(1/20) Village School Read online

  One or two went with their parents for a trip in the boat, but they sat, I noticed, very close to the maternal skirts, and looked at the green water rushing past them with respectful eyes.

  The day passed cheerfully and without incident. Tea at Bunce's was the usual happy family affair, held in an upstairs room with magnificent views of the harbour.

  'Our Mr Edward Bunce,' as the waiter told us, was in personal attendance on our needs, an elegant figure in chalk-striped flannel and bow tie. Soft of voice and smooth of manner, he swooped around us with the teapot, the living emblem of the personal service which has made Bunce's the great tea-shop that it is.

  At five-thirty, we were back in our coaches, with seaweed, shells and two or three unhappy crabs awash in buckets in an inch or two of seawater. The vicar, quite pink with the sea-air, was holding his gold half-hunter and counting heads earnestly.

  Mr Annett and Miss Gray mounted the steps in a dazed way and resumed their seat amidst sympathetic smiles, and only one seat then remained empty.

  'Mrs Pratt, vicar,' called someone, 'Mrs Pratt and her two little'uns!'

  'I think I see one of them, coming across from the chemist's shop,' answered the vicar. A fat little girl in a pink frock stumped across to the coach, panted heavily up the steps and to her place, and sat, swinging her legs cheerfully. We continued to wait. The driver nipped back his little glass window and said:

  'That the lot?'

  'No, no,' answered Mr Partridge, rather flustered, 'one more and a little boy to come. Peggy, my dear,' he said to the elder Pratt child, 'is your mummy still in the chemist's?'

  'Yes,' said the child, smiling smugly. 'Robin's got something in his eye.' She sounded both proud and pleased.

  The vicar looked perturbed, and sought his wife's support anxiously. She rose, bustling, from her seat, leaving her gloves and bag neatly behind her.

  'I'll just run across to her,' said the good lady and trotted across to the open door of the chemist's shop.

  Dimly, in the murk of the interior, we could see figures grouped around a chair, on which, presumably, sat the patient. There were head-shakings and gesticulations, and at length Mrs Partridge came hurrying back with the news.

  'The chemist seems to think that the child should see a doctor. He suggests that we take him to the out-patients' department at the hospital. It's quite near here evidently.'

  There was what reporters call 'a sensation' at this dramatic announcement. Some were all for getting out of the coach, rushing across to fetch Robin and Mrs Pratt away from all these foreigners, and taking them straight home to their dear familiar Doctor Martin; others suggested that the chemist was a scaremonger, and that 'the bit of ol' whatever-it-is will soon slip out. You knows what eyes is—hell one minute, and all Sir Garnett the next!' But all factions were united in the greatest sympathy for the unfortunate family.

  'The child is in great pain,' went on Mrs Partridge, looking quite distracted. 'Cigarette ash evidently, and it seems to have burnt the eye. I really feel that he should go to the hospital.'

  'In that case, my dear,' said the vicar, making himself heard with difficulty above the outburst of lamentation that greeted this further disclosure, 'you and I had better stay with Mrs Pratt and see this thing through, while the rest of the party go back to Fairacre.'

  'But tomorrow is Sunday!' pointed out his wife.

  'Upon my word,' said the vicar, turning quite pink with embarrassment, 'it had slipped my mind.'

  'Shall I stop?' I volunteered. At the same time, a voice said:

  'What about little Peggy here? Had she better come with us or stay with her mum?'

  Bedlam broke out again as everyone offered advice, condolence or reminiscences of past experiences of a similar nature. The driver, who had had his head stuck through his little window, and had been following affairs with grave attention, now said heavily, 'I 'ates to 'urry you, sir, but I'm due back at nine to collect a party of folks after a dance in Caxley; and we're running it a bit fine, if you'll pardon me mentioning it.'

  The vicar said that, of course, of course, he quite understood, and then outlined his plan.

  'If you will stop with Mrs Pratt and Robin,' he said to his wife, 'I'm sure our good friend Mr Bunce will be able to find you a night's lodging—I will hurry there myself, if the driver thinks we can spare ten minutes.' He looked inquiringly at the driver and received a reassuring nod. He produced his wallet, and there was a flutter of notes between him and Mrs Partridge, 'And then hire a taxi, my dear, to bring you all back tomorrow.' He looked suddenly stricken. 'I shall have to remember to set the alarm clock for early service, of course. I must tie a knot in my handkerchief to remind me.'

