Village Centenary Read online

  'Have you found some likely stories from the log book?'

  'One or two. I thought for the first scene we could use the boy Pratt putting on the school clock, and being caught by the head mistress.'

  'Lovely! But how will he climb up? Would he pile up the desks?'

  I repressed a shudder.

  'No. We'll have Mr Willet's step ladder to hand. After all, it just may have been left in the schoolroom. And through all the scenes we'll use the old side desk, and the actors will be in period costume, of course. When we get to Elizabeth the Second we can push on a modern desk. The old style were in use when I first came here. I must say, they were pretty sturdy.'

  'Then what?' asked my assistant, bringing me back to the work in hand.

  'Well, for Edward the Seventh, I thought it would be marvellous if I could say something like: "It was in this reign that a new pupil teacher took up her duties", and in walks Miss Clare!'

  'Perfect!'

  'Then she could tell us about her experiences of that time. I have sounded her, and she's game to do it. Frankly, I think it will be the high spot of the whole proceedings.'

  'What about George the Fifth?'

  'I think it will have to have something to do with the Great War.'

  I told her about Miss Clare's memories of the babies fraying pieces of cotton material to make field dressings. We could enlarge on helping-the-war effort theme, without dwelling unduly on the horrors which many of the older people in the audience would remember all too well. I wondered if one of the parents who went as a child from Fairacre School to the Wembley Exhibition might give an enthusiastic first-hand account of a country child's memories of that memorable charabanc ride to London in the twenties. Mr Lamb perhaps? Or Mrs Willet? I promised to follow up the idea.

  The more we thought about Edward the Eighth's brief reign the stronger became our resolve to leave out a scene, and simply let the narrator comment on that passage of time. Apart from the Abdication, which really had very little impact on the children of the school, there was little to mark the reign's fleeting impression on the village.

  The 1939–45 war, which followed within three years, had much more effect, of course, and we resolved to show the crowded desks, with the gas mask boxes lodged thereupon, and one or two wartime posters pinned up - as evidently there had been in Mr Fortcscue's session as headmaster at that time. Luckily, Mr Willet still had two precious relics, one showing the results of careless talk and the other of wasting food. There were one or two incidents in the log book which could form the basis of a scene, and perhaps Mrs Austen of Springbourne might be prevailed upon to give her impressions of Fairacre School from an evacuee's point of view.

  As for our last, and present-day, scene, what could be better than drawing the audience's attention to the children's exhibition of work in both rooms, singing by the whole school, and the narrator pointing out such facts as the vanishing of those over eleven to the local comprehensive school and cutting down the numbers of Fairacre School drastically after the 1944 Act?

  Finally, I had asked the vicar if he would appear at the end and remind us all that the church had always played an important part in the hundred years of Fairacre School. He was willing to do this, and to end our proceedings with a prayer for blessings received in the past, and our hopes for the future.

  'That should take us up to tea very nicely,' said Miss Briggs kindly.

  'We'll all need it by then,' I assured her. 'And now let's rough out which children would be best as the actors.'

  It took us until nearly seven o'clock, but we felt it had been worth it. Certainly, Miss Briggs departed looking very much more cheerful than when she arrived, and had been surprisingly helpful.

  ***

  The weather had been perfect, at least in my eyes, for the last few weeks of term. The sun had shone from a cloudless sky, every playtime had found the schoolroom deserted and the playground crowded with good-tempered children playing with unusual placidity. But I was surprised, nevertheless, to hear that an official drought had been declared, and we were all being exhorted to save water.

  It always beats me how, in the temperate climate we are supposed to enjoy, panic sets in as soon as any mild and foreseen variations from the normal weather conditions prevail. If three inches of snow fall in January, the headlines scream about disrupted rail services, motorway chaos, children marooned in school buses and lambs dying in drifts. The country, they say dramatically, has been brought to a standstill. They seem to cope pretty well in Canada, or America and Switzerland, it seems to me, with about thirty times the amount of precipitation.

