(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement Read online

  'You know all about being a village schoolmistress for years. You could start on that.'

  He waved to George Annett who was wobbling by on his bicycle, and then got into the driving seat.

  'I'll give you a word-processor for your birthday,' he promised, and drove away, leaving me to mull over all his plans for my future employment.

  It was good of him to take so much interest, I thought, as I went about my affairs during the next few days, and I was intrigued by his insight into my character.

  He was quite right about my dislike of joining things that would mean meeting lots of people. Amy was not nearly so perceptive, although she had known me far longer.

  I remembered her horror when I had told her that I had been alone all day. To Amy solitude was anathema. To me it was vital, at least for part of my day. John had recognized that. He had also realized that domestic duties would not satisfy me. Of course, it might have been a polite way of excusing my house-keeping shortcomings. Perhaps he thought me a proper slut? Compared with his own immaculate house I supposed mine might look rather a mess, despite Mrs Pringle's weekly attentions. It was a chastening thought.

  I decided to put aside all these problems. After all, I had come to terms now with my retirement. Despite John's assessment of my needs, I was slightly less restless than I had been after my unsettling week at Fairacre school, but maybe I did need some central interest which I could pursue at my own pace and in the quietness I preferred.

  I would think about it. Thankfully my health seemed to be restored after what Mrs Pringle called 'my funny turn', actually a slight stroke.

  I had good health, a dear little house and, even more precious, a host of friends.

  These things spelt happiness.

  12. Looking Ahead

  HENRY MAWNE was as good as his word, and I had a long conversation with him one evening on the telephone.

  He sounded happy and said that he and Deidre had been busy searching for a house that they both liked and could afford.

  'Any luck?'

  'Well, we've looked at everything from one-roomed cabins you wouldn't keep your chickens in, to crumbling castles, but I think we've whittled it down to a couple of farm houses. They've both got enough fields to keep horses for Deidre.'

  'I'd no idea she wanted horses,' I said, somewhat shocked.

  'Oh, everyone keeps horses in Ireland,' said Henry airily. 'Just as we keep an old bike in the garden shed.'

  'And are prices high over there?'

  'Less than ours, which is a good thing. And the great news is that the Caxley agent has had an offer for the Fairacre one.'

  "Well, that's marvellous! Will you take it?'

  'It's not the asking price, of course, but I hardly expected that. But it's a very fair offer and I shall certainly accept it.'

  'Who is it?'

  'No idea. The agent didn't say. I'll know before long, I expect.'

  He asked after his Fairacre friends, told me that he would be writing to the vicar about a discrepancy he had found in the church accounts, and we rang off with mutual expressions of affection to all and sundry.

  I was delighted to know that all was going well, and hoped to hear more about the purchaser of Henry's property when I met Mrs Pringle or Bob Willet or Mr Lamb in the near future.

  To my surprise, Mrs Pringle knew nothing about it, but hinted darkly about developers who more than likely would raze Henry's home to the ground and put up a couple of dozen rabbit hutches on the site in which you couldn't swing a cat should you so wish.

  Bob Willet was no more help, and Mr Lamb had heard it was 'some old gent who was now past driving and wanted to be within walking distance of the shop and the church and that.'

  With these unsatisfactory snippets I had to be content, but knowing village life I felt that I should soon learn all.

  Spring seemed lovelier than ever this year. The early daffodils had 'come before the swallow dared', and lit the garden with their brightness.

  The growing warmth lured me into the garden, and all sorts of indoor duties such as turning out cupboards, sending loose covers to the cleaners and polishing the windows, simply went by the board.

  One sunny morning I was busy weeding at the end of the garden, watched by Tibby lolling nearby, when I thought I heard somebody at the front door, and went to investigate.

  I found John trying to stuff a large envelope through the letter-box.

  'Hello,' I said. 'You'd better let me have that before my letter-box snaps your fingers off. What is it?'

  'Open it and see,' he said.

  "Well, come and sit in the garden,' I said, pulling off my muddy gloves.

  We sat side by side on my new garden seat. I ripped open the envelope. Inside were two things. One was an exercise book, and the other a long box containing a splendid pen.

  'John,' I exclaimed with delight, 'this is the pen the opera stars use in the advertisements.'

  'And the top footballers,' added John.