  This masterly arrangement was applauded by all and we were sitting back congratulating ourselves on our vicar's acumen when a little voice said, 'And what about me?' We all turned to look at Peggy who sat, wide-eyed and rather cross, waiting to hear her fate. There was an awkward pause.

  'There's no one at home,' said Mrs Pringle, 'that I do know. Mr Pratt's off doing his annual training with the Terriers.'

  'Would you sleep in my house?' I asked her, 'I've got a nice teddy-bear in the spare room.'

  This inducement seemed to be successful, for she agreed at once. Mrs Partridge hurried back to tell Mrs Pratt what had been planned, while the vicar sped at an amazing pace back to Bunce's tea-shop, to see if he knew where beds might be engaged for the night.

  The coach buzzed with conversation as we waited for the vicar's return.

  'Real wonderful, the vicar's been, I reckons.'

  'Got a good headpiece on him … and kind with it, proper good-hearted!'

  'I feels sorry for that little Robin. Must be painful, that. Poor little toad!'

  Peggy elected to sit by me and Miss Clare obligingly took herself and her parcel containing the new winter cardigan to Peggy's vacated seat. In a few minutes a sad little group emerged from the chemist's shop. Robin had a large pad of cottonwool over one eye, securely clamped down with an eye-shade. Mrs Pratt was drying her tears as bravely as she could, while Mrs Partridge held Robin by one hand, and Mrs Pratt's shopping bag in the other. They approached the coach and made their farewells.

  'You be a good girl now, Peg,' adjured her tearful mother, 'and do as Miss Read tells you. And if you'd be so kind as to keep a night-light burning, Miss, I'd be real grateful—she gets a bit fussed-up like if she wakes up in the dark. High strung, you know.'

  I assured her that Peggy should have all she wanted, and amid sympathetic cries and encouragement the three made their farewells and departed in the direction of Bunce's.

  In record time, the vicar reappeared. Mr Bunce's own sister had obliged with most suitable accommodation and had offered to accompany the Fairacre party to the hospital, in the kindest manner, said the vicar.

  The driver set off at once and the great coach made short work of the miles between Barrisford and Fairacre.

  Nine o'clock was striking from St Patrick's church as we clambered out and within half an hour, Peggy Pratt was sitting up in the spare bed, drinking hot milk and crunching ginger-nuts. A candle was alight on the chest of drawers, its flame shrinking and stretching in the draught from the open door.

  'I likes this nightie,' said the child, looking admiringly at a silk vest of mine that was doing duty as nightgown for my small guest. There had been no tears and no pining for the distant mother and little brother left behind at Barrisford. I hoped that she would fall asleep quickly before she had time to feel homesick.

  'I shall leave the door open,' I told her, tucking in the moth-eaten teddy beside her, 'in case you want me. And in the morning we'll have some boiled eggs for breakfast that Miss Clare's chickens laid yesterday.' I took her mug and plate and went to the door.

  She wriggled down among the pillows, smiled enchantingly, sighed, and closed her eyes. She was asleep, I think, before I had reached the foot of the stairs.

  23. Sports Day

  'MALLETS,' shouted Mr Wille
t, above the wind, looking with marked disfavour at the one in his hand, 'ain't what they used to be!'

  He was standing on a school chair in Mr Roberts' field, driving chestnut stakes into the ground, so that we could rope off the track for the school sports which were to be held the next afternoon. His scanty hair was blown up into a fine cockscomb, and the rooks in the elms nearby were hurling themselves into the arms of the wind from the tossing branches.

  A little knot of children, ostensibly helpers, watched his efforts. Eric had managed to get the rope into a tangle of gargantuan proportions, and the hope of ever finding an end among the intricacies on the grass at his feet, was fast waning.

  'You ain't half slummered it up,' said Ernest admiringly, stirring the mess with his foot.

  A despairing shout went up from John Burton who was counting sacks lent by Mr Roberts for the sack race. A malicious gust of wind had caught up half a dozen sacks and was whirling them towards the road. There was a stampede of squealing, breathless children after them.

  The Vicar's tent was being erected, slowly and hazardously in the shelter of the hawthorn hedge. Here lemonade and biscuits were to be sold. John Burton had executed a bold notice saying:

  LIGHT REFRESHMENTS

  (IN AID OF SCHOOL FUNDS)

  and this was to be pinned on the tent just before the parents and friends arrived.

  Samson, the house cow, had been moved to the next field, but showed a keen interest in the evening's proceedings, with her head protruding over the hedge and her eyes rolling. There were far more helpers offering her quite unnecessary meals than those who deigned to assist Mr Willet and me in our preparations.

  Mr Willet drove in the last stake and looked at his watch. He held it at arm's length about a yard away from his stomach, and scrutinized it from under his lashes, frowning hard as he did so. His second chin settled on the stud which hung in the neck-band of his collarless shirt.

  'Nearly seven,' he grunted. 'Better get a move on, miss. It's choir practice tonight and I reckons Mr Annett will be along pretty soon.'

  He pocketed the watch and looked about him.

  'Pity them moles saw fit to make their hills just where you're running tomorrow.' He turned to Eric and Ernest who were sitting on the pile of rope playing with plantains, one trying to knock the head off the other's, with much ferocity and inaccuracy.

  'Here!' he bellowed, against the wind. They looked up like startled fawns.

  'You go and git spades and hit them molehills flat, else you'll be sprawling tomorrow. And let's have a hand at that 'orrible 'eap you made of that rope!'

  Miraculously he found an end and handed it to me. Grumbling and grunting, puffing out his stained and ragged moustache, he slowly backed away from me; his tough old hands working and weaving among the tangle as though they had an independent life of their own, so swiftly and surely they moved.

  I tied my end to the first stake, and though Mr Willet surveyed it with some contempt he said nothing, but worked down the line, leaning against the wind and brushing stray children out of his way without glancing at them, until the track was roped off from the rest of the field.

  The church clock struck seven and I called the children.

  'Best go and have a sluice, I suppose,' said Mr Willet, as we battled with the gate, 'I'll see you're all straight tomorrow morning, miss.' He looked up at the weathercock that shuddered in the wind above the spire.

  'If you races with this wind behind you tomorrow,' he told the children, 'you'll break some records-mark my words!'

  I switched on the electric copper ready for my bath-water, when I returned. In the dining-room stood large jugs of lemonade essence ready for the morrow, but from the sound of the roaring wind outside hot coffee would be more welcome. I sorted out coloured braids for the relay race, and a basket of potatoes for the potato race, and hoped that Mr Willet had looked out sound and hardy flower-pots for the heavy-footed boys who had clamoured to have a flower-pot race included in the programme. They had seen this at Beach Green's Sports Day and had been practising in the evenings for weeks, stumping laboriously along, placing one pot by hand before the other, with their crimson faces bent earthwards and their patched seats presented to the sky.

  The kitchen was comfortably steamy when I put the zinc bath on the floor and poured in buckets of rainwater from the pump. As I lay in the silky brown water, too idle to do more than relax and enjoy the heat, I listened to the rose tree which Dr Martin had admired last autumn when he had come to visit Miss Clare here. It beat, in a frenzy of wind, against the window-pane. To drown the noise of its scrabbling thorns, I roused myself to switch on the portable wireless set, which was within arm's reach, on the kitchen chair.

  'Strong westerly winds, reaching gale force at times, are expected in all southern areas of the British Isles,' said a brisk, cheerful voice. Snarling, I switched off, and sank back to the comforting water.

  Later, on my way to bed, I looked out of the landing window. Ragged clouds were tearing across the darkening sky, and over in Mr Roberts' field a dim, pale shape napped against the hedge. Giving up the unequal struggle, the vicar's tent had sunk hopelessly to the ground.

  Next morning, however, things looked brighter. The wind, though still strong, seemed less aggressive, and two of Mr Roberts' men erected the tent again. The sound of tent pegs being smitten reached us in school, where the children were much too excited to settle to any serious work.

