(1/20) Village School Read online

  'Lord!' said the attendant with relish, 'He hasn't half got his clothes mucked up! Won't your mother say something to you, my lad!' At which, the hideous bawling which I had calmed with much difficulty, broke forth anew.

  Between us we rubbed the shivering child dry and Cathy was despatched to fetch Mr Annett's car rug to wrap him in.

  We emerged from the shrubbery, which decently drapes our Caxley lavatories, with Jimmy looking like a little Red Indian, the fringe of the rug trailing behind him. We gathered the rest of the children together and with Mr Annett carrying Jimmy, and Miss Gray beside him, leading the way, we returned to the Corn Exchange.

  As we crossed the market square I noticed John Burton walking closely behind Mr Annett. He was mimicking the schoolmaster's springy steps, and with eyes crossed and mouth idiotically open he was giving a striking and hideous representation of a love-sick swain, much to the admiration of his companions.

  'John Burton!' I called sharply. He hastily returned to normal. 'What on earth,' I continued, using that tone of shocked bewilderment that comes so easily to any teacher, 'what on earth, boy, are you supposed to be doing?'

  'Nothing, miss!' he answered meekly, and, lamb-like, walked with decorous steps back to his place in the Corn Exchange. We watched Mr Annett and his bundle drive away towards Fairacre and followed the children for the afternoon session.

  'Well, we've had enough excitement to last us today,' I commented to Miss Gray, as we subsided into our seats. She smiled at me in reply, with such sweet and lunatic vagueness, that I realized that she was still many miles away, on the road to Fairacre, in fact. Love, I thought crossly, can be very tiresome; and, looking to the stage for some relief, found none; for, with awful purpose writ large upon their youthful faces, twenty children were there assembled, and each bore a violin.

  It was not until after Mr Annett's return that the second shock of the day fell. He had assured me, in a tickling whisper, that Jimmy was safely with his mother and I had whispered back my gratitude and allowed my tense muscles to relax with some relief. At that moment I thought of Joseph Coggs, scanned the rows before and behind me and could see nothing of him. On the stage the excruciating sawing went on, and under the cover of its discord I sent agitated messages to Miss Gray. Had she seen him? Had he slipped out to the lavatory? Did he come back with us? Had she counted the children when she collected them in the park? How many were there then?

  Miss Gray's gentle gaze rested upon me without a hint of perturbation. She wore the expression of one who, returning from an anesthetic, leaves some bright world behind with infinite regret. Only the fact that she turned her eyes in my direction gave any hint that she had heard me.

  No help there, I thought to myself, and added in a savage whisper: 'I'm going out to look for him.' Several shocked glances from my more musically-conscious colleagues were cast at me as I retreated from the hall, and a look, more in sorrow than in anger, from the only female judge.

  'Are you all right? Can I fetch you some water?' inquired a kindly headmaster near the door. I felt inclined to tell him that I was on the verge of an apoplectic fit, brought on through exasperation, and that nothing less than half a tumbler of neat brandy could touch me—but, knowing how these things get misconstrued in a small community, I restrained myself, thanked him, and escaped into the market square.

  The park was much less crowded now and presented a peaceful appearance. Mothers sat beside prams, knitting or gossiping, while their infants slept or hurled toys blissfully to the ground.

  The paddling pool had only a few small female occupants, who were wading with their frocks tucked into bulging knickers. Joseph was not among them.

  In the distance the park-keeper was spearing odd pieces of paper with a spiked stick. I hurried towards him.

  'I've lost a child——' I began breathlessly.

  'No need to take on so, ma!' replied the man. 'You ain't the first to mislay your kiddy, believe me. The mothers we get, coming up here to me, hollering same as you——'

  'I am unmarried——' I said with what dignity I could muster.

  'Well, well,' soothed the insufferable fellow comfortingly, 'we all makes mistakes sometimes.'

  'I mean,' I said with emphasis, wondering how long my sanity could stand up to these repeated bludgeonings of an unkind fate, 'that I am a schoolteacher.'

  'That accounts for it, miss,' the man assured me. 'Schoolteachers, unless they're caught very young, never hardly gets married. Funny when you come to think of it!'

