(19/20) Farewell to Fairacre Read online

  'They're only doing two,' replied Amy. 'Madame Butterfly and Die Fledermaus.'

  'Which do you favour?'

  'Well, I like Puccini's music, but I like Fledermaus because it's such a romp. I want you to choose.'

  'I do draw the line at Madame Butterfly because the plot's even more silly than most, and I can't stick Lieutenant Pinkerton, nor that ghastly inevitable toddler who turns up, and Butterfly is such a wimp—'

  'Say no more,' said Amy, 'I gather you don't like it. So Fledermaus it is.'

  I felt suddenly guilty.

  'But Amy, if you prefer—'

  'I'd rather see the Strauss one, actually. I love Frosch, the jailer, and all his bits of business.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Positive. I'll send off for the tickets today. It's not until early December. Make a note of the day now, my dear, as I expect you'll be up to your ears in end-of-term jollities by then.'

  I told her about my dinner-party plans, and about poor disconsolate Henry Mawne.

  'Well,' said Amy briskly, 'your company should cheer him up. He was always so fond of you.'

  She hung up before I could protest.

  There was a nip in the air as I drove to school the next morning. Already the swallows were gathering on the telephone lines ready for departure to sunnier places. The rose hips glowed like scarlet beads in the hedges, and the first few puffs of wild clematis seed-heads were a foretaste of the grey clouds which would soon obscure the bushes over which they clambered.

  Autumn in this part of the world is always lovely, for we are blest with magnificent clumps of beech trees which thrive in this chalk country, and their blazing bronze lights the landscape when the sun shines upon them. I relish, too, the fruits of the earth, the blackberries, the crab apples, the sloes, and most of all the miraculous mushrooms, overnight pearls, which are a source of constant pleasure to those who come across them.

  I am ready, too, for the domestic pleasures of colder days.

  There is great satisfaction from the open fire in the cool evenings, particularly if it is fed with wood gathered by oneself. With the curtains drawn against the dark outside world, what could be more snug?

  And yet I am sad too at the onset of winter. I miss the flowers, the smell of cut grass, the singing birds, the humming bees, and all the scents and sounds of summer. The smell of autumn bonfires, the departure of the swallows, the bare brown fields and the basket full of blackberries are small consolation for that golden summer sun.

  When I arrived at school that morning, a little knot of children had gathered round a ladder on which Bob Willet was perched.

  He was replacing a tile which had slipped a foot or two from its rightful place, and had lodged in the gutter.

  'Been meaning to do this since the summer holidays,' he called down. 'You got enough rain through that dratted skylight without another leak here.'

  I agreed. Our school is over a hundred years old and needs constant vigilance to keep it weatherproof. Under Bob Willet's care we are kept warm and dry. The skylight, though, has defied generations of builders, and leaks whenever the wind and rain come from the south-west, its usual quarter.

  He gave a final tap to the tile and began to descend the ladder. The performance over, the children began to look about for different excitements.

  'Miss, miss,' called one of the new children who lived in the Bennetts' house. 'May I ring the bell?'

  So far, the child had been very quiet, a pretty pale girl but shy. To offer to ring the bell was a great advance.

  'I ain't rung it for ages!' growled Joseph Coggs. I have a soft spot for Joe, whose home and family are poor and pathetic, mainly because Arthur Coggs, the father, is incapable of keeping a job and lives mostly in the local public houses.

  'You often ring it,' I pointed out. 'But Alice has never done it. You can go inside with her, and get the bell rope down for her.'

  'But can I ring it?'

  'No. Perhaps just once to show her, and then it's Alice's job.'

  Beaming, the two departed, and the rest drifted away to savour their last few minutes of freedom.

  'I hear you're having Mr Mawne to supper this week,' said Bob. He was lowering the ladder carefully.

  The way that news flies around a village never ceases to dumbfound me.

  'Yes,' I said shortly.

  'That's nice of you,' commented Bob. 'Poor old boy looks pretty glum these days.'