  The boys, as usual, were the more anxious about the afternoon. Fear of not doing well made them quite unbearable. They boasted of their own prowess and belittled that of their neighbours, while the girls looked on philosophically at this display of male exhibitionism.

  'Look at John rubbing his legs! Thinks that'll make him run faster. Some hopes!'

  'Tones up the muscles; that's what it does. All good runners does that before racing. Pity you don't try it. You was like an ol' snail last night down the rec.'

  'Only 'cos I was a bit winded. Been overdoing the training, see!'

  'You see ol' Eric, Saturday? Thought he was jumping high when he cleared that titchy little hedge down Bember's Corner. Coo, I've jumped twice that!'

  'Me too. Easy, that hedge is. You should see me get over that electric wire Mr Roberts has put up in the heifers' field! Up I goes … and whoo … I bet it was over four foot I done!'

  And so on. It seemed best to let them have their heads for a little while, but in the latter part of the morning they settled down to a history test, although I noticed a certain amount of secret muscle-flexing and leg-massage as the athletes prepared themselves for outstanding displays before the admiring gaze of parents and friends in the afternoon.

  When Mrs Crossley arrived with the dinner van, the children were washing their hands at the stone sink. I heard them cross-questioning her thoroughly.

  'And what vegetables, Mrs Crossley?'

  'Carrots and peas.'

  'They blows you out too much. I shan't have they.'

  'What for pudding, Mrs Crossley?'

  'Some very nice currant pudding, with custard. You'll like that.'

  ''Twould have been best to have something lighter like. Fruit and that, wouldn't it, Eric?'

  'I dunno. I'm hungry. Reckons I shall have some pudden, races or no races.'

  'You hear him? Him what was so sharp on us last night eating sweets? Said us was in training? Pudden, he's going to eat! Fat chance we'll have in the relay!'

  'We best eat summat,' said John Burton's placid voice, 'or we won't have no strength at all.'

  'Well,' said Ernest grudgingly, 'it don't sound the sort of dinner that real runners would have, to me, but I s' pose us'll just have to stoke up best we can.'

  They reentered the schoolroom and settled themselves for grace. As far as I could see our athletes forgot their Spartan principles as soon as the food was put before them, and second, and even third, helpings of currant pudding were despatched with the usual Fairacre appetite.

  There were plenty
of people to watch the sports and patronize the refreshment tent. Miss Clare was in charge of the jugs of lemonade and the six biscuit tins and Mrs Finch-Edwards, looking very handsome in a classic maternity smock of polka-dot navy blue silk, with its inevitable white collar, sat beside her with an Oxo tin full of change.

  'Yes, I'm keeping very well,' she responded to my inquiries, 'and I think hubby and I have got absolutely everything now. Even the pram's on order!'

  There was a grunt from Mrs Pringle who had just brought in a tray full of glasses.

  'Defying Providence!' she boomed. 'Never does to order the pram or cot till the little stranger's in the house. Times without number I've seen things go awry within the last three months. Seems to be the most dangerous time-particularly with the first. Why, there was a young girl over Springbourne Common——'

  I broke in before Mrs Pringle could chill our blood further. Mrs Finch-Edwards' normally florid cheeks had blanched.

  'That'll do, Mrs Pringle; and we shall need at least four tea-towels.'

  'And lucky you'll be to get those, I may say,' said Mrs Pringle viciously, thwarted in the telling of her old-wives' tale. But she departed, nevertheless, and went back across the field to the school, limping ostentatiously to prove what a wronged woman she was.

  Miss Gray was trying to keep the mob of children in order near the starting line which, being hand-painted by Ernest in yesterday's strong wind, wavered erratically across the width of the track.

  A blackboard had been erected here showing the order of races, but so strong was the wind that, after it had capsized twice, nearly decapitating Eileen Burton on the second occasion, Mr Willet had lashed it to the easel. He looked very spruce this afternoon, in his best blue-serge suit as he stood with the vicar and Mr Roberts.

  I had decided to be starter, and Miss Gray had the unenviable job of being judge at the other end. Mrs Roberts offered to help her and the two stood, with their hair blown over their eyes, waiting for the first race to start. It was 'Boys under 8: 50 yards.'