(9/20) Tyler's Row Page 13

  'Don't come walking all over my clean floor with your feet!' I heard her shout to the oncoming children.

  'Just walk on your hands,' I said.

  But I said it to myself.

  During that week I had a surprise visit from Amy. Her car was waiting in the lane as the children left school, and I greeted her warmly.

  'Come and have some tea.'

  'Lovely. But nothing to eat. I'm getting off a stone and a half.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Because that is what I intend to do,' said Amy sternly, locking the car door—a wise precaution, even in comparatively honest Fairacre.

  'Good luck to you,' I said, leading the way to the school house. 'I lose four pounds after three weeks of starvation, and then I stop.'

  'Wrongly balanced diet,' began Amy, then stopped dead, listening.

  A distant mooing noise came from the direction of the school.

  'What on earth's that? One of the children crying?'

  'Mrs Pringle singing. She usually practises the Sunday hymns as she sweeps up. That sounds like "Eternal Father, strong to save", unless it's Mr Annett's new descant.'

  'It sounds to me like murder being done,' said Amy, picking her way carefully across the stony playground to my gate. Her cream suede shoes were extremely elegant, but really too beautiful for walking in.

  'I'm starving,' I told her, as I put on the kettle, 'and intend to have a large slice of Dundee cake. Shall I eat it out here in the kitchen to save you misery?'

  'No,' said Amy, weakening, 'cut me a slice too!'

  Later, demolishing the cake as hungrily as we used to at college, so many years ago, Amy came to the reason for her visit.

  'I wanted to tell you the latest news of Vanessa, and also to invite you to a little party. I've got such a nice man coming.'

  I began to feel some alarm. Every now and again, Amy tries to marry me off to someone she considers suitable for a middle-aged schoolteacher. It is rather wearing for all concerned.

  'Who is he?' I asked suspiciously.

  'A perfect dear, called Gerard Baker. He writes.'

  'Oh lor!'

  'Now, there's no need to take that attitude,' said Amy firmly, picking a fat crumb from her lap and eating it with relish. 'Just because you took a dislike to that poor journalist fellow at my cocktail party—'

  'A dislike! I was terrified of him. He was a raving lunatic, trying to interview me on Modern Methods of Free Art over the canapés. What's more, his beard was filthy.'

  'Well, Gerard is cleanshaven, and cheerful, and very good company. He's writing vignettes of minor Victorian poets.'

  'How I hate that word "vignettes"!'

  'And he's here for a few weeks,' went on Amy, carefully ignoring my pettish interjection, 'because he is finding out about Aloysius Someone who lived at Fairacre years ago and wrote poetry.'

  'What! Our dear old Loyshus? Mr Baker must meet Mr Willet.'

  'And what can he tell Gerard?'

  'Everything. How his cottage smelt like "a civet's paradise", and how long his poetry readings were—oh, hundreds of things.'

  'They don't sound quite the thing for vignettes,' said Amy pensively.

  'He'll have to call them something different then. I've no doubt he'll work out some horribly whimsical title like "Baker's Dozen".'

  'Now, now! Don't be so tart, dear. I know you'll get on very well, and for pity's sake don't wear that black rag. If you can't afford a new frock, I'll be pleased to buy you one.'

  'Thank you,' I said frostily. 'But I haven't sunk to that.'

  'Hoity-toity!' shrugged Amy, quite unconcerned. 'Friday week then? About six-thirty?'

  'Lovely,' I said gloomily. 'Now tell me about Vanessa.'

  Amy lit a cigarette luxuriously, put her beautiful shoes up on the sofa, and settled down for a good gossip.

  'That wretched man was married'

  'I know. Four times. You told me.'

  'Yes, but he'd tried to make Vanessa believe that he'd tidied all four away by death or divorce. Actually, he is still married to Number Four. Just think of it! If Vanessa had married him, he would have been a bigamist!'

  'How did Vanessa find out?'

  'Oh, Somebody knew Somebody, who knew Somebody whose children went to the same school as his and Number Four's. You know what London is-just a bigger Fairacre when it comes to it.'

  'Is she very upset?"

  'Dreadfully. She can't decide whether to go into a convent or to take up the guitar.'