  I did not answer, but began making my way to the school porch.

  Bob Willet straightened up, red in the face from his exertions.

  'There's a lot in Fairacre says you're a tough old biddy, but I alius maintain your 'eart's in the right place.'

  He trudged off, leaving me speechless at Fairacre's assessment of my character.

  Tough old biddy indeed!

  CHAPTER 3

  A Broken Evening

  Mrs Pringle, of course, knew about my proposed evening party almost as soon as I did.

  I do not think she approved of my invitation to Henry Mawne. She probably thought me fast, and possibly loose.

  But she was graciously pleased to approve of my inclusion of the Annetts in the invitation. She knows both well. Isobel, in her single days, was my valued assistant after Dolly Clare's retirement, and her neat ways were much approved by Mrs Pringle.

  'Leaves the classroom a fair treat,' was her summing up, and praise could go no higher.

  George Annett has been organist and choir master at St Patrick's for many years, and has put up with Maud Pringle's contralto bellowings, not unlike a cow deprived of its calf, for all that time. By nature a quick and impatient man, he certainly finds Mrs Pringle a sore trial in the choir.

  Her singing is powerful but not accurate. She tends to be slightly behind the rest of the choir in time, and decidedly flat when it comes to high notes.

  Nevertheless, she is a faithful member of the choir, and takes a proprietorial interest in the chancel woodwork, particularly the choir stalls, as a forebear of hers was one of the carpenters and joiners who refurbished that area during Victoria's reign.

  She approved of my having the party on a Wednesday evening.

  'Give me a chance to do you properly on Wednesday afternoon,' she said. 'Leave out that cutlery of yours and I'll give it a good go, and get the egg out of the forks.'

  I said that I should be grateful for such help.

  'Of course, the windows really wants cleaning, and that carpet's never been the same since you tripped over with the cheese sauce in your hand. And to my mind, that fireplace always looks tawdry. Never comes up like my stoves here.'

  'Well, you can't expect it. The stoves get attention every day.'

  'That's true,' agreed Mrs Pringle with smug satisfaction. 'I takes a pride in 'em. I suppose if your head's full of book-learning it hasn't got enough go left in it to notice the filth around the place.'

  Whether this was a compliment to my intelligence, or a real back-hander to my domestic standards, I could not be sure. A bit of both, I thought, and decided to let it pass without comment.

  In any case, Mrs Pringle likes to have the last word.

  On the evening of the party everything looked splendid.

  The table was spread with my best tablecloth, which had been left to me by Aunt Clara, together with her seed pearls and a very welcome hundred pounds, some thirty years ago. The glass and silver sparkled, and a vase of late roses stood in the centre of the table.

  I felt that my ancient place mats rather let the side down, but they were pretty on top, if shabby, and no one was likely to turn them over to examine the deplorable state of the baize backing during a polite dinner party.

  The evening was chilly, and I thought of my chicken casserole simmering away in the oven with some satisfaction. Perhaps I should have had soup for starters instead of melon? Too late now, I told myself, and went upstairs to change.

  Through the bedroom window I could just see, as the dusk deepened, that the Bramley apples were almost
ready to pick, and a few autumn leaves were strewn on the lawn. Mrs Pringle had set a fire for us, and it was now crackling away, throwing cheerful flickers of rosy light on the walls of my sitting-room, and glinting on the newly polished copper and brass.

  The Annetts were the first to arrive. Isobel was in a pretty dove-grey knitted suit and a handsome silk blouse, and George very spruce in his Sunday suit and a dashing Liberty tie.

  'My!' he exclaimed, warming his hands at the fire. 'You have made it all look so splendid! Dolly would be so pleased to see it.'

  'I wish she could,' I replied. 'I only hope I can care for it as well as she did.'

  Henry drove up a few minutes later. He looked a little less strained, I thought, as we asked for the latest bulletin on his wife's condition.

  'A little better, they said, when I rang just now. But no hope of her returning home, evidently, until all the tests are favourable.'

