(18/20) Changes at Fairacre Read online

  Even more heartening was the size of the congregation. We country folk enjoy Harvest Festivals. For us it is the culmination of the year, when we can see, smell, touch and taste the fruits of the twelve months' labour. It is significant that St Patrick's church is even fuller for this festival than at Easter or Christmas. The hymns too are well known and loved, and we sing them lustily, our eyes on the marrows and apples from cottage gardens, and the grapes and peaches from the greenhouses of local wealthy families.

  We all joined robustly in singing our favourite harvest hymn:

  We plough the fields and scatter

  The good seed on the land,

  But it is fed and wor-hor-tered

  By God's almighty hand.

  Looking around the congregation it occurred to me that there were probably only half a dozen or so among us who had really ploughed a field. There might be rather more who had scattered seeds, if only a few sprinklings of hardy annuals in the flower border, or even some mustard and cress on a wet piece of flannel in a saucer.

  No matter, we enjoyed our singing, although when I heard Mr Roberts behind me booming out the line, 'The winds and waves obey Him', I wondered if he questioned the obedience of the elements after all we had suffered so recently.

  The vicar gave his usual homely address about being thankful for the fruits of the earth, and the satisfaction of seeing the results of our labours, which would be going to the local hospital in the next few days, and we all streamed out into the autumn sunshine after the closing hymn and blessing, mightily content.

  It was one of those autumn days, crisp and clear, when the sky has a pellucid quality which is rarely seen in other seasons. The hedge maple had turned a brilliant yellow and the beech trees above the hedges were a deeper gold. A few hardy summer wild flowers such as knapweed, yarrow, and cranesbill still starred the verges and banks, brave survivors of summer heat and the ferocity of the recent storm.

  Reminders of it still littered the countryside, and no doubt would continue to do so for many months to come. Some of the copses were criss-crossed with fallen trees and would be impossible to clear. Fine avenues of beeches and lime trees showed sad gaps where full-grown trees had toppled like nine-pins, and loved landmarks, like the vicar's ancient cedar tree, were now no more.

  But despite the wreckage, the autumn scene on this vivid Sunday was beautiful. It gave one comfort and hope to see the modest flowers, the blazing autumn woods, and to hear the lark singing above the immemorial downs.

  There may be many changes in Fairacre, I thought, but the seasons come round in their appointed time, steadfast and heartening to us all.

  It so happened that it was one of the few bright days we had that autumn.

  November wound along in its gloomy way, and the tortoise stoves at the school were certainly needed to keep out the chilly dampness.

  In no time at all, it seemed, Christmas loomed. Mrs Richards insisted on coaching her class in the mid-European dances which she so enjoyed. The sound of hand-clapping and foot-stamping, never entirely co-ordinated, nearly drove me mad, but I managed to refrain from outright complaint.

  'Makes a lot of dust,' said Mrs Pringle gloomily, 'all that banging about on them floorboards. They're not up to it after a hundred years. Besides, there's some as says there's a well under that room.'

  'A well? There can't be!'

  Mrs Pringle drew in two of her chins, folded her arms and looked portentious.

  'Bob Willet's uncle, dead now of the quinsy, always maintained the school had a well. This 'ere room of yours was the only schoolroom then, and the children used to get their water from the well just next door. When they built on the infants', they covered it up.'

  'But that's nonsense,' I protested. 'Both rooms were built at the same time, and in any case, why cover up the well if it was in use? There was plenty of space to build an adjoining room elsewhere.'

  'I'm simply telling you what Bob Willet's old uncle said, and a more truthful God-fearing man you couldn't wish to meet in a day's march. Went to chapel twice on Sundays regular, and played in the Salvation Army band in Caxley if they was a cornet player short.'

  'I'm not doubting his morals,' I replied, 'but I think he was mistaken, that's all. I just can't believe it.'

  'Of course, if you're calling me a liar - began Mrs Pringle, getting very red in the face.

