(16/20)Summer at Fairacre Read online

  'When do you want to come?'

  'Say three o'clock?'

  'That would be convenient.'

  He came farther into the room. The children stood up politely, and I nodded to them.

  'Good morning, sir,' they chorused.

  'Oh, ah! Good morning to you too.'

  He seemed somewhat startled by this everyday civility. Perhaps he was not used to being called 'Sir'. Probably just Nigel or Basil, I imagined.

  'This might make rather an interesting sequence,' he said, gazing round appreciatively. 'I believe Aloysius sat at one of these desks.'

  'Hardly,' I said. 'They were new in the fifties.'

  'I suppose we could make a mock-up of an earlier desk,' he went on dreamily.

  'I'm afraid it would be most inconvenient for you to film in here,' I said firmly. 'And anyway, I'm sure my governors would not want the children's work to be interrupted.'

  'I could have a word with them,' he offered.

  'I wouldn't dream of troubling you. By all means film outside, but this interior is so much altered since Aloysius's time —'

  I broke off.

  'By the way,' I added. 'What was Aloysius's surname? I've never heard him called anything but Loyshus in Fairacre.'

  He began to laugh. He was quite a nice young man, I thought, even if he did not wear a tie.

  'Stone! Loyshus Stone! How's that?'

  'First-class,' I said, as he waved goodbye.

  The children, of course, were wildly excited at the thought of 'being on the telly', although I did my best to explain that their presence would be unwelcome.

  'Your clothes would be all wrong, for one thing,' I pointed out.

  'We could dress up.'

  'We've got them things —'

  '"Thosethings".'

  'That's right. Them things as we had for that show we done when us was a hundred.'

  I gave up trying to correct this last sentence, forbade further discussion, and threatened them with no-story-this-afternoon if they continued to waste time.

  The day wore on. The sun blazed away, and obviously the school would look splendid in this wonderful light when the cameras began to turn.

  Three o'clock came and went. Apart from some chirruping from a few sparrows, and a ring dove rippling throatily from the school roof, all was quiet as the grave.

  Nothing happened throughout the reading of Treasure Island, although I sensed that the children were alert for the sound of approaching vehicles.

  At a quarter to four we said grace, wished each other 'Good afternoon', and I accompanied my flock to the school gate.

  'And don't loiter,' I adjured them. 'Go straight home. I expect the filming will happen tomorrow.'

  They went off reluctantly. They were bitterly disappointed, poor things.

  At a quarter past six, four young men arrived, including Nigel—or possibly, Basil—and they began to wander about the playground, discussing the best vantage points.

  I carried out a pot of tea, four mugs, milk, sugar and biscuits and left them to it.

  I must say they were extremely grateful for their sustenance, and all the biscuits had been eaten when I went to fetch the tray an hour later.

  I spent the evening making jam and bottling the first lot of gooseberries. Whilst waiting for the bottles to get done, I began to tackle Mrs Pringle's offering with my hard-pressed nail scissors.

  It was while I was so engaged that Amy arrived.

  'Heavens, I'm so glad to see you!' I cried. 'I'm awash with gooseberries.'

  I ushered her into the kitchen. Eight pots of ruby red jam gleamed from the draining board. A rich fruity smell emanated from the oven.

  'Lucky you!' said Amy. it smells marvellous in here.'

  She gazed with wonder at the bowl awaiting my nail scissors' attention.

  'Do you want some?' I asked. 'Please say you do. I'm getting to loathe the sight of a goosegog.'

  'Can you really spare a few? I adore them. I like all the nice cheap fruits like rhubarb and gooseberries that other people look down on. I think they are blissful.'

  I began to tip a few pounds of Mrs Pringle's gooseberries into a bag, expressing my pleasure and relief at the same time.

  'Seen anything of Gerard?' asked Amy when at last we were resting in the sitting room.

  'No. Well, I can't say I expected to. He's probably busy.'

  'He's not too busy to visit Fairacre daily,' said Amy, somewhat severely, it's my belief he calls to see Miriam each evening. He only seems to use our house to sleep in.'

