(18/20) Changes at Fairacre Page 12

  I had plenty to think about in the time ahead, but I was enormously glad to have met Mary and to have been able to give her the mementoes she liked. And at least she had not put me in the position of poor Wilhelm's widow when those Austrian dining-room chairs had been appropriated.

  ***

  At the Post office the next day, I was surprised to see Mrs Lamb standing behind the grille in place of her husband.

  'He's down at the surgery,' she said, in reply to my enquiry. 'Got a bad back, picking gooseberries yesterday, and anyone would think he was at death's door. You know what men are.'

  'Well, I hope it soon gets better. Backs are so painful. Just six air letters, please, and a book of stamps.'

  She busied herself in a drawer. 'Have you heard any more about the school closing?' she asked.

  Mrs Lamb has been a manager, or governor, as I have to remember to call them now, for several years, in company with other good villagers such as Mr Roberts and Mrs Mawne, wife of our local ornithologist, Henry.

  'Nothing definite,' I said. 'As you know, we are now down to about twenty on roll, but I have had no word from the office about closure so I'm keeping my fingers crossed.'

  'Well, we've trounced the idea before, and we'll do it again,' said Mrs Lamb, slapping down my purchases in a militant manner. 'There's not a soul in Fairacre who wants the school to close. That must count for something.'

  I said that I hoped so.

  'You don't think,' she went on, a note of doubt now in her voice, 'that you leaving for Dolly Clare's place might make them think of shutting the school?'

  The thought had never occurred to me, and although I did not think that my removal a few miles distant would affect the authority's decision, I was somewhat taken aback.

  'I don't imagine it will make the slightest difference,' I said, trying to sound reassuring. 'After all, I spent several weeks commuting from Dolly's house to school during her last illness.'

  'That's what I said to Maud Pringle when she came in yesterday. There's a fair amount of gossip about the school at the moment.'

  This I could well believe, and I made my way homeward with all the old familiar worries buzzing in my head like a swarm of bees.

  It really looked as though the school might close. It would not be just yet, as we should have had fair warning if such a step were imminent. I remembered the vicar's blackboard message about the dates of the coming term, and felt a faint comfort.

  But I really ought to give some serious thought to my own future. My departure from the school house would probably mean that it would be put on the market. That I had already faced. But what should I do if the school closed? I felt sure that I would be offered another post in the area, possibly at Beech Green School if there were a suitable vacancy. There were a dozen or so schools in Caxley and nearby which might employ me. But did I want to go elsewhere? I certainly did not.

  I could, I supposed, take early retirement, but could I afford to? And wasn't I still an active person, wanting to work and, though I said it myself, able, healthy and experienced? I should soon be bored, kicking around at home, and I remembered Miriam Baker's remark about 'being geared to work'. Like most people when working, I professed to loathing it, but deprived of it I should probably be far less content.

  As I came towards the church, I saw that Bob Willet was busy digging a grave, and I went across to speak to him. He looked hot with his labours, and pushed his cap to the back of his head.

  'Fair bit of clay over the chalk in this 'ere graveyard,' he said, clambering out and taking a seat on a conveniently placed horizontal grave stone over the tomb of Josiah Drummond Gent. He nodded towards his work. 'Poor old Bert Tanner. Went last week.'

  I made to sit beside him, and he dusted a place with his rough old hand.

  'Bit damp, you know. Don't want to get piles. Nasty things, piles.'

  'I shan't hurt,' I said. 'I'm pretty tough.'

  'You needs to be these days,' he observed, and a companionable silence fell between us as we let the peace of the place envelop us. A country churchyard is a very soothing spot among all our 'rude forefathers', including Josiah Drummond Gent, whose last resting place was providing us with a comfortable, if chilly, seat.

  'Heard any more about our school shutting?' he said at last, breaking the silence.

  'Not a thing. I don't think there's any cause to worry just yet.'