  I turned to the exercise book. It was one of those nice old-fashioned ones with multiplication tables on the back, and the useful rhyme about the days in each month.

  'Heavens! How this takes me back,' I cried. 'How clever of you.'

  'It's really to start you moving with that book of yours,' he confessed. 'I thought you'd be more at home with a pen and exercise book, and once you're well away I'll add the word processor.'

  'I'll have a go,' I promised him. I began to feel quite excited at the prospect.

  'Good girl!' he said, stretching out his long legs and turning his face to the sun.

  'Let's go out for lunch,' he added. What about that nice pub we visited once when we were going to Stratford? The White Hart, or The Red Lion, or some coloured animal.'

  'You don't mean The Blue Boar?'

  'No. It was up on the downs. We went through Springbourne to it. They always do bubble-and-squeak.'

  I racked my brain for more coloured-animal pubs which did bubble-and-squeak, but drew a blank.

  'Do you mean The Woodman?'

  'That's right. Let's go there.'

  'I'd love to. Coffee first, or go now?'

  He looked at his watch.

  'Let's go now while the sun's out. We'll get a marvellous view from the top of the downs.'

  The sun was high as we got out of the car, and walked on the springy turf to a handy five-barred gate nearby.

  The view was indeed marvellous. The village of Fairacre could be seen below us to the left, and Springbourne to the right, two small settlements dwarfed by the great fields about them.

  'That reminds me,' I said. 'I had a call from Henry a day or two ago.'

  'How is the old boy?'

  'He sounds more hopeful. Deidre is being co-operative at the moment and they are busy looking for a house. Thank goodness that after all this time he has had an offer for his Fairacre place.'

  John's answer astounded me.

  'I know. I made the offer.'

  When I had got my breath back, I bombarded him with questions.

  'But why? Why go to Henry's house when you have a much nicer one in Beech Green? Do you mean to leave that one?'

  John turned round from the gate and leant his back on it. He looked amused.

  'No, I do not intend to leave the house in Beech Green, at least for some time.'

  'Weil, that's a relief! I should miss you terribly. But why buy Henry's?'

  'Come back to the car and I'll tell you. This downland air is very invigorating but a trifle parky, I find.'

  'It's like this,' said John, as we trundled gently away towards bubble-and-squeak. 'I'm looking to the future. There's going to come a time when my staircase at the cottage is going to be a problem. It's steep and twisty. Added to that, I have to get out the car every time I need anything. In my old age I shall want a ground floor flat within walking distance of the village shop and the church, not to mention neighbours nearby.'

  I suddenly remembered Mr Lamb's comment about 'the old gent who
was past driving,' and began to laugh.

  What's the joke?'

  I told him.

  Well, as you see, he's just about right,' was his comment.

  I was still perplexed.

  'But can you afford to run two homes, John? I believe Henry's place needs a lot doing to it.'

  'It certainly does,' he agreed. 'But luckily I've sold my place in France. I've got past coping with the drive down, or even hanging about at airports. I'm now shortening all my lines of communication.'

  By this time we had arrived at The Woodman, but we sat in the car outside to continue the story.

  'Also I had the chance to sell my share of Uncle Sam's holding in that South American farming project. Some distant cousin, twenty-five times removed, has taken it on, which should bring me in something. When, heaven knows, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed.'

  "You seem to have been very business-like, and I'm so relieved you are staying in Beech Green.'

  'I shan't go until I'm absolutely decrepit, but I've always liked Fairacre more than Beech Green, and that house of Henry's is a gem. I shall enjoy doing it up. Besides, it's going to be my source of income in the future. I could make three first-class flats out of it and they should bring in quite a bit. I shall have a lovely ground floor one to share with you as soon as you say the word.'

  I began to laugh.

  'Is that today's proposal?'

  'Of course. And I forgot to say that dear old Uncle Sam's effects have been sold at quite incredibly high prices, and I have the proceeds. So can I invite you to share a dish of bubble-and-squeak?'

  'Indeed you can,' I assured him, as we emerged from the car.

  There was plenty to think about in the next few days. I was much impressed by John's efficiency and the way he was facing the future.

  If things worked out as he hoped then he would have a pleasant and rewarding time ahead putting Henry's house in order. He had asked me to help him with advice, and this I looked forward to doing. It was good to know that he had done his old schoolfellow a good turn when Henry had been in a difficult situation. Henry had always expressed his admiration of John to me, but it was John who had, until now, been somewhat dismissive and derogatory about Henry.