  His eyes became glazed as he dwelt upon this natural phenomenon, and I adopted a brisk tone to bring him round.

  'One of my children … my class … a little boy, was left behind when we went back to the Corn Exchange this afternoon. A dark child-about five.'

  'About five,' repeated the man slowly, stropping his chin with a dirty hand. He thought for a few minutes and then looked up brightly. 'He's probably lost!' he said.

  Controlling myself with a superhuman effort, I told him to take the child if he found him to Miss Gray at the Corn Exchange, where he would be suitably rewarded. Turning my back on him, with some relief, I set out to the little stream where I guessed that those 'fish big enough to eat' had probably drawn the truant from Fairacre School.

  The stream was bordered with dense reeds, lit here and there by yellow irises and kingcups. The early swallows and swifts flashed back and forth, squealing, the sun glinting on their dark-blue backs. On any other afternoon I should have thought this willow-lined retreat a paradise, but anxiety dulled its beauties, as I squelched by the water's edge to the detriment of my white shoes.

  'Joseph! Joseph!' I called, but the only answering cry was from the birds around me. Somehow I felt sure that the child was near here … that the stream had attracted him.

  Supposing, I thought suddenly, something dreadful had happened to him! Morbid pictures of a small body awash among the duckweed, or entangled among willow roots, or, worse still, gradually being sucked down into the treacherous mud at the stream's edge, all flitted through my mind.

  'For pity's sake,' I begged myself crossly, 'don't add to it! You'll be choosing the hymns for the funeral next.'

  The stream made a sharp right-angled bend by a fine black poplar tree whose white fluff blew about the grass beneath it. Huddled against its trunk, terrifyingly still, lay Joseph.

  Unable to speak, and with mounting agitation, I approached him. To my infinite relief I could hear him snoring.

  His cheeks were flushed with sleep, but there were shiny streaks, like snail tracks, where the salt tears had dried. His long black lashes were still wet and his pink mouth slightly open. Beside him, in a jam jar, swam two frenzied minnows in about half an inch of water.

  I sat down on the grass beside the sleeping figure to regain my composure. Tears of relief blurred the shining landscape, my legs ached and I felt, suddenly, very old and shaky.

  While I was recovering, Joseph stirred. He opened his eyes and stared straight above him at the rustling leaves. Then, without moving his body, he rolled his head over and looked long and solemnly at me. Slowly a very loving smile curved his lips, he put out a grubby hand and held fast to my clean dress.

  'Oh, Joseph!' was all I could say, giving him a hug.

  'I got lost,' growled Joseph, 'and a boy give me this jar to go fishing with. Ain't they lovely?' He held the jar up to the sunshine while the two unhappy occupants flapped more madly than before.

  I rose to my feet, and we went to the water's edge to fill the jar. There was no doubt about it … the minnows were destined to spend the rest of their short lives in Joseph's doting care.

  Together we wandered back along the stream, hand in hand, Joseph pausing from time to time to croon over the top of the jar. His sandals oozed black slime at every step, his eyes were still swollen with crying, but he was a very happy little boy, safe again, and with two new playmates.

  The market square was dazzling in the sunlight and it was good to get back to the cool u
nder-water gloom of the Corn Exchange. Thankfully, I realized that the violins had finished during my absence, but my relief was short-lived.

  'And now,' announced the chairman, with misplaced enthusiasm, as we regained our seats, 'we begin the percussion classes!'

  The children sang on the way home in the bus. They sang all the songs that they had learnt for the Festival, some they had heard on the wireless, and some regrettable numbers that someone's father had taught them in an expansive moment. Miss Gray and I sat silent, I with exhaustion and she, it seemed, with unmodified rapture. Occasionally a happy little sigh escaped her lips. Occasionally, when my feet obtruded their discomfort particularly, I sighed too.

  At Mrs Moffat's bungalow we stopped and she spoke.

  'Shall I come on to the school with you? Can I be of any help?'

  'No,' I answered, 'I can manage. It's been a long day-you'll want your tea and a rest I expect.'

