Village School Read online

  'Oh, come!' I protested, 'you make him sound a Bluebeard! It wasn't Mr Annett's fault, merely his misfortune, that his first wife was killed in an air-raid!'

  'That's his story,' replied Mrs Pringle, darkly, 'and anyway who's to say we shan't get more air-raids?'

  This piece of reasoning was quite beyond me, but I determined to let some light into the gloom of Mrs Pringle's argument.

  'You are saying, in effect, Mrs Pringle, that anyone marrying Mr Annett lays themselves open either to slow-death-by-matrimony or sudden death-by-air-raid.'

  'What a wicked lie!' boomed Mrs Pringle indignantly, bristling and breathless. 'I simply said Mr Annett had got a good wife in Miss Gray and I hope she's got some idea of the state of the house she's taking over before she goes to it as a bride.'

  Before this volte-face I was silent.

  'And if she wants to know of a real good scrubber, my husband's niece over to Springbourne would be the one for the job, but would need to be supplied with old-fashioned bar soap, these new sudses, she says, brings her up all of a nettle-rash!' She paused for breath and assumed the look of piety which the choir-boys mimic so well.

  'May she be very happy,' she said lugubriously, 'and I only pray she doesn't have her confinements in that front bedroom of Mr Annett's! Mortal damp, it is, mortal damp!'

  'Delightful news,' said the vicar, beaming, 'so very suitable—a most charming pair! But, my dear Miss Read, Annett's gain must, of course, be Fairacre's loss, I fear. Has she mentioned anything to you? Whether she is willing to continue here I mean? At any rate for a few months, shall we say? Just until—well, in any case—does she want to go on teaching?'

  I said that I had no idea.

  'I must set about drafting another advertisement if she decides to leave us, I suppose. Such a short time since our last interviews. I wonder now if Mrs Finch-Edwards would help us out again?'

  I pointed out that Mrs Finch-Edwards would be busy looking after a young baby by that time.

  'Of course, of course,' nodded the vicar. 'More good news! I never can quite decide which I find the pleasanter—news of a wedding or a birth. Well, who can we think of?'

  'Let's find out if Miss Gray is planning to leave or stay first,' I suggested. At the back of the class I could see a picture, drawn by Ernest, being displayed secretly to his neighbour, under the desk. From a distance it looked remarkably like a caricature of the vicar and I felt the matter should be investigated immediately. I did my best to catch the malefactor's eye, but he was much too engrossed with his handiwork to bother about me.

  'I'll call again,' said the vicar, setting off for the door, so preoccupied that he forgot his farewells to the children. At the door, he paused:

  'Perhaps Miss Clare?' he suggested. His face was illuminated. He looked like a child who has just remembered that it is Christmas morning. With a happy sigh, he vanished round the door.

  The warm weather had returned. On the window-sills, pinks, so tightly packed that they looked like cauliflowers, sent down warm waves of perfume to mingle with the scent of roses on my desk.

  The elm trees in the corner of the playground cast comforting cool shadows, and beyond them, in the lower field that stretched away to the foot of the downs, the hay was being cut.

  Vetch, marguerite and sorrel had coloured the thick grass and now they were falling together before the cutting-machine. Behind Mr Roberts' house was a field of beans in flower and every now and again we would take in a heady draught from that direction.

  The pace of school work inevitably slowed down. The children were languid, their thoughts outside in the sunshine. It was the right time for day-dreaming, and I took as many lessons as possible in the open air.

  One afternoon of summer heat we were disposed at the edge of the half-cut field under the elm trees' shade. The air was murmurous with the noise of the distant cutter and with myriads of small insects. Far away the downs shimmered in the heat, and little blue chalk butterflies hovered about us. In a distant cottage garden I could see an old woman bending down to tie lace curtains over her currant bushes to protect the fruit from the birds.