  'Don't be silly -' I broke in. 'It's not you I'm criticizing, it's just so obvious that this present building was all done at the same time. You can see that by the foundations and footings, and if there had been a well, then it would have been filled in, that is if they had been so stupid as to want to build over it.'

  Mrs Pringle began to limp heavily about the room giving sharp little slaps at the partition with her duster. I let her get on with it. Sometimes she sees fit to change the subject when she is getting the worst of it.

  Today was a case in point.

  'Our Minnie,' she said, in a slightly less belligerent tone, 'left Ern last week.'

  'Good heavens! For good? How will she manage with all those children?'

  'That's her headache, not mine,' said my old adversary, sinking heavily on to a front desk. 'She had a bit of a turn-up with him last week over some papers the kids had crayoned on. Seems it was something about the poll tax he had to answer. He took his belt to Basil, and Minnie flew at him.'

  'Oh dear! What happened then?'

  'Well, you know she's never really broke with that Bert of hers, and she caught the next bus to Caxley to say she'd settle in with him, as he's always been so loving and that.'

  'What about Basil and the younger ones?'

  'She took 'em too, and a bit of money Ern always puts by regular for the electric and that, in a tobacco tin. Bert was out when she got there, and when he got back about nine he wasn't best pleased to see that lot on his doorstep.'

  I could understand it.

  'He took 'em in overnight, but told Minnie she couldn't stop with him. They had a blazing row, I gather, and our Minnie said she dursn't go back to Ern because of nicking the money, as well as not really liking the fellow much.'

  'But she married him!' I interrupted.

  'Well, yes, I suppose she did, but girls do funny things and then live to regret it. Our Minnie's never been what you'd call steady.'

  That I could thoroughly endorse, but held my tongue.

  'So there she was,' continued Mrs Pringle, 'on the streets of Caxley with them three kids next morning when Bert went off to work. At her wits' end she was.'

  And that would not take long was my private comment, but I let Mrs Pringle, now in her stride, continue with the saga.

  'Give Bert his due, he did let them have breakfast there, egg and bacon too, before he locked the door on 'em all, and left them to fend for themselves.'

  'So she's back home again?' I said, one eye on the school clock, and one ear on a lot of shouting in the playground. I should have to stop this enthralling tale very soon.

  'She went to the police,' said Mrs Pringle, seeing through my endeavours to hurry up the narrative. 'They was uncommon nice for policemen, and took her back to Springbourne, and had a word with Ern before he set off for work. He's got a few odd jobs to do these days. Not much, mind you, but it all helps.'

  'What did the police say?'

  'That,' said Mrs Pringle primly, 'is not for me to say. But I gather, only gather, mark you, that they pointed out that Minnie was his wife, and that they didn't want to have to come out again to sort out any domestic disputes, and the courts had quite enough trouble as it was, so he'd better let bygones be bygones. And with that they left.'

  'So all's well?'

  'Not really. As I say, she's liable to fly off the handle any time as far as I can make out, which is why I told you.'

  'Oh?'

  'It's quite on the cards that our Minnie will be coming to ask you for a job at your house, and I think you should be warned.'

  'Thank you,' I said, my heart sinking. 'It was good of you to
warn me.'

  'Of course, whether you believe what I've told you, or not, is your affair, Miss Read. I've been called a liar once this morning, so I'll say no more.'

  Before I could get my breath she made for the lobby - and there was no hint of a limp on this occasion.

  16 Gloomy Days

  THE end of the Christmas term is always hectic. As well as our Christmas concert, it is traditional to invite parents and friends to tea in the schoolroom, and the children enjoy acting as hosts and hostesses on this occasion.

  Alice Willet made her usual enormous Christmas cake, presents were distributed from the Christmas tree, carols sung, and we all streamed home after the vicar's customary blessing.

  To say that I was tired, as I went back to the haven of my new home, is an understatement. Advancing age, I told myself, as I went up to bed before nine o'clock.

