Village Centenary Read online

  'Elementary organisation,' said Amy. 'You too could have an immaculate house if you planned your routine.'

  'You remind me of those advertisements, Amy. "You too can have a beautiful bust".'

  'I liked the one about piano-playing in our youth. "You too can be a concert pianist", or something like that.'

  'Better than that! "My friends used to laugh when I sat down at the piano". Remember?'

  'Mine still do,' said Amy. 'It must be lovely to have a talent of some sort.'

  'How's the autobiography?'

  'Oh dear, oh dear! I was afraid you'd ask! I'm stuck at myself aged eight, and all I can remember are idiotic things like tying reef knots as a Brownie, and my father cranking up our first family car, and having to help him fix canvas and mica side curtains to it when it rained. I don't think it's very stirring stuff, not a bit like some of these successful memoirs where the authors remember all sorts of psychological hook-ups and traumatic experiences when they found the cat having kittens in the laundry basket. I wonder why they can do it, and I can't?'

  'Probably because you have a much more normal mind,' I assured her, 'And anyway, who's to know they didn't make it all up?'

  'I never thought of that!'

  'Frankly, I should shelve it for a week or two, and go back to it when you feel like it. Anyway, the weather's too good to stick about indoors pushing the pen.'

  'I believe you're right. I've hardly been into Caxley at all since starting the book. Incidentally, I saw your young teacher there the last time I was shopping.'

  'Our Miss Briggs? I wonder what she was doing in Caxley? I thought she was at home, in one of those spas - Droitwich or Buxton or somewhere up north. Malvern perhaps.'

  'Malvern's west, dear. She was with a young man, and they appeared to be very affectionate.'

  'Well, I'm blowed! Perhaps she came back to collect something, and brought her young man with her from Harrogate or whatever. It was during the holidays, I take it, that you saw her?'

  'Yes, the beginning of last week.'

  'Well, I'm glad to hear she's found an interest at last. It may liven her up. Mr Willet calls her "a fair old lump of a girl", and I don't think one can better that description.'

  'Poor thing!' said Amy. 'Anyway, she looked quite animated and pretty in the High Street.'

  'Ah! The transformation wrought by love! I must try it some time.'

  'I wish you would,' said Amy forcefully, returning to a well-worn theme, 'but aren't you leaving it rather late?'

  Trust old friends to tell you the unpalatable truth!

  Mrs Pringle arrived 'to bottom' me as she elegantly terms performing the house cleaning. Sometimes she only has time 'to put me to rights,' and that is bad enough. 'To be bottomed' involves taking down curtains and pictures, pulling out a heavy Welsh dresser and generally creating mayhem. I try and make myself scarce when threatened with bottoming, but on this occasion there was no escape as I was expecting the lawn mower to be returned from the repairer's and wanted to pay him.

  Halfway through the dire proceedings I was allowed to pick my way through displaced furniture piled in the kitchen to put on the kettle for a restorative cup of tea.

  Mrs Pringle, militant in a flowered overall with the sleeves rolled up to expose wrestler's forearms, had a fanatical look in her eyes.

  'You seen the top of that dresser of yours?' she asked.

  'No. What's wrong with it?'

  'Wrong with it?' echoed Mrs Pringle triumphantly. 'It's got two inches of dust on it as you could grow potatoes in.'

  'Oh, come ...' I began weakly.

  'And what's more, down the back, was a letter unopened and dated months ago.'

  'Good heavens! Where is it?'

  Mrs Pringle handed me an envelope. The address was handwritten, and I recognised it as Lucy Clayton's writing. She had been at college, with Amy and me, and I cordially detested her.

  'No one that matters,' I said with some relief, and made the tea.

  We took it into the garden. The sight of my house I found upsetting.

  'Well, I must say it's a treat to breathe a bit of clean air after all that dust and filth,' announced Mrs Pringle, stirring her tea. 'You heard about Mrs Partridge?'

  'No. What's happened?'

  'She had to go to hospital, poor soul.'

