(19/20) Farewell to Fairacre Read online

  'That's true.'

  The vicar began to look happier.

  'And I'm sure he will find someone to look after him before long, and be happy again.'

  'I do hope so. Of course, Deirdre is coming back soon, and they do seem—'

  'Exactly,' I said firmly, and made for the car.

  The vacancy caused by my impending departure had been advertised in the usual educational journals, and I remembered how I had applied so long ago. Then, of course, one of the greatest attractions for me had been the school house, providing handy accommodation so close to my duties. Now that the Umbleditches lived in my old home the new head teacher would have to look elsewhere for a house.

  It should not be difficult to find somewhere, perhaps in Caxley itself, if not nearer at hand in one of the downland villages, for no doubt the new teacher would have a car.

  I had not had one for some years after my appointment, and had not missed having private transport, for the buses then had been more frequent, and in any case, I trundled around on my bicycle then in those comparatively traffic-free country lanes. Now my successor could afford to live anywhere within a comfortable ten-, or even twenty-mile, radius of Fairacre school and still be in good time for morning assembly.

  There had evidently been a number of applicants for the post, and towards the end of May they had been whittled down to four on the short list, two men and two women.

  They were being called up for interview by the governors, and the meeting was to take place at the vicarage. I could visualise the scene, for I had often been invited to sit with the governors when a new assistant was being interviewed. On the present occasion, I should not attend.

  The interviews were always held in the vicarage dining-room, an impressive Georgian room with a beautiful mahogany table. Gerald Partridge, as chairman of the governors, sat at the head, and there was ample room at each side for the applicants' papers, the governors' gloves, pens, diaries and other personal impedimenta, whilst the applicant's chair was placed in solitary state, at the far end, facing the chairman.

  One of the most prominent features of the vicar's dining-room is a portrait of one of Gerald Partridge's ancestors. The old gentleman is holding a letter which our vicar is convinced was written by Charles II, rendering thanks to his forebear for services rendered to his king, when he was in exile, before the restoration of the monarchy.

  The vicar is inordinately proud of this portrait, but I always found it rather depressing for the subject of the painting appears very cross, and no one could say that he was good looking. His descendant is certainly much more pleasant to behold.

  As is customary, the four applicants had been invited to inspect the school before their interviews, and so I acted as hostess and general usher at this time.

  I liked all four, and knew that I should be happy at the thought of any one of them taking my place next September. It would be interesting to see if a man was appointed, for in the past Fairacre had several headmasters over the years.

  In those days, when the children stayed at the same school until they were fourteen, the bigger boys were often in need of fairly firm discipline as the great world loomed nearer. But since Fairacre school had been a junior primary school, for children from five to eleven years of age, for some years now, it had been usual to appoint a woman.

  Which would it be this time, I wondered? And who, looking to the future, would follow George Annett at the larger school at Beech Green? There, I guessed, a headmaster would be appointed when George stood down, but for us, in Fairacre, it was anybody's guess.

  The vicar had been kind enough to tell me the arrangements for the aftermath of the interviews. It had been decided to leave plenty of time for discussion by the governors after the interviews, and the applicants were each to be telephoned and given the decision during that evening.

  'So much depends on getting the right person,' the vicar assured me. 'The applicants can make their way home, and know that they'll hear within a few hours, without having to sit all together while we come to a decision just after the meeting. I have always felt, too, that it is quite an ordeal for the lucky one to have to face his disappointed companions so soon after a trying time.'

  'An ordeal for the others too,' I pointed out. 'I think this idea is perfect, and they can pour themselves a congratulatory - or commiserating - noggin, in the privacy of their own homes.'

  'Just as we thought,' said the vicar, beaming.

  I thought a good deal about my successor as I pottered about that evening. The head teacher of a village school holds an important place in the village hierarchy, as I knew to my cost.

  I remembered Dolly Clare's accounts of the head teachers she had encountered during her lifetime.

  She had started her school life in Caxley, but at the age of six the family had moved to Beech Green, and she had been entered on the register there a day or two after their arrival.

  As a shy child, she had found the change upsetting. Luckily, the first person she came across at Beech Green school was Emily Davis, whose desk she shared on that first terrifying morning, and whose friendship started then and continued all their lives. In fact, as two old ladies, they had shared the cottage which was now my home, until Emily Davis had died tranquilly one night in the room which was now my spare bedroom.

  The girls' first headmaster had been an energetic disciplinarian called Mr Finch, but on his retirement a new young man called Evan Waterman had taken his place.

  Changes began immediately. He was a devout young man, inclining to such High Church practices as genuflection and much crossing of the breast, which alone alarmed his neighbours. He was also good-looking in a girlish way, and this too was cause for comment among the men.

  The women were more tolerant, and the free-and-easy methods of teaching which had replaced Mr Finch's stern régime did not worry them unduly to begin with.

  But later, it was apparent that such modern methods were too soon for most of the boys, and downright disobedience and mockery began to grow, until poor Evan Waterman was requested to find a post elsewhere.