  'Looks as though it's bound to come, though. I hates all this 'ere change. New houses, new people, that dratted motorway, you moving out before long. It's unsettling, that's what it is.'

  'I shan't be going far,' I pointed out. 'In a way I shall only be carrying on where dear old Dolly left off. So there's a nice comforting piece of continuity for you.'

  Mr Willet sighed.

  'I s'pose you could look at it like that. There's still plenty that stays the same. Digging graves, for instance, and them downs up there. They won't change, thank God.'

  The stone was beginning to strike some chill through my summer skirt, and I rose to go. Mr Willet heaved himself to his feet, and grasped his spade again.

  'Ah well! My old ma used to say: "Do what's to hand and the Lord will look after the rest." I'd best get on digging.'

  He jumped neatly into the mottled clay and chalk hole of his making, and I went to embark on what my own hand should be doing.

  12 Relief by Telephone

  I WENT to Beech Green on most days during the summer holidays, to see how the refurbishing was getting on, and to take over a few pieces of furniture, china and so on from the school house.

  Wayne Richards was doing me proud, I felt, and the basic decorating was done within two weeks, and rejuvenated the whole place. I felt immensely pleased with my new home.

  I had got our local electrician to inspect all the wiring, and the plumber to check his work in the cottage. To my relief all was in good repair. It looked as though I should be able to move in before term started, unless any unforeseen problems cropped up.

  The biggest headache was the state of the garden, and I took Bob Willet with me one hot day, to get his advice on it. He mooched about it in a thoughtful mood, taking particular note of the ancient fruit trees.

  'Almost all have had their day,' he told me. He stood by an ancient plum tree. Brown beads of resin decorated the trunk, and some of the topmost branches were already dead.

  Bob's brown hand slapped the wrinkled bark.

  'You thinkin' of replacing any of 'em?'

  'Is it so bad?'

  'In my opinion, yes. The only tree here as is worth its salt is that old Bramley and the yew tree. They'll be good for another fifty years, but these 'ere fruit trees should be out before they falls down.'

  I nodded my agreement.

  'I think I'd like a new plum tree - one of the gage type, if possible - and perhaps a couple of new apple trees. But I agree there's no need for more.'

  'Come early autumn I'll bring a lad up with me and we'll get this lot down.'

  He moved on to a James Grieve apple tree which was already leaning over at an alarming angle.

  'Tell you what, Miss Read, these 'ere trees'll give you a nice lot of firewood for the winter.'

  He turned his attention to the neglected border, and shook his head.

  'Hopeless?' I hazarded.

  'Best to dig up the lot and start afresh,' was his verdict. 'It's that full of twitch and ground elder nothing won't grow well there.'

  And so it went on as we did our tour of inspection. Only the soft fruit bushes, black and redcurrant and gooseberry bushes passed his ruthless inspection. Even they, it seemed, could do with 'a good old spray against the bugs'.

  We went into the house to arrange matters. As always, Bob had some practical advice.

  'I've got a young lad in mind, nephew of Alice's over Springbourne way. He's a good worker, when he gets the chance. Just been stood off from one of those Caxley firms as has gone bust. Tip top gardener he is. Shall I get him over?'

  'Yes, please. I supp
ose we could make a start on that border?'

  'The sooner the better,' said my old friend forthrightly, as he rose to go home.

  August seemed to hurry by at an alarming pace with so many things to do in both my abodes. Luckily there were no urgent maintenance jobs to be done at the school house, as the upstairs rooms were now in pristine condition and, apart from getting new mats for the kitchen floor sometime, I felt that I could sit back.

  In any case, I did not propose to do any more to my present home. The outside maintenance was the responsibility of the school authorities, and I was only responsible for things inside; I felt that I had done my duty honourably throughout the years. With the possible closure of the school hanging over me, it seemed prudent to postpone any long-term decisions for my domestic arrangements at the school house.

  My social life during the holidays was limited to a few outings to friends, a short trip to Dorset to see an aged aunt, and entertaining my cousin Ruth for three nights at the school house — 'probably,' I told her, 'for the last time.'