  And why. as in the present circumstances, have we to watch each precious drop of water? Way back in February, we were sloshing about knee-deep in the stuff, as the swollen rivers overflowed, and Mr Roberts was out rescuing lambs at Springbourne.

  In any event, we were all blissfully happy in the scorching sun, and I scuffed through the dust at the edge of the road on my way to the grocer's after school, glorying in the heat. It was beginning to look like the end of summer, with the grass drying prematurely and even some yellow leaves appearing on the fruit trees. Miss Waters's privet hedge was in flower, the small white pyramids of blossom giving out that faint sickly smell which is the essence of summer.

  White convolvulus plants scrambled along the wire fence which borders the post office garden, the purity of their trumpets sadly tarnished with dust and heat. Below them, a root of scarlet poppies flamed, giving out their hot peppery fragrance as the dry wind shook them.

  I met the vicar as I returned. He greeted me cheerfully and told me that his bees were extremely active.

  'No more swarms?'

  'Not yet, but this is the sort of weather that might set them off,' he told me. 'The swarm I collected from Margaret Waters has settled in beautifully. Very attractive bees - rather paler than my first, and so busy! Really they are an example to one in this heat. I must confess I find it most trying, and shall welcome the rain when it comes.'

  Mr Willet hailed me from the churchyard when I was nearly home, and 1 walked across to see him. It was cool in the shade of the massive yew tree where I stood. Mr Willet was busy cutting long grass from some of the ancient burial mounds with a bill-hook.

  'Hot work,' I commented.

  'Suits me,' said my caretaker, mopping his glistening face. He came and stood beside me, and together we surveyed the sleeping place of the Fairacre dead. It was all very peaceful. Some midges drifted in clouds near the hedge, and a peacock butterfly opened and shut its beautiful wings upon the warm stone slab commemorating some village worthy.

  With the centenary always to the front of my mind these days, I wondered how many of those resting here had attended the little school hard by, and what they had thought of it. As if reading my thoughts, Mr Willet said that there was a mort of folk these days as preferred to go up in smoke, and he wondered if it was right.

  'We certainly miss all those lovely inscriptions,' I said. 'Personally, I enjoy a potter round this churchyard reading about virtuous wives and devoted mothers mourned by their fourteen sorrowing children. I've even got a soft spot for that terrible marble angel in memory of Mr Parr who died in 1870, "Benefactor and Brother To All".'

  'Nice bit of work,' agreed Mr Willet. 'I likes a bit of white marble myself. Can't take to that polished pink granite. Might just as well have a bit of cold brawn on top of you, from the looks of it.'

  'Well, I must go home,' I said reluctantly. 'Tibby expects a meal.'

  'You spoils that cat. It'll get fatty heart the way you feeds it.'

  'He's got a large frame,' I protested.

  'Not surprising, the amount he packs away,' replied Mr Willet. 'I'd better get on too. There's plenty of old Fairacre pupils wants tidying up by the south wall. You ever thought of that? You'll maybe get some ghosts at them celebrations of yours.'

  'I rather hope we shall,' I said, stepping round the gravestone of one Sally Gray who died in 1890 in her 63rd year. She woul
d have been fifty-three when Fairacre School was newly built, I thought, making my way home through the heat.

  How the history of this little village pressed around one!

  Obedient to Mrs Partridge's behest, I set off on my collecting stint one hot evening.

  For once, clouds covered the sky. They were ominously dark, but made no appreciable difference to the heat. It was about to break, and I only hoped that I should get my job done before that happened.

  People were generous with their donations, and my tin was soon quite heavy, and chiefly with silver, not copper coins. 1 had left Joan Benson's house until last, as it was the furthest from home, and I could then have an uninterrupted walk back to feed my overweight cat at the right time.

  A few drops of rain began to patter against the holly hedge round the garden as I opened the gate. All the windows were shut, including those in Miriam Quinn's annexe at the side, and there was that indefinable feeling of blankness that always seems to emanate from a deserted house. However, I decided to try my luck. I remembered that Joan had been going to look at a house near her daughter's, but hoped that she would have returned.