  'It's been a heavenly day,' replied Miss Gray ardently, 'and I'm not a bit tired. In fact, I've arranged to go out for the evening with Mr Annett … we thought … well, yes! I'm going out with Mr Annett.'

  I said that would be very nice indeed and that I would see her in the morning.

  John Burton, who had overheard this conversation, and fondly imagined that he was unobserved, now saw fit to repeat his famous dying-duck-in-a-thunderstorm act and began to blow languid kisses about the bus to his delighted friends.

  The door closed behind Linda and Miss Gray. I leant forward and, without any warning, gave John Burton a sharp box on the ear.

  It was, I found, the best moment of the day.

  19. The Fête

  IN the infants' room a crayoning lesson was in progress. Joseph Coggs, now recovering from his adventure, was busily drawing little boys dancing. They all had three buttons down their egg-shaped bodies, large teeth and hands like rakes. From their trunks up they presented a wooden and fearsome appearance; but their legs were thrown about in attitudes of wild abandonment.

  'Be very careful,' Miss Gray warned them, 'the best ones will be pinned up on the blackboard, and put in the tent for everyone to see, on the day of the Fête.'

  'Will we get prizes?' asked Jimmy Waites.

  'Very likely; and even if you don't, you want your parents to see how well you can draw. Keep them clean,' added Miss Gray, and went back to her cupboard-tidying, humming to herself.

  Joseph liked to hear her humming. She hummed a lot these days, and seemed, he thought, to be kinder than ever. As he drew a large yellow circle for the sun, he thought of all the things she had taught him.

  He could add up numbers up to ten and take them away too, though this was hard sometimes. He knew all the sounds the letters made and some words as well. He could copy his name from the card Miss Gray had made for him, and he knew lots of songs and poems that he sang and recited to his little sisters at home. And as for making paper houses, like the first one his father had used for a pipe lighter, why, he'd made dozens since then and each better than the last. Yes, he decided, he liked school and … blow it all, he'd bust his crayon!

  'Lend us yer yaller,' he hissed to Eileen Burton beside him, but she was uppish this afternoon, and shook her head.

  'I wants it,' she said firmly, putting down the green one she had been using for grass. The subject was 'A Summer's Day,' and all the green crayons were wearing down fast. She snatched up her yellow crayon close to her chest. 'I wants it,' she repeated, and then leaning over surveyed Joseph's picture closely. 'I wants it for the sun,' she announced triumphantly, and began to draw a yellow circle, exactly like Joseph's, on her paper.

  This annoyed him, and, gripping Eileen's fragile wrist, he tried to prise the crayon from her fingers. Miss Gray, humming still, and sitting on her heels with her head in the cupboard, remained oblivious of the gathering storm.

  'You ol' devil!' breathed Joseph, scarlet in the face. 'You copy-cat! You give it here!'

  With a wrench, Eileen gained possession of the crayon again, and holding it above her head, she put out an impudent pink tongue at her pursuer. Maddened, Joseph lowered his dark head and butted her on the shoulder, and then, fastening his teeth in her arm he bit as hard as he could.

  A terrible screaming broke out from Eileen and cries from the rest of the class. Miss Gray, rushed into action, slapped Joseph and released Eileen who inspected her wounds and howled afresh at the neat teeth marks on her tender flesh.

  'He swored, Miss,' volunteered Jimmy Waites, 'he said "Devil," Miss, didn't he? didn't he swear, then?'

  Yes, he had, agreed everybody, rather smugly. Joseph Coggs had swored and tried to take Eileen's crayon and bit her when she wouldn't let him have it. Joseph Coggs was a naughty boy, wasn't he? Joseph Coggs wouldn't be allowed to go to the Fête, would he? Joseph Coggs, in the opinion of his self-righteous classmates, was not fit to mix with them.

  Miss Gray silenced them peremptorily, sent Joseph to stand by her desk and Eileen to wash her arm in the lobby.

  The artists continued in comparative silence, but there were many accusing nods towards the culprit, who was having his version of the incident drawn from him by Miss Gray.

  'It doesn't excuse you, Joseph,' said Miss Gray finally, 'you must say you are sorry to her and never do such a dreadful thing again. I shall have to write a note to Eileen's mother to explain her hurt arm, and you must sit on your own until we can trust you again.'