  'He probably doesn't want to take up your time,' I said.

  Amy blew three perfect smoke rings, one of her many accomplishments.

  'That's as maybe,' she said eventually. 'Personally, I think that Miriam is a charming girl, and far too good for Gerard. You would have been much more suitable.'

  'How do I take that?'

  'You know what I mean. You have quite a lot in common with dear Gerard. Now Miriam would find a lot of things about him which she would want altered. I know James had some tiresome ways when I first knew him.'

  'And is he now a reformed character?'

  'I hope not. Despite the few tiresome ways just mentioned, I liked him as he was. And still do.'

  'That's good. I think James is a dear. I should have snapped him up myself, if you hadn't got in first.'

  Amy looked gratified.

  'Yes, I'm glad I did get in first, taking it all in all. You know, it amazes me how many women think that if they marry a man they will be able to mould him to their own requirements.'

  'Do they think that?'

  'Indeed they do! The times I've heard a girl say: "He'll be different when he's married"! It's not only colossal cheek, I think, but such a ghastly waste of time. After all, if you don't like a man as he is, then why marry him?'

  A sizzling sound from the kitchen ended our conversation. I was about to tell Amy of Mrs Pringle's sudden absorption in love, but bottled gooseberries came first.

  I saw her to the car, and helped to prop the bag of gooseberries safely.

  'A thousand thanks for them, my sweet,' she said, as she let in the clutch.

  I returned to my fragrant kitchen. There were still gooseberries waiting in a bowl to be topped and tailed. Six bottles were now standing beside the jam jars.

  The telephone rang. Mrs Mawne was at the other end. Could I do with some gooseberries? They had a bumper crop this year.

  I expressed my gratitude, but explained that I really had rather more than I could cope with at the moment.

  In more ways than one, I thought, when I replaced the receiver, what with end of term, Miss Briggs' wedding, Mrs Pringle's continued absence from duty, television crews and tales of Gerard into the bargain.

  Too tired to cook a proper supper, I spread a hunk of bread with still-warm gooseberry jam, and washed it down with a glass of milk.

  I must say, it was jolly good.

  16 Sunshine and Sports

  DURING the last week of term I drove to Beech Green to have tea with Miss Clare.

  Despite the brilliant light and scorching heat outside, the interior of the little cottage, which would one day be my own—to my everlasting amazement—was dim and cool. Thatch is a wonderful insulator, and despite its drawbacks of attracting birds to nest in it and needing a good deal of skilled maintenance, it is good to see this natural roofing blending so beautifully into the countryside.

  Her garden was as trim as ever. The borders on each side of the brick path were bright with pansies, pinks and early asters.

  The vegetable plot was a miracle of tidiness. Miss Clare was now past gardening herself, but a young neighbour with a growing family was glad to have the garden, and kept Miss Clare supplied in return for her generosity. Thus everyone was pleased.

  'He's almost as good as Mr Willet,' I said, surveying the rows of shallots ready for lifting, the swelling bronze onions, the peas thick on the sticks. The tops of the pea sticks, I noticed, were all cut neatly t
o the same level. It all looked most efficient.

  'He was always a tidy boy,' said Dolly Clare indulgently, when I commented on his handiwork. 'He was at Fairacre just before your time. Very neat with his hands, and could use a ruler even as an infant.'

  I rubbed a leaf of sun-warmed mint between my fingers, and inhaled the sharp scent.

  'The only trouble is we are short of parsley,' went on Dolly. 'But you know what they say. It goes seven times to the devil before it germinates. I'm afraid ours never came back at all this year.'

  I promised to bring her a root of mine, and we went indoors to put on the kettle.

  The round table in the window had already been set. The best china, sprigged with violets, the silver teaspoons, thin with age, and bread and butter cut wafer-thin awaited us, with a splendid sponge cake of Miss Clare's own making.

  One always sat up to table at Dolly's house. Only the odd cup of coffee was partaken of in an armchair, and even when she was alone the mistress of the house set the solitary place and dined, as if she had friends present, with simple dignity.

