Village Centenary Read online

  'I'm sure they really do want you to stay. Henry Mawne was relieved to know you would be there when David was away on his business trips. I remember him saying how comforting it would be for Irene to have company in the house at night.'

  'Really?' Miriam sounded pleased but slightly incredulous. 'I hadn't thought of that. I must say, it's nice to be useful. I have already offered to sit with young Simon in the holidays if they want to go out in the evening. Irene seemed pleased about that, which delighted me.'

  'It would help them enormously, I'm sure.'

  We walked along in silence for a short time, until we emerged into one of Mr Roberts's fields, and turned towards the village. Miriam seemed to be turning over my remarks in her mind.

  'You know,' she said at last, 'one of the difficulties of being single is that there is no one to discuss these little problems with. It's so easy to see just one's own point of view. I'm glad you told me about Henry Mawne's comment. Of course, he's quite right. I'm afraid I've been far too self-centred over all this business - anxious not to intrude, anxious about finding somewhere else, in fact, thoroughly steamed up and not really thinking of Irene and David's side of the problem. That must be one of the bonuses of married life, I imagine - being able to share one's troubles.'

  'Except that you've got two people's troubles then,' I pointed out. 'Think how relatively uncomplicated our spinsterhood is!'

  Miriam stopped in her tracks and laughed aloud. It was good to see her usually pensive expression replaced by joyous animation. She ought to laugh more often, I thought.

  'Perhaps you're right. Anyway, I'm glad we met in the wood. I'm going home in a much more cheerful state of mind. What about coming back to Holly Lodge for a drink?'

  'I'd love to,' I said, and we stepped out briskly together.

  The vicar called in to school one gloriously sunny afternoon, and we enthused about the weather. He is as devoted to the sun as I am, and when the rest of the villagers are collapsing with heat, he and I gloat together on perfect conditions for sun-worshippers.

  He bore a jar of his own honey, and presented it to me with considerable pride. I thanked him sincerely, and enquired after the bees.

  'They've really done splendidly. I collected about sixty pounds of honey. It's so rewarding to see it pouring out of the extractor in a beautiful golden stream. To think that those dear bees have made thousands and thousands of trips, all through the summer, to collect the delicious stuff from all our beautiful Fairacre flowers!'

  Obviously, our vicar was enraptured.

  'Are they still about?'

  'Yes, indeed! As busy as ever. I think they are collecting from the bramble flowers and willow herb now. I don't propose to take any more. What they fetch in now will help them through the winter.'

  'Is there much for you to do to prepare them for the cold weather?'

  'A great deal,' said he earnestly. 'They will need some sugar syrup, and I intend to put up the mouse guards at the entrances. They creep in, you know, for shelter, and possibly the honey. Quite alarming for the bees. I shall certainly take steps to protect them from marauders.'

  He took a slip of paper from his pocket and consulted it.

  'A quarter of mushrooms, half of tomatoes, a dozen large eggs - no, that isn't it.'

  He turned over the paper.

  'Ah! Here we are, on the back of my wife's shopping list, you see. First of all, how is the new window?'

  'So far, so good,' I told him.

  'That's fine. Really, the old skylight was a sore trial when the weather was rough. We should have a snug winter with this new one.'

  I said I hoped so.

  'Then the next thing I have here is to fix a date for the centenary service.'

  He lowered the paper and looked unhappy. 'I rather think I shall have to combine it with a Sunday service in December. My diary has suddenly become horribly full for that month. What do you think? I thought perhaps the Sunday before Christmas might be suitable. It would be the last Sunday of term, and we could have prayers and hymns suitable to the occasion at morning service, and my sermon would be on the subject of our heritage here in the village.'

  'It sounds ideal,' I said, 'and the church would be looking festive too by that stage.'

  'Certainly,' said the vicar looking mightily relieved at my amiability. What did he expect, I wondered? That I might fling myself to the floor, screaming and drumming my heels?