  'It's sad. I shall miss it,' she said. 'Will you?'

  'Naturally, but I should be far more upset if the school were to close. As it is, I have Dolly's house to enjoy, and all the fun of new neighbours at Beech Green with the continuing of life as the village school teacher here.'

  I took her to see my new property. The work was well on the way to completion, and privately I reckoned to be in by the end of August.

  Ruth was enchanted with it, and it was good to have her whole-hearted approval. She is a wise woman, and I have always respected her judgement.

  'Well, the next time you come,' I told her, 'you will be sleeping under that thatched roof.'

  We were blessed with warm sunshine while she was with me, and we had several picnics, and two visits to nearby National Trust properties. August is not my favourite month: there is an end-of-summer look about the countryside, shabby and worn, before the glory of autumn transforms it.

  But the verges of our lanes were still bright with cranesbill, and the tall grass was dusted with minute purple flowers. The lime trees had shed their yellow bracts, but the remains of the flowers still fluttered moth-like among the foliage.

  I was sorry when Ruth had to go. There are times when I realize how much I miss family ties. This was one of them as I drove her to Caxley station.

  'Come again soon,' I urged her. 'Come for Christmas in the new house.'

  'Nothing I'd like more, but I'll have to let you know,' she replied, and with that I had to be content.

  That evening I was surprised to get a call on the telephone from Mr Salisbury. He is the representative from the local education office who attends our school governors' meetings, and acts as the line of communication between the local schools and the education authority. He performs his rôle admirably, being kind and tactful. I wondered why he should be tinging me personally, presumably on a school matter.

  After polite inquiries about my state of health, he began to approach the purpose of his call.

  'I happened to meet Gerald Partridge recently,' he said smoothly, 'and he mentioned the fact that there was a little disquiet in the village about Fairacre School.'

  This is it, I thought, feeling slightly sick. He is going to warn me about closing the place before the next governors' meeting.

  'I do want to put your mind at rest, Miss Read. There is no suggestion of closing the school in the near future.'

  I sat down abruptly on the chair by the telephone. My legs did not seem capable of supporting me.

  'That's good news,' I croaked. 'Naturally, I've been anxious as the numbers are so low.'

  'They are indeed,' he agreed, 'but they may pick up before the next school year. In any case, that side of the matter will be kept under review, and you would be apprised of any official decision in good time.'

  'I was sure of that,' I told him.

  'No. The other matter was rather more personal.'

  He cleared his throat while I thought, now what? Had I forgotten to return some vital forms? Had an angry parent complained about me? Was I about to get the sack for some unknown misdemeanour?

  'It's really about your tenancy of the school house,' he went on. 'I gathered from Gerald Partridge's remarks that you were proposing to live at Beech Green sometime in the future. Is that correct?'

  'Yes, indeed,' I replied, and went on to explain my plans as far as I knew them myself. 'I was going to bring this up at the next governors' meeting,' I added. 'I realize I have to give a month's notice.'

  'There is absolutely no hurry on our side for you to leave the school house, you know. You have been a model tenant, and we should all be very sorry to see you go. I only rang so that I could get matters straight before anything official was put into writing.'

  I said that I appreciated the courtesy, and felt that perhaps I should have mentioned my plans earlier.

  'Indeed no! There's nothing to blame yourself for, but I am delighted to have had this little talk.'

  He went on to more general subjects such as the traffic congestion that morning in Caxley, the early harvest this year, and ended up with his hopes for more children at Fairacre before long.

  I agreed fervently, and with mutual compliments the conversation closed.

  As the end of August approached, the school house began to look pathetically bare. My future abode, on the other hand, was in danger of getting seriously overcrowded, although I was happy and excited at the prospect of moving in.

  Amy came over one morning to help me pack books, a formidable task, and a particularly dirty one as it happened. We swathed ourselves in overalls against the dust of years which was being blown off, or slapped off, the contents of my book shelves.

