Village Centenary Read online

  'No idea, but he knew what he was talking about,' said Amy with feeling.

  Over our frugal repast, the conversation turned to Caxley's Festival. I told Amy about Miss Quinn's part in it and our dearth of suggestions in Fairacre.

  'Well, in an expansive moment I agreed to have a poetry reading in my house. Do you think anyone will come?'

  'The poets will, presumably.'

  'That's what I'm afraid of. I mean, shall I be stuck with half a dozen sensitive types, possibly all jealous of each other and with no audience to listen to them? How can I be sure we get a nice, kind, attentive crowd?'

  'They'll come,' I assured her. 'Lots of people will simply come to see your house and garden, poets or no poets. Others will be culture-vultures, and game to listen to anything in the cause of Art, and others will feel they can't waste the ticket.'

  'And there are bound to be the poets' relations,' agreed Amy, looking more hopeful. 'I wonder if we could organise a group from the evening classes in Caxley? You know the sort doing English Literature? The Beowulf bunch, for instance.'

  '"Weave we the warp. The woof is wub" sort of thing, you mean? I don't see why not. English Literature classes should swell the audience nicely, and if you're short, I'll come and sit in the front row.'

  'I'm counting on you, anyway,' said Amy, selecting a large stick of celery, 'to pass round the sausage rolls.'

  'You'll need something far more spiritual than sausage rolls,' I told her. 'You'll have to have nectar and ambrosia, and lots of "beaded bubbles winking at the brim" for a poetry evening.'

  'We'll have lashings of the latter,' promised Amy, and crunched into the celery.

  It was still blowing a gale when Amy left me at about nine-thirty. I saw by the light of her headlamps that a sizable branch had been torn from the horse chestnut tree in the garden, and the path was strewn with twigs and dead leaves. It was going to be pretty draughty sitting under that skylight tomorrow, I thought, if this weather continued.

  I sat down by the fire again, and had a belated look at the daily papers. It was the usual conglomeration of strike threats, travel delays, violence, war and sudden death, and the most peaceful reading was the crossword and the obituaries.

  The wind howled like a banshee and I found it distinctly unnerving. With Amy for company I had not noticed the vicious elements outside. Now, alone and responsible for any damage done, I became unusually jittery.

  A cupboard door by the fireplace creaked slowly open, and I felt my blood pressure rising. Would a yellow clawlike hand with immensely long nails, Chinese fashion, appear round it? Or a black hand perhaps, holding a dagger? Or a white one dangling a knuckle duster?

  'You've been reading too many bloods,' I thought, and steeled myself to shut the door firmly. At the same moment, Tibby rose, fur bristling, and advanced towards the kitchen door, growling horribly. I watched her, mesmerised. Could someone have broken in? Had I locked the back door earlier? Probably not, we are a trusting lot in Fairacre, and, under cover of the appalling racket outside it would be quite easy for someone to gain entry.

  What should I do? Should I ring Caxley police? Should I arm myself with the poker and fight it out? Reason told me that any burglar, no matter how puny, could easily twist a weapon out of my grasp and use it to belabour me.

  Surely I had read somewhere that it was best to offer no resistance. After all, hospitals are severely overcrowded without unnecessary casualties awaiting admission. If it were money that the intruder wanted he was going to be unlucky. I might rustle up three pounds or so, but that would be the most I could find in the schoolhouse at short notice. True, Aunt Clara's seed pearls might be acceptable, but that would constitute the bulk of my jewellery.

  I took a deep breath, and flung open the door. The kitchen was as quiet as the grave. Tibby sat down and began to wash her face in the most maddeningly unconcerned fashion.

  'Time I was in bed,' I told her, and went.

  To my surprise, I had a letter from the office about the skylight. Obviously my pleas had touched some compassionate heart, and the gist of the reply was that this particular item, under 'minor works', would be treated as an emergency, and that Mr Reginald Thorn, of the Nook, Beech Green, had been instructed to call and examine the offending structure.

  'Should have thought the office could've found someone with a bit more up top than old Reg,' commented Mr Willet, when I imparted the good news. 'Proper dog's dinner he'll make of it. I reckon I'd make a better job of it meself.'