  I was genuinely shocked. I am devoted to our vicar's wife, and the thought of her in hospital was even more upsetting than the chaos in my house.

  'When did she go?'

  'Last Saturday.'

  'And it's Wednesday today! I am sorry. What is it, do you know?'

  'Bees. The vicar's bees.'

  'But she wouldn't need to be three, 1 mean four, days in hospital with a bee sting, surely?'

  'Who said she was?'

  'What?'

  'In hospital for four days. All I said was that she went in Saturday. She come out Saturday too.'

  Mrs Pringle took a long draught of tea and looked complacent. She has brought irritating her listeners to a fine art, I'll give her that.

  'Well, go on. Tell me it all from the beginning.'

  'Mrs Partridge told me herself as she was simply up the garden picking some nice sprigs of parsley to make parsley sauce for a nice bit of fresh haddock she'd got from that nice fishmonger in Caxley...'

  Who probably had a nice shop, I thought impatiently.

  'Miles away from the hive, she said, when one of the nasty things came and bit her by the eye, and she swelled up awful. Couldn't see out of that eye in a quarter of an hour, and the other not much better, and the vicar looking everywhere for his glasses to read how big a dose of some bee medicine you had to take if bitten - as she had been, of course - and worried to death all the time, in case it was fatal. It can be, you know. My old uncle was never right after being set on by bees, and he died soon after.'

  'Really? How dreadful!'

  'Mind you, he was ninety-four,' Mrs Pringle admitted, 'but we all said as it was the bee stings as hastened his end. I told the vicar about it.'

  Job's comforter, as ever, was my private comment.

  'Anyway, she took these tablets, and the vicar got out the car and took her into Caxley Cottage Hospital, and her head was fair swimming by the time she got there. She reckoned it was the medicine. The doctor said it could have been, and give her something to help, and some ointment. She come straight back and went to bed, poor thing, and you can still see where its fangs went into her.'

  She heaved herself to her feet.

  'Well, I'd best get on. No rest for the wicked, my mother used to say.'

  She surveyed my reclining form with a sour expression.

  'Though that don't always seem to fit the case, come to think of it.'

  After she had returned to the fray, I opened Lucy's letter. It was dated February 12th, which showed how long it had been collecting the dust at the back of the dresser.

  In it Lucy informed me that Mr and Mrs Ambrose B. Edelstein and their two grown-up children were to be in England for three months. They came from - here an illegible place name, possibly Minnesota, Minever or even Minnehaha - where they took a keen interest in Education, and the Professor had several degrees in the subject. They were such a nice family - I thought of Mrs Pringle - and would be fascinated by a glimpse of Fairacre School, so she had taken the liberty of giving them my telephone number, and they would be ringing me to arrange a convenient day to visit. No need to put them up, or get them meals, as they were planning to stop in Caxley, but she was sure I would enjoy having them in school for a day just letting them have a free rein talking to the children and looking through their work.

  She was ever my affectionate Lucy, and added a postscript saying that there was absolutely no need for me to feel that I must reply. I breathed a sigh of relief for mercies received, calculated that the Edelsteins had now been safely back in Minniewhatsit for several months, and fell into a blissful sleep.

  Mrs Pringle and the lawnmower man brought me back to earth, half an hour
later, and life began anew.

  My Norfolk holiday was a great success. There is something about the bracing salty air of that magnificent county, with its massive skies and pellucid light, which is wonderfully restorative. In the summer, that is. I have only once experienced really wintry weather in that area, and hope never to again. Such piercing cold, straight from the steppes of Russia, it seemed, had an intensity never met with in Fairacre, even though we are always telling each other that we live in a cold spot.

  On the way to stay with my old friend, and on my return journey, I spent a few hours in Cambridge, so dear to me, and renewed my delight with walks along the Backs, Parker's Piece and Midsummer Common. August is not the best month to see Cambridge, or any other place for that matter, for the trees and grass begin to look worn and shabby, the first glory of summer has gone, and the true fire and radiance of autumn has not begun. But to my devoted eye, there was beauty enough and to spare, and I hung over Clare Bridge and watched the scattered yellow willow leaves floating gently beneath me with the same rapture which I felt in my youth.