  'The crib would certainly be in place, and no doubt some of the Christmas greenery. Perhaps we could arrange for the children to do some of the decorations, as they do for Harvest Festival?'

  'That's a nice idea,' I said, but had private reservations about how the flower ladies would react to juvenile assistance at Christmas time.

  'Good, good!' said Mr Partridge, making for the door. 'I really ought to have a bonfire, I've so much garden stuff to burn, but I intend to wait until dusk. Nothing is going to detract from this beautiful sunshine if I can help it.'

  'A case of "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may",' I quoted.

  'Absolutely, Miss Read. Absolutely!'

  He looked at the children with his usual benevolence.

  'I should take them for a walk this afternoon,' he whispered confidentially.

  'Don't worry,' I told him. It's at the head of the agenda.'

  11 November

  It was a relief to be without Minnie Pringle's three children. Not that they were naughty or rumbustious. In fact, they were just the opposite, and sat immobile in their desks contributing nothing and, as far as one could see, taking in nothing.

  They were all mouth-breathers, which was hardly surprising considering the revolting state of their nasal passages, and no amount of advice, persuasion or example succeeded in showing them how to blow their noses. They were like their mother in being almost unteachable, but without her demented energy. What they would do when it came to earning a living I shuddered to think. No doubt an indulgent welfare state would give them far more for doing nothing than they were capable of earning anyway.

  But if I were relieved to see the back of Minnie's brood, I was really sorry to say farewell to the shepherd's children. Perhaps he had found a better job than his new one with Mr Roberts?

  Mr Willet enlightened me.

  'Bin pinchin'. Not just the odd egg or swede and that. He done in one of Mr Roberts's sheep, and sold it to that back-street butcher in Caxley. Ought to be deported, the pair of 'em, but I don't suppose they'll get more than probation when the case comes up.'

  'Well, they certainly won't get deported,' I assured Mr Willet. 'Anyway, who'd want them?'

  'We don't, that's for sure! And Mr Roberts is hopping mad. Now he's got to start all over again getting some new chap. Can't trust a soul these days, Miss Read. They'd take your teeth off of the table if you was fool enough to leave 'em there.'

  'At the moment,' I told him, 'my teeth - what are left of them - don't take out.'

  Mr Willet looked sympathetic.

  'Then you've a mort of trouble ahead of you. I'm thankful to say all mine are national gnashers now, and it's a great comfort to be able to take 'em out now and again to give me gums a nice airing.'

  He set out across the playground, and then turned.

  'Bring the numbers down a bit though, won't it? Them Pringle kids and shepherd's lot? Bet you'll be hearing from the office.'

  'Oh, shut up,' I begged him.

  For the horrid fact was much in my mind too.

  Another cause for relief was the absence of Reg Thorn's men. I had grown quite fond of them both, and found Wayne particularly sensible and friendly. Nevertheless, it was wonderful to be free of that everlasting cacophony from their transistor radio, and from the bangs and thumps as they worked overhead.

  Mr Willet still looked askance at the finished product, but as I pointed out, no rain had come through now that it was completed, and we certainly seemed to have more light.

  'Hasn't had a fair test yet,' Mr Willet warned me. 'You wait till that o
ld wind gets up!'

  Unfortunately, we did not have to wait long. The halcyon October weather broke early in November with lashing rain and a high wind.

  I was relieved to see that no water came through, as it certainly would have done in the old days, but there was an annoying drumming sound as the wind caught the jutting framework. I was not too happy about this vibration, and rang Reg Thorn during the dinner hour. For once he was at home.

  'I've got to come over to Springbourne this afternoon,' he told me. 'I'll pop in on my way.'

  As one might expect, the wind had dropped considerably by the time he arrived, and the drumming was hardly in evidence. Nevertheless, he clambered up to the window and seemed to make a fairly exhaustive study of the structure.

  'Right as a trivet,' he assured me when he descended. 'Good bit of work that! You don't need to worry about a thing. Them boys of mine know what they're up to. By the way, have you heard about Ted Richards?'