  I did not like to think of myself as the woman in the case, but there was no doubt about it that once Deidre appeared again on the scene John's attitude had become less aggressive towards Henry.

  In any case, they must get on with it, I thought, and maybe in the light of these new developments peace and harmony would be restored.

  I had put John's exercise book on the dresser to remind me of my promise to him 'to have a go', but the days passed, and I found myself feeling more guilty daily.

  If I were to take his advice and write my own memoirs as a village schoolmistress, I ought to think of a tide, I told myself. This, of course, kept me from the dreaded moment of writing on the first blank page of my exercise book.

  What about Memories of a Village Schoolteacher? Too dull, I decided. Or perhaps Rooks Above the Playground? Too fanciful, I thought. Country Children? The Heart of the Village? Somehow none seemed right.

  I did actually sit down at the kitchen table one morning and open the exercise book. I sat staring at the virgin page in a state of gloom. Surely, all books should begin with an arresting opening which would lead the reader on to pursue the two or three hundred printed pages with rapture.

  At that moment Amy had rung me, and I put the book back thankfully on the dresser.

  She was delighted to hear about John's present and my future literary success, and promised to buy a dozen copies for Christmas presents.

  Mrs Pringle, on Wednesday afternoon, was less enthusiastic. She picked up the book by its corner, as if it were something highly contagious, and asked what I was doing with it?

  I said, with some hauteur, that I proposed to write in it one day. She sniffed, and limped away.

  The book began to haunt me. To put it out of sight in a drawer seemed like admitting defeat, so it stayed on the dresser and gave me a twinge of conscience every time I passed it.

  A week or two after our lunch at The Woodman, John picked it up and looked inside. I felt like a child caught with a spoon in the honey pot.

  'My darling girl,' he cried, 'you haven't written one word!'

  He looked so disappointed I could have wept. He brushed aside my feeble excuses with his customary kindness.

  'Good lord!' he said briskly. 'Don't let it bother you. If I thought you would worry I shouldn't have given you the things. Put 'em in the dustbin, and forget all about it.'

  He changed the subject by telling me that all was going ahead steadily with the purchase of his new house, and that he and Henry had had a long telephone conversation, to their mutual satisfaction. Better still, Deidre was being the perfect wife, and they had started their own negotiations for the farmhouse of her choice.

  'They hoped,' he added, 'to see us over there when they had got settled.'

  As he went, he picked up the exercise book.

  'Shall I dispose of it for you?' he asked. 'I'm not going to see you worrying about the wretched thing.'

  'No!' I said with sudden strength. 'Leave it there. I may get inspired some time.'

  It was obvious, I thought, as I waved him goodbye, that I was going to get involved in other people's affairs, as well as my own, during my peaceful retirement.

  ***

  Three days later, I came in from 'mooning about the fields and woods' as John had once described my walks.

  The early evening sunlight had fallen across the neglected exercise book, and seemed to exert a stronger influence than ever. I sat at the kitchen table, and opened it. I reviewed again the half dozen or so tides which had occurred to me over the weeks. Somehow they all seemed pretty trite, and I could not see hordes of eager readers flocking to the booksellers to buy it.

  I turned resolutely from this dispiriting thought. After all, one did not need to have the tide until the book was written. In fact, it would probably be best to see how it turned out before labelling it.

  I picked up John's lovely pen. A vision of his disappointed face, as he had seen my empty exercise book, floated before me.

  I pulled the book before me, refusing to be daunted by that virgin page, and all the others which followed it.

  On the top line I wrote: CHAPTER ONE, and felt marvellous.

  At last, I had made a start.

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  MISS READ is the pen name of Mrs. Dora Saint, who was born on April 17, 1913.A teacher by profession, she began writing for several journals after World War II and worked as a scriptwriter for the BBC. She is the author of many immensely popular books, but she is especially beloved for her novels of English rural life set in the fictional villages of Fairacre and Thrush Green. The first of these, Village School, was published in 1955 by Michael Joseph Ltd. in England and by Houghton Mifflin in the United States. Miss Read continued to write until her retirement in 1996. In 1998 she was made a Member of the Order of the British Empire for her services to literature. She lives in Berkshire.

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