Village Affairs Page 2

  'Shall I get the cold water?'

  'Do she need a cushion, miss?'

  'She wants a bit of metal down her neck, miss.'

  I fetched the cutting-out scissors, a hefty chunk of cold steel, and put them at the back of her neck, substituting, at the same time, a wad of paper tissues for the deplorable handkerchief. Eileen remained calm throughout, accustomed to the routine.

  We left her there, and set about the test.

  'Number down to twenty', I told them. Would we never get started?

  There was a clanging noise as feet trampled over the iron scraper in the lobby. Ernest and Patrick entered, wind-blown ' and triumphant, Patrick holding aloft a very dirty pound note.

  'We found it, miss!' they cried. 'Guess where?'

  'In the hedge?'

  'No.'

  'In the duck pond?' shouted someone, putting down his pen.

  'No.'

  'In your pocket after all?'

  'No.'

  By now, pens were abandoned, and it was plain that the mental arithmetic test would be indefinitely postponed unless I took a firm hand.

  'That's enough. Tell us where.'

  'In a cow pat. So stuck up it was, it couldn't blow away. Weren't it lucky?

  They thrust the noisome object under my nose.

  'Wipe it,' I said faintly, 'with a damp cloth in the lobby, then bring it back. Don't let go of it for one second. Understand?'

  By now it was a quarter past ten and no work done.

  'First question,' I said briskly. Pens were picked up, amidst sighing.

  'If a man has twelve chickens,' I began, when the door opened.

  'And about time too,' I said wrathfully, expecting Ernest and Patrick to appear. 'Get into your desks, and let's get some work done!'

  The mild face of the Vicar appeared, and we all rose in some confusion.

  2 News of Minnie Pringle

  THE Reverend Gerald Partridge has been Vicar of this parish for many years. I have yet to hear anyone, even the most censorious chapel-goer, speak ill of him. He goes about his parish duties conscientiously, vague in his manner, but wonderfully alert to those who have need of his sympathy and wisdom.

  In winter, he is a striking figure, tramping the lanes in an ancient cape of dramatic cut, and sporting a pair of leopard skin gloves, so old, that he is accompanied by little clouds of moulting fur whenever he uses his hands. It is commonly believed that they must have been a gift from some loving, and possibly beloved, churchgoer, in the living before he came to Fairacre. Why otherwise would he cling to such dilapidated articles?

  Fairacre School is a Church of England School, standing close to St Patrick's and the vicarage. The Vicar is a frequent visitor, and although I have heard the ruder boys mimicking him behind his back, the children are extremely fond of him, and I have witnessed them attacking a stranger who once dared to criticize him.

  'I'm sorry to interrupt,' he said, 'but I was just passing and thought I would have a word with you.'

  'Of course.'

  I turned to the class.

  'Turn over your test papers and write out the twelve times table,' I directed. Long-suffering glances were exchanged. Trust her to want the twelve times! One of the nastiest that was! Their looks spoke volumes.

  'What on earth is the matter with that child?' asked the Vicar, in a shocked tone, his horrified gaze upon the prone and bloodied figure of Eileen Burton.

  'Just a nose-bleed,' I said soothingly. 'She often has them.'

  'But you should have a key,' cried Mr Partridge, much agitated, 'a large key, to put at the nape of the neck—'

  'She's got the cutting out scissors—' I began, but he was now too worried to heed such interruptions.

  'My mother always kept a large key hanging in the kitchen for this sort of thing. We had a parlour maid once, just so afflicted. What about the key of the school door? Or shall I run back to the vicarage for the vestry key? It must weigh quite two pounds, and would be ideal for the purpose.'

  His face was puckered with concern, his voice sharp with anxiety.

  At that moment, Eileen stood up, dropped the paper handkerchief in the waste paper basket, and smiled broadly.

  'Over,' she announced, and put the scissors on my desk.

  'Take care, dear child, take care!' cried the Vicar, but he sounded greatly relieved at this recovery.

  He picked up the cutting out scissors.