  I spread some of our vicar's honey on my bread and butter, and thought how marvellous it was that Dolly Clare, despite her age and physical frailty, had never lowered her standards. My own casual meal arrangements seemed positively slatternly in comparison.

  I said as much to Dolly. She looked somewhat surprised.

  'I suppose early training has something to do with it,' she said. 'My mother was a stickler for having things just so. And then, when you are as old as I am, you wonder if you might be taken suddenly, and it would be so dreadful if you were found in squalor, wouldn't it?'

  'I hadn't thought of that.'

  'You see, I now look upon each day as a bonus. When I wake in the morning I think how lucky I am to have yet another day to spend.'

  'Even if your arthritis is painful?'

  'Even then.' Dolly laughed. 'After all, some part of one's body must play up when one is over eighty. I'm luckier than some, and I still love living.'

  When we had washed up, we took a turn along the field track which borders Hundred Acre Field behind Dolly's house.

  The blackberry flowers were thick in the hedges, and great creamy plates of elderflowers still nodded on the northern side of the hedge.

  'I tie a head in a muslin bag,' said Dolly, 'and steep it in my gooseberry jelly. It gives the most marvellous tang to it.'

  I told her about my gooseberries, and my own less, elegant means of coping with them.

  'And look at my hands,' I said, holding out my stained fingers.

  Dolly held out her own fragile hands, and I was surprised to see that they were even more stained than my own.

  'Broad beans, and then blackcurrants,' she said, surveying them calmly. 'I know one should wear gloves, but the feel of fresh young things is so pleasant that I would sooner have stained fingers. It's a small price to pay for pleasure.'

  I drove home feeling all the better for an hour or two of Dolly's company. In a feverish world she is like a cool drink.

  The birds were still foraging although dusk was beginning to fall, and I narrowly missed a cock pheasant, gleaming bronze in the westering sunlight, as he strolled haughtily across the lane.

  The sheep had been sheared recently and they looked almost like white goats moving leisurely across the meadows. All creatures, it seemed, were flourishing in this glorious summer, and I felt lucky to count myself among them.

  It had not dawned on me, until I had the wretched things, how remarkably elusive a pair of spectacles can be. If I am at school the children help me to locate them with an eager chorus of:

  'On the piano, miss!'

  'On the window sill, miss!'

  'You're still wearing 'em, miss!' This last, of course, accompanied by much hilarity.

  But in the house, it is not so easy. If I am downstairs I have left the things upstairs, and vice versa. I reckon that I take far more exercise these days simply tracking down my glasses.

  Gradually, I am learning to look first by the telephone, where I need them for studying the small print of the book, then by my fireside book shelf, and thirdly by any newspaper lying about.

  What happens when advancing age compels me to have two pairs, one for reading and one for long distance, is too horrific to contemplate, and bifocals, so Mrs Pringle told me once, send one headlong down any flight of stairs.

  I think I shall have to get a fetching chain affair to lash them to my person, like the spectacled half of Hinge and Bracket.

  The television crew remained in the village for three days, and were soon accepted as a welcome addition to Fairacre's amenities.

  Peter Hale, who had evidently been very much on his guard when first approached, now seemed quite sorry that the excitement was over, and that the van and car had gone for good.

  I met him on one of my evening strolls.

  'D'you know, I was at school with the father of one of those chaps? The oldest one incidentally. Makes you realise your age.'

  'I'm constantly meeting old pupils in Caxley,' I told him, 'and I am not only incapable of remembering their names, but also if they left three or thirteen years ago.'

  'Well, that's some comfort. It was quite interesting to watch them at work. One wonders, of course, if it really takes half a day to take a few shots, and I'm jolly glad they decided against coming indoors.'

  I told him that I too had banned interior filming.

  'They are making a set, I gather, of a Victorian schoolroom, all hanging oil lamps and slates, and the cane well in evidence.'

  'When is it going to be shown?'