  I looked blank. 'Do I know him?'

  'Young Wayne's dad. He's had a stroke. The boy's off work for a few days, helping out.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that. How's the old man getting on?'

  'Pretty well. His speech is back, and the doctor says his arm is coming round. Shook the old boy though. I reckon I'll be losing Wayne, and I'll be sorry. He's a good worker, and a bit more up top than some I could mention. Still, his dad comes first, I can see that.'

  He stepped back to take a last satisfied look at his creation, and then departed.

  I woke in the night to the howling of a terrific gale. I could hear a door banging downstairs, and got out of bed to go and shut it. As I did so a horrific rumbling sounded overhead, and I guessed that a tile had blown loose and was bumping down the roof.

  The larder door was ajar and banging every time the gusts came through the small window. I closed both, and returned through the roaring to my bed.

  But sleep was impossible. We get these frighteningly strong winds up here on the Downs, and a great deal of damage is done to our houses and farm buildings, not to mention trees and gardens. Usually I comfort myself with the thought that I have survived plenty of these rough nights, but this one seemed peculiarly vicious. One thing, it would test Reg Thorn's new window, I thought.

  I dropped off again about six, the storm still raging, so that I overslept and had to hurry around to get over to school in time. To my dismay there was rain water on the floor beneath the window. On looking up, I could see that the whole structure seemed to be slanting, but that the water appeared to be dripping to the right of it.

  1 went outside and bumped into Mr Willet, and pointed out the damage. He surveyed it in silence for a full minute.

  'It's the roof timbers, I reckon, not so much the window. It's no good patching old with new and expecting 'em both to thrive. Best get old Reg again, I suppose.'

  He came inside with me and surveyed the puddle. Drips from above enlarged it steadily.

  'Quite like old times, ain't it?' said Mr Willet, with evident satisfaction.

  I rang Reg and left a message with his wife as he was out, of course. Mrs Pringle was mopping up when I returned.

  She was wearing a new cretonne overall and an expression of extreme martyrdom.

  'This is something I could have done without,' she said sourly. 'My leg's proper blazing this morning. I didn't hardly know how to get up the street.'

  'I'll get one of the children to do it,' I said. Mrs Pringle wrung out the floor cloth, and shuffled to her feet.

  'Too late! It's done now. And I hope you'll tell Reg Thorn what you think of him when he deigns to turn up.'

  I told her that I had telephoned.

  'Well, I shall have a word with him whatever you decide to do. Shoddy workmanship, that's what that is.'

  'What a very pretty overall,' I replied, trying to pour oil on troubled waters. The old harridan looked slightly less gloomy.

  'Minnie give it to me when she left. That's one blessing, I must say, to have the house to myself at last. But for how long, I wonder? That girl's still hankering after that Bert, you know. It's as though she can't help herself. Nothing but a prawn of fate, if you take my meaning.'

  I said that I thought I did.

  'Well, Em's come round, and seems to be working regular - if work you can call it, leaning on a spade up Springbourne Manor and having cups of tea at all hours in the greenhouse. He don't know yet about Bert, and I've threatened to tell him, to try and get our Min to come to her senses. Sometimes I wonder if she's right in her head, Miss Read, I do straight.'

  I agreed warmly. Mrs Pringle picked up her pail and limped to the lobby.

  Later, Miss Briggs and I surveyed the damaged window more closely, as we awaited the arrival of Reg Thorn.

  'It seems such a shame after all that hard work,' said my assistant.

  'It does. By the way, did you know that the dark young man's name was Richards?'

  'Yes.'

  'Reg Thorn tells me that his father has had a stroke, poor fellow.'

  'I know.'

  'I wonder if it means that Wayne will have to leave Reg Thorn? He seemed to think so. It is bad luck.'

  'Not for Wayne, I shouldn't think,' observed Miss Briggs, and the conversation ended abruptly as the youngest Coggs child approached bearing a dead, and very smelly, starling.