  'A worthy substitute,' he conceded, 'but it would be as well to get Willet to screw a hook into the side of one of the cupboards for a key. I can provide you with one quite as massive as this, I can assure you, and I really should feel happier if you had one on the premises.'

  I thanked him, and asked what it was he wanted to tell me.

  'Simply a rumour about the school closing. I wanted you to know that I have had no official message about such a possibility. I pray that I may never have one, but should it be so, please rest assured that I should let you know at once.'

  'Thank you. I know you would.'

  'You have heard nothing?'

  'Only rumours. They fly around so often, I don't let them bother me unduly.'

  'Quite, quite. Well, I must be off. Mrs Partridge asked me to pick up something at the Post Office, but for the life of me I can't remember what it is. I wonder if I should go back and ask?'

  'No doubt Mr Lamb will know and have it waiting for you,' I suggested.

  Mr Partridge smiled with relief.

  'I'm sure you're right. I will call there first. No point in worrying my wife unnecessarily.'

  He waved to the children, and made for the door.

  'I won't forget to look out a suitable key,' he promised. 'My mother would have approved of having one handy at all times. First aid, you know.'

  The door closed behind him.

  'First question,' I said. 'If a man had twelve chickens—'.

  Although I had told the Vicar that I was not unduly bothered by the rumours, it was not strictly true. Somehow, this time, as the merry-go-round twirled, the ostrich had a menacing expression as it appeared among the galloping horses. Perhaps, I told myself, everything seemed worse because I had heard the news from several sources in a very short space of time.

  After school, I pottered about in the kitchen preparing a salad, which Amy, my old college friend, was going to share that evening. She had promised to deliver a pile of garments for a future jumble sale, and as James, her husband, was away from home, we were free to enjoy each other's company.

  Apart from a deplorable desire to reform my slack ways, Amy is the perfect friend. True, she also attempts to marry me off, now and again, to some poor unsuspecting male, but this uphill job has proved in vain, so far, and I think she knows, in her heart, that she will never be successful.

  It was while I was washing lettuce, that Mr Willet arrived with some broad bean plants.

  'I saw you'd got some terrible gaps in your row, miss. Bit late perhaps to put 'em in, but we'll risk it, shall us?'

  I agreed whole-heartedly.

  He departed along the garden path, and I returned to the sink.

  'No rose in all the world' warbled Mr Willet, 'Until you came.'

  Mr Willet has a large repertoire of songs which were popular at the beginning of the century. They take me back, in a flash, to the musical evenings beloved of my parents. Mercifully, I can only remember snippets of these sentimental ballads, most of which had a lot of 'ah-ah-ah'-ing between verses, although a line or two, here and there, still stick in my memory.

  'Dearest, the night is over (or was it 'lonely'?)

  'Waneth the trembling moon' and another about living in a land of roses but dreaming of a land of snow. Or maybe the other way round? It was the sort of question to put to Mr Willet, I decided, when Amy arrived, and Mr Willet and the ballads, were temporarily forgotten.

  ***

  'Lovely to be here,' sighed Amy, after we had eaten our meal.

  She leant back in the arm chair and sipped her coffee.
>
  'You really do make excellent coffee,' she said approvingly. 'Despite the haphazard way you measure the beans.'

  'Thank you,' I said humbly. I rarely get praise from Amy, so that it is all the more flattering when I do.

  She surveyed one elegant hand with a frown.

  'My nails grow at such a rate. I always remember a horrifying tale I read when I was about ten. A body was exhumed, and the poor woman's coffin was full of her own hair and immensely long finger nails.'

  'Horrible! But it's common knowledge that they go on growing after death.'

  'A solemn thought, to imagine all those dark partings on Judgement Day,' commented Amy, patting her own neat waves. 'Well, what's the Fairacre news?'

  I told her about the school, and its possible closure.

  'That's old hat. I shouldn't worry unduly about that, though I did hear someone saying they'd heard that Beech Green was to be enlarged.'

  'The grape vine spreads far and wide,' I agreed.

  'But what about Mrs Fowler?'

  'Mrs Fowler?' I repeated with bewilderment. 'You mean that wicked old harridan who used to live in Tyler's Row? Why, she left for Caxley years ago!'