  So Joseph sat in splendid isolation to finish his picture, and a few sad tears mingled with the daisies that he drew in the grass.

  But once the hated apology was over, the crayons collected, and Miss Gray's 'Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes' appeared again on her desk, his spirits revived.

  Who cared what ol' Eileen Burton's mother said? She couldn't hurt him, and anyway it served her right for copying his sun. And he didn't call 'Devil' swearing—why, it was in the Bible the vicar read to them! Swearing indeed! With a glow of pride Joseph thought of all the real swear words his father used. He bet he knew more than anybody in the class, if it came to that!

  Much heartened, he turned an attentive face to Miss Gray, who thought what a dear little boy he was, despite everything. And there she was right.

  The fête was held on the first Saturday in May, in the Vicarage garden; 'Proceeds' said the posters, that fluttered from vantage points in the village, 'in aid of the Church Roof Fund.'

  'And how slowly it grows!' sighed the vicar. 'We need another three hundred pounds at least, and the roof is deteriorating every day.'

  He was in his shirt-sleeves, his mild, old face screwed up against the sunshine. He bore a wooden mallet for driving in the stakes which were to hold the various notices. In the distance we could hear the clatter of the lawn mower which Mr Willet was pushing over the tennis court.

  This, the only flat piece of the vicar's garden, which lay on the slope of the downs, was to be used for bowling for the pig. Golden bales of straw were stacked at the side, ready to make an enclosure for the great skittles, when Mr Willet had finished his ministrations.

  A breeze fluttered the crêpe paper along the edge of the stalls. Miss Clare was busy setting out dozens of crêpe paper dorothy bags filled with home-made candy, and tempting bottles and boxes of toffee, humbugs and boiled sweets. Rows of lollipops lined the edge of the stall and it was obvious that Miss Clare's old pupils would soon be flocking round her again.

  She was having lunch with me; cold meat, new potatoes and salad, with gooseberry fool for sweet—a meal which, I surmised, would be echoed in most Fairacre homes that day—a direct result of a bumper gooseberry crop coupled with hectic last-minute preparations for the fête.

  In Linda Moffat's house, Mrs Moffat, her mouth full of pins, was putting the final touches to her daughter's flowered head-dress. Linda was going to the fête dressed as a shepherdess, complete with blue satin panniers, sprigged apron and a shepherd's crook, borrowed from old Mr Burton and decked for the occasion with bunches of blue ribbons. Miss Gray stood by admiring.

&
nbsp; 'Sweet!' said Miss Gray.

  'Hold ftill!' said Mrs Moffat, much impeded in her speech by pins. 'Ftand ftraight for juft a fecond more!'

  And Linda, sighing deeply, but submitting to the fuss, only hoped that her long suffering might result in a prize in the fancy-dress competition that afternoon.

  In Tyler's Row, at the Wakes' cottage, there was great excitement, for a letter had come, with the education committee's seal on its envelope, bringing the good news that Cathy had been deemed fit for a place next September at Caxley County Grammar School for Girls.

  'But I wanted to go to the High School!' protested Cathy, when this was read out to her.

  'Same thing!' her mother assured her. 'Cathy, my love, you've done real well.'

  Her father beamed at her, and feeling in his pocket, presented her with half a crown.

  'Here, duck, that's for the fête this afternoon. I reckon you deserves a bit of a spree!'

  The letter was propped carefully behind the tea-tin on the mantelpiece, and Cathy, rushing into the little garden turned cartwheel after cartwheel, her red checked knickers bright in the sunshine, letting off some of the high spirits that fizzed and bubbled within her.

  Joseph Coggs, squatting on the ash path next door, watched these antics through the hedge. Beside him sat his two little sisters, crop-headed since nurse's visit, busily stirring stones and mud together for a delightful dolls' pudding.

  'Going up the fête?' asked Cathy, standing upright at last and staggering slightly as the garden slowed down around her.

  'Dunno,' answered Joseph gruffly. The two little girls ceased their stirring, and advanced towards the gap in the hedge, wiping their hands down their bedraggled skirts.