  'Sometime next month. They said they would let me know. I'll give you a ring as soon as I know anything.'

  'Many thanks. I'm looking forward to seeing Aloysius Lloyd.'

  'Was that his surname? First I knew of it! By the way, are you all right for gooseberries?'

  I assured him that I was, and added: it seems to have been a bumper crop this year.'

  After all, if I had not said it, then he would have done.

  The highlight of the summer term at Fairacre School is our Sports Day. Mr Roberts, the farmer, lets us have one of his meadows for the occasion, and obligingly turns out sheep or cattle, a day or two beforehand, so that Mr Willet can rope off the course from the spectators.

  It is also Mr Willet's unenviable task to clear the course of the more obvious of the cow pats, and to flatten any molehills. In this job he has the enthusiastic support of three or four of the bigger boys. I have no difficulty in maintaining order in the classroom as Sports Day approaches. The hope of being chosen as one of Mr Willet's course-clearing team makes for a very well-behaved class.

  Normally, we study the barometer and listen anxiously to the weather men as Sports Day approaches. The final word, of course, is Mr Willet's, who knows all the local signs of a change. But this year, with weeks of 'Set Fair' and even 'Very Dry' on our barometers we hardly bothered to consult even Mr Willet.

  'Might get a bit of wet in a day or two,' he volunteered on the morning of the day, 'but it should hold up for this afternoon.'

  'It all looks splendid,' I told him, surveying the course before school began. The grass was still dewy, the sky cloudless. The meadow had been cut for hay a few weeks earlier, and presented a trim face to the world.

  'Had a mort of trouble knocking in them posts though,' observed Mr Willet. 'Never known the ground so hard. Better tell the kids to pick their feet up or we'll have some good oF banged knees.'

  Excitement ran high during the morning, and it seemed prudent to let off some of their suppressed steam with number games, and oral work rather than risk bodged pages of written exercises. As always, on these occasions, the girls were much calmer than the boys. The latter seem to have a much stronger competitive spirit which shows itself in tiresome boasting about their physical prowess.

  'Look at my muscles then!' bragged Eric, flexing his arm to his neighbour.

  'No bigger'n a sparrow's kneecap,'
responded Ernest.

  During playtime there was a good deal of sprinting from one end of the playground to the other, and some perilous jumping over skipping ropes obligingly held by the girls. I turned a blind eye to these activities, only warning the infants of tender years, to keep out of the way.

  Miss Briggs had thrown herself whole-heartedly into preparations for the day, and had organised most of the timetable, including a mothers' race and a hideously difficult obstacle race for any fathers who were courageous enough to attempt it. As well as a pegged-down tarpaulin, kindly loaned by Mr Roberts, under which one had to wriggle, there were the usual hoops to negotiate, ropes to leap, and a stretch of grass to be covered by means of stepping on flower pots manhandled in a bent-double position. The children were tackling the course themselves, but at half the size and twice as agile they certainly had the edge on their fathers.

  Several parents had been coerced into being judges, and keeping the scores of each child. I had been responsible for buying innumerable bars of chocolate, and making badges from cardboard embellished with gold stars. It made a change from making gooseberry jam on recent evenings.

  The dinner lady brought us sliced cold ham, jacket potatoes and some salad, for our first course, and a sloshy dish, which she told us was trifle, for dessert. Her offerings were greeted with general approval.

  'That's just right for today,' Patrick said graciously. 'Us don't want no stodge and that. Slows you down, stodge does.'

  One or two hardy boys professed to despise food altogether just before racing, but I noticed that they ate as heartily as the rest when it was time to serve out.

  At two o'clock we were all out in the sunshine. Chairs had been arranged for the elderly on one side of the course, but most of the mothers, and a sprinkling of fathers who were not at work, sprawled on the grass looking after the many toddlers.

  Miss Briggs and I had decided that the first few races should be the straightforward hundred yards (we don't bother with metres at Fairacre) for boys and girls, divided into three age groups. Then came the girls' skipping races, and after that the infants had their turns.