(5/20)Over the Gate Page 2

  'A pack of lies,' announced Mrs Pringle forthrightly when I mentioned Mr Hurst's portrait. 'That's no more his great-great-grandad than the Duke of Wellington!'

  'Fred Hurst should know!' I pointed out mildly. I knew that this was the best way of provoking Mrs Pringle to further tirades and waited for the explosion.

  'And so he does!' boomed Mrs Pringle, her three chins wobbling self-righteously. 'He knows quite well it's a pack of lies he's telling—that's when he stops to consider, which he don't. That poor wife of his,' went on the lady, raising hands and eyes heavenward, 'what she has to put up with nobody knows! Such a god-fearing pillar of truth as she is too! Them as really knows 'em, Miss Read, will tell you what that poor soul suffers with his everlasting taradiddles.'

  'Perhaps he embroiders things to annoy her,' I suggested. 'Six of one and half-dozen of the other, so to speak.'

  'Top and bottom of it is that he don't fairly know truth from lies,' asserted Mrs Pringle, brows beetling. 'This picture, for instance, everyone knows was bought at Ted Purdy's sale three years back. It's all of a piece with Fred Hurst's goings-on to say it's a relation. He starts in fun, maybe, but after a time or two he gets to believe it.'

  'If people know that, then there's not much harm done,' I replied.

  Mrs Pringle drew an outraged breath, so deeply and with such volume, that her stout corsets creaked with the strain.

  'Not much harm done?' she echoed. 'There's such a thing as mortal sin, which is what plain lying is, and his poor wife knows it. My brother-in-law worked at Sir Edmund's when the Hursts was there and you should hear what went on between the two. Had a breakdown that poor soul did once, all on account of Fred Hurst's lies. "What'll become of you when you stand before your Maker, Fred Hurst?" she cried at him in the middle of a rabbit pie! My brother-in-law saw what harm lying does all right. And to the innocent, what's more! To the innocent!'

  Mrs Pringle thrust her belligerent countenance close to mine and I was obliged to retreat.

  'Yes, of course,' I agreed hastily. 'You are quite right, Mrs Pringle.'

  Mrs Pringle sailed triumphantly towards the school kitchen with no trace of a limp. Victory always works wonders with Mrs Pringles bad leg.

  In the weeks that followed I heard other people's accounts of the tension which existed between volatile Fred Hurst and his strictly truthful wife. It was only this one regrettable trait evidently in the man's character which caused unhappiness to Mrs Hurst. In all other ways they were a devoted couple.

  'I reckons they're both to be pitied,' said Mr Willet, our school caretaker one afternoon. He was busy at the never-ending job of sweeping the coke into its proper pile at one end of the playground. Thirty children can spread a ton of coke over an incredibly large area simply by running up and down it. Mr Willet and I do what we can by exhortation, threats, and occasional cuffs, but it does not seem to lessen his time wielding a stout broom. Now he rested upon it, blowing out his ragged grey moustache as he contemplated the idiosyncrasies of his neighbours.

  'They've both got a fault, see?' he went on. 'He tells fibs. She's too strict about it. But she ain't so much to blame really when you know how she was brought up. Her ol' dad was a Tartar. Speak-when-you're-spoken-to, Dad's-always-right sort of chap. Used to beat the livin' daylights out o' them kids of his. She's still afeared that Fred'll burn in hell-fire because of his whoppers. I calls it a tragedy, when you come to think of it.'

  He returned to his sweeping, and I to my classroom. I was to remember his words later.

  Time passed and the autumn term was more than half gone. The weather had been rough and wet, and the village badly smitten with influenza. Our classes were small and there were very few families which had escaped the plague. Fred Hurst was one of the worst hit, Mrs Pringle told me.

  It was some months since the incident of the trivet and I had forgotten the Hursts in the press of daily affairs. Suddenly I remembered that lovely room, the portrait, and the passions it aroused.

  'Very poorly indeed,' announced Mrs Pringle, with lugubrious satisfaction. 'Doctor's been twice this week and Ted Prince says Fred's fallen away to a thread of what he was.'

  'Let's hope he'll soon get over it,' I answered briskly, making light of Mrs Pringle's dark news. One gets used to believing a tenth of all that one hears in a village. To believe everything would be to sink beneath the sheer weight of all that is thrust upon one. Seeing my mood Mrs Pringle swept out, her leg dragging slightly.

  At the end of that week I set off for Caxley. It was a grey day, with the downs covered in thick mist. The trees dripped sadly along the road to the market town, and the wet pavements were even more depressing. My business done, I was about to drive home again when I saw Mrs Hurst waiting at the bus stop. She was clutching a medicine bottle, and her face was drawn and white.

  She climbed in gratefully, and I asked after her husband. She answered in a voice choked with suppressed tears.

  'He's so bad, miss, I don't think he'll see the month out. Doctor don't say much, but I know he thinks the same.'

  I tried to express my shock and sympathy. So Mrs Pringle had been right, I thought, with secret remorse.

  'There seems no help anywhere,' went on the poor woman. She seemed glad to talk to someone and I drove slowly to give her time. 'I pray, of course,' she said, almost perfunctorily. 'We was all brought up very strict that way by my father. He was a lay preacher, and a great one for us speaking the truth. Not above using the strap on us children, girls as well as boys, and once, I remember, he made me wash my mouth out with carbolic soap because he said I hadn't told the truth. He was wrong that time, but it didn't make no difference to dad. He was a man that always knew best.'

  She sighed very sadly and the bottle trembled in her fingers.

  'He never took to Fred, nor Fred to him; but there's no doubt my dad was right. There's laws laid down to be kept and them that sin against them must answer for it. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," it says in the Bible, and no one can get over that one.'

  She seemed to be talking to herself and I could do nothing but make comforting noises.

  'Fred's the best husband in the world,' she continued, staring through the ram spattered windscreen with unseeing eyes, 'but he's got his failings, like the rest of us. He don't seem to know fact from fancy, and sometimes I tremble to think what he's storing up for himself. I've reasoned with him—I've told him straight—I've always tried to set him an example—.'

  Her voice quivered and she fell silent. We drove down the village street between the shining puddles and turned into the lane leading to the misty downs. I stopped the car outside Laburnum Villas. It was suddenly very quiet. Somewhere nearby a rivulet of rainwater trickled along unseen, hidden by the dead autumn grasses.

  'You see,' said Mrs Hurst, 'I've never told a lie in my life. I can't do it—not brought up as I was. It's made a lot of trouble between Fred and me, but it's the way I am. You can't change a thing like that.'

  She scrubbed at her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand, then opened the door.

  'Can I come and see him?' I asked impulsively. She nodded, her face expressionless.

  I followed her up the steep wet path to the forlorn house. Its ugly exterior, blotched with damp, was more hideous than ever. Inside, in the lovely room, Fred Hurst lay asleep on a bed which had been brought from upstairs. He faced the portrait above the mantelpiece.

  The sleeping man woke as we entered and tried to struggle up, but weakness prevented him. I was aghast at the change in him. It was apparent that he had very little time to live. His eyes wandered vaguely about the room, and his breathing was painful to hear. His wife crossed quickly to his side and took his hand. Her face softened as she gazed on him.

  'Fred dear, it's me. And I've brought Miss Read to see you,' she said gently.

  A flicker passed across his face and the dull eyes roiled in my direction.

  'Come to see me?' he asked slowly. 'Me, or my great—' he took a shuddering breath, 'or my gr
eat-great-grandad? He is my kin, ain't he, my love?'

  There was a terrible urgency in the hoarse voice as he turned to his wife. Across his wasted body her eyes met mine. They had become dark and dilated as though they looked upon hell itself, but her voice rang out defiantly.

  'Of course he's your kin,' she cried, tightening her grip on his hand. 'Miss Read can see the likeness, can't you?'

  I responded to the challenge.

  'A strong family likeness,' I lied unfalteringly, and felt no regret.

  2. Strange, But True?

  POOR Fred Hurst died a fortnight before Christmas, and Mr Willet, who is sexton of St Patrick's as well as caretaker of Fairacre school, had the melancholy task of digging his grave.

  We could hear the ring of his spade as it met sundry flints embedded in the chalk only a foot or so below the surface of the soil.

  It was a dark grey December afternoon outside, but within the classroom was warmth, colour and a cheerful hum as the children made Christmas cards. Above their bent heads swung the paper chains they had made. Here and there a pendent star circled slowly in the keen cross draughts which play constantly between the Gothic windows at each end of the school building. A fir branch, cut from the Vicarage garden, leant in a corner giving out its sweet resinous breath as it awaited its metamorphosis into a glittering Christmas tree.

  Crayons stuttered like machine guns as snow scenes were created. Reindeer, with colossal antlers which took up far too much room, tottered on legs—inevitably short-across the paper. Robins, fat as footballs, stood on tiptoe; Father Christmas, all boots and whiskers, appeared on every side at once; holly, Christmas puddings, bells and stars flowed from busy fingers throughout the afternoon. And every now and then, during the rare quiet pauses in their activity, we could hear the distant sound of Mr Willet at work, in the desolate solitude of an empty grave.

  The winter afternoon was merging into twilight when the children shouted and skipped their way homeward from Fairacre village school. Mr. Willet, coming from the churchyard next door, propped his spade against the lych gate and paused to light his pipe. In the murk, his wrinkled countenance was mummed, standing out against the dark background like a Rembrandt portrait. Hands cupped over the bowl of his pipe, he squinted sideways at me.

  'Finished your day, I s'pose,' he commented. 'Nice work being a school teacher,' he added mischievously.

  'What about you?' I retorted. Mr Willet flung back his head and blew a fragrant blue cloud into the mist around him.

  'Got your plaguey coke to sweep up now I've dug poor old Fred's last bed,' he answered equably. He reached for the spade with a massive muddy hand.

  'My kettle's on,' I said. 'Come and have a cup of tea before you start again.'

  'Well now,' said my caretaker, eyes brightening, 'I don't mind if I do, Miss Read. I'm fair shrammed. Grave-digging be mortal clammy work this weather.'

  We strolled back together, across the empty playground, to the school house.

  'Here, I can't come in like this!' protested Mr Willet at the kitchen door. 'All cagged up with mud! What'll old Mrs Pringle say when she comes to wash your floor?'

  'No more than she says every week. This house is the dirtiest in the village, so she tells me.'

  'Miserable ol' faggot!' Mr Willet smiled indulgently. 'How she do love a good moan! Still, this mud's a bit much, I will say. Give us a bit of newspaper and I'll 'ave it under me boots.'

  We settled in the warm kitchen, the tea tray between us on the table. We were both tired and cold and sipped the tea gratefully. It was good to have company and Mr Willet always has something new to impart. He did not fail me on this occasion.

  'Poor old Fred Hurst,' he mused, stirring his cup thoughtfully. 'I've got him right at the end of a row next to the old bit of the churchyard. Funny thing, he's lying aside Sally Gray. Two fanciful ones together there, I reckons.'

  'Sally Gray?'

  At the querying tone of my voice the spoon's rotation stopped suddenly. Mr Willet looked at me in astonishment.

  'You don't tell me you ain't heard of Sally Gray! Been here all this time and missed Sally?'

  I nodded apologetically, and pushed the fruit cake across to him to atone for my short-comings. Mr Willet waved it aside, his eyes wide with amazement.

  'Can't hardly credit it. She's about the most famous person in Fairacre. Why, come to think of it, we had a young chap down from some magazine or other writing a bit about her. Before your time, no doubt. Nice enough chap he seemed, although he had a beard.'

  Mr Willet checked himself, blew out his own thick walrus moustache, and resumed his tale.

  'Well, beard, I calls it. 'Twasn't hardly that. More like one of those pan cleaners, the bristly ones, and much the same colour. For two pins I'd have advised him to have it off, but you knows how touchy young fellers get about their bits of whisker, and I was allus one for peace. "Civility costs nothing", my old ma used to say. She were full of useful sayings.'

  I began to see where Mr Willet got his own fund of maxims. No matter what the occasion, tragic or farcical, our caretaker-cum-sexton at Fairacre always has some snippet of homely wisdom to fit the case.

  'And what did he write?' I prompted, edging him back towards the subject.

  'Next to nothin', when it come to it!' Mr Willet was disgusted. 'I thought at the time, watching him put down these 'ere twiddles and dots and dashes and that—'

  'Shorthand,'I interpolated.