  But, on comparing notes with others during the welcome holiday, I found that this exhaustion was general, and we started to blame the aftermath of the recent hurricane as well as the short dark days, for our lassitude. 'Delayed shock', we told each other, and felt all the better for finding a solution, even if it were a wrong one, for our inertia.

  I spent a few days with my cousin Ruth, who could not travel to Beech Green as her car was laid up, leaving Tibby in the care of Mrs John. I looked out some redundant clothing for a future jumble sale, made marmalade, re-read some of Trollope's Barchester novels, and had one or two modest tea parties.

  During this gently recuperative period Amy came over from Bent. She had quickly recovered from her injuries, and had no scars which were visible, but she too looked tired.

  'I'm a bit worried about James,' she said, when I inquired after her health. 'Mind you, he's often rather low after Christmas. I think he suddenly realizes he's spent too much money.'

  'Well, that goes for all of us, doesn't it?'

  'He's so idiotically generous. He always buys me a piece of jewellery, for one thing, and I dread to think what this year's wrist watch cost. And the office people always get fantastic presents as well as their usual bonus.'

  'And what news of Brian?'

  'That's funny. We invited him for Christmas Day, but he rang to say he couldn't manage it. No reason given. James seemed very upset, and was quite sharp with me. Had I written a really welcoming letter? Could I have offended him in some way? And then a lot of guff about how sensitive Brian was, and how humiliated he felt about his broken marriage, and so on. Really, at times I could slap James, he's so childish.'

  'We're not allowed to slap children these days,' I observed, 'although John Todd had a fourpenny one from me on the last day of term, when I found him picking at the icing on the Christmas cake.'

  'I should have given him an eightpenny one,' said Amy approvingly.

  We turned to other topics.

  'I saw Horace and Eve over Christmas, and they were devastated to hear about the school house. Any news?'

  'Not yet. It is still sheltering beneath its tarpaulin, and a dreadful noise that makes too when the wind gets round the south-west. It flaps and rumbles. Quite alarming, I think, but Wayne Richards assures me it is as safe as houses - which seems an unfortunate comparison in the circumstances.'

  'Any more Fairacre excitements?'

  'Jane Winter is expecting, and not too pleased about it. Sir Barnabas has begged Miriam to return to the office while Jane's away, but Miriam's already in the throes of getting her new agency going, so she has had to refuse.'

  'And my friend Mrs Pringle?'

  'Flourishing like a green bay tree,' I told her, and added the news of Minnie Pringle's domestic troubles for good measure.

  'Has Minnie asked for a job here yet?'

  'Fingers crossed,' I replied, 'no!' And if she does my heart will be as flint.'

  'What a tough old woman you are!' laughed Amy. 'When you are dead and gone you will be remembered as the Stony-hearted Spinster of Fairacre.'

  'I may not be remembered at all,' I pointed out.

  Amy looked serious. 'Do you ever think about such things? About dying, and so on?'

  'Frequently. Particularly since Dolly went. She's one of those that will be remembered, that's for sure.'

  'I suppose so. It's one of the things that being childless upsets me. After all, you live on in your children, really. And the work you leave behind, I suppose. It must be a great comfort to artists and furniture-makers and so on to know that people will enjoy their work and remember them for years. I shall leave no children, and mighty little worth remembering in the way of work.'

  'Cheer up, Amy,' I rallied her. 'You'll leave lots of happy memories among your friends. Me, for one!'

  'Thanks,' said Amy. 'I presume that you imagine I shall pop off before you. I tell you here and now that my relatives, on both sides, totter on to their nineties, and my Uncle Benjamin stuck it out to a hundred and one and got his telegram from the Queen.'

  'Good for him. And for you, of course.'

  'Tell you what, though,' continued Amy, 'we all seem to go deaf after ninety.'

  'Never mind. That's a long way ahead, and they do the most marvellous things with hearing aids these days. Do you think a cup of coffee would keep you going?'

  'Definitely,' said Amy.

  Term began with grey skies and a wicked wind from the east. Even Mrs Pringle agreed that the tortoise stoves were needed, and a great comfort they were as the draughts from the skylight and under the ancient doors whistled around the schoolroom.