  'I should try the guitar first,' I said earnestly. 'It's not quite so final.'

  'I really believe she's beginning to grow out of this awful infatuation at last. At least her mind is turned towards these other two subjects. When she was with me she thought solely of Roderick. There seems to be a ray of hope.'

  'Is she coming to the party?'

  'Now, that's an idea. I think it might be a very good thing. She would meet a few new people, and she liked you, strangely enough.'

  'There was no need for the last two words.'

  'I suppose there was a fellow feeling,' mused Amy, tapping ash into the fireplace absently. 'Two spinsters, you know.'

  'I'm not crossed in love,' I pointed out.

  'You might well be, after meeting Gerard,' said Amy smugly. 'We shall have to wait and see.'

  Term was due to end within three weeks, and already I was beginning to quail at the thought of all the things that had to be done before the glad day arrived.

  I had to find out about new entrants to the school in September, when the school year began. There were reports to write, cupboards to tidy, present stock to check, new stock to order, the school outing—a time-honoured trip to the sea with the choir and other church workers-and our own Sports Day, which involved giving refreshments to parents and friends of the school.

  It was whilst I was contemplating this daunting prospect that Mrs Bonny dropped her bombshell. She has been a tower of strength ever since her arrival at the school, and in one as small as Fairacre's, with only two on the staff, it is vitally important that the teachers get on together. Mrs Bonny and I had never had a cross word, and I had hoped that she would continue to teach for many years, although I knew there was some doubt when she remarried at Christmas.

  She came into the playground as I sheltered in a sunny recess made by one of the buttresses. My mug of tea was steaming nicely, and playground duty was quite pleasant on such a blue-and-white day, with rooks cawing overhead, and the ubiquitous sparrows hopping about round the children's feet, alert for biscuit crumbs.

  'Georgeous day,' I remarked.

  'Well—er—yes,' said Mrs Bonny vaguely. She twisted the wedding ring on her plump finger, and I wondered why she appeared so nervous.

  'I've something to tell you.'

  'Fire away,' I said, heading off one of the Coggs twins who was about to collide with me and capsize the tea.

  'I've only just made up my mind,' said Mrs Bonny, looking singularly unhappy.

  'What about?' I asked. Ernest and Patrick were fighting on the ground, rolling over and over in the dust, legs and arms flailing. I don't mind a certain amount of good-natured scrapping, but on this occasion their clothes were suffering, and Ernest's head was dangerously near a sharp post. I left Mrs Bonny to part them.

  When I returned, she was twirling the wedding ring even more violently.

  'I must go,' she blurted out.

  'Where?' I said, bewildered.

  'To Bournemouth.'

  I stared at her. For one moment I thought she had gone off her head.

  'To Bournemouth? Now?'

  Mrs Bonny took a grip on herself.

  'No, no. I'm explaining things badly. I mean, I shall have to leave the school. I must give in my notice. Theo thinks it's best. We've talked it over.'

  This was dreadful news. I looked at my watch. It was rather early, but this must be discussed in the comparative peace of the classroom.

  I blew the whistle, and we took the reluctant children
into school.

  'Now, tell me,' I begged, when we had settled the children to work, and she had come into my room, leaving the adjoining door open so that the infants could be under observation while we talked.

  'It's my daughter, really,' explained Mrs Bonny. 'She's been pressing us for some time to go and live near them. She's got two young children, as you know, and another due at Christmas. I could help her a great deal, and I said that if she could find a suitable flat for us, we'd think about going.'

  'Oh, Mrs Bonny,' I wailed. 'Must you go?'

  The thought of finding another teacher filled me with despair. I have endured, in my time, a succession of temporary teachers, known as 'supply teachers', and though some have been delightful, more have been deplorable. Moreover, it is very unsettling for the children to have so many changes.

  'I'm sorry it's such short notice,' said Mrs Bonny. 'I thought of leaving at the end of October—at half term. That would have given you plenty of time to find someone else. But this flat has turned up.'

  I laughed hollowly. Finding a good infants' teacher is like searching for gold dust.

  'And we should have had time to get the flat ready at weekends and during the summer holidays. But we've had a good offer for our house, and we feel we must sell it and go now.'