  I too had no doubts on that score, for Mr Willet's handiwork, whether with seedlings, paintbrush or bolts and screws, is always beautifully done. But the office had appointed Reg Thorn and that was that.

  'When do you think he'll come?'

  Mr Willet pushed back his cap to scratch his head.

  'Now that's asking! I know for a fac' he's making a dresser for that new chap at Beech Green post office, and Mrs Mawne is going up the wall about some shelving he promised her last autumn and hasn't never done yet.' 'He's like that, is he?'

  Mr Willet pursed his mouth judicially.

  'Well, he's not a bad sort of chap, old Reg, but he's no flier. I mean, he says he'll do summat, and he means it too, but his trouble is he can't say "No" to no one, so the work sort of piles up.'

  'So you reckon it'll be the summer before he gets round to our skylight?'

  'Now, I'm not saying that. This bein' an office job like, and with forms and that to fill in, well, it might make old Reg get a move on. On the other hand, if all the other people get a bit whacky, and bully him, maybe he'll do their jobs to keep 'em happy. There's no telling.'

  He raised his voice to a bull-like roar.

  'Get off that there coke, you young devils, or I'll tan the skin off of your backsides, and you can tell your mums and dads why I done it!'

  Mr Willet's method of dealing with the young might not find favour with modern psychologists, but it clears the coke pile in record time.

  Whether Reg Thorn was awed by the county's official letter, or simply wished for a change of job, thus evading his earlier customers who were breathing fire, no one will ever know. But the outcome was decidedly cheering for me. Reg Thorn arrived within the week just as we were dishing out minced lamb (alleged - I suspected some manmade fibre) and mashed swede.

  He was a tall lantern-jawed fellow, and said very little. He gazed up at the skylight with an expression of gloom. I had served all the children, and dispatched the containers to the lobby to await Mrs Pringle's ministrations, before he spoke.

  'Rotted,' he said.

  I agreed.

  He sighed heavily.

  'Still leaks?'

  'It's been doing it for nearly a hundred years.'

  'Ah! Looks like it.'

  He remained rooted to the spot, very much in the way of the children returning their plates, but I did not like to say so. At length, he spoke again.

  'Best see outside. All right?'

  'Yes indeed. Mr Willet's ladder is by the wall if you want it.'

  'Got me own. Insurance, see.'

  To my relief he vanished, only to reappear framed in the skylight some minutes later. He appeared to be gouging pieces of wood from the window frame, and I only hoped that this operation would not add to the draught trouble.

  I served helpings of crimson jelly decorated with blobs of rather nasty artificial cream. It is the children's favourite sweet and I was kept so busy scraping the tin for second helpings that I was quite startled to see Reg again at my elbow.

  'Needs a dormer,' he shouted above the clatter.

  'Won't that be expensive?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, it's up to the people at the office,' I shouted back. 'You can only tell them what you think.'

  'Ah!' agreed Reg, and plodded off towards the door.

  'My mum,' said Patrick conversationally, 'says old Reg don't get nothin' done in a month of Sundays.'

  'That will do,' I replied witheringly. Privately, I feared that Patrick's m
um was probably dead right.

  Time alone would tell.

  There is a widespread belief among town dwellers that remarkably little happens in the country. As any villager will tell you, the amount of activity that goes on is quite exhausting.

  I am not thinking of the agricultural pursuits by which most of us get our living, but of the social side of life. What with the Women's Institute, amateur dramatics, various regular church activities such as choir practice and arranging the flowers, Cubs and Brownies for the younger people, fetes, jumble sales and whist drives, one could be out every night of the week if one so wished.

  As village schoolmistress I try not to take on too much during term time, although I do my best to make amends in the holidays, but nevertheless one has to face pressing requests for such things as two dozen sausage rolls for the Fur and Feather Whist Drive, or a raffle prize for the Cubs' Social.

  It was no surprise then, when Mrs Pringle approached me one morning and asked if I would do her a favour. This polite phrase, accompanied by a slight lessening of malