(18/20) Changes at Fairacre Read online

  'Do Mr Roberts know?' quavered Joseph Coggs. 'There's a lot of young lambs on his farm.'

  'They're quite safe,' Henry assured him. 'You'll only find golden eagles in Scotland, and then only in the wilder parts.'

  The class appeared relieved.

  Henry turned to me. 'Would it be possible to take them to that falconry north of Oxford? Perhaps we could get a mini-bus, or arrange a few cars one afternoon?'

  These remarks were made very quietly, and expressively to me, but there was a murmur of approval from the front row.

  'Would you like to see real birds of prey one day?' I asked the children.

  The roar of ecstasy was unanimous, and Henry beamed affectionately at his audience.

  'We'll try and fix up the outing next term,' he assured them. 'Miss Read will come too, of course.' He turned to me and added in a conspiratorial whisper: 'To keep order.'

  Henry Mawne was not only generous with his time in encouraging an interest in birds, he also presented the school with a fine wooden bird-table to replace the old one which had been shattered in the autumn storms. The children welcomed this addition to the playground, but Mrs Pringle considered it 'a nasty great object, encouraging all sorts of vermin'.

  'We've got enough mice in the handiwork cupboard,' she said darkly, 'without a lot of corn and nuts and that hanging up. There was definitely a mouse in that paper cupboard what you're leaning against.'

  I moved hastily away.

  'Unless it was a rat,' she added, sounding pleased.

  'Anyway the bird table is going to stay there. It was exceptionally kind of Mr Mawne to present it to us, and I don't intend to hurt his feelings.'

  Mrs Pringle snorted. 'His feelings indeed! I'll have you know that everyone remembers your feelings when he took advantage of you soon after he come here.'

  I was taken aback. I know that villagers have long memories, but that little misunderstanding happened years ago and, in any case, it was not I who was expecting a proposal of marriage from the newly-arrived stranger, then, it had seemed, a bachelor, but the village folk themselves who had cast me in the role of ageing bride.

  And I did not care for Mrs Pringle's use of the phrase: 'took advantage of you'. It made me sound like some backward fourteen-year-old raped by a sex maniac. I was certainly not the former, and nor was poor Henry Mawne the latter but, as usual Mrs Pringle managed to give a comprehensive clout with her remarks.

  I decided to rise above it, and changed the subject. 'Has Fred found his shed yet? He must miss it.'

  For two pins I would have added; 'To get away from you,' but I forbore with Christian charity, and hoped my guardian angel was taking note.

  'Part of it fetched up by Mr Roberts's cattle shed, and he brought the bits back on his trailer. The vicar said he'd let Fred have what was left of his tool shed after the storm, and Josh Pringle gave him a hand putting it all together.'

  'That was good of the vicar,' I observed. 'A case of true practical Christianity.'

  'He knew Fred missed somewhere to do his art-work,' said Mrs Pringle.

  'And to have a peaceful place of his own,' I felt compelled to add.

  I could almost hear my guardian angel scratching out the earlier entry.

  'It keeps him from getting under my feet,' replied Mrs Pringle. 'That's what the vicar really had in mind!'

  I might just as well have saved my breath, and have had a rare entry in my angel's credit column, after all.

  Easter was early this year, and I was glad to have some time in my little house.

  I was beginning to realize with increasing intensity, the expense involved in being a property-owner. When I lived in the school house, all outside work was paid for by the school authorities, and I was responsible only for indoor maintenance.

  Now, despite Wayne Richards's earlier repair work, I found that a mysterious damp patch had appeared in the corner of my bedroom ceiling. On investigation, Wayne traced it to the lead flashing at the base of the chimney stack just above the thatch.

  'Must've been the gale,' he said, shouting down from the top of his ladder. 'All bent up, it is. That's your trouble, Miss Read. Won't take more than a day to put it right.'

  He descended carefully, and brushed a few wisps of straw from his trousers.

  'But I thought lead was terribly heavy stuff,' I protested. 'Isn't that what they use for roofs?'

  'True, but it's soft too. Once it gets bent, it sort of rolls up under pressure. Why, the parish church in Caxley lost yards of it in the storms. Took six men to get it into the lorry.'

  He gave me an estimated price for the job, and I fixed a day for his men to come and see to it. I have no doubt at all that his price was a fair one, but it gave me a shock. My old winter coat would have to wrap me up for another season, I could see that.

  Visits from the plumber, the electrician and the telephone people, all took a good slice from my pay packet, and I began to do some careful budgeting for future repairs. At least it was my own property I was maintaining, and this gave me enormous satisfaction. I did not have to notify anyone of things which needed to be done, for it was now my decision, and I could employ whom I wanted, and have the work done when it pleased me.

  I knew from experience how frustrated some of the nearby cottagers had been when they had gone to their employers with a list of things needing to be done. Cracked windows, leaking roofs, damp walls and dozens more defects were often met with either downright refusal or grudging agreement to do the minimum.

  'He told me what did I expect for ten bob a week,' one man told me, 'and us with a bucket catching the raindrops in the kids' bedroom.'

  I had sympathized. There were many many with conscientious landlords, but there were certainly others who seemed callous.

  But now that I was a house-owner and realized just how much was needed to keep my own modest home in good repair, I was beginning to feel sympathy with the owners of so many rural homes. Many of these properties in Beech Green and Fairacre were well over a hundred years old, some almost three hundred, and there was something needing to be done to them practically every month. It was hardly surprising that so many were put on the market for others to repair and to spend their money on.

  Nor was it surprising that council houses were proliferating, but even these were often too much for country people to afford, and there was a drift to the towns where there was often cheaper property to rent, and also more work available.

  I thought of Gerard Baker and his present work on the change in agricultural matters during the present century. He was dealing with general change involving mechanized farming, intensive rearing of animals, the drastic reduction of men needed on a farm these days, and the rise in wages and conditions.

  I too, in my small way, could vouch for change. From being a dweller in a tied-house, I was now a property-owner.

  Surveying Wayne Richards's written estimate, I thought to myself: 'It's heavy going being a home-owner. But worth every penny.'

  Luckily, the weather stayed fine for the holidays, and Wayne was able to get on with the flashing round the chimney. Better still, it was done in one day, as he had promised.

  I had made no plans to go away, but took several day trips to places I enjoy visiting. One was to Great Tew, the renowned Cotswold village which went through a sad period of neglect some time ago, but has now been restored to its former beauty.

  Amy came with me on one or two occasions, and we lunched one day at Kingham Mill, and visited some of the lovely Cotswold villages which we knew from experience would be clogged with traffic in the summer but were relatively empty early in the year.

  'Isn't it strange,' remarked Amy, 'that so many of these villages appear to have no people around? And all these cultivated fields never seem to have anyone working in them.'

  'You'd better listen to Gerard's programme when it's on the telly,' I told her. 'You'll hear all about changes in country life.'

  'But there doesn't appear to be any country life,' protested
Amy. 'That's my point.'

  'There's plenty in Fairacre,' I told her, 'particularly in my school. Far too much going on most of the time, especially when Mrs Pringle appears on the scene.'

  'But in my youth,' continued Amy, surveying the empty rolling fields around us, 'you would see men ploughing the fields, or layering a hedge, or scything the verges -'

  'But it's all done with machinery now.'

  'Of course, I know that! But you used to see washing blowing on the line, and women sitting in the sun shelling peas. Where are they now? There must be washing to do, and peas to shell, even now.'

  'They're inside with their washing machines and tumble driers. And the peas are in nice clean packets in the freezer. You're harking back to those dear days beyond recall. But think, Amy, would you really want to go back to boiling clothes in a copper, and stirring them about with a copper stick? And then rubbing them on a wash-board?'