  There is so little water in Fairacre, and I do not realise how much I miss it until I come across a river, or a lake, or even a modest garden fountain, and experience that surge of joy for this most beautiful of the elements.

  But, as always, it was good to get back to my own home. Tibby greeted me with some hauteur. She looked upon my absence as dereliction of duty, and was not going to put herself out with a lot of fulsome welcoming. Later, if I did the right thing with offerings of rabbit or finely chopped pig's liver, she might condescend to accept me again.

  Mrs Pringle had obviously been bottoming me in my absence, and the house shone. She had even put some sweet peas in a vase on the mantelpiece, a gesture which, from one of her morose mood, I much appreciated.

  Later, I wrote to my Norfolk friend and decided that it would do me good to walk to the post office. The evening was overcast, and it was sad to see how much shorter the days were growing. Already there were yellow leaves fluttering down from the old plum tree in the garden, and dahlias and Michaelmas daisies were opening in the border. Far too soon, autumn would be upon us and lovely though it always was at Fairacre, with its flaming beech trees and bronzed hedges, yet there was sadness too at the passing of summer and all its outdoor pleasures.

  Letter in hand, I opened the front door to find Joan Benson about to thread the Parish Magazine through the letter box.

  'Come in,' I cried.

  'But you're just going out.'

  'Not really. The post's gone anyway, and this will keep till tomorrow.'

  'Then I will. I've a stone or something in my shoe, and perhaps I can sit down and investigate.'

  It turned out to be a nail, and we had a few minutes of amateurish hammering to try and remedy the matter. We found the activity extremely frustrating, as there was not room enough inside the shoe to manoeuvre the hammer. However, by dint of banging energetically we effected a partial cure.

  'We ought to have one of those little anvil things,' said Joan 'with three feet on them. Is it called a cobbler's last?'

  I confessed ignorance. 'All I know about a cobbler's last is that he should stick to it,' I said, 'but I never really knew what it meant.'

  'Like so many sayings,' agreed Joan, standing up to test her shoe. 'All my eye and Betty Martin, for instance.'

  'Or right as a trivet.'

  'Or being on tenterhooks. This shoe's fine now, thank you. You could set up as a cobbler, as a side line to teaching, you know.'

  'I'll consider it. I might need something to do when I retire.'

  'You're not thinking of that yet, surely? Incidentally, will you stay here?'

  'I doubt it. By that time I rather think this house and school will be on the market. Any sensible woman would have bought a little place of her own before now, but I'm afraid I've left it a bit late.'

  Joan Benson nodded understanding^. 'Well, I can sympathise. This house hunting is so wearing. I've had another week with my daughter searching for a suitable home, but the more I look the less I like.'

  'What exactly are you looking for?'

  'You may well ask! Something with no stairs - a ground floor flat or a bungalow. But 1 must have a little bit of garden, and ideally it should have some trees, and be the sort of private place where one can sit and ruminate without too many people around. The snag is, of course, that it's virtually impossible to find such a place. Barbara is very anxious for me to have an apartment in an old people's home near her, and lovely though it is - it's an old vicarage with a cedar tree on the lawn and even an old nuttery with Kentish cob nuts - one would be among a score or so of other old people, all individually quite charming I have no doubt, but never alone.'

  'I can understand how you feel.'

  'Do you like your solitude too?'

  'It's the breath of life to me,' I confessed. 'Perhaps it's because I am with a crowd all day. All I know is, that to come into this little house and to hear the clock ticking and the cat purring, is sheer bliss to me. I can truthfully say I've never felt lonely in my life.'