  The lesson on the time-table was 'Silent Reading' and in various attitudes, some graceful and some not, the children sat or lay in the grass with their books propped before them. Some read avidly, flicking over the pages, then-eyes scampering along the lines. But others lay on then-stomachs, legs undulating, with their eyes fixed dreamily on the view before them, a grass between their lips, and eternity before them.

  With so little encouragement to read at home, in overcrowded cottages and with young brothers and sisters clamouring round them until bedtime and after, these schoolchildren at Fairacre need peace and an opportunity to read desperately. But on this particular afternoon I wondered how much reading was being done and how much daydreaming. My marking pencil slowed to a standstill and the geography test papers lay neglected in my lap. What an afternoon, I mused! When these boys and girls are old and look back to their childhood, it is the brightest hours that they will remember. This is one of those golden days to lay up as treasure for the future, I told myself, excusing our general idleness.

  There were footsteps on the high playground behind us and one of the infants came to the edge and looked down upon us. He spoke importantly:

  'Miss Gray says to tell you a man's come.'

  'Oh, then I'll come and see him,' I said, putting down my papers reluctantly. The children hardly noticed my going, but lay docile and languorous as though a spell were upon them.

  The child and I crossed the baking playground. The sun beat here unmercifully and I spread my hand over the child's head.

  'Do you know the man?' I asked him.

  'It's not exactly a man,' he answered thoughtfully, and paused. I began to wonder what sort of monster had called.

  'It's just John Burton's dad,' he added.

  Alan Burton had called to discuss his son's future schooling. He was very disappointed that John had not been accepted for the Grammar School at Caxley, and did not want the boy to go on to Beech Green next term.

  'Not that I've anything against Mr Annett. He's all right—but there's not the stuff there for training a boy like John who wants to do something with his hands. There's no woodwork shop and no metalwork place, and as far as I can see the building's just the same as it was years ago. Where's this technical school we were promised when young John was a baby in arms?'

  I agreed that there was no sign of it.

  'A man like me can't afford to send a boy away to school even if he wanted to. I could have managed the Grammar School in the old days and John would have been a credit to the place. He's good at games and he can make anything. I want something better than Beech Green for him now. Mr Annett has to take all sorts, and there's some among them downright vicious. And some thick-headed ones that are bound to hold the others back.'

  All this was sound good sense and I felt very sorry for Alan Burton. It certainly was a calamity that the Caxley area had no technical school for boys of John's calibre. I could only suggest that he let him go to Beech Green where he would get a certain amount of handicraft training and then apprentice him at fifteen to a trade that he would enjoy.

  'I suppose that's what it'll be,' he sighed and picked up his hat, 'but I'd have liked him to go to the Grammar School. I didn't go, because I was the youngest and my father had just died, but all my brothers went there. I know John's not over-bright, but he's a good lad and as bright as his uncles were. He'd have done well there.'

  I said John would do well at Beech Green and wherever he went afterwards, but he was not to be comforted.

  'There's something wrong somewhere,' he said, preparing to go. 'The Grammar School suffers in the end, as I see it; for it isn't always the cleverest boys that have most to give, is it? And why are the families with a bit more money than I have scraping up all they can to send then: boys away to school? In the old days, they'd have been proud to send them to Caxley Grammar School. Why's that? I don't
know much about schooling these days, but what I do know I don't feel happy about.'

  Sadly he departed through the school gate, and I returned to collect my somnolent children from the elm trees' shade.

  21. Term in Full Swing

  THE last day of the month has a beauty of its own, for it is pay-day. Jim Bryant, a remote cousin of the Biblical Bryants, brings the post while I am still at breakfast, and the cheques arrive together in one envelope. There are four of them; one for Mrs Pringle's cleaning and washing-up ministrations, a smaller one for Mr Willet's unenviable but necessary duties, one for Miss Gray and the last for me.

