(18/20) Changes at Fairacre Read online

  'Anything serious?'

  'Just a displaced vertebra somewhere from the sound of it, but you know how painful backs can be. Sometimes -' she broke off. 'Sorry, I forgot how squeamish you are.'

  'I don't mind bones. It's insides I can't take. All those tubes, and squashy bits.'

  Amy laughed. 'Well, anyway, I won't curdle your blood with any more horrors. See you on Friday, as soon as you like.'

  I must admit that I wondered once or twice why James was so suddenly anxious about leaving Amy alone. He often had to be away from home on business, and surely the fact that there were burglars about could not be the whole story. I looked forward to hearing more.

  April was on its way out, and I looked forward to May, to my mind the loveliest of all the months. The hedges were breaking into leaf, and the trees' stark branches were beginning to be clothed in a veil of swelling buds, soon to become a mantle of fresh green.

  I drove to Amy's about six o'clock, and found her picking narcissi in her garden.

  'Smell those,' she said, thrusting the bunch under my nose, and I sniffed rapturously.

  'Bliss!' I told her. 'Now tell me all about James's concern for you. I'm intrigued.'

  'Come and have a drink, and I'll tell you as much as I know.'

  She dropped the flowers into a jug of water as we passed through the kitchen, and we were soon comfortably settled in the sitting-room, glasses in hand.

  'It's a sad story, and to be frank, I'm much more worried about James than he is about me.'

  'Is it something to do with Brian?' I ventured.

  'It has everything to do with Brian,' said Amy, putting her glass down on a side table with a bang. 'The little rat!' she added violently.

  I gazed at her speechless. It is not often that I see Amy in a fine temper.

  'He's hopped it. Scarpered. Gone to ground. Vamoosed. In short, he's nowhere to be found. And what's upset James so much is the fact that he had arranged an interview for Brian with one of his high-powered city pals - no easy task - and of course that wretched Brian didn't turn up. He'd vanished, and so had the money.'

  'Good lord! From the Bristol firm?'

  'That's only part of it, and a small part at that evidently. Our Brian has been pinching funds from his various places of employment for years now. They think he plays a fairly minor role in a group of wide-boys with nice little bank accounts in various places abroad.'

  'I can't believe it. I must admit I always thought that he was a rather mediocre little man, but I should never have credited him with enough savvy to be an international crook. Where is he, I wonder?'

  'He could be anywhere. Bolivia or Brazil or one of those islands where people stash their ill-gotten gains. He obviously took a plane from Bristol. Last Thursday I think.'

  'But can you fly to Bolivia from Bristol? I thought you could only hop across to nearby places like Paris and Madrid.'

  'Presumably you can change planes at Paris and Madrid,' snapped Amy crossly. 'Don't be so pettifogging!'

  I apologized meekly. It was quite obvious that Amy was deeply upset. In the silence that followed I turned over the word 'pettifogging' in my mind. I had looked it up recently for a crossword I was doing, and I felt sure it had said something about 'a cavilling lawyer', which could not possibly apply to me. Perhaps Amy meant to use the word 'pernickety'? In any case, this was not the time to discuss such niceties of the English language with my suffering friend, and I put forward a less controversial question.

  'Won't Interpol catch him?' I ventured.

  'Of course they're doing their stuff, and so too is the fraud squad, I gather, but people like Brian and his dubious friends are always one jump ahead, and poor old James seems to think we'll never see him again.'

  'Jolly good thing too! And after all you and James did for him! Makes my blood boil!'

  'I think James is dreading the possibility of Brian being brought back to face trial. Although he's furious about being let down over that interview, he still can't bear the idea of having to be a witness against Brian. Frankly, I should enjoy it.'

  'Me too. But then women are much tougher than men.'

  'You'd think that this business would have turned James completely against that little horror, but it hasn't. He's had the most terrible shock, his idol with feet of clay, and all that, but he's still besotted. He makes idiotic remarks such as: "Can't hit a man when he's down." "Brian always played a straight bat." "He must be covering for someone." Really, sport has a lot to answer for when it comes to men's thinking.'