  She seemed to have given the matter much thought, and obviously her mind was made up. I did my best to look at it from her point of view, but I felt sad and apprehensive.

  A pellet of paper, obviously catapulted from a bent-back ruler, landed on my desk, and for a minute my staffing problems were forgotten.

  Ernest, still holding the ruler, was scarlet in the face.

  'I never meant—' he began fearfully, noting my expression.

  'No play for you this afternoon,' I told him. 'You can write out your multiplication tables instead.'

  Meekly, he picked up the pellet and put it in the waste-paper basket.

  At the same moment, a bevy of infants converged upon the communicating door, babbling incoherently.

  Mrs Bonny and I went to see what was the matter.

  Beneath one of the diminutive armchairs a pool of water darkened the floorboards. The children pointed at one wispy five-year-old accusingly.

  'Rosie Carter went to the lavatory,' said one self-righteous little girl.

  'That,' said Mrs Bonny, with awful emphasis, 'is exactly what she did not do.'

  We postponed our plans for the future to deal with more urgent problems.

  15. Sergeant Burnaby Falls Ill

  FOR some days after the departure of Mrs Fowler's dog, peace reigned at Tyler's Row.

  Sergeant Burnaby maintained an offended silence when his path crossed the Hales'. Even his radio seemed quieter, although his cough, Diana noticed, became more hacking daily. She wished he would smoke less, but it was really none of her business, she told herself, and there were very few pleasures left for the old man to enjoy.

  Mrs Fowler, too, seemed unusually quiet, and was inclined to toss her head and look the other way when Diana met her. It was a pity that she felt like this, thought Diana, but nothing could be done about it, and at least things were more tranquil.

  She was glad of the respite, for she awaited the results of the tests with acute anxiety. She did her best to put aside her fears, busying herself with the house and garden, and with entertaining all those Caxley friends who wanted to see their new home, but now and again the grim doubts would break through her defences, and she would be beset by dark thoughts.

  She felt sure that the wretched mole, which had started all the trouble, was growing. It was certainly giving her twinges. If only she could know! Even the worst news would be better than this torturing suspense.

  It was during this waiting period that the Hales invited the Mawnes to dinner. Peter's headmaster, another keen ornithologist, and his wife, were also invited.

  'Henry Mawne,' said Diana, as she set the table, 'reminds me of one of my old flames.'

  'Which one?' asked Peter. 'That terrible tennis-player I met?'

  'No, no. He didn't last long. D'you know, I can't for the life of me remember this man's name.'

  Diana paused, forks in hand, and gazed into the middle distance.

  'He had just been jilted by another girl called Diana, and he seemed to think it was the hand of God—meeting me, I mean. He was really rather persistent.'

  'I expect you encouraged him,' said Peter primly.

  'That I didn't! He was frightfully old, forty at least—'

  'Poor devil!' commented Peter.

  'And I was only twenty. He had a silver plate in his head, or a silver tube in his inside—something metallic one wouldn't expect—and such a nice voice.'

  'What an incoherent description!' remarked Peter. 'I wouldn't trust your choice in an identity parade.'

  'It's all I can remember,' protested Diana, resuming her work with the forks. 'Anyway, Henry Mawne is rather like him. How I wish I could remember his name!'

  The headmaster and his wife arrived first. They were sticklers for punctuality, and if the invitation was for seven-thirty, they were there on the dot, if not a trifle earlier.

  Diana, in common with most people, disliked visitors who kept one waiting whilst the meal grew browner and drier in the oven, but she sometimes wondered, when the Thornes appeared so promptly, if it were not harder to appear sincerely welcoming when one's back zip was still undone.

  The Mawnes appeared at twenty to eight. Mrs Mawne, whom Diana had only seen in tweed suits or sensible cotton shirtwaisters, was resplendent in red velvet, cut very low, her substantial bosom supporting the sort of ornate necklace of gold, pearls and garnets, which Diana had only seen in the advertisements of Messrs Sotheby. She would really look more at home, thought Diana, at a gala performance at Covent Garden, rather than a modest dinner party in a cottage.

  However, it was good of her to do the occasion so much honour, and she certainly looked magnificent. Henry, in his dark church suit, made a suitably restrained background to so much splendour.

  The two men took to each other at once, and such terms as 'lesser spotted woodpeckers', 'only a cedar nesting box attracts them', 'migratory habits' and 'never more than one clutch a season', were batted between them like so many bright shuttlecocks.

  The two women found that they had attended the same boarding school, and though they were both careful to make no mention of dates, thus giving away their ages, they remembered a great many girls and members of staff.

  'And do you remember Friday lunch?' asked Mrs Thorne.

  'Friday lunch,' said Mrs Mawne, with feeling, 'is permanently engraved—scarred, perhaps I should say-upon my memory. Those awful boiled cods at the end of each table, swimming in grey slime, with their poor eyes half out.'

  'They might have looked better on a pretty dish,' said Mrs Thorne, trying to be fair. 'But those thick white dishes added to the general ghastliness.'

  'At least you knew what you were eating,' said Diana. 'At my school we had fish-cakes every Friday, concocted from saw-dust and watered anchovy essence, as far as I could see. The irony of it was, they used to be dished up with a sprig of fresh parsley—the only thing with any food value in it at all—and, of course, that remained on the dish.'

  'Have you noticed,' said Mrs Mawne, stroking her red velvet skirt, 'that everyone talks about food these days? I think we got into the way of it during the war, and now whenever women meet they swap recipes or reminiscences.'

  'I know,' said Mrs Thorne. 'I remember my mother drumming into me as a child that a well-brought-up person never talked of politics, religion, money or food. We should all be struck dumb these days.'

  Diana retreated to the kitchen to dish up. Mrs Willet was coming later to make the coffee, and to wash up when the meal was over. It was a long time since she had taken on such an engagement, and she had welcomed Diana's tentative invitation with as much relish as if she were having an evening at the theatre. Diana hoped she would get a glimpse of Mrs Mawne's magnifice
nce. It would please her so much.

  The meal was a great success, the duck succulent, the fresh young vegetables, some from Mr Willet's garden, at their best, and Diana's strawberry shortcake sweet much admired.

  Nothing, mercifully, could be heard of their neighbours. Ever since the earlier catastrophic dinner party when Robert was present, Diana had been painfully aware of how easily their peace could be shattered. The weather, perhaps, had something to do with it. The fine spell had broken, and heavy summer rain lashed the windows and dripped steadily from the thatch.

  'Good for the grass,' commented the headmaster, who was a great gardener. The talk turned to flowers and trees, and then, suddenly, to neighbours.

  'And how are you getting on with yours?' asked Mrs Mawne.

  'Not very well,' confessed Peter, and told them a little of their troubles.

  'You really must get rid of them,' Mrs Mawne maintained robustly. Diana hoped that Mrs Fowler's ear was not glued to the adjoining wall. Mrs Mawne's voice was notoriously carrying.

  'That's easier said than done,' said Peter. 'They're sitting tenants.'

  'I haven't seen the old soldier,' said Mr Mawne. 'At least, not since die week-end. Is he all right?'

  'As far as I know,' said Diana. 'I think I saw him yesterday. Or was it the day before?'

  'We often meet at the shop,' said Henry. 'I usually go to the post office at four, and he's going to buy his baccy. Interesting old fellow, but you don't want to be in a hurry. He'd talk till Kingdom Come if you'd let him.'

  'He's lonely, I expect,' said Mrs Thorne. 'Particularly now, if he's taken umbrage about something, and isn't speaking to you.'

  Diana began to feel worried. The conversation went on to other matters, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that it was quite two days since she had seen Sergeant Burnaby about. She must investigate as unobtrusively as possible. It was dreadful to think that the old soldier might be incapacitated so near at hand.

  'I don't think we recognise,' she heard the headmaster saying, 'how much the country lost when that generation was wiped out in the First World War. All the best, you know—the finest minds. Must make a difference to have all those potential fathers gone. I used to have My Magazine as a child. There were pages of photographs of some of the chaps who died. The Grenfell brothers, Raymond Asquith, Rupert Brooke, Charles Sorley and someone in a bush hat called Selous, as far as I remember. Just a handful of well-known men, of course. When you multiply that by hundreds, it makes you think of what we are still missing.'