  'I should have thought you could have got Mrs Pringle to dust these now and again,' observed Amy.

  'Mrs Pringle,' I told her, 'doesn't hold with books. If I'd let her have her way, she would have had a bonfire of the lot in the garden. She maintains that reading keeps decent folk from proper work like polishing and scrubbing and dusting book shelves. By the way, Mrs Pringle insists on "doing me" at my new home on a Wednesday afternoon.'

  'Well, I'm glad to hear it,' said Amy. 'Do you really want to keep this Historic Houses and Gardens Guide for 1978?'

  She held it up by one corner, looking fastidious. Her usually well-kept hands were filthy, I noticed guiltily.

  'Throw it in the junk box,' I said, 'and let's have some coffee.'

  We washed our filthy hands at the kitchen sink, and sat down exhausted with our coffee cups.

  I had switched on the television to catch the news on the hour, but we'd found ourselves confronted with an old black and white film. The heroine, wearing a black satin suit with aggressive shoulder pads, and a minute pill-box hat with sequins and an ostrich plume was sobbing noisily on a settee. At the other end sat Cary Grant, ebony-haired and looking greatly concerned.

  'Aw, kid,' he said, 'don't take on so,' and produced a beautifully laundered handkerchief which he pressed upon his weeping companion.

  She proceeded to mop her cheeks, being careful not to touch her mascara.

  'Gee, you're so kind,' she gulped. 'I bin silly.'

  I switched them off.

  'I wonder,' said Amy meditatively, 'why weeping women in films never have a handkerchief? I don't know about you, my dear, but I can truthfully say that I always have a hanky on me, thanks to my mother's training. Although I did know two sisters who shared one when they went out to parties. I remember one saying to the other: "Have you got the handkerchief ?" I was appalled.'

  'And quite rightly so,' I said. 'D'you want more coffee or shall we get on?'

  We returned to our labours, and later that day took the books, a box of china and some garden chairs over to Beech Green. Our load needed both cars, and Amy arrived before I did. I found her sunning herself on an old bench under the thatch at the back of Dolly's cottage.

  'If ever you want to part with this,' she said dreamily, eyes still c
losed, 'let me know.'

  'Not a hope,' I told her. 'I intend to stay here, like dear Dolly, until I'm summoned hence.'

  I unlocked the door, and we manhandled our heavy loads into the house.

  The books went into the new shelves without much bother, but it was quite apparent that cupboard space was beginning to run short. I could see that Wayne Richards would have to be prevailed upon again, but not until the Christmas holidays, I hoped.

  When we had done all that we could, we sat down to recover. The sun was shining into the sitting-room, and I thought of the many times I had sat here with Dolly, enjoying her company and the peace of her home.

  I looked at Amy with renewed affection. It was good to have an old friend under my new roof. I began to tell her about the telephone call from Mr Salisbury, and the relief I felt at knowing the closure of Fairacre School was not imminent.

  'That's marvellous,' agreed Amy, 'but what hopes are there of new pupils?'

  'Not too bright immediately,' I told her, 'but we are waiting to see if two large families come to live in the new houses.'

  'Or in your school house,' observed Amy. 'I take it that it will be on the market sometime?'

  'I suppose so,' I said, and was surprised to find the idea distinctly upsetting. Somehow, other people in my house, was an unpleasant prospect.

  Amy was studying me with some concern. 'You must worry,' she remarked.

  I have no secrets from Amy. We have known each other too long for dissembling.

  'I do,' I said truthfully. 'I worry about the school itself, that dear shabby old building which has seen generations of Fairacre folk under its roof. I worry about the children, and the parents, and grandparents.'

  'But what about you?' pressed Amy.

  'Funnily enough, not so desperately. I should probably be worrying far more if Dolly had not been so generous to me. But I'm pretty sure I would be offered another post locally, or I could contemplate early retirement, I suppose.'