  Amy laughed. 'Of course not. Not that I ever boiled clothes in a copper, though my dear old granny did, and I used to help her hang them out, using lovely hazelwood pegs the gypsies used to sell. And come to think of it, what's happened to real gypsies who used to sell pegs and paper flowers at the back door?'

  'They're all in their fabulous mobile homes,' I told her, 'watching the telly with one eye and the tumble drier with the other.'

  'And shelling peas?'

  'Not likely.'

  'It seems so extraordinary that things have changed so drastically in the country in such a comparatively short time.'

  'Gerard will tell you all about that,' I assured her.

  19 Problems for Friends

  IT was quite a pleasure to return to school after the Easter holidays. I suppose that it is partly that I am 'geared to work', as Miriam Baker once put it. I always welcome a break from it, but after a time I begin to feel uneasy and somewhat guilty.

  Then, too, I was now really settled in to the routine of living at Beech Green, driving the few miles to Fairacre, and not bobbing back and forth across the playground to see how things were faring in the school house. In many ways it was a more ordered existence, and I found it much to my liking.

  After a short spell of cloudy weather, the sun had returned with all the pleasures of spring. Daffodils were out in cottage gardens, and primroses starred the banks on the road from Beech Green to school.

  Mr Roberts's lambs were frisking about, untroubled by golden eagles safely in Scotland, and the dawn chorus of thrushes, blackbirds, and finches of all kinds, greeted me when I awoke. The snowdrops had withered, the catkins which had fluttered so bravely through the winter months were now tattered, and as frayed as the dying flowers of the yellow winter jasmine. They had played their part in keeping hope alive during the darkest days of the year, but now bowed out to let the larger and more showy flowers take the stage.

  But although I welcomed the spring as rapturously as the children did, and despite my more settled way of life now that I had become used to the changed rhythm of my day, I felt a secret unease.

  The vicar's remarks last term about the fact that my school might close despite assurances to the contrary had brought back the fear that had always lurked at the back of my mind. I tried to remind myself that this had been faced for years, and that still the school remained open. I told myself that I had been assured that although the school house would be put on the market, the school would continue. But I still worried, and all the old bogeys about my future came back to haunt me.

  Should I take early retirement? Could I afford to? The expense of keeping my own small property in good heart had been brought home to me pretty sharply recently, and the thought that old age and general infirmity must be faced one day, with all the added expense that that would bring. In any case, it came back to the fact that I was 'geared to work' and would miss it.

  But what about working in someone else's school, the other alternative? I knew myself well enough to know that I should hate it. For too long I had been monarch of all I surveyed, and had my own way in most things. I thought of having to fall in with the wishes of a strange head teacher, undertaking methods of which I probably disapproved, sharing a staffroom with dozens of others, and my spirits quailed. After all this time, I recognized that I should not be an admirable member of a team. Mrs Richards and I worked happily together, but of course it was I who really prevailed as head mistress when it came to the crunch.

  No, the thought of teaching in another school, no matter how splendid the building or how angelic the staff, could not be contemplated. I should just have to soldier on as things were at Fairacre, comforting myself with Mr Salisbury's promise, and the slight hope that particularly large families would decide to make their homes in the village before too long.

  Horace and Eve came to see the school house one afternoon. By now the roof repairs were done, but the garden still showed signs of the builders' recent activities. There were indentations on the lawn where the ladders had stood, the shrubs and flowerbeds were dusty with the débris from the roof, and there was a battered air about the whole place. Nevertheless, the job itself had been well done, and the new roof tiles matched the old ones admirably.

  The estate agent had let them have the key, and they had spent an hour looking over the interior, until I finished the afternoon session.

  They followed me to Beech Green for tea, and were full of plans if their offer were accepted.

  'One of the things I mentioned to the agent,' said Horace, 'was that we should prefer to do the decoration ourselves. It might mean a lower price, for one thing, and in any case it always seems to me a mistake to re-decorate a house just to sell it. Usually the new owner can't bear the colour scheme, and sets to and repaints as he wants it. Also, it might mean a quicker sale, and everyone would be happy.'

