(18/20) Changes at Fairacre Read online

  But well known for what remained a mystery, for at that moment Mrs Richards appeared with a howling child who was dripping blood from a grazed knee.

  I hurried to get the first-aid box.

  'Heavens!' exclaimed the vicar, gazing at the great wall-clock. 'Is it really so late? I am due at a meeting in Oxford at four o'clock. I will call tomorrow with the letter.'

  We bandaged the knee, provided a boiled sweet as medicine, and comparative peace reigned again.

  I forgot about the vicar's visit until after school when I asked Mrs Richards if she had ever heard of someone called Malory-Hope.

  'Isn't he that rich man who gave a lot of money to the Soldiers, Sailors and Air Force Association? Wayne's dad had something to do with it when they were raising money for that hall in Caxley.'

  'Oh, I've never heard of him, I'm afraid.'

  'It was in The Caxley,' said my colleague, looking rather shocked, 'with photos. He opened the hall, cut ribbons, and pulled curtains back over plaques - all that stuff. You must have seen it.'

  'Sorry, I missed it.'

  'He lived somewhere around here. Died some months ago, and there was a big memorial service. That was in The Caxley too.'

  I had no recollection of that item of news either, but I did not admit it to Mrs Richards. Obviously she read her Caxley Chronicle with far more attention than I did. I should just have to wait for the vicar's letter to explain these mysteries.

  Bob Willet was scraping up the coke which had dribbled away from the pile in the playground. I put my question to him while it was still fresh in my mind.

  'Bob, have you ever heard of someone called Sir Derek Malory-Hope?'

  'The chap what died last year? All over the Caxley, it was. He was a good bloke, rolling in money. Give a lot of it away though.'

  'I must confess I'd never heard of him.'

  'What put him in your mind?'

  I said that the vicar had mentioned him when I had asked about the empty houses.

  'Did he now' said Bob, leaning on his spade. He looked thoughtful. 'Did he now?' he repeated, before returning to his labours.

  When I arrived home, The Caxley Chronicle was lying on the mat with one or two uninteresting-looking envelopes. I made myself a mug of tea, and took it and the paper into the sitting-room, and made myself comfortable on the sofa. Tibby, unusually affectionate, leapt on to my lap, and we settled down together happily.

  There was a rather nice photograph on the front page of an old mill, situated on the River Cax, some miles downstream from our market town. According to the caption, it had been mentioned in the Domesday Book and funds were now being raised for its restoration.

  Among the donors I saw that 'The Malory-Hope Foundation' had contributed a substantial sum.

  I have noticed before that when a new name, or simply a new word, crops up, it appears again quite soon. Here it was again: a body, unknown to me yesterday, now cropping up in my life twice in one day.

  I turned to this week's deaths. Not that I am particularly morbid, but it is as well to check who has fallen off the bough recently, to save one from asking brightly about a husband who has gone before. There was no one I knew personally, but one of the entries was embellished with a verse:

  To Heaven you've gone

  Dear Dad who we love

  To Mother who is waiting

  All glorious above

  I set about correcting it.

  The first line could stand.

  The second line should have 'whom' instead of 'who'.

  The third line was frankly disgraceful. Why not have: 'Where Mother is waiting', or if one wanted 'Dear Mum' to match the earlier 'Dear Dad' thus: 'Where dear Mum awaits you'?

  As for the last line it was simply lifted wholesale from Hymns Ancient and Modern Number 167, and was the second part of the opening line of: 'O worship the King'.

  I have often thought of offering my services, 'free, gratis and for nothing', to The Caxley Chronicle in order to overhaul their list of these funeral rhymes, which they presumably keep in their offices and from which bereaved families may make their selection. I have never got down to actually approaching the editor; it would need a good deal of tact.

  While I was still wondering how one could achieve one's aim, the telephone rang, and I leapt to answer it, catapulting poor Tibby to the floor.

  It was Amy.

  'Am I interrupting anything?'

  'Only the reading of The Caxley.'

  'Good! I was just wondering -'

  'Before I forget,' I broke in. 'Do you know anything about the Malory-Hope Foundation?'

  'Of course I do. Derek Malory-Hope started it. He died last year, and James and I went to his memorial service. You must have seen his obituary in The Caxley, surely?'

  'I seem to have missed it.'

  'I had lunch with his widow some time ago. Come to think of it, I called on you on the way back. Remember? Anyway what's the connection?'

  'I just saw that the Foundation has given a hefty sum towards repairing an ancient mill near Caxley.'

  'That's right. James mentioned it. Not that he has much to do with that side of their work. He's mixed up with the other part, the Hope Trust. You know, the orphan bit.'

  'What orphan bit?'

  'You must remember,' said Amy impatiently. 'Those houses in Scotland.'

  I cast my mind back to our holiday together, and saw again Floors Castle, Mellerstain and Sir Walter Scott's pile. Not an orphan in sight as far as I could recall.

  I said as much to Amy.

  'Not us,' she shouted in a most unladylike manner. 'We didn't visit the houses I'm talking about! James did. In Glasgow. For the orphans up there.'

  I said I still did not really understand.

  'Let's forget it,' said Amy. 'Anyway, besides the mill involvement, why are you worrying about the Malory-Hope Foundation?'

  'The vicar mentioned it.'

  'The vicar?' Amy sounded thunderstruck.

  After a pause, she resumed in a more normal voice. 'This conversation becomes more surrealistic every second. Let's start again. I really rang to see if you would be in on Saturday afternoon, as James has to go to Fairacre on business and he could drop me off as we come through Beech Green.'

  'Perfect. Come to tea, and I'll make some of that sticky gingerbread James likes.'

  'You spoil him. Sometimes I think James married the wrong woman.'

  'I'm certain he did!' I said, and put the telephone down smartly, before she could reply.

  I spent an uneasy night wondering about the vicar's letter, and the information Amy had provided about the Malory-Hope activities. More specifically, I worried about James's part as a busy member of the Hope Trust, or as Amy put it, 'the orphan bit'.

  If James, on the Trust's behalf, had bought Fairacre's two empty houses, did Amy have anything to do with it? If so, was I involved? Had I been whining more than usual about lack of pupils? Was it possible that my dwindling numbers had made James look into the possibility of the houses being bought by the Hope Trust, just as the Glasgow ones had been?

  If it were so, how would it affect me, and my friends in Fairacre? I began imagining crocodiles of orphans, all clad in a dreary uniform, roaming the village street under the stern eye of their jailers. The mind boggled at this Dickensian scene, though there would hardly be enough orphans to form a crocodile if they only had those two houses as their home.

  This brought me to even more conjecture. Surely it would be reasonable to have a much larger establishment to house orphans? It seemed very extravagant to use an ordinary family-sized house for such a project. On the other hand, had not James said something once about 'family units' in connection with his Glasgow excursion?

  I tossed and turned until my bedroom clock showed a quarter to four, when I must have fallen into a far from dreamless sleep, for Gerald Partridge and I, accompanied by Mrs Pringle, were busy herding about fifty real crocodiles into Mr Roberts's sheep dip at the foot of the downs, to immunize them ag
ainst crocodile-tetanus to which, as we all know, reptiles are particularly vulnerable because of their webbed toes—

  I was fit for nothing when the alarm went at seven.

  Naturally, I was anxious for the vicar's visit the next morning to see if the promised letter would give any further information.

  Assembly came and went. Playtime came and went. School dinner came and went, and the vicar was still absent.

  Mrs Richards departed with my class for the swimming bath at Caxley, while I took myself into the infants' room for the usual Friday afternoon lessons.

  After a short session of modelling tea trays complete with saucers and cups, and such intricate pieces of workmanship as teaspoons and crumpets, I embarked on two short poems by Robert Louis Stevenson. I am a great believer in stuffing young children's heads with worthwhile verse which they will have safely stored away for the rest of their lives.

  And so we learnt 'The Cow' and 'Happy Thought' from A Child's Garden of Verses, and I felt the afternoon had been profitably spent. I had quite forgotten my worries about the Hope Trust, empty houses and Amy and James, when the vicar arrived, envelope in hand.

  It was time for the children to go home, and the vicar obligingly helped me with shoe laces, coat buttons and all the sartorial problems of young children.

  Then, when the school was empty, he handed me the large envelope and roamed the classroom while I read.

  It was headed The Malory-Hope Foundation, and had an impressive list of directors, among whom, I noticed were James and, to my surprise Sir Barnabas Hatch, erstwhile employer of Miriam Baker.

  The letter was extremely polite and pointed out that negotiations had been satisfactorily completed, and that the Hope Trust, part of the above Foundation, was now the owner of the two Fairacre houses. Their local director, Mr James Garfield, would give himself the pleasure of calling upon the vicar, and the chairman of the Parish Council, Mr Lamb, to explain matters in greater detail and to hear local people's views and suggestions.

  It was envisaged that each home would house four, or possibly five children, with a house-father and mother to care for them. The children would be of school age, viz: from four and a half years to eleven. A leaflet explaining the aims and work of the Foundation was enclosed, and the same information had been sent to Mr Lamb.

  So that was why James was making a visit to Fairacre next Saturday was my first thought. The second was had I got some black treacle for the gingerbread?

  I looked across at the beaming face of the vicar, and only then did the true impact of this momentous news hit me. I felt stunned. The room gyrated in the oddest way, and I became conscious of the vicar's face close to mine. The smile had changed to an expression of concern.

  'My dear Miss Read, are you all right? It is a shock, I must admit, but a nice one, isn't it?'

  I pulled myself together. 'It's incredible,' I croaked. 'An answer to a maiden's prayer, definitely.'

  'And to a vicar's,' said Gerard Partridge soberly.

  Mrs Richards always saw off the children when she returned on Friday afternoons from swimming, and although I was longing to tell her the great news, I was glad to have some time to myself to think it over. I drove home still in a state of shock, but remembered to stop at Beech Green's village shop for the black treacle.