  'Don't you argue with him?'

  'Of course I do, until I'm blue in the face, but then James starts to blame the women in Brian's life. He would have been perfect if his wife hadn't left him. She should have stuck by him. Loyalty should come first, and all that guff. I must say I wonder if she didn't suspect things years ago, and removed herself while there was time.'

  'So James is in Bristol now?'

  'Yes. He's meeting this old school friend who employed Brian. I expect there'll be a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth over the fall of their cricket hero. More about that, I'll bet, than the plight of the shareholders.'

  'Maybe the employer will be made of sterner stuff.'

  'I hope so. The point is that I'm truly worried about James. He looks so wretched and ill. Brian has properly let him down. For a really tough business man, he is extraordinarily soft-hearted, and this really has hit him badly. I wanted to go with him, as I don't think he should be driving when he's so upset, but he and the friend and the firm's accountant are going through the books and will be hours on the job, evidently. Then they've got the other firms to contact, and the police. He'll probably be down there for the whole of the weekend. Can you stay?'

  'Of course I can. Poor old James! What a wretched underhand sort of affair it is!'

  'Hardly cricket, is it?' agreed Amy, with a wry smile.

  ***

  Naturally, it was an anxious weekend. Every time the telephone rang, Amy rushed to answer it, hoping for news from James.

  He rang just as we were off to bed on the Saturday night, telling Amy that he would be home on Sunday evening, and to see if all was well.

  'How was he?' I asked.

  'He sounded very weary, and says there's more to do than any of them realized. No news of Brain, as you might expect, but there's another complication.'

  'What's that?'

  'One of his erstwhile colleagues, at a previous job he had, has also vanished into thin air. Looks remarkably suspicious according to the police. This other chap's a real hard nut with a record. The police want him for other matters. James reckons he's had a strangle-hold on poor Brian.'

  'And nobody's seen Brian or this other fellow getting on a plane?'

  'No. They're now beginning to wonder if they are still in this country, lying low.'

  'Perhaps it will be easier to pick them up,' I offered, consolingly. I was worried on Amy's behalf. She looked pale and drawn, and I felt that I should really be doing more for her than I was.

  'Let's go to bed,' I said. 'You look all in, and James will never let me be a wife-sitter again if he finds you under the weather.'

  We made our way upstairs, and I hoped that Amy's exhaustion would let her sleep. As for me, sleep was impossible, and I found myself thinking of idiotic ways of tracking down Brian. It must have been about three o'clock when I hit upon the ruse of attending the coming summer Test matches at Lords and the Oval (school matters allowing, of course), when I fell into an uneasy sleep, where I was busy making marrow jam which refused to set, with Bob Willet and Mrs Pringle in the school lobby.

  It was quite a relief to wake up.

  I left Amy in the early evening, knowing James would be back very soon, and feeling that I must do some school marking, as well as a few household chores before Monday morning.

  A white froth of cow parsley lined the verges below the sprouting hedges, and I thought how lucky I was to live in Beech Green.

  My own garden looked
exceptionally tidy after Bob Willet's pruning and general clearing up, and in the growing dusk I pottered around outside noting the tulips now breaking into flower, and the little knots of tightly-furled buds on the old Bramley apple tree. The wicked storm, the snow, the horrors of winter and all it had brought seemed far away and long ago, and I rejoiced in the summer so soon to come, before going indoors to face my duties.

  It is always annoying to me when people think that a single woman's work is over when she comes back from her daily grind. After all, her home needs as much cleaning, her clothes as much laundering, her food as much cooking, her correspondence as much answering, as any other woman who spends her day at home. Added to these domestic chores are the necessary tasks which she brings back from the school or office. In my case, I have a considerable amount of marking and preparing of lessons to face after school hours, and when people point out that I have lovely long holidays, I reply firmly that I need them.

  Mrs Pringle comes to Beech Green on Wednesday afternoons on the convenient Caxley bus, and I must admit that she thoroughly 'bottoms' the cottage before I get back to share a pot of tea with her, and run her home to Fairacre. On the few occasions when she has had to miss her stint, the place certainly lacks that extra gloss.

  On the Wednesday following my weekend with Amy, we sat in the garden with our mugs. To tell the truth, it was hardly warm enough, but we could just about stand the coolness in the air, and it was good to realize that summer had arrived.

  'You been to see them new houses lately?' asked Mrs Pringle. 'Getting on a treat they are with them kitchens.'

  'I don't get down that way very often now,' I confessed. 'I miss strolling around Fairacre in the evenings. Somehow I just get in the car and head for here these days.'

  'Well, the boards are down, of course, and from what I hear they've both been bought.'

  'Must be two retired friends,' I said, repeating my earlier prognostication. 'Or maybe an old couple and a married son or daughter.'

  'At that price?' queried Mrs Pringle. 'With that sort of money they could buy Buckingham Palace. No, it's my belief they've been brought by some rich firm for retirement homes, to put their pensioners in.'

  'But they couldn't house more than four or six pensioners,' I protested. 'I still plump for two families. Want to make a bet?'

  Mrs Pringle bridled, as I knew she would.

  'I am not a betting woman, as well you know, and it's a good thing the children aren't here to listen to such a scandalous idea. I should have thought that Arthur Coggs with his betting and swilling would be enough trouble for Fairacre, without the headmistress of the school uttering such wickedness.'

  By this time she was red in the face with wrath, and I hastened to apologize. Her feelings were not assuaged by my trying to make amends, and we drove to Fairacre in heavy silence.

  She struggled from the car at her gate, and turned to give me a parting message.

  'What you said,' she told me, 'is an abomination in the sight of the Lord. Betting indeed!'

  With a final snort she turned towards her gate, as always the victor in any of our battles.

  20 Good News

  MRS Pringle's guesses about the future residents in the new houses were echoed by one or two other people in Fairacre. Mr Lamb favoured my own view that probably two fairly well-off friends had decided to be neighbours.

  'If you were retired,' he said, 'you'd like to have someone handy to help you out when you had an accident, wouldn't you? Someone told me that they reckoned they might have been bought by Caxley folk who came from these parts originally. You know, made their pile and now returning to their roots. It happens sometimes.'

  Mrs Pringle stuck to her pensioners idea. Bob Willet favoured two families, unknown to each other, who had just happened to buy at the same time.

  The children's interest was desultory. Only old people had been seen looking at the premises. Who cared about new folk? It was their own families in Fairacre that really mattered.

  The vicar seemed rather guarded in his conjectures, I thought, simply expressing the hope that they would be church-goers.

  In any case, there were other and more pressing things to think about. The summer term is always busy. We have the school sports day, weekly trips to Caxley's swimming bath for the older children, the annual outing to the seaside, and the village fête in July.

  This particular summer we also had the trip to the falconry arranged by Henry Mawne, and we were lucky to awake to a glorious June morning. Only my class of ten children were making the trip, while Mrs Richards held the fort at school.

  We decided to go in three cars. Henry drove his with three excited children as passengers, Mrs Mawne accompanied us in her beautiful Rover, with four more, three in the back, and Ernest in the front passenger seat, full of importance because his aunt lived somewhere near the birds of prey centre, and he assured everyone that he knew the way.

  I had Joseph Coggs beside me, with Patrick and John Todd, the two most unreliable boys in my school, in the back. My eagle eye gleamed at them from the mirror, and I had threatened to deposit them on the road anywhere if I saw the slightest sign of bad behaviour.

  It was a wonderful drive and my three were remarkably appreciative. One would have thought that, country-dwellers as they were, the rolling Cotswold scene would not have affected them. But they noticed the difference in architecture, the honey-coloured stone of the village houses compared with their own native brick and flint with thatch or tile atop.

