Village Centenary Read online

  After three days of howling draught and wearing a silk scarf round my neck, I sat down to write to the office even more forthrightly than usual about my afflictions. On reading it through I was quite impressed with my firmness of tone, which was tempered with a little pathetic martyrdom, and which surely should bring results. I added a postscript about our hundred years at the mercy of this malevolence overhead, and hoped that something could be done permanently. Cunningly, I pointed out what a drain on the county's economy this must have been over the past century. Every little helps when pleading one's cause.

  I posted my letter, wondering if it was a waste of a stamp. Time would tell. On the way back, picking my steps through the slushy snow which was taking its time to disappear, I met Henry Mawne, our eminent ornithologist, who has been a good friend to all in the village.

  'How's Simon?' was my first question. His young godson had attended my school for a short time, but his brief stay was ended when a rare albino robin, the pride of the village, came to a sudden death at the boy's hands.

  'Settling down well at his $$$ school,' said Henry, 'and I may as well tell you now, before you hear it on the grapevine, that his father and Irene Umbleditch are getting married.'

  'I am delighted to hear it,' I said warmly. 'He's had so much unhappiness, and he couldn't have anyone nicer than Irene. What's more, Simon is so fond of her too.'

  'Well, we're all mightily pleased about it,' said Henry. 'No doubt they'll be visiting us before long, and I hope you will come and see them. They've never forgotten how much you did for Simon. And for us,' he added.

  We parted, and I returned home much cheered by this good news. David's first wife had been afflicted by mental illness and eventually had taken her own life. It was time that he and poor young Simon had some sunshine, after the shades of misery which they had suffered.

  When I entered my house I found a fat mouse corpse on the hearth rug, and Tibby sitting beside it looking particularly smug. Far from being praised, she was roundly cursed as I put on my Wellingtons again, collected the corpse by the tail, and ploughed my way, shuddering, to the boundary hedge and flung the poor thing into Mr Roberts's field.

  I often wonder if he notices a particularly fertile patch within a stone's throw of the schoolhouse garden. It is nourished by a steady flow of Tibby's victims, and must have made a substantial difference to his crops over the years.

  Like most people in Fairacre, my pupils enjoyed feeding the birds during the winter, and our school bird-table was always well supplied with bread, peanuts and fat.

  As well as these more usual offerings, Mrs Pringle supplied mealworms which the robins adored. She had first undertaken this chore when our famous albino robin appeared on the scene. After his death, in the grievous state of mourning which followed, the supply of mealworms ceased, but to our delight a second albino, probably a grandchild of the first, was seen, and the mealworms were hastily added to the menu.

  Not that we saw a great deal of the second white robin. It was obviously less bold than its predecessor, and more cautious in its approach to the food we put out. As Henry Mawne had warned us, the robins and other birds of normal colouring would tend to harass the albino. It certainly seemed timid, but was all the more adored by the children on that account. The first robin had frequently come to the jar of mealworms during the day. The second one only came occasionally, and there were days when it did not appear at all.

  One afternoon the children were busy making what they term 'bird pudden', which consists of melted dripping mixed with porridge oats, chopped peanuts and some currants. We had melted the fat in an old saucepan on the tortoise stove, and I kept a weather eye on the door in case Mrs Pringle should walk in unexpectedly and catch us violating her beloved stove.

  There was a comfortable smell of cooking in the classroom as Patrick stirred the ingredients with my wooden jam-making spoon. The saucepan by now was on the floor. Nevertheless, when the door opened, I nearly jumped out of my skin with guilt.

  Luckily it was only the vicar.

  'I seem to have startled you,' said the Reverend Gerald Partridge. 'I suppose I should have knocked.'

  'Not at all. I just thought you were Mrs Pringle.'

  'Mrs Pringle?' echoed the vicar. A look of the utmost perplexity distorted his chubby face. 'Now why on earth should you think that?'

  'I'll tell you later,' I said hastily. 'Can I help you?'

  The vicar put the plastic bag he had been carrying on my desk.

  'A friend of mine who is in the publishing business has most kindly given me some children's books. I think he said he was remaindering them - a term I had not heard before, I must confess. Anyway, I thought they might go on the library shelf here.'

  'Oh, splendid! We can always do with more books.'

  He began to haul them out of the bag which bore the interesting slogan: Come to Clarissa's For Countless Cosmetics. It seemed an odd receptacle for a vicar to have acquired.

  'I have looked them through,' he said earnestly, 'and they seem quite suitable. Really, these days, one can find the most unnecessarily explicit descriptions of deeds of violence, or of biological matters too advanced for our young children here.'

  'I am sure your friend wouldn't give you anything like that,' I said reassuringly, 'but I will read them first if you like.'

  'It might be as well,' said the vicar. He suddenly became aware of Patrick's activities.

  'Whatever is the boy making?'

  I explained, the children joining in with considerable gusto.

  'Well, I heartily approve,' he said, when he could make himself heard. 'We must do all we can to keep the birds healthy and strong during this bitter weather.'

  He began to walk to the door and I accompanied him. He spoke in a low voice.

  'Are you sure that mixture is all right? It looks most indigestible to me.'

  'The birds lap it up,' 1 told him. 'They've been doing so for months now so don't worry.'

  He smiled and departed. 1 had barely returned to the stove preparatory to clearing away any mess before Mrs Pringle caught us, when the vicar reappeared again.

  'I forgot to give you a message from my wife. Could you come to the vicarage for a drink on Friday at six-thirty? A few people are coming to discuss the arrangements for the Caxley Spring Festival.'

  'Thank you. Yes, please, I should love to come,' I said.

  He said goodbye tor the second time and we set about the stove with guilty speed. Mrs Pringle's name had not been mentioned by anyone in the classroom, but we all knew what lent energy to our efforts.

  That evening my old friend Amy rang me. We first met at college, many years ago, and the friendship has survived separation, a war, Amy's marriage and the considerable differences in our views and temperaments.

  Amy is all the things I should like to be - elegant, charming, good-looking, intelligent, rich and much travelled. I can truthfully say that! do not envy her married state, for 1 am perfectly content with my single one, and in any case James, although a witty and attractive man, is hopelessly susceptible and seems to fall in love at the drop of a hat, which Amy must find tiresome, to say the least of it.

  'Come and have some supper,' I invited when she proposed to visit me one evening in the near future.

  'Love to, but I must warn you that I'm slimming.'

  'Not again!' I exclaimed.

  'That would have been better left unsaid.'

  'Sorry! But honestly, Amy, you are as thin as a rail now. Why bother?'

  'My scales which, like the camera, never lie, tell me that I have put on three-quarters of a stone since November.'

  'I can't believe it.'

  'It's true though. So don't offer me all those lovely things on toast that you usually do. Bread is out.'

  'What else?'

  'Oh, the usual, you know. Starch, sugar, fat, alcohol, and the rest.'

  'Is there anything left?'

  Amy giggled.

  'Well, lettuce is a real treat, and oc
casionally a small orange, and I can have eggs and fish and lean meat, in moderation.'

  'The whole thing sounds too damn moderate for me. What would you say to pork chops, roast potatoes and cauliflower with white sauce, followed by chocolate mousse and cream?'

  'Don't be disgusting!' said Amy. 'I'm drooling already, but a nice slice of Ryvita and half an apple would be just the thing.'

  'I'll join you in the pauper's repast,' I promised nobly, and rang off.

  2 February

  I remembered my promise to Miss Clare and brought her over to tea on the first of the month.

  A gentle thaw had set in and the snow had almost vanished. It tended to turn foggy at night and the roads were still filthy, with little rivulets running at the sides, but it was good to have milder weather during the daytime, and a great relief to let the children run in the playground at break. Under the garden hedge a few brave snowdrops showed. I had picked a bunch for the tea table, the purity of the white flowers contrasting with the dark mottled leaves of the ivy with which 1 had encircled them.

  1 was glad that 1 was not slimming like poor Amy, as we munched our way through anchovy toast and sponge cake. After school I am always ravenous, and how people can bear to go without afternoon tea, and all the delightful ingredients which make it so pleasant, I do not understand.

  When we had cleared away, we set out on the first after-tea walk of the year. A few early celandines showed their shield-shaped leaves on the banks at the side of the lane, and it was wonderful to see the green grass again after weeks of depressing whiteness.

  A lark sang bravely above, and blackbirds and thrushes fluttered among the bare hedges, scattering the pollen from the hazel catkins that nodded in the light breeze. In the paddock near Mr Roberts's farmhouse, sixty or seventy

  ewes, heavily in lamb, grazed ponderously upon the newly disclosed grass. There was a wonderful feeling of new life in the air despite the naked trees, the bare ploughed fields and the miry lane we walked.

  'I know most people dislike the month of February,' said Miss Clare, as we returned, 'but I always welcome it. With the shortest day well behind us, and the first whiff of spring about, I begin to feel hopeful again.'

  'Your mother was quite right,' I told her. 'Everyone should have an after-tea walk on February the first. It's the finest antidote to the January blues I've come across.'

  Dolly Clare laughed, and slipped her frail arm through mine. It was sharply borne in upon me how light and thin she had become during the last few years. Her bones must be as brittle as a bird's. Would my old friend survive to see the next spring? Would we share another first-of-February celebratory walk?

  I hoped with all my heart that we might.

  On the following Friday, I dutifully made my way to the vicarage. 1 had not heard any more about the Caxley Spring Festival which the vicar had mentioned, and wondered exactly how our small downland village, some miles from the market town, would become involved.

  There were about twenty people in the Partridges' drawing room, and only two were strangers to me. Diana Hale, wife of a retired schoolmaster, was there. Their house, Tyler's Row, once four shabby cottages, is one of the show places of our village, and she and her husband are tireless in their good works.

  I was pleasantly surprised, too, to see Miriam Quinn who came to live in Fairacre a few years ago. She is a most efficient secretary to a businessman in Caxley, likes a quiet life, and is somewhat reserved.

  Like most newcomers to a village, I know that Miss Quinn was approached by most of the village organisations when she first took up residence at Holly Lodge on the outskirts of Fairacre, for her qualities of hard work and intelligence had gone before her and everyone said, as I find to my cost as a spinster, that a single woman must have time on her hands and enjoy a nice bit of company. Holly Lodge is the home of Joan Benson, a sprightly widow, and she and her lodger seem very happy together. Joan was not at the meeting, and I wondered how it was that Miriam Quinn had been coralled with the rest of us.

  It was soon made clear. The vicar, who was acting as chairman, introduced the two strangers as the organisers of the Festival in Caxley, and Miss Quinn as Fairacre's representative.

  We all sat back, sherry in hand, to listen obediently.

  The Arts in Caxley, one of the strangers told us with some severity, were sadly neglected, and the proposed Festival was to bring them to the notice of Caxley's citizens and those who lived nearby. Let him add, he said (and who were we to stop him?), that he was not accusing Caxley people of Philistinism or Cruelty to Creative Artists, but merely of Ignorance and Apathy.

  There was a great fund of natural talent in Caxley - and its surrounds, he put in hastily - and there would be two plays by local playwrights put on at the Corn Exchange, several concerts at the parish church, and exhibitions of painting, embroidery and other crafts at various large buildings in the town, and outside.

  'What happens to the money?' Mr Roberts, our local farmer, asked bluntly. Farmers are noted for their realistic approach to life, and ours is no exception.

  The speaker looked a little surprised by the interjection of such a materialistic enquiry in the midst of his eulogy about Caxley's artistic aspirations, but rallied bravely.

  'I was just coming to that. Any profits will go to three local charities so that a great many people will benefit. They are named in the leaflets which we are distributing at this meeting.'

  Mr Roberts grunted in acknowledgement, and the speaker resumed his talk. Miriam Quinn's involvement was then revealed, and she gave a sensible description of her part in the Festival.

  'I'm really here to get suggestions,' she said. 'One way of helping, particularly for us in the country, is by opening our gardens. The vicar has already offered to have his open, and so has Mr Mawne. We can arrange a date to suit us all, and in May, when the Festival takes place, our gardens here are at their best.'

  'What about the schoolchildren having a maypole? Dancing and singing and all that?' called out someone, well hidden from me.

  Miriam Quinn looked at me hopefully.

  'I'll think about it,' I said circumspectly. What with the centenary, and the skylight waiting to be repaired, I had some reservations about a May Day celebration as well.

  'Beech Green had a street fair once,' said somebody.

  'And only once,' said her neighbour. 'The traffic was something awful when Mr Miller's tractor broke down where the road narrows.'

  The vicar, adept at handling situations like this, suggested that any ideas might be given to Miss Quinn at the end of the meeting. He was quite sure, he added, that she would receive every possible support from Fairacre in the part that the village would play in this excellent enterprise.

  Were there any more questions?

  At this, as always, silence fell upon the gathering. Sherry glasses were refilled, the guests circulated again, and we all knew, as we chattered of everything under the sun bar the matter in hand, that the Caxley Spring Festival would get plenty of attention once the meeting had dispersed.

  Amy paid her visit to me one evening when the wind was scouring the downs, whistling through keyholes and making the schoolhouse shudder beneath its onslaughts.

  Out in the garden the bare branches tossed up and down, and dead leaves flurried hither and thither across the grass. Overhead the rooks had battled their way home at dusk, finding it difficult to keep on course.

  But my fire burned brightly in the roaring draught and Tibby, on her back, presented her stomach to the warmth, paws above her head. We were pretty snug within, whatever the weather did outside.

  Amy arrived in a new suede coat of dark brown and some elegant shoes that I had not seen before. She held a bowl of pink hyacinths in her hands.

  'Coals to Newcastle, I expect. I know you do well with bulbs.'

  'Not a bit of it! Mine are over, and you couldn't have brought anything more welcome, Amy dear. Come in, out of this vile wind.'

  She divested herself of the beautiful
coat, and exclaimed with pleasure at the fire.

  'I've been trying to do without one. After all, the central hearing should really be enough - heaven knows it costs a small fortune to run - but there's something rather soulless about the electric fire which I'm forced to put on for an hour or two, now and then.'

  'Well, you know me, Amy. I light a fire at the drop of a hat. I can always console myself with the thought that I have no central heating to make me feel guilty.'

  'I've felt the cold far more this winter,' said Amy, stroking Tibby's stomach. 'Whether it's anno domini or just this slimming business, I can't tell. A bit of each, I expect.'

  'How's the poundage going?'

  'Much too slowly. If only I habitually drank gallons of beer, or ate pounds of chocolate, I should find it quite easy to cut down the calories, but I eat like a bird.'

  'Not worms, I hope.'

  'Don't be facetious, dear. You know what I mean. I'm heartily sick of salad and cold meat.'

  'Well, that's what you've got tonight. Unless you'd rather have a boiled egg.'

  'Either would be delicious,' said Amy, lying bravely. 'Do you know, as a child, I refused to eat salad, particularly tomatoes. '

  'My bête noir was beetroot,' I recalled. 'Now I love it, and coffee. I didn't touch it until we went to college. I'm sure tastes change as one goes through life.'

  'They certainly do. But perhaps it's simply our aging digestive systems, do you think? I used to adore potted shrimps, but these days they go down like greased nails, and 1 have terrible indigestion.'

  'We could have a nice bowl of thin gruel on our laps here,' I remarked, 'if you feel in such an advanced state of decay.'

  'Not likely!' said Amy. 'Besides, gruel is fattening.'

  'Who was it said that anything one enjoys turns out to be fattening or immoral?'