  Mrs Pringle never fails to remind me, in the most roundabout and delicate manner, that it is pay-day. She usually makes a remark about the post being late, or early, or has some information to impart about Jim Bryant, thus bringing the cheque to mind for me. Sometimes I am wicked enough to postpone handing over the money for a few minutes, in order to see what form the reminder will take. This morning, Mrs Pringle was standing up on a desk zealously flapping a duster round the top of the electric light shade, as I entered. She intended to let me see that she earned her money. Dust flew in clouds, and I felt it was a pity that her zeal was not spread more evenly through the month.

  'Friday again!' was her greeting. 'Don't the time fly?' I said it did, unlocking the desk drawer. Mrs Pringle eyed the letters in my hand and I waited for the next move, my eyes averted.

  'Midsummer Day past already!' said Mrs Pringle. I took out the register.

  'Don't seem hardly possible that July's nearly here, do it?'

  'No,' I said, and straightened the massive inkstand.

  'Why, bless me, it's tomorrow!' gasped Mrs Pringle, with well-feigned astonishment.

  'Last day of June today-last day of the month!' she continued with much emphasis. I walked across to the piano and opened it. Mrs Pringle clambered down from the desk, with groans.

  'Sometimes I wonder if I can stick this job out much longer, with my leg. The money's not all that good, though I must say it's regular.'

  'Yes,' I said absently, turning over the leaves of the hymn-book. There was a pause. Mrs Pringle changed her line of approach.

  'Postman been yet?'

  I gave in.

  'Yes, Mrs Pringle, and he's brought your cheque.' I handed it over to her.

  'Well, now,' said Mrs Pringle, with an affected laugh, 'and I'd forgotten all about it being pay-day!'

  Mr Willet shows just as much delicacy of feeling over receiving his wages. He knows that I hand it over to him as soon as I can in the morning, but if, on the odd occasion, I have been unable to find him, he appears, without fail, in the afternoon of pay-day.

  He would not dream of asking me outright for his rightful dues, but he finds some noisy job in the playground, close to the door or window, which focuses my attention upon him. He usually elects to scrape the coke up with a shovel—a perennial job in any playground—and, after a while, I realize what is happening and translate what I have dimly thought of as a passing nuisance into the cry for help which it really is. On one occasion, when coke was short, Mr Willet beat upon the iron shoe-scraper outside the lobby door, with a metal bar, and the clangour quickly brought me to my senses.

  I always hurry out, overflowing with apologies, and Mr Willet invariably replies:

  'No need to worry, Miss Read. It'd quite slipped my mind it was the last day of the month, but I'll take it now it's here.'

  The ritual over, we part with compliments on either side.

  As this day was not only the last day of the month, but also a Friday, it would be a busy one, for besides the disposal of cheques, there were attendance records to send into the office at Caxley, the dinner money accounts to check and send in with the cash in hand, and forms to be filled in stating the number of hours worked by Mrs Pringle and Mr Willet.

  I was also engrossed in a lengthy document and numerous catalogues as this was the time to apply for the stock needed throughout the coming year. So much money is allocated to books, stationery and cleaning materials for each child, and it takes a considerable amount of time and heart-searching deciding how best to allot the stock. This year I felt that the infants' room should have the lion's share, for Miss Clare had never demanded much in the way of educational-play apparatus. In fact, I had had to introduce much there that she disapproved of and failed to use Now that Miss Gray was in charge she had many good ideas for apparatus which I was only too glad to order. I only hoped that her successor would be as enterprising and enthusiastic.

  Today she handed in her resignation from Fairacre School. Notice has to be given for three months, so that we should have her with us next term, as Mrs Annett, until the end of September. The marriage was to be at the beginning of August.

  'And we both hope you'll be able to come to the wedding,' said Miss Gray, as I handed back the letter of resignation which she was posting to the office. 'We shall send you a proper invitation, of course, but do please come!'

  I said that I should like nothing more, and was she wearing white?

  'Not a dead white,' explained Miss Gray earnestly, 'I don't think I could take white satin, for instance; but I've decided on a cream chiffon, with a faille underslip, and a softly-swathed bodice.'

  I was on the point of crying out that that was exactly what I had hoped she'd choose for her wedding dress when we were at Miss Clare's birthday party, but luckily I held my tongue in time.

  'It sounds quite perfect,' I said enthusiastically; and we became engrossed in head-dresses, veils, bouquets, bridesmaids' ensembles and all the enthralling details of a well-equipped wedding, much to the pleasure of our classes, who took the opportunity to gossip happily among themselves, and had to be spoken to quite sharply.

  John Burton and Cathy Wakes were standing in front of the class, surveying their fellow-pupils with a judicious eye. They were picking up sides for cricket, and as there were only nineteen children present I foresaw that I should be called upon to make up the number.

  It was sultry weather. A hot little wind blew the dry grass and dust round and round the playground. The children scuffled their sandals in the dusty road as we crossed to Mr Roberts' field opposite, where we have his permission to play.

  The wicket is not all it should be, but it is reasonably flat, and it is possible to give the children some elementary notion of the game and its rules. At the further end, Mr Roberts' house cow, a demure Guernsey named somewhat incongruously 'Samson,' was grazing peacefully.

  She looked up at our approach, and advanced with tittupping gait and nodding head.

  'It do seem wrong somehow,' observed Eric, 'to have that ol' cow round us cricket times.'

  I pointed out that Samson had Kather more right to the field than we had, and though no doubt the M.C.C. might look askance at our conditions of play, we were lucky to have any sort of pitch at all.

  Eric and I were the opening batsmen, so that I should be able to take over my rightful duties as umpire with the least delay.

  Cathy, a deadly under-arm bowler with a quite unpredictable pace, now rushed up to the wicket and hurled the ball at me. It flashed by me and Ernest, the wicket-keeper, and travelled at remarkable speed to Sylvia at long-stop. She had been foolish enough to think herself too far away to be noticed and had squatted down happily by a grasshopper. They were surveying each other with mutual interest when the ball cracked upon her tender knee with the most fearsome report. Hubbub broke out.

  'Serve you right! You did ought to be attending! It's your own fault!' said the hard-hearted ones.

  'Do it hurt bad? Poor ol' Sylvie! Spit on it, mate, as quick as you can! Now, rub it well in!' said the more compassionate.

  More scared than hurt, Sylvia struggled to her feet and the game was resumed. Cathy's second ball bowled me and I handed the bat to John Burton, with considerable relief.

  The game wore on. Samson chewed the cud and watched our antics with a mild eye. In the next field the haycocks stood in rows and Mr Roberts'
blue and red wagon had already started to collect them. Above us, black clouds were piling up ominously and I was wondering whether we should get our game finished and whether Mr Roberts would get his hay in before the rain came, when I noticed a stranger leaning over the gate, watching us with interest.

  On seeing that he was observed, he opened the gate and crossed the grass towards me.

  It transpired that the stranger was one of Her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, newly appointed to this area. He had served before, he told me as we walked back to the school, in one of the home counties, where new estates had gone up rapidly since the war, and the new schools, despite their classes of forty or more children, were efficient in design and very well-equipped.

  'You've no playing-field then,' he asked, 'although there are fields all round you? Do you think it's worth while trying to teach these children cricket under such conditions? Actually, you've not really enough people for two teams, I gather.'

  I told him that I thought the effort was justified. At least the children knew the rules of the game, enjoyed it, and could, in their next school, feel that they could take part in the game with some knowledge and pleasure. Thanks to Mr Roberts, the children were able to get out of the small and badly-surfaced playground to take much of their exercise.

  His gaze swept the lofty pitch-pine ceiling, the ecclesiastical high windows, and at last came to rest on the skylight.

  'Do you find it dark in here?' he asked. I said 'that I realized it was dark compared with the steel and glass schools of the present day, but that I didn't think the children's sight was impaired at all.

  'Despite its architectural drawbacks,' I told him, 'there is something in this atmosphere conducive to quiet and to work. I know it is only right that children should have big, low windows that they can sec through, but they can be very distracting.'