  'Maybe,' said Mr Willet dismissively, 'but I thought at the time, as I were saying, that he'd never make head nor tail of that rigmarole, and I bet you a quid that's just what happened. You know why?'

  Mr Willet raised his teaspoon threateningly.

  'After us talking to 'im best part of a January afternoon, up the churchyard there, with an east wind fit to cut the liver and lights out of you, all e 'ad to show for it was a measly little bit in the corner of a page. And most of that was a picture of the grave-stone, what you could make out through the fog, that is. Proper disappointing it was.'

  'Which paper?'I asked.

  'Some fiddle-faddling thing they brings out the other side of the county. Not worth looking at. All about flowers, and old ruins and history and that. Waste of time really, and not a patch on The Caxley Chronicle:

  Mr Willet drained his cup and set it carefully down on the saucer.

  'Well, must be off to me coke-sweeping, I 's'pose.' He began to push back his chair.

  'Not yet,' I begged. 'You haven't told me a word about Sally Gray.'

  'Well, now—' began Mr Willet, weakening. 'I daresay the coke'd keep till morning, and it don't seem hardly right that you don't know nothing about our Sally.'

  He watched me refill his cup without demur, rearranged his muddy boots on the newspaper and settled, with evident relish, to his task of enlightenment.

  Sally Gray, Mr Willet told me, died a good ten years or more before he was born, in 1890 to be exact, and as her grave-stone bore testimony, 'in her 63rd year'. Consequently, as he pointed out, he was not speaking at first hand, although he could vouch for this strange story, for his mother and grandmother had both heard it from Sally's own lips during her last illness.

  Evidently she had always been 'a funny little party', to quote Mr Willet. She was the only child of elderly parents and was brought up in the end cottage of Tyler's Row. Her father was a carter, her mother took in washing, and the child grew up used to hard work and little reward for great labour. Nevertheless, she was happy enough, although the other children in the village found her prim and shy and tended to tease her. She was small of stature, so that she was called 'Mouse' by the boys, and dressed in cut-me-downs of her mother's which gave her a ludicrous dowdiness which invited the ridicule of the girls. No doubt her primness and shyness were the outcome of this treatment.

  Her greatest joy was in reading, which she mastered at an early age. Books were scarce, but tattered volumes cast out from the vicarage nursery came her way and gave her endless pleasure. Sometimes
a newspaper became available and she read the account of Victoria's coronation to her parents, to their wonder and pride.

  When she was twelve or so she entered into service at the Parrs, a well-to-do family who lived in a Queen Anne house at the end of the village. She was quick and neat, obedient and dutiful, and gave satisfaction to the mistress of the house and, more important still, to the housekeeper who ruled the staff with a rod of iron. She lived in as a matter of course, although only five minutes' trot from her own home, but was often allowed to slip along the village street to see her family. Sometimes the cook gave her a bowlful of dripping, or a stout marrow-bone for the stock pot, to eke out the meagre commons of the Grays' diet. Sally was always careful to hide these titbits under her cloak, safe from the eyes of the housekeeper or village gossips who might be encountered on the brief journey.

  Time passed. Housemaids came and went at the Parrs' house, but Sally remained. Girls who had worked beside her, dusting, brushing stair carpets, carrying interminable cans of hot water to bedrooms, married and left. They showed their fat offspring to Sally, in the fulness of time, and commiserated with her about her state of spinsterhood. Sally did not appear to mind. She was as spry and nimble as ever, although a few grey hairs now mingled with the dark ones, and she continued to trot briskly about Fairacre.

  One bitterly cold winter the two old Grays fell desperately ill, and Sally asked leave to sleep at home and to work part-time at the Parrs. Mrs Parr, who was an autocratic person, did not care for the idea. By now, Sally was senior housemaid. It was she who carried in the early morning tea, pulled back the heavy curtains on their massive brass rings, and announced the weather conditions prevailing, to her comatose mistress. She disliked the thought of someone else taking on these duties and told Sally that she must 'give it much consideration.' However, Mrs Parr knew full well that if she wished to keep Sally in her service then there must be some slackening of the reins whilst the old people were in need, and graciously gave her consent. 'But understand,' added the lady severely, 'you are to bring in the morning tea whenever it is humanly possible.' Sally promised, obedient as ever, to do all in her power.