  We all agreed that it was far better to stay a little longer in the nurses' care, and to get really strong before facing the rigours of home affairs.

  'Have you met our newcomer yet?' asked George. 'You'd be interested in him, Henry. He has written a book about birds of prey.'

  'Not old Jenkins?' said Henry.

  'That's right.'

  'We were up at Cambridge together. Never kept in touch though. Where is he? He married some frightful woman in Kenya.'

  'Well, she died out there, and he's returned home. He's taken that little house just off the road between here and Fairacre. Up Pig Lane.'

  'It's called Downland Lane now,' I pointed out. 'Some of the new people thought Pig Lane was vulgar.'

  'I still call it Pig Lane,' said Henry.

  'So do I,' said George roundly.

  'I'll look him up,' promised Henry. 'I read his book. Not bad at all, considering Jenkins wrote it.'

  I left them to it while I went to dish up.

  I must say that my guests were most appreciative, and I basked in the warmth of their compliments. I am told that in some circles it is not considered polite to comment on the food served, but in these parts we take an active interest in the food put before us, and have no inhibitions about expressing our pleasure. I was grateful for my visitors' enthusiasm and pleased to see their hearty appetites.

  The conversation flowed easily. The newcomer was described by Henry, as he remembered him at university, as 'a decent sort of fellow, but a bit of a dreamer'.

  George Annett wanted to know if he could sing. Both the Fairacre and Beech Green church choirs were in need of male voices.

  This led to next spring's Caxley Festival, then a concert the Annetts had been to in London, and on to more homely affairs such as the imminent glut of apples, the failure of our local runner beans, and the good fortune of Fairacre school in having found eight or nine new pupils to stave off the possibility of closure.

  We adjourned to the fireside again, and I served coffee and passed round the box of mints which I had managed to remember.

  It was while we were thus happily engaged that the telephone rang and I went to answer it.

  A woman, sounding rather weary, spoke to me.

  'This is the County Hospital. We are trying to get in touch with Mr Mawne - Mr Henry Mawne - and have been told that he is staying with you.'

  I was somewhat taken aback by this suggestion that Henry was a resident in my home, but replied that Henry Mawne was here at the moment and that I would fetch him.

  I returned to my friends feeling extremely worried. It must be serious news if the hospital were urgently seeking Henry.

  They stopped their conversation as I entered, and looked up, coffee cups suspended.

  'It's the hospital, Henry,' I said gently.

  Henry struggled to his feet, the colour draining from his face.

  I led him through to the telephone, and made him sit down before handing him the receiver, and then returned to the Annetts. They looked as shaken as I felt.

  'It must be his wife,' whispered Isobel. 'But she was getting on so well. He said that he rang before coming here.'

  The happiness of the evening was suddenly shattered by this interruption. I refilled coffee cups, and went about my duties as a hostess with a very sick feeling.

  Henry reappeared after a few minutes. His face was ashen.

  'I must go at once,' he muttered. 'She's conscious, asking for me. The sister said something about a rapid deterioration.'

  He looked so shaky that I hastened towards him to propel him to a chair, but he motioned me away distractedly.

  'I'm so sorry, but I must go at once. Thank goodness I've got the car outside.'

  'Let me give you some more coffee before you go,' I urged, but he would have none of it.

  'I must hurry. I intended to give the hospital this number before I left home, but forgot. Luckily, Bob Willet was potting up in my conservatory and got their message. But, of course, he had to look up this number, and there was some delay. It's urgent that I set off.'

  George stood up. 'I shall drive you,' he said firmly.

  Poor Henry's face crumpled, and for a moment I thought that he would break down. But he took a deep breath, thanked me very touchingly for the evening, and went with George to the car.

  'But how will you get back,' whispered Isobel, 'if Henry stays?'

  'There are always taxis,' said George, following his passenger, who was now opening the car door. 'Stay here until I ring from the hospital.'

  We went to see them off, sending all sorts of hopeful messages to the invalid, but with heavy hearts.