  'I know she did. That's why I hear about her from my window cleaner who lives next door to her, poor fellow. Well, she's being courted.'

  'Never! I don't believe it!'

  Amy looked pleasantly gratified at my reactions.

  'And what's more, the man is the one that Minnie Pringle married.'

  This was staggering news, and I was suitably impressed. Minnie Pringle is the niece of my redoubtable Mrs Pringle. We Fairacre folk have lost count of the children she has had out of wedlock, and were all dumb-founded when we heard that she was marrying a middle-aged man with children of his own. As far as I knew, they had settled down fairly well together at Springbourne. But if Amy's tale were to be believed, then the marriage must be decidedly shaky.

  'Mrs Pringle hasn't said anything,' I said.

  'She may not know anything about it.'

  'Besides,' I went on, 'can you imagine anyone falling for Mrs Fowler? She's absolutely without charms of any sort.'

  'That's nothing to do with it,' replied Amy. 'There's such a thing as incomprehensible attraction. Look at some of the truly dreadful girls at Cambridge who managed to snaffle some of the most attractive men!'

  'But Mrs Fowler—' I protested.

  Amy swept on.

  'One of the nastiest men I ever met,' she told me, 'had four wives.'

  'What? All at once? A Moslem or something?'

  'No, no,' said Amy testily. 'Don't be so headlong!'

  'You mean headstrong.'

  'I know what I mean, thank you. You rush headlong to conclusions, is what I mean.'

  'I'm sorry. Well, what was wrong with this nasty man you knew?'

  'For one thing, he cleaned out his ears with a match stick.'

  'Not the striking end, I hope. It's terribly poisonous.'

  'Whichever end he used, the operation was revolting.'

  'Oh, I agree. Absolutely. What else?'

  'Several things. He was mean with money. Kicked the cat. Had Wagner—of all people—too loud on the gramophone. And yet, you see, he had this charm, this charisma—'

  'Now there's a word I never say! Like "Charivari". "punch or the London" one, you know.'

  Amy tut-tutted with exasperation.

  'The point I have been trying to make for the last ten minutes,' shouted Amy rudely, 'against fearful odds, is that Minnie Pringle's husband must see something attractive in Mrs Fowler.'

  'I thought we'd agreed on that: I said. 'More coffee?'

  'Thank you,' said Amy faintly. 'I feel I need it.'

  The fascinating subject of Mrs Fowler and her admirer did not crop up again until the last day of the spring term.

  Excitement, as always, was at fever-pitch among the children. One would think that they were endlessly beaten and bullied at school when one sees the joy with which they welcome the holidays.

  Pat Smith, who had been my infants' teacher for the past two years, was leaving to get married at Easter, and we presented her with a tray, and a large greetings card signed by all the children.

  The Vicar called to wish her well, and to exhort the children to help their mothers during the holidays, and to enjoy themselves.

  When he had gone, I contented myself with impressing upon them the date of their return, and let them loose. Within minutes, the stampede had vanished round the bend of the lane, and I was alone in the schoolroom.

  I always love that first moment of solitude, when the sound of the birds is suddenly noticed, and the scent of the flowers reminds one of the quiet country pleasures ahead. Now, freed from the bondage of the clock and the school timetable, there would be time 'to stand and stare', to listen to the twittering of nestlings, the hum of the early foraging bees, and the first sound of the cuckoo from the coppice across the fields.

  Spring is the loveliest time of the year at Fairacre, when everything is young, and green, and alive with hope. Soon the house martins would be back, and the swifts, screaming round and round the village as they selected nesting places. Then the swallows would arrive, seeking out their old familiar haunts—Mr Roberts' barn rafters, the Post Office porch, the loft above the Vicar's stables—in which to build their nests.

  Someone had brought me a bunch of primroses as an end of term present. Holding the fragrant nosegay carefully, I made my way through the school lobby towards my home across the playground, full of anticipation at the happiness ahead.

  The door scraper clanged. The door opened, and Mrs Pringle, her mouth set grimly, confronted me.