  I was unlucky. No one answered the bell, and the rain began to fall in torrents. I was well sheltered in the deep porch, and sat down on a sturdy bench which ran along one side to watch the downpour.

  It was wonderful to see the plants reviving in the heavy shower. The dusty drive was soon pock-marked with large raindrops, and then with tiny rivulets that snaked their way downhill to the gate. The holly hedge began to glisten with drops, and the thirsty flowers in the parched border seemed to lift their heads in response to this benison of refreshing rain.

  Drops began to stream from the porch, until I began to feel that 1 was surveying the garden through a curtain of glass beads. The smell of water on hot stone rose all around me, and I began to realise how desperately the earth had been waiting for the rain.

  It was obvious that Miriam Quinn had not returned yet from the office in Caxley. It was quite likely that there would be flooding there, I surmised, for the river Cax overflows very readily, and the low-lying parts of the town, particularly the area known as 'The Marsh' floods with depressing regularity, despite the efforts of drainage experts to control this nuisance.

  But my spirits rose when 1 heard a car scrunching up the back drive on the wet gravel. Here, no doubt, was Miriam returning. But I was wrong. The car did not stop at the annexe, but swept up to the porch where I was sitting, and pulled up with a squealing of brakes.

  Out of the car leapt Henry Mawne, head down through the blinding rain, and met me face to face.

  'Good Lord! Have you rung?'

  'Yes, but there's no one at home. I was waiting for the worst of the rain to go.'

  Henry looked agitated. He jingled some coins in his pocket, and bounced up and down on his toes, gazing at the watery scene.

  'Oh dear! Oh dear! Now I wonder when she will be back. Any idea?'

  'None at all, I'm afraid.'

  I told him about Joan's departure for her house hunting.

  'Well, let me give you a lift back. You might be stuck here for hours. It looks as though it has set in for the night.'

  I was very grateful, and we drove back through the glistening lanes, with the rain drumming on the roof of the car, and the windscreen wipers working away like maniacs.

  'Come in,' I said, when we drew up at my front door, but he refused.

  'It's about Joan's house,' he began, rather explosively. 'Is it still on the market, do you know?'

  I said I thought it was.

  'We've been in Ireland for the past three weeks, looking up relatives there, and I missed The Caxley Chronicle's advertisement. You see, I was wondering if it would suit David and Irene.'

  'Do they know about it?'

  'No, that's the point. I thought Joan might let me have a look, and if I thought it a possibility I would tell them on the telephone, and they could come down at once to view. It seems to me that you have to work at the speed of light these days, if you want to buy a house. What's she asking for it?'

  Again I had to confess ignorance. I really wanted to get into my own abode, but Henry seemed to want to unburden himself.

  'I do wish you'd come in,' I urged him, but he was adamant. He sat staring straight ahead through the rain-beaded windscreen, his fingers drumming on the wheel, and a little nerve twitching in his cheek.

  'It's all very difficult. I know they hope to move from the London house, and get further out. Better for Simon too, in the holidays. Better for all of them when you think of what David and the boy went through there when poor Teresa lost her sanity.'

  I murmured sympathetically. I knew only too well how strung up that young boy had been when he had been one of my pupils for a few summer weeks.

  'On the other hand, I don't want to interfere. A second marriage can always be a bit dicey, I think, and they may loathe the idea of being near us, or any relatives, for that matter. But this place looks about the right size for them. Three bedrooms, I believe?'

  'And the annexe,' I said.

  'But surely Miriam Quinn's in that?'

  'She is at the moment.'

  'Nice woman. I shouldn't think Irene and David would want her to go.'

  There was silence for a time. The rain continued to throb relentlessly above and around us. A few blackbirds scrabbled joyfully under the bushes, enjoying the softened soil after the hard surface of the past weeks.

  'He has regular trips these days to Holland, Belgium and Norway, so Irene would be glad of Miriam next door, I should imagine. And it's only an hour's drive to Heathrow. It took him pretty well that time to get across London.'