  'Heaven help all three of them,' I said to Isobel, when we were back by the fire. I held up the coffee pot.

  'I couldn't, thanks. Let's wash up.'

  'No, no!' I protested, but was overborne.

  'Please. We won't do any good moping here. Let's mope while we do the dishes and wait for George to ring.'

  And so we did.

  It is some twenty miles to our County Hospital, and it was over an hour before George rang to say that he was returning by taxi. Henry was staying overnight and his car had been left in the hospital car park.

  'And his wife?'

  'Touch and go, I gather, but she spoke to Henry, which comforted him greatly.'

  'I'm glad you drove him,' I said. 'He was in no state to be in charge of a car.'

  'I'll be with you in half an hour,' he promised, as I handed the receiver to Isobel.

  He kept his word, and we all had the final drink of the evening before the two set out to walk home.

  The stars were out, and the night was still and chilly. I returned from my gate breathing in the unmistakable scent of autumn.

  On the whole, I thought, as I put down on the kitchen floor some delectable remains of the chicken for Tibby, it had been a happy evening. But what a sad ending!

  And what would the morrow hold for poor Henry?

  The next morning Bob Willet met me in the school playground in a most unusual state of agitation.

  'I've been that worried ever since the hospital called,' he told me. 'I didn't want to give 'em your number and upset the party, but they was so pushy - kept on and on - and in the end I thought I'd do as they said. I do hope that was right.'

  'Absolutely,' I told him, and went on to explain the urgency of the matter and that Mr Mawne was staying with his wife.

  He seemed much relieved. 'That's a comfort to me. If there's one thing I hates it's a Meddlesome Mattie, and I couldn't sleep last night for wondering if I'd done the right thing.'

  'You did. And your vegetables were much appreciated.'

  'And my brights?' boomed Mrs Pringle, who had appeared in time to hear the end of our conversation.

  'They made the place look like Buckingham Palace,' I assured her.

  With comparative peace restored we all three returned to our daily round.

  Amy came to see me that evening, bearing a large suitcase filled with cast-off clothes and household linen, for an imminent school jumble sale.

  'Good
heavens, Amy!' I exclaimed, turning over some elegant jumpers and skirts. 'I think I shall take first pick.'

  'Not your colours, dear,' replied Amy, settling herself on the sofa. 'Besides, it's quite wrong to snaffle all the best things before the sale starts. It's done far too often at Bent and elsewhere, but I hoped that Fairacre had more moral integrity.'

  'My, my, Amy! You make me feel like an opium-runner or white-slaver! In any case, we have an admirable practice in Fairacre when it comes to jumble sales and bazaars.'

  'And what's that?'

  'The helpers are allowed to pick one object - and one only - before the doors open. After all, they've done the donkey work, and it does seem to work well.'

  'I shall introduce the practice at Bent,' promised Amy. 'Now tell me how the party went.'

  I told her all. She shook her head sadly.

  'Poor woman! One wonders if it would be kinder to see her go if things are as bad as that. Poor Henry, too: he will be lonely.'

  She looked at me with the speculative gaze I have learnt to dread.

  'Like a cup of coffee?' I asked hastily.

  'Love one. And by the way, James sent a message to say that your second house will definitely be ready at half term.'

  Amy's husband was one of the directors of the Malory-Hope Trust, and his particular part in its work was the seeking of suitable family-sized houses for the orphans in the care of the Trust. He had recently been instrumental in buying some terraced houses in Glasgow for this work, and since then the two new Fairacre houses which had remained empty for so long.

  I had wondered if James had thought of the possible closure of my school when the Trust had purchased this new property, and I had certainly felt somewhat guilty about the school's dwindling pupils.

  When I taxed James with my guilty fears, he was hot in denying it. The fact was, he told me, that the property was never going to be as cheap again, so that he knew he would be getting a bargain on the Trust's behalf. Secondly, Sir Derek Malory-Hope, the original founder, had been keen to have several local homes and had expressed this wish a short time before his death. James, as his friend and colleague, was simply carrying out his desires.