  'Well, I can't say that,' admitted Joan. 'When you've had a husband and children, and latterly my darling mother, always about the place, then to be alone is - not exactly frightening, but definitely disconcerting. I suppose the ideal thing would be to find a flat near Barbara so that she could see me frequently, but not have me under her feet. She presses me sometimes to make my home with them, and sometimes when I get back exhausted from house hunting I almost give in. But it would never do. It wouldn't be fair to her, or to the children, or to me, to be honest. Grandchildren are adorable for a time, but it's asking too much to have them with you constantly when you are getting on, and I'm quite sure the same thing applies in reverse.'

  She picked up the basket containing the few remaining copies of the parish magazine, i must finish my little job. Mrs Partridge usually does it, noble soul, but she's away for a few days. You've heard, I expect, about Holly Lodge?'

  'No indeed. I only came back from Norfolk a couple of hours ago, so I haven't caught up with the Fairacre news.'

  'I think I've sold it. Henry Mawne asked me if his nephew David and his wife could come and have a look at it. A very nice couple. Do you know them?'

  I told her the little about them that I knew.

  'Well, they are now trying to sell their own place, which shouldn't be too difficult. Miriam knows them rather better than I do, arid the marvellous thing is that they hope Miriam will continue to live in the annexe.'

  'She must be very pleased.'

  A little frown of worry puckered Joan's brow.

  'It is exactly what I'd hoped for, and I'm sure it will work out beautifully, but at the moment Miriam is now wondering if they are only being kind, and would really want the annexe for themselves. We've all done our best to persuade her that she need not have such qualms, and as she's such a sensible person I'm sure she will realise that is the truth very soon.'

  She began to make her way towards the door.

  'Do you sometimes find even the most straightforward people horribly complicated?' she asked.

  'Frequently,' I replied. 'Perhaps that's why we relish our solitude.'

  Reg Thorn and his two young men were now back on the school roof. The dormer window was now recognisable, but still seemed to be giving the three of them a certain amount of trouble. In my innocence, I had imagined that the job might take about three weeks, with perhaps a few more days allowed for bad weather, or difficulty in obtaining parts for it, and so on. But here we were, months later, and still no sign of completion.

  I never seemed to be able to catch Reg himself. I would see him in the distance from my kitchen window, but by the time I had walked across to speak to him he had leapt into his van and driven off in a cloud of dust. Dodging irate employers, I guessed, was second nature to him by now.

  The young men were fast becoming as evasive, at least in making excuses. One was fair, with fast-receding hair;
this seemed sad, as he could not have been much more than twenty-five. The other seemed to be covered in thick black hair: head, beard and chest were one luxuriant growth. Only his dark eyes seemed to be visible among this lushness, and it was he who usually answered my questions. His name was Wayne.

  'Well, it's like this, miss. The timber merchant's been closed for the holidays, and when he opened last week he couldn't let us have what we wanted because he'd had a sudden order in from that new estate.'

  It all sounded pretty weak to me, but there were any number of excuses, equally futile, that were trotted out in answer to my queries, and I began to give up.

  Wayne was a nice young man, anyway, and I half respected his loyalty to Reg Thorn. He told me that he had been with him for four years, and had learnt a lot.

  'My dad's in the same trade,' he told me, 'and when he gives up I'll probably take over there.'

  'Didn't he want you to work with him?'

  'Not my dad! Said he didn't want me under his feet while he could still do a day's work, and got me fixed up with Reg. Better for us both, he said. And anyway, I've promised to carry on when he retires.'

  'And will he?'

  'Not before he's ninety, I don't suppose. I'll be drawing me pension, I reckon, before he gives up.'

  Wayne's father, I thought, seemed worthy of respect.

  Term began again in the last week of the month. The children, as always, appeared to have forgotten in six weeks everything they had ever learnt under my tuition, but looked brown and cheerful and ready for the new school year.

  Miss Briggs looked equally healthy and almost vivacious. She gave me a large smile when I met her in the playground, and included the two young men on the roof in her affability. The infants welcomed her with affection when we went into school, and one of the smallest presented her with a stick of peppermint rock.

  'I got it at Berrisford,' he told her. 'My dad took us there on his day off, and we've kep' it safe on the dresser ever since.'