. So I'm driven to wearing these.'

  'Shall I undo it for you?'

  Mrs Partridge looked anguished.

  'Must you? Shall we put it aside for a bit, and just enjoy our drinks?'

  We did so, and I answered a volley of questions about the holiday, until I could ask about Mrs Pringle.

  'I did try to ring the hospital,' I said. 'Three times, but the exchange didn't answer.'

  'I know. What has happened to all those nice girls who used to be so obliging years ago, I simply don't know. I can remember, many a time, asking for a number and the girl would say: "If it's Mrs Henry you want, I'm afraid she's out shopping. I saw her go into Boots not five minutes ago." So friendly, and always had time to let you know about their families. Gerald used to find them such a help when people needed visiting.'

  'Those days have gone,' I agreed. 'I suppose it would be all the same if one were lying with two broken legs and a fire in the house, though no doubt 999 might answer.'

  Mrs Partridge nodded thoughtfully.

  'Except that you would not be able to get to the phone with two broken legs, and the fire might be your side of it.'

  'Tell me about Mrs Pringle,' I said. One can't afford to be too literal.

  It appeared that she was taken ill in Caxley on market day.

  'In Woolworth's, and I must say the manager sounds a thoroughly sensible fellow and deserves promotion, for he fetched a doctor, and she was taken straight to Caxley hospital.'

  The Vicar intervened.

  'Don't tell her what they found, my dear,' he advised his wife. 'We are eating soon.'

  I was grateful to him. He knows of my squeamishness.

  Mrs Partridge looked disappointed, but loyally kept to generalities.

  'Top and bottom of it was that they operated within an hour or two, and she'll be there for another week at least. But nothing serious. In fact, the hospital sister said she was comfortable when I enquired. It seemed a funny way to describe it when I know for a fact she was slit – '

  'Cordelia!' said the vicar warningly.

  'Sorry, sorry! Well, anyway, poor Mr Pringle had to go in, of course, taking nighties and things, and brought back the shopping, and was too upset to unpack it until next day. So the fish, my dear, from that jolly fellow in the market, was absolutely uneatable, and the cat was furious, Mrs Willet told me. You see, it knows it has fish on Thursdays.'

  'Do you think our dinner is ready?' enquired the vicar.

  'Of course it is. Come along,' said Mrs Partridge rising from the web of knitting wool criss-crossing the armchair.

  'Cold chicken and salad,' she said, leading the way. 'I did warn you it would be simple, but I wish now I'd put some soup to heat. It's such a miserable evening for a cold meal. Shall I do that?'

  We dissuaded her, protesting that cold chicken and salad would be splendid, and entered the dining room.

  The meal was delicious, and afterwards, back in the drawing room, with the bootee growing even more grotesque, I caught up with the Fairacre news. Measles, it seemed, was now rife, and Mr Roberts' cowman had gone down with it and was in a very bad way.

  'Of course, it will have its brighter side for you,' said Mrs Partridge. 'There won't be so many children next term, which will be a help with Mrs Pringle laid up.'

  'I suppose I'd better look for someone else to stand in.'

  'Well, Minnie Pringle won't be able to come. There's a new baby due, any minute now.'

  'That's a relief. I shan't feel obliged to ask her. After ten minutes of Minnie's company, I'm nearly as demented as she is.

  'If the worst comes to the worst,' said the vicar, 'the older children must just turn to and help with the cleaning. Do it yourself, you know,' he added, beaming with pride at being so up-to-the-minute.

  Mr and Mrs Mawne, it appeared, were in Scotland for a holiday, and I felt somewhat relieved. It would give me a breathing space before having to confess that I had no photographs of the Cretan hawk. The new people at Tyler's Row were repainting their house. Miss Waters' bad leg was responding to Dr Martin's liniment, and her sister had offered to embroider a new altar cloth.

  At this stage, an enormous yawn engulfed me, which I did my best to hide, without success.

  'It's time you were in bed,' said Mrs Partridge, looking over the top of the blameworthy glasses. 'You've had two busy days.'

  It was true that I was almost asleep, but I did my best to look vivacious as I thanked her for a truly lovely evening, and departed into the rain.

  Some poor baby, I thought, as I tottered home, was going to have a very odd bootee. Ah well, we all have to come to terms with life's imperfections, and one may as well begin young.

  As might be expected, the minute I climbed into bed sleep eluded me, and I lay awake thinki
ng about possible substitutes for Mrs Pringle, without success. I was going to visit her the next day, and hoped that she might have someone in mind. Otherwise, it looked as though the vicar's suggestion might have to be put into action.

  After two hours or so of fruitless worrying, I heard St Patrick's clock chime, and then one solitary stroke. Very soon after this I must have fallen asleep, for I had a vivid dream in which the vicar was officiating at a marriage ceremony, clad in an improbable pale blue surplice. The bride was my importunate friend on the flight from Crete, and the groom was the monk from Toplou. Neither appeared to be interested in the ceremony, but were engrossed in a chess set which was lodged on the font.

  I wonder what a psychiatrist would make of this?

  The next morning I rang the hospital to enquire after my school cleaner. Mrs Pringle, I was not surprised to learn, was comfortable, and would be ready to receive visitors between two and four in the afternoon.

  This was my first attempt at driving since the accident, and I was mightily relieved to find that I could do all that was necessary with my arm and foot.

  Mrs Pringle, regal among her pillows, greeted me with unaccustomed warmth, and admired the roses I had cut for her.

  'A good thing I was handy for the hospital when it happened,' she told me. 'If I'd been slaving away at your place with nobody to call upon, I doubt if I'd be alive to tell the tale.'

  I expressed my concern, and took the opportunity of thanking her for all the hard work she had put in at the school house, but I don't think she heard. Her mind was too full of more recent events.

  'Ready to burst!' she told me with relish. 'Ready to burst! A mercy I didn't have to be jolted all the way to the County. I'd never have lasted out.'

  She looked around her. Patients in neighbouring beds had fallen silent and were presumably listening to the saga. Mrs Pringle lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  'I'll tell you all about it when I'm back home,' she promised. 'There's some things you don't like to mention in mixed company.'