  'When do you expect to hear?'

  'Heaven alone knows! You know how these matters drag on. The thing is, we've made our offer, and I doubt if many other people will with the market as it is. We'll keep our fingers crossed.'

  It was good to see them so hopeful as they drove away, and I only wished that they would see those hopes fulfilled.

  ***

  One morning towards the end of April, before the school bell was rung, Mrs Pringle informed me that someone was looking over one of the empty houses.

  'Good!' I cried. 'Did they look as though they might have children?'

  'Not as far as I could see,' replied Mrs Pringle. 'More like grandparents, I'd say.'

  'That's right,' agreed Mr Willet who had joined us. 'More like folk from the council again, I reckon. I recognized that old trout from Caxley as is on the District Council. Wonder what's up?'

  'Checking on the drains and that perhaps,' surmised Mrs Pringle. 'Don't do to leave a place uninhibited too long.'

  'Uninhabited,' I corrected automatically.

  'Like I said,' agreed Mrs Pringle. 'You don't want no one in it for too long.'

  Here was the double negative rearing its ugly head again, but I did not join battle.

  'Looked more like buyers wanting a bit added,' said Mr Willet. 'They was looking at the kitchen side. Maybe they want one of these glass-house places stuck on. All the go, them conservatories these days.'

  'Perhaps one of those people was a buyer,' I speculated.

  'That young woman as is expecting,' continued Mr Willet, 'said she thought they looked at both houses.'

  'Definitely drains!' pronounced Mrs Pringle. 'They shares a septic tank no doubt.'

  'I never saw them looking at but just the one,' said Bob. 'Mr Annett had us in early for choir practice. Trying out a new anthem, he was, and a right pig's breakfast we made of it, I can tell you. Some modern thing, it is. What's wrong with a nice bit of Stainer, I want to know? So anyway, I never saw as much as Mrs Winter did from her kitchen window.'

  He sounded disappointed.

  'All I hope,' I told him, nodding to Patrick to ring the bell, 'is that they are building on to accommodate their large families.'

  'Tha
t's what's called "wishful thinking",' he shouted, above the din, and departed.

  I came across Jane Winter myself one dinner hour when I was calling at the Post Office for the school savings' stamps. She looked remarkably well, with that radiance that pregnant women so often show, once the first uncomfortable months are over.

  'Yes,' she said, 'I certainly saw those people, and a couple of men have visited the houses once or twice. What's going on?'

  'I've no idea. Perhaps two couples - old friends or something - have decided to retire together. It sometimes happens.'

  'But the houses are too big for retired folk,' she said.

  'Sometimes they have lots of grandchildren who come to stay,' I surmised. 'But honestly, your guess is as good as mine.'

  I enquired about the coming baby.

  'Not long now, thank heaven. To tell you the truth, we were both a bit miffed about it when we first knew, but now I'm quite looking forward to having a baby in the house again.'

  'The old wives' tale is that those that aren't ordered always turn out the best,' I told her.

  'That's a consoling thought,' she laughed. 'Perhaps this one will be able to keep us in our old age.'

  We walked back towards my school and her home in good spirits.

  ***

  Amy rang me one evening soon after my meeting with Jane. She sounded worried, and wanted to know if I could spend the next Friday night, and perhaps Saturday too, with her at Bent.

  'James has to be away, and he's heard such a lot about people breaking in that he doesn't like the idea of me being alone. Besides, he still looks upon me as an invalid after that bang on the head.'

  'I'd love to come. What time, Amy?'

  'Come to tea if you can manage it. If not, soon after. And many thanks. James will be grateful.'

  'So shall I. Have you had more than usual robberies in Bent?'

  'As a matter of fact, we have. Mrs Drew, our daily, seems to have fresh instances ever time she comes, but at the moment the poor soul is laid up with her back, so I don't get the gossip, good or bad.'