  We had taken picnic lunches with us, and stopped at a quiet spot by the river Windrush, known to Henry from his fishing days. In addition, I had brought enough apples for everyone, and Mrs Mawne had been even more generous with some chocolate apiece, so that it was a very happy and well-fed company that watched the bright water and the willow branches trailing in it.

  By half past two we were waiting in the grassy centre for the display to begin. We saw owls, hawks and merlins in all their glory of flight and intermittent obedience to the falconer, and the children were awe-struck.

  One at a time they were encouraged to don the leather gauntlet, and to feed the bird which landed there. Some were rather timid about it, but I was touched by Joseph Coggs's reaction to this new experience. He was entirely without fear, his face rapt, as the great owl swept silently to his outstretched arm to take the bait. Of all my countrybred flock it was Joe who had the strongest link with wildlife. When the other boys were drawing vehicles, it was Joe who was drawing birds and trees, and now this affinity was more than ever apparent. Joe's dark eyes gazed in wonder at the yellow eyes of his new friend. They seemed in complete accord, and I knew that today's experience would mean far more to Joe than to any of the other children.

  They were still excited on the way home. Patrick and John in the back boasted about their bravery at the centre. But Joe sat silent, his eyes shining at the memory of all that he had seen.

  It was sometime after this that Horace Umbleditch rang to tell me the good news that their offer had been accepted, and the school house would be theirs.

  'And when do you expect to be in?' I asked.

  'Sometime next term, I think. We'll spend the summer holidays here, decorating and doing the garden -'

  He broke off suddenly.

  'You won't mind us altering your garden?' he continued.

  'Good heavens, no! It's not my garden now, you know, and in any case it's been altered every time a new head teacher took over. I think I inherited Mr Hope's spotted laurels when I came, but they were soon uprooted.'

  'Eve will see this term out and has given in her notice. She's remarkably fit, but we both think it's a good idea for what she calls "a geriatric mum" to take things gently.'

  'Very wise,' I agreed, and we went on to discuss the problems to be overcome to make my old home into their new one, until a strange smell began to emanate from the kitchen and I found that a pan of milk had spread itself over not only the stove, but a few square yards of kitchen floor as wel
l.

  The vicar enthused about the news when he called in soon afterwards.

  'Mr and Mrs Umbleditch called on me, you know, when they were negotiating for the buying of the house. A charming pair. A great asset to the village, and I gather that Mr Umbleditch has a fine tenor voice. He will be much welcomed by Mr Annett. They are both regular churchgoers too. All very satisfactory.'

  I said that I thought they would settle very happily in Fairacre. 'After all,' I went on, 'they have wanted to live here for a very long time.'

  'Fairacre is the perfect place to live,' asserted the vicar. 'I have been fortunate to be appointed to this living. I do so hope that all our newcomers will enjoy the village as keenly as we have.'

  This was said with some emphasis, and I wondered if he had prior knowledge of other people coming to share our environment.

  The children were out at play, and we were alone in my classroom.

  'Have you had any news about the two empty houses?' I asked.

  He began to look slightly embarrassed. 'Well yes, my dear Miss Read, I have, and I don't know whether it is quite in order to tell you.'

  'Then please don't,' I replied. 'There's nothing worse than being told a secret, and having to keep mum when people inquire. Forget about it.'

  'No, no. I really can't do that, and I don't suppose for a minute that there is really anything secret in the news. It's just that I haven't brought the letter with me.'

  This began to get curiouser and curiouser, and I started to feel all the well-known prickles of fear, envisaging a letter to Mr Partridge, as chairman of the school governors, from our old friend Mr Salisbury about the dwindling numbers at Fairacre School.

  'Have you heard of the Malory-Hope Foundation?' asked the vicar.

  'Never.'

  'You have heard of Sir Derek Malory-Hope, I'm sure. He was a well-known -'