(18/20) Changes at Fairacre Page 2

  Dolly Clare was sitting by a bright fire when I arrived, but rose with remarkable agility for such an old lady.

  'I've been counting the minutes,' she told me. 'It's so sweet of you to give up your half-term. Company means a lot when you can't get out.'

  I looked about the snug sitting-room. As always, it was cheerful with shining furniture and even a few early polyanthus flowers in a glass vase.

  'Emily and I planted them years ago,' she said as I admired them. 'These are the progeny. They do well here, and so do cowslips. I suppose because they are derived from downland flowers. Emily and I picked so many primroses when we were children here at Beech Green, but there aren't as many now as there were in the coppices.'

  She followed me into the kitchen where I set out my culinary arrangements, and handed over Bob Willet's present.

  'The dear thing!' she exclaimed. 'And all so useful. And homegrown too. I shall write him a note without delay.

  Back in the sitting-room I inquired after her health.

  'Nothing wrong with me but old age. I have lots of friends who pop in, and Mrs John is vigilant. I only hope I slip away one night like Emily, and don't cause a lot of bother with a long illness.'

  It seemed to me that she was even smaller and more frail than when I had last visited her, but she seemed content and happy to talk about times past, and particularly her memories of her friend Emily.

  'It's strange, but I think of her more than anyone else. Even my dear Arnold, who would have been a very old man by now, is not as clear in my memory as Emily. I suppose it is because I met her when we were children and one's impressions are so fresh. I have the queerest feeling sometimes that she is actually in the house with me.'

  I made a sound of protest. Was she getting fanciful, I thought, getting hallucinations, becoming fearful?

  As if she read my mind, she began to laugh.

  'It's nothing frightening, I assure you. In fact, just the opposite. I feel Emily's warmth and sympathy, and find it wonderfully comforting. With Arnold, alas, I seem to have lost contact. I remember how dearly we loved each other, but I can't recall his face. For that I have to look here.'

  She withdrew the gold oval locket on a long chain and opened it. I knew the portrait well, but studied it afresh before she returned it to be hidden under her blouse.

  'And yet, you see, Emily's face is clear as ever to me. What odd tricks the mind plays! I can remember how this cottage looked when I first saw it at the age of six, far more clearly than I can recall places which I've known in the last ten years or so.'

  'The brain gets cluttered up,' I said, 'as the years go by. The early impressions are bound to be the sharpest.'

  'One of the joys of living in this house for most of my life,' went on Dolly, 'are the pictures I remember of my parents' life here. Times were hard. In those days if you didn't work you didn't eat. It was as simple as that. No cushioning by the state against hardship, and we had a very thin time of it if work was short.'

  'How did you manage?'

  'We always kept a few chickens, and a pig, of course, as most cottagers did in those days. My mother was a wonderful manager, and could make a shilling go as far as three. We went gleaning too after the harvest, and always had a sack of flour. And neighbours always helped each other in time of sickness and accident.'

  'What about parish relief? Wasn't there something called that?'

  'Oh, one dreaded "going on the parish"! Mind you, the people in the big houses were usually very generous and sent soup or puddings and such like to needy folk. Somehow we made do until more work came along. In a way, my father was lucky. He was known as a first-class thatcher, and he was in work most of the time. But I can still see my poor mother standing at the kitchen table with a morsel of cold rabbit and onion from the garden wondering whether to make a pie, with far more crust than filling, or to chop it up with hard boiled-eggs and some home-grown lettuce. I think I was about eight at the time, and I remember I persuaded her to make the pie! I didn't like lettuce.'

  'She sounds a wonderful woman.'

  'We all had to be, and it stood us in good stead in wartime and throughout our lives.'

  She began to laugh. 'All this talk of rabbit pie has made me quite hungry. What about us going into the kitchen to see about that delicious omelette?'

  So we went.

  2 Falling Numbers

  DURING half-term I enjoyed the company of another old friend. Amy and I had met at college, taught at neighbouring schools for a while, and kept in touch after her marriage. She lived in a village a few miles south of Caxley, our local market town. She was all that I was not — well-dressed, sociable, much-travelled, lively-minded and, of course, married.

  Her husband, James, was a high-powered business man who had an office in the city, and had to spend a good deal of his time visiting European centres of finance, and some in America and Japan. He was energetic, good-tempered and, even in middle-age, devastatingly good-looking. It was not surprising that women were attracted to him and, although he and Amy made a devoted couple, one could not quite accept that all his trips were business ones, whatever he said.

  I saw Amy frequently, partly because she was alone very often, and also, I flattered myself, because our friendship meant more as the years passed.

  She was sitting in her car when I returned from our village shop with some groceries, an unwieldy French loaf swathed in tissue paper and a packet of soap powder which reminded me of Joseph Coggs's errand.

  As always, she was elegantly clad. Her tweed suit was of misty blue, and the cloth had been woven in Otterburn, I knew. The matching jumper was of cashmere, and James's sapphire engagement ring added the final touch to Amy's ensemble.

  'You should have rung,' I said, opening the door, 'and then I would have changed from this rough old skirt.'

  'I don't mind your rough old skirt,' said Amy kindly. 'It's an old friend by now. Incidentally, how long have you had it?'

  I stood in the middle of the kitchen and pondered.

  Amy removed the loaf, took off the paper and put the bread in the bin.

  'Must be getting on for eight years,' I said at last. 'I bought the stuff at Filkins when we toured the Cotswolds one Easter. Remember?'

  'Well, it wears very well,' replied Amy. I began to feel pleased. Amy is rather censorious about my appearance.

  'It needs cleaning, of course,' she added. 'And hems are up this season.'

  'I'll ask Alice Willet to shorten it,' I said meekly, and put the kettle on.

  'Well, what news?' I asked over the tea cups.

  'Not much. James is as busy as ever, and is doing a Good Deed.'

  'Well done James!'

  'I hope so, but I can see it is all going to be rather fraught. He came across an old school friend who is down on his luck. Been made redundant, and James is searching for a job in one of his companies that would suit the fellow. But the thing is he's rather a problem.'

  'How? Just out of prison? Suffering from something?'

  'Not exactly.'

  Amy blew a perfect smoke ring, an accomplishment of hers which she knows impresses me inordinately, although I deplore the habit of smoking, as she is well aware.

  'He's been terribly depressed because of losing his job, and his wife has left him. Luckily the children are off their hands, but he's one of those chaps who can't do a hand's turn in the house, so he's half-starved and lonely with it.'

  I gave an involuntary snort.

  'Oh, I know you aren't sympathetic, but not everyone can cope as you do. Even though it is a muddle,' she added unnecessarily, eyeing an untidy pile of washing awaiting the attention of the iron. 'James has invited him to stay for a few days, and I wondered if you would come to dinner next weekend, and cheer him up.'

  'Of course I will. You know I always enjoy your meals.'

  'It's not just my meal I'm inviting you to,' said Amy. 'It's your support I need on this particular occasion.'

  I promised to do my duty; Amy relax
ed, and I did too.

  One good thing, this unhappy man was married. He might not be a contented husband at the moment, but at least Amy would not have designs on him as a future husband for me.

  Over the years I have been the victim of Amy's machinations. In vain I tell her that I like being single. She refuses to believe it, and a procession of males, whom Amy considers suitable partners for an ageing spinster, have been introduced to me. Some I have liked and have remained friends with, some have been harmless and quickly forgotten, and some have been frankly appalling, but I don't hold it against dear old Amy. She was born a match-maker, and will continue her endeavours until death claims her, and I have had ample experience now in evading the state of matrimony. We both play the game like old hands, but I must confess that I find it rather trying at times. This new acquaintance should not give me any trouble.

  'What's his name?' I asked.

  'James calls him "Basher".'

  'Well,' I expostulated, 'I can't call him that!'

  'I suppose not. It may be Michael or Malcolm. Something beginning with 'M'. I'll find out before you come.'

  (As it happened, he turned out to be 'Brian'.)

  'By the way,' said Amy, 'I came across Lucy Colgate the other day.'

  Lucy had been at college with us, and I had always detested her. Amy was more tolerant.

  'I thought she had married,' I said.

  'She has, but I can never remember her married name. She was buying fish in Sevenoaks.'

  'And what were you doing in Sevenoaks?'

  'James had a board meeting, and I went along for the ride. I was doing some shopping when I bumped into Lucy. We had coffee together.'

  'And how was she?'

  'As tiresome as ever. Intent on impressing one with her worldliness and high spirits.'

  'Well, that sounds like Lucy! Do you remember how she used to boast about climbing over the cycle sheds to get in after hours at college? She always wanted to be the Madcap of the Fourth. What is it these days?'

  'Oh, sex changes and abortions and various diseases which used to be happily unmentionable, but now people like Lucy feel obliged to parade even when having morning coffee. I think she imagines that she is shocking people like us. "Opening Our Eyes to Life As It Is," you know.'

  'It's time she grew up,' I agreed, 'but she never will. Poor old Lucy! I suppose she still feels a dare-devil under all those wrinkles.'

  'No need to be catty. It doesn't suit you,' said Amy primly. She put down her cigarette and then surveyed me closely. 'Nevertheless, we have certainly weathered the years better than Lucy Colgate,' she announced with great satisfaction.

  And we both dissolved into laughter.

  ***

  Half-term ended with a night of heavy rain. It drummed on the school house roof, and splashed and gurgled into the two rainwater butts.

  I sloshed through puddles in the playground and met Mrs Pringle in the lobby. As usual she was taking the wet weather as a personal affront.

  'Love's labour lost trying to keep these floors clean in this weather,' she grumbled. 'There's a puddle the size of a football pitch outside the Post Office, and half our lot are playing "Splashem" in it.'

  'Splashem' is a simple Fairacre game which involves waiting by a sizeable puddle until some innocent victim appears. The far-from-innocent instigators of the game then jump heavily into the water sending up a shower which drenches their victim. At the same time, the triumphant shout of 'Splashem' is raised. Everyone involved gets wet feet and the unlucky innocent gets soaking clothing as well. It is a game which only a few enjoy, and I have been as ferocious as the outraged parents in trying to stop it. On the whole, the playground is free from it, but on the journey to and from school the malefactors still indulge.

  'I'll give them all a wigging,' I promised Mrs Pringle.

  'What they wants,' said she, 'is a good hiding. It's a great pity you teachers have got so soft with 'em all. As bad as the Caxley magistrates. I see as Arthur Coggs got something called a conditional discharge for fighting in the market place. Nothing but a let off, when he deserved a flogging.'

  'Well, we can't go back to flogging and the stocks and hanging,' I said. 'We've got to put up with justice as it is.'

  'More's the pity,' replied Mrs Pringle, bending down to pick a leaf from the floor. She was puce in the face when she straightened up, and her corsets creaked under the strain.

  'I'm not the woman I was,' she said with some satisfaction. She must have noticed my expression of alarm. 'First thing in the morning my bronchials are a torment. Nearly coughs my heart up, I does. Fred says I should give up this job, and I reckon he's right.'

  I have heard this tale so often from Mrs Pringle's lips, as well as second-hand comments from Fred, her husband, that I have grown quite callous.

  'No one,' I told her, 'wants you to work when you aren't fit. If you really find the job too much then you must give in your notice.'

  'And leave my stoves to be polished - or half polished more like - by some other woman as don't know blacklead from furniture polish? No! I'll struggle on as best I can, till I drop.'

  At that, she preceded me into the classroom for a final flick round with the duster.

  As I expected, she was limping heavily. Mrs Pringle's bad leg, which 'flares up' regularly, is a good indicator of that lady's disposition.

  Today, after my trenchant comments, the leg was even more combustible than usual.

  Ernest rushed into the lobby, leaving wet footprints, but luckily Mrs Pringle was busy taking umbrage out of sight.

  'Can I ring the bell, miss?'

  'Carry on, Ernest,' I said.

  School had started again.

  At mid-morning a neighbour of Bob Willet's appeared, bringing bad news.

  She was the mother of three of my pupils as well as an older child at Beech Green school. The family, the Thompsons, were comparative newcomers to the village, and generally approved.

  The father was employed by the local electricity board and went daily to Caxley. Mrs Thompson helped in the village shop in the mornings while the children were at school, but she gave this up during the school holidays.

  'She's a good little mother,' Alice Willet had told me, and this was high praise indeed.

  The children were well cared for, not overbright, but well-mannered and happy. I was very fond of them and they had settled cheerfully among the others.

  I had heard rumours and, as I had feared, Mrs Thompson had come to tell me that her husband had been posted elsewhere, and that they were obliged to leave Fairacre.

  'And we don't want to go. Not one of us,' she asserted, 'but it means more money, and if he turns this down he might not get another chance in the future. I'm real sorry about it, Miss Read, and the children don't want to leave any more than we do.'

  'Have you got to find a house?' I asked, secretly hoping that this would mean keeping my pupils a little longer.

  'No. There's a house with the job, so we can go in at Easter. It all looks fine on paper, but that doesn't change our feelings.' 'Well, at least I shall have them for the rest of the term,' I said. 'But we shall all miss them. They've been model pupils.'

  I accompanied her to the outer door. The rain was pelting down again, but a large umbrella stood in the corner of the lobby and Mrs Thompson assured me she would be adequately sheltered on her return to her duties at the shop. I thanked her for letting me know about her plans, and watched her departure across the playground.

  I returned to the classroom with a heavy heart.

  At playtime, after the dire threats about 'Splashem' to my flock, I broke the sad news to my assistant Mrs Richards, formerly Miss Briggs. She was as upset as I was.

  'But this will bring our numbers down to well under thirty,' she cried.

  'Nearer twenty,' I told her. 'Mind you, we've been almost as low before, and always managed to evade closure.'

  It is one of the shadows which hangs over many villages these days: none wants to lose its
village school, and local newspapers, the length and breadth of the country, carry sad stories of battles to keep village schools thriving.

  I thought of my recent conversation with Miss Clare, and the large numbers which once thronged Fairacre School. So much had changed over a life time. At eleven years of age, my pupils moved on, instead of staying until fourteen as in Dolly Clare's day. Families were much smaller. With the advent of the car, parents could deliver their children farther afield to a school of their choice. Salaries had increased, and many parents could now afford the fees at local private schools which, for one reason or another, they preferred for their children.

  I had faced this problem of dwindling numbers throughout my years at Fairacre. So far we had been spared, but for how long? Many small schools had managed to combine with others for activities such as games, or had shared facilities for common ventures such as film shows, peripatetic lecturers, demonstrators and so forth. This was fine when the schools were fairly close.

  Fairacre unfortunately was isolated, except for the neighbouring school at Beech Green. If we had to close, it was most likely that the Fairacre children would be taken by bus the two or three miles to the larger school, where George Annett was head teacher and had an excellent staff. I had no doubt that my little flock would settle there happily, in more modern surroundings and with the added attraction and stimulation of larger numbers which would allow team games such as cricket and football which my youngsters sorely missed.

  But what would happen to this venerable old building with its leaky skylight and lobby walls flaking paint everywhere? And what about my beloved school house across the playground, where I lived so contentedly?

  Even more alarming, what would happen to me?

  All conjectures about the future were brought to a sudden return to the present, by the appearance of a tearful infant dripping water everywhere, who had become the latest victim of 'Splashem'.

  I strode out of the classroom into action.

  Mr Willet, of course, had heard the news of the Thompsons' departure long before I had, and he seemed to find great satisfaction in telling me so.