  Before his departure, Francis Clare, Dolly's thatcher father, had seen to it that Dolly was transferred to Fairacre school. Her dear friend Emily was also going there, and the two girls found themselves under the boisterous charge of Mr Wardle and his wife. Both demanded work of a high standard, but gave praise and encouragement under which their little school thrived.

  It was from such accounts, as well as the reports in the ancient school log books, that one realised how much influence those earlier teachers had on their pupils, and for that matter, on the lives of all who dwelt with them in the villages.

  I could only hope that I would be remembered with some affection, and that my successor would be as happy as I had been in charge of the school at Fairacre.

  CHAPTER 13

  Junketings

  As an old hand at secret fundraising, I soon became conscious of the chink of coins being put into a screwtop honey jar in Mrs Richards' room.

  I had seen this receptacle one morning when I had called to consult her about a letter from a parent, and it had been whisked so hastily into her desk drawer that I guessed that a leaving present for me was in the offing.

  The vicar had broached the subject some weeks before and I had begged him not to present me with anything, unless perhaps a bunch of flowers, preferably from the village gardens.

  But this, of course, fell on stony ground, and I could see that I was bound to receive something much more prestigious.

  There was nothing for it but to submit with good grace, although I regretted this collecting of money when there was so much hardship in the village. Fairacre had suffered, along with the rest of the country, from the economic depression, for many of the fathers and mothers worked in Caxley at some of the new industries which had sprung up during the past twenty years. Quite a number had lost their jobs as the firms succumbed to bad times, and it worried me to think of money being spent on me at such
a time.

  However, I was realistic enough to know that I should receive a leaving present, and I intended to accept it in the great-hearted spirit in which, I knew, it would be given.

  The summer term had always been punctuated with such time-honoured events as Sports' Day, the Fête, and the Sunday school and choir outing. The last always took place on the first Saturday in July.

  Before my time, as I had learnt from the vicar, and from the school log books, local schools closed for a fortnight for a fruit-picking holiday towards the end of June. At the end of that time when the families had usually earned some welcome extra money, a charabanc was hired and a day was spent by the sea.

  In those days, this annual excursion to the sea was probably the only one and a great occasion it was.

  Nowadays, when most families owned a car, or possibly two, the same excitement was not engendered by a day-trip to the seaside, but the first Saturday in July was still set aside for the outing and continued to be a highlight of the summer season. It would be my last in my capacity as head teacher, although no doubt I should be invited when I retired, just as Dolly Clare had been.

  I contemplated my future with enormous pleasure. As far as one could tell, I should have the best of two worlds. I should be living in the same place, close to friends and neighbours with all that that implied. But I should also be free of constricting limits, such as the hours spent in school, and the necessity to prepare lessons or deal with official correspondence.

  What was even more pleasurable now was the fact that my health seemed to have improved enormously since my decision to retire. Maybe the summer sunshine had something to do with it. Maybe the slackening of my duties had helped. Maybe the doctor's tablets and my early nights had something to do with this welcome feeling of good health. Whatever the cause, I relished it after my alarms of the winter. It had certainly sobered me, and made me realize that robust health should never be taken for granted, but simply as a bonus.

  It was clear that June was going to be as glorious as May, at least for the first few days.

  Bob Willet, in his shirt sleeves at eight thirty in the morning, bore witness to the warmth of the day to come.

  'That cousin of Mr Mawne's is back,' he volunteered.

  'Mrs Mawne,' I corrected him.

  He looked startled. 'She ain't that already, is she?'

  'Who d'you mean?'

  'That Deirdre. Never did get her surname. She ain't married him? You said "Mrs Mawne". That's quick work!'

  I knew that this mistaken statement would be round the village in a flash if I did not put it straight at once. This I proceeded to do.

  'I only meant that Deirdre is cousin to the late Mrs Mawne and not Henry Mawne. And as far as I know, they have no plans to marry.'

  'Well, he looks ripe for it to my way of thinking.'

  'I expect he's a little lonely.'

  'And whose fault's that?' enquired Mr Willet, making off before I could think of a reply.

  The annual fête took place in the vicar's garden, as usual, and despite ominous clouds at breakfast time, the weather remained dry and firm.

  The event was to be opened by someone known as a 'television personality', and expectations ran high.

  'I've got his autograph,' boasted Ernest on the Friday afternoon. 'I cut it out of the paper.'

  'That's not a real autograph,' said Patrick. 'That's only printed. You has to have the actual bit of paper what his hand rested on.'

  He looked at me for support.

  'Well, strictly speaking—' I began diplomatically, but was interrupted by the vicar appearing in a state of agitation.

  'I fear that we are in for a disappointment. Our fête-opener is indisposed. I wonder who would step in at such short notice?'

  'Couldn't you do it?'

  He looked dismayed. 'I could, I suppose, but what a come-down for everyone.'

  I thought otherwise, but said nothing.

  'Do you think,' he said looking brighter, 'that our dear friend Basil Bradley would step in?'