  Afterwards it occurred to me that Miss Briggs seemed to know far more about the Richards than I did. Hardly surprising, I told myself, as she talked to the two boys far more than I did, and may well have bumped into them in Caxley recently.

  Reg Thorn did not arrive until school ended. It was still blowing, still cold, and still depressing. I went indoors for my tea, leaving him to discover the worst. Twenty minutes later, having thawed out, I repented, and took him out a mug of tea.

  But he had gone.

  Rehearsals continued, and I was glad to see that the children seemed much less self-conscious as they began to be familiar with their lines and their movements about the stage—or rather, the schoolroom floor.

  The costumes were practically finished, thanks largely I knew to Mrs Moffat's generosity with her time and skill. Nothing second-rate ever came from that lady's needle, and I was confident that our cast would be beautifully dressed.

  We ran through the whole programme to time it one afternoon, and were pleasantly surprised to find that the whole thing took about an hour and a quarter. As we were following this with our tea party, we should have two full and happy afternoons, the first for the infants' parents and friends, and the repeat performance the next day for the juniors and the rest of those wanting to come.

  The vicar called in one day to give me the good news that the managers were providing our birthday cake, and that Mrs Willet had offered to bake it - or rather two of them, one for each afternoon.

  'It's very generous of them,' I said. 'And if Mrs Willet's in charge of the cooking, we know everything will be absolutely superb.'

  'It was Henry's idea really. He thought Mrs Willet, as an old Fairacre pupil, might be agreeable, and she just jumped at the chance. She said it would have been a disgrace to ask some Caxley baker to make Fairacre's centenary cake. She's working out the cost, which we're delighted to meet as our small contribution to the fun.'

  It was marvellous to see how enthusiastic the whole village was about our celebrations. There was no doubt about it, Fairacre School was the heart of our village, and memories of their own schooldays quickened the adults' response to this tribute to its hundred years. Its influence could never be estimated. I only hoped that it would be able to continue to serve the village as it had always done.

  Our numbers were smaller than ever before, and I did my best to push that unpleasant fact, and its even more unpleasant consequences, into the back of my mind.

  But I was not always successful.

  Joan Benson rang one evening to invite me to a small party for farewell drinks.

  'I'd love to come,' I said, 'but "farewell" sounds so sad.'

  '
Oh, I think I shall pop back from time to time,' she said cheerfully. 'Miriam insists, and so do Irene and David. I must say that now it's arrived, I feel much happier about going than I have all these months.'

  'So you've found something in Sussex?'

  'I think so. Nothing really fixed yet, but David and Irene have sold their flat, and their buyers want to move in almost immediately. The Mawnes were very sweet and did not want to hurry me - in fact they'd made plans to stay in Caxley, or with Henry and Elizabeth - but it's far better for everyone if they move in here at once, and in any case, I can stay with my daughter until my new abode is ready.'

  'We shall all miss you. Particularly Miriam.'

  'It's kind of you to say so. Actually Miriam seems much more settled about the move now. I think she's suddenly realised that the Mawnes genuinely want her to stay, and now that she feels she can be useful to them, her attitude has changed entirely. I must say, I feel much happier about deserting her. She so loves Fairacre, it would have been tragic if she had had to uproot herself after such a short stay.'

  I wished her luck with her plans, and said that I would look forward to the party on December the first.

  Two days later Reg Thorn arrived with three men who, from their somewhat formal attire, were probably from the building department of the county education office. They all gazed at the poor dormer window, still hopelessly askew, and a good deal of head-shaking went on and grave looks were exchanged. From my strategic lookout post by the classroom window it seemed that Reg Thorn grew increasingly unhappy during the conference, but of course I could not hear what was being said.

  After about half an hour, when we had settled down to arithmetic, one of the three strangers knocked at the door and asked if he could have a word with me. Reg Thorn and the other two men seemed to have disappeared.