  Mrs Richards had a very heavy cold, and was accompanied everywhere with a box of tissues. I had earache, no doubt from the malevolent skylight above my head, and most of the children seemed to have coughs or colds or both.

  'January,' I told Mrs Richards at playtime, 'should be done away with. Christmas well behind us, and only gloomy months ahead.'

  'I agree,' she said, 'but Bob Willet says it will get warmer once the snow comes.'

  'Is that his forecast?'

  'That's right. He told me we'll get a fall before the week's out.'

  'Well, I hope he's wrong this time,' I replied.

  But of course he was not.

  By Friday afternoon the first flakes began to fall, much to the delight of the children who were up and down like jacks-in-boxes to catch a glimpse of the weather through the high windows.

  By playtime the flakes were whirling fast, and it was impossible to see the school house across the playground, so thickly were the snowflakes descending. The coke pile was covered in a mande of white. The branches of the trees were beginning to sag with their burden, and the fence tops and hedges looked as though they had been decorated with sugar icing.

  I closed school early and went into the lobby to see that each child was well wrapped up before going out into the elements. Most of them were well protected in anoraks and woolly scarves, but as always the Coggs children were poorly shod and had no gloves to protect their hands.

  'I'll run you home,' I said, surveying their shabby shoes which would soak up snow within three minutes. They exchanged happy smiles as I saw off the others, and then locked up.

  As I packed them into the car, I looked up at my old home. The tarpaulin was invisible below its covering of snow. The downstairs windows were plastered with the enshrouding whiteness, and the scene was enough to wring the heart. Never had I seen the little house looking so forlorn and neglected. Could it ever be repaired and made into a home again, I wondered?

  My journey home, after dropping the Coggs children was uneventful, although the snow was still falling heavily. One thing, I told myself, tomorrow was blessed Saturday, and there would be no need to face an early journey to school.

  I set about my usual preparations for bad weather while the light remained, bringing in extra coal and logs, looking out candles and my trusty Primus stove, in case we had a power cut. I left a spade in the porch in case I had to dig my way out the next morning, and I went early to bed.

  It was good to get between the sheets, nicely warmed w
ith a hot bottle, and the fact that the wind had started to howl round the cottage only emphasized the snugness of my bedroom beneath the thatched roof.

  Let the elements rage, I thought drowsily, as I nestled deeper beneath the bedclothes!

  I ought not to have been so complacent. When morning light came, I was appalled at the amount of snow which surrounded my home, and stretched in billowing waves and whorls of whiteness, as far as the eye could see.

  The wind had whipped the snow into enormous drifts. Hedges had disappeared. Garden walls and gates were engulfed, and against some of the nearby houses the snow was so deep that it was within a few feet of the upstairs windows in places. There must have been a fearsome blizzard during the night, and I hastened downstairs to see how my house had fared.

  I was fortunate in that the wind had piled the snow at the side of my home, and with the help of the spade I could clear a way out of both front and back doors, although I doubted if I should ever be able to dig a path to my gate.

  An eerie light flooded the house, partly reflected from the snow, and partly from those windows which were plastered with it and filtered the morning light.

  I soon had my kettle on, and was thankful that the electricity had not failed. But I was perplexed that Tibby had not appeared. Surely that comfort-loving animal had not ventured out during the night?

  The weather men gave gloomy forecasts of more snow to come although the northern half of the kingdom would come off worst, evidently. As it was, I found my own attempts at snow-clearing later that morning were quite exhausting enough.

  I remembered Dolly telling me about a very old man she had known as a child at Beech Green. He was the grandfather of her close friend Emily Davis, and had been caught in the great blizzard of 1881. By the time he was discovered, many hours later, he was suffering from severe frost-bite and lost some fingers. Ever afterwards, Dolly told me, he wore a black leather glove on the maimed hand, and it was this that fascinated her. I only hoped that we were not in for the same length of horrific conditions as that memorable winter.