  After tea I set about making the gingerbread, and the cottage soon became redolent with the fragrance of cooking. As I went about greasing tins and mixing ingredients, my mind tried to come to terms with this amazing news.

  Eight new children! Was I right in thinking that the letter had said from four and a half to eleven years of age? I should have almost thirty in my school, and that would mean that it would remain safe from closure.

  I still wondered why our village should have been selected by the Hope Trust for its two new homes. Had James and Amy somehow connived in this happy arrangement, for my especial benefit? If so, it was embarrassing for me, although typical of their generous spirit.

  I could only possess my soul in patience until I saw them the next afternoon.

  Their car drew up at twenty past two, and Amy, elegant as ever, came in whilst James waved, and went on his way to Fairacre. I should like to have babbled away about all my hopes and fears but managed to appear fairly composed. In fact, it was Amy who made the first reference to our telephone conversation.

  'So have you found out any more about the vicar and the two new houses?'

  She sounded genuinely interested, and not at all like a conspirator.

  'Amy,' I said, 'you'll never believe this.'

  She listened attentively, her eyes growing rounder every minute.

  'And I must admit,' I confessed, 'that I thought you might have had a hand in it.'

  'Cross my heart and hope to die,' quoted Amy, making the appropriate gestures. 'Although, of course,' she added, looking rather pink, 'I may have mentioned your worries to James. Or, come to think of it, you often told us about them yourself when James was present.'

  This was true enough. We awaited James's return with as much patience as we could muster, and prepared the tea tray ready for his arrival. The gingerbread had turned out satisfactorily dark and sticky.

  James was his usual cheerful self, and greeted me affectionately. We were halfway through our tea when I broached the subject which meant so much to me and my school. James listened smiling, and then began to explain.

  'First of all, I must make it plain that Amy knew nothing about it. I didn't tell her a thing, knowing she can't keep a secret for two minutes anyway.'

  'Well!' gasped Amy outraged.

  'But, unknowingly, she did set things in motion, because she told me about your two empty houses and how steeply they had dropped in price. Of course, my tough old business instincts were aroused, and I thought of the Trust.'

  'But why at this precise time? Haven't you got other possible plans in this area?'

  'Since Derek's death we've had a large amount left to the Hope Trust, as you know, and we wanted more premises in these parts. He was a great believer in the family idea, and the next big project is to found a whole village, rather like the Pestalozzi one in Sussex. But that's not going to be ready for many a year, and so we are carrying on with the policy we have already. We've found that a few children get settled very quickly in a community, and the local school can absorb them easily. That's why we keep the units to school ages approximately, some like the Fairacre one's from roughly five to eleven, then some from eleven to about sixteen, and of course there are a number of babies' homes. We learnt a lot from visiting well-established places like Barnardo's.'

  'It's wonderful news for me,' I said. 'It makes the future really hopeful. When will they come?'

  He laughed, and took a third piece of gingerbread. 'I can't see them sitting in your desks until next year at the earliest. We've got to interview the couples who will be in charge of each house. Luckily we've got a splendid list of applicants, but we take a lot of trouble in matching them to the neighbours as well as the children.'

  It all sounded perfect, but I still had an uneasy twinge of guilt. 'James,' I said tentatively, 'you didn't do this for some quixotic reason, such as pleasing Amy and me?'

  'You flatter yourself,' he said sturdily. 'I can assure you I started the negotiations for two reasons only. The first was to put into operation Derek's wishes. The second reason was that I could not resist a bargain, and we shall never see house property as cheap again. Satisfied?'

  And with that I had to be content.

  Just before they went, James said: 'I'm taking Amy away for a break. She's never really recovered from that bang on the head, and I didn't help by inflicting that little rat Brian on her. You can be sure that won't happen again!'

  On Monday morning I broke the good news to Mrs Richards who was as thrilled as I was.

  'So Fairacre School is safe?'

  'It looks like it.'

  'Isn't that marvellous?'

  'Marvellous, indeed; and I'll let you choose
this morning's hymn to celebrate it.'

  She went to the piano stool and began to leaf through our shabby copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern.

  'What about "Let all the world in every corner sing"?' she enquired, swivelling round.

  'Perfect,' I said.

  At that moment I noticed Joseph Coggs, framed in the doorway. He was looking hopeful.

  'Yes, Joe,' I said. 'It's time for the school bell. You can ring out the glad tidings to everyone in Fairacre.'

  * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Miss Read is actually Mrs. Dora Saint, whose novels draw on her own memories of living and teaching in a small English village. She first began writing after the Second World War, mainly light essays about school and country matters, for several journals. Her first book, Village School, was published in England by Michael Joseph and then in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Company in 1955. She has since delighted millions of readers with both the Fairacre series and her equally well loved series about the Cotswold village of Thrush Green. Miss Read and her husband, a retired schoolmaster, have one daughter and enjoy a quiet life near Newbury, Berkshire.

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