  Basil Bradley is a local novelist who writes historical novels with heroines in muslin frocks and ringlets, and heroes who fight duels on their behalf. The books sell in vast numbers, and everyone relishes a nice hour or two of escapism. Basil himself is modest and cheerful, and we are all very proud of him.

  'If he's free I'm sure he'd come to the rescue,' I said.

  He certainly did. The fête was duly opened with a short speech and many compliments to those who had helped to get it ready for general pleasure and the support of the Church Roof Fund, and we all set forth to enjoy ourselves.

  The cake stall, as usual, was the first to be besieged and as Mrs Pringle was in charge this year there were very few goodies hidden behind the stall for favoured customers.

  'Fair's fair!' she boomed, 'and those who comes first gets first pick. But it's all to be above board this year. No favourites!'

  This stern dictum was surprisingly welcomed by her customers, and I wondered if the more easy-going earlier stall-holders would emulate her strict example in the years ahead.

  I returned exhausted, and viewed my collection of articles bought, or won, at the kitchen table. I could eat the gingerbread, the lettuce and the eggs, but what about that rag doll and the highly scented bath salts, not to mention the Cyprus sherry and the pickled onions in a somewhat cloudy and dubious liquid?

  'Give them to the next bazaar, of course,' I said aloud.

  And Tibby gave an approving mew.

  A day or two later Henry Mawne arrived at the school with a pile of bird magazines for our delectation.

  'You weren't at the fête,' I said accusingly. 'You never miss the fête. What happened?'

  He looked a little confused. 'I had to go to Heathrow to meet Deirdre. She's back for a short while.'

  'Oh good! You'll have company.'

  'Yes. You could say that, but I'm really giving her a hand over selling her place in Ireland.'

  He sounded surprisingly business-like and important, and it dawned on me that usually his former wife had taken the decisions, which was probably one of the reasons why he missed her so much. Not that Henry lacked business sense. He has been in charge of the church funds for years, and the vicar relies on him for anything involving figures.

  This was one of the reasons that Henry's absence from the fête perturbed me. Usually, the final figures are given to the parish an hour or so after the event has finished. Luckily, on this occasion, Mr Lamb from the Post Office had stepped into the breach.

  Of course, I was intrigued to hear about Deirdre, and asked if she had found a cottage in our area. Or had she changed her plans?

  'Well, no,' said Henry, looking a trifle hunted. 'She still hopes to find something. In fact, we looked at five or six before she went back to Ireland, but there was nothing that appealed to her.'

  I recalled Bob Willet's words about Deirdre hoping to settle in with Henry himself, but naturally did not mention this.

  'I hear you are going to the Oxford concert next week with John Jenkins,' he said. Was this carrying the attack into my own camp?

  I said that I was.

  'I wanted to ask you myself when the first notices went out, but my plans were so unsettled with Deirdre coming and going that I'm afraid I've missed the chance.'

  At that moment I caught sight of John Todd about to stuff some sort of foliage - no doubt filched from the nature table - down the back of Joseph Coggs' shirt, and rushed to the rescue.

  When I returned Henry was on his way out, waving a hand in farewell, and I was left to speculate.

  What were his real feelings towards Deirdre? Was he becoming fonder of her, more protective, happier in her company? Or was she still the nuisance he seemed to find her earlier? And did she really want a house of her own, or were these delaying tactics until she had Henry - and his home - where she wanted?

  And what about Henry's attitude to me? I felt somehow that it was changing. There was something a little malicious in
the way he had mentioned John's invitation to the concert, and a hint of relief that he was out of the whole affair.

  This, of course, was fine by me. I was obviously going to have more attention from my new friend than I really wanted, and it would be a relief to have dear old Henry engaged elsewhere.

  I do my best to simplify life, but heaven alone knows it is uphill work sometimes.

  On Saturday morning I went to Caxley to buy a new frock, or perhaps just a new blouse, to honour the concert with John.

  I bumped into Amy, much to my delight, and we hastened to take coffee together. Naturally, she was very approving of my desire to improve my appearance and agog to hear about John.

  'Now, don't throw away the chance of a happy future,' she began.

  'I'm not. I'm looking forward to a wonderfully peaceful, single retirement.'

  'Yes, yes, I know,' she said impatiently, 'but do think about this nice man. How disappointed he'll be if he is turned down. Why, he may even move elsewhere if he's badly hurt.'

  'No chance of that,' I said, and rather rashly told her about his proposal.

  Her surprise at this disclosure I found a trifle wounding. After all, why shouldn't I receive a proposal?

  On the other hand, her frank dismay at my dismissal cheered me considerably.

  'And you think he will ask you again? How can you be sure?'

  'Well, he said he would. And I'm sure he's a man of his word.'

  'Oh good,' she replied, sounding much relieved, and we went on to talk of James, and his skill at sorting out the Cottons' problems, and whether the enormous price I had just paid for a perfectly simply silk blouse was justified.

  'Of course it is,' said Amy. 'Why, it may affect your whole future.'

  'Amy,' I said, 'you arc the most romantic woman I have ever met!'

  'I wish I could say the same of you,' she retorted, as we parted.