  'Sorry I'm a few minutes late,' she began, 'but I'm In Trouble.'

  In Fairacre, this expression is commonly used to describe pregnancy, but in view of Mrs Pringle's age, I rightly assumed that she used the term more generally.

  'What's wrong?'

  'It's our Minnie,' said Mrs Pringle. 'Up my place. In a fair taking, she is. Can't do nothing with her. I've left her crying her eyes out.'

  'Oh, dear,' I said weakly, my heart sinking. Could Amy have heard aright?

  I smelt my sweet primroses to give me comfort.

  'Come to the house and sit down,' I said.

  Mrs Pringle raised a hand, and shook her head.

  'No. I've come to work, and work I will!'

  'Well, at least sit on the bench while you tell me.'

  A rough plank bench in the playground, made by Mr Willet, acts as seat, vaulting horse, balancing frame and various other things, and on this we now rested, Mrs Pringle with her black oilcloth bag on her lap, and the primroses on mine. In the hedge dividing the playground from the lane, a blackbird scolded as Tibby, my cat, emerged from the school house to see why I was taking so long to get into the kitchen to provide her meal.

  'That man,' said Mrs Pringle, 'has up and left our Minnie. What's more, he's left his kids, and hers, and that one of theirs, to look after, while he gallivants with that woman who's no better than she should be.'

  'Perhaps he'll come back,' I suggested.

  'Not him! He's gone for good. And d'you know who he's with?'

  'No,' I said, expecting to be struck by lightning for downright lying.

  'You'll never guess. That Mrs Fowler from Tyler's Row.'

  I gave a creditable gasp of surprise.

  'The scheming hussy,' said Mrs Pringle wrathfully. A wave of scarlet colour swept up her neck and into her cheeks, which were awobble with indignation.

  'It's my belief she knew he had an insurance policy coming out this month. After his money, you see. Well, it wouldn't have been his looks, would it?'

  I was obliged to agree, but remembered Amy's remark about the plain girls and the young Adonises at Cambridge. Who could tell?

  'But, top and bottom of it all is—how's Minnie to live? Oh, I expect she'll get the Social Security and Family Allowance, and all that, but she'll need a bit of work as well, I reckons, if she's to keep that hous
e on at Springbourne.'

  'Won't he provide some money?'

  'That'll be the day,' said Mrs Pringle sardonically. 'Unless Min takes him to court, and who's got the time and money to bother with all that?'

  Mrs Pringle's view of British justice was much the same as her views of my housekeeping, it seemed, leaving much to be desired.

  'If she really needs work,' I said reluctantly, 'I could give her half a day here cleaning silver, and windows, and things.'

  Mrs Pringle's countenance betrayed many conflicting emotions. Weren't her own ministrations on my behalf enough then? And what sort of a hash would Minnie make of any job offered her? And finally, it was a noble gesture to offer her work anyway.

  Luckily, the last emotion held sway.

  'That's a very kind thought, Miss Read. Very kind indeed.'

  She struggled to her feet, and we stood facing each other. Tibby began to weave between our legs, reminding us of her hunger.

  "But let's hope it won't come to that,' she said. I hoped so too, already regretting my offer.

  Mrs Pringle turned towards the lobby door.

  'I'll let you know what happens,' she said, 'but I'll get on with a bit of scrubbing now. Takes your mind off things, a bit of scrubbing does.'

  She stumped off, black bag swinging, whilst Tibby and I made our way home.

  3 Could it be Arthur Coggs?

  THE policeman from Caxley, who had called upon the Coggs' household, was making enquiries, we learnt, about the theft of lead in the neighbourhood.

  Scarcely a week went by but The Caxley Chronicle reported the stripping of lead from local roofs around the Caxley area. Many a beautiful lead figure too, which had graced a Caxley garden for generations, was spirited away under cover of darkness, lead water tanks and cisterns, lead guttering, lead piping, all fell victim to a cunning band of thieves who knew just where to collect this valuable metal.

  It so happened that the Mawnes had an ancient summer house, with a lead roof, in their garden.