  I could see that he was thinking aloud, putting the pros and cons to himself, and really attempting to make a decision.

  'I should simply ring David and let him think it over,' I said, stating the obvious.

  To my surprise, he seized my hands in his and shook them warmly. 'An excellent notion!' he exclaimed. 'After all, it's his decision, isn't it?'

  He leant across to open the door for me, beaming the while.

  'Yes, I'll do that immediately. What a help you've been!'

  He sped off, cutting short my thanks, and I entered to be greeted by my starving Tibby.

  While she wolfed down raw liver I sipped a drink and thought, for the umpteenth time, about this business of buying a house.

  For years I have meant to do it. After all, the time flies by, and when I reached retirement age I should have to have somewhere to live. Now that Fairacre School's numbers had sunk perilously low, I might well find myself homeless if the school were closed.

  I felt reasonably sure that I would not be turned out into the snow like some Victorian heroine. I might even be offered the house first, if it were to be sold, as no doubt it would be eventually. In any case, I should get plenty of notice to quit, if it came to that. But the thing was, where should I go? Somewhere nearby would be ideal.

  And secondly, what should I use for money? My meagre savings might rise to a deposit on the house, but would a building society give me a mortgage at my age?

  I had been a fool not to buy when prices were less astronomic, as Amy pointed out when she called one afternoon.

  'I've told you time and time again,' she said severely. 'And you've done nothing all these years.'

  'I know,' I said meekly. 'Well, I've just lived from day to day. And jolly nice it's been,' I added defiantly.

  Amy laughed. 'Well, my dear old silly, you know you can always have a bed at Bent, if the worse comes to the worst.' She looked at me speculatively. 'How much could you raise if you saw something you liked?'

  I told her.

  'It would hardly buy the bathroom,' she said. 'Would you let me lend you some money?'

  'No, indeed!' I said.

  'I've got quite a nice little nest egg, and you might just as well have some of it. Think it over, anyway.'

  'You are sweet to think of it, but honestly I couldn't
possibly accept.'

  'Well, the offer will stand, darling,' said Amy, getting up to go.

  'Besides, if I bought now, I should have to let it while I'm still teaching, and you know how impossible it is to get tenants out if they dig in their heels. No, I think I must just soldier on as 1 am. Lord knows I'm happy enough this way.'

  'Bless you, so you are! And as the old song says: "You die if you worry, You die if you don't, So why worry at all?"'

  And on this cheering note Amy departed.

  'Nice drop of rain,' commented Mrs Pringle, with unwonted affability the next morning. 'My lettuces have picked up wonderful, and the water butt's full again.'

  I said it seemed to have done a lot of good everywhere except for the aperture where the skylight once had pride of place. A fine puddle had cascaded on to the tarpaulin and thence to the floor. Luckily, I had been prudent enough to shift my desk during these protracted building operations, or we should have had more serious damage.

  Mrs Pringle's countenance assumed its usual gloom as she surveyed the mess. 'I'll have a straight word with Reg Thorn when I see him,' she boomed.

  I felt a pang of sympathy for the poor wretch, maddening though he was. He would meet his match in Mrs Pringle.

  The delays and confusion which had accompanied the removal of the skylight and the replacement by a simple dormer window had to be seen to be believed. It seemed to me that Reg Thorn was constantly driving to the builder's merchant, or the timber yard, in Caxley, to acquire or replace new pieces of window equipment which surely should have been bought at the beginning and assembled in his own workshop. What he spent in petrol alone must have made a hole in the taxpayers' pockets, but I suppose none of his fuming customers could get at him whilst in transit, so that from his point of view he was leading a comparatively peaceful life.

  Mrs Pringle began to mop up, muttering to herself the while and clanging the bucket. I looked up a hymn for morning prayers before getting Ernest to ring the school bell to alert any strugglers still in the lanes or fields of Fairacre.

  These last few days of term are always busy. This time, the last week seemed fuller than ever, for 1 wanted to visit the parents of the principal actors to see their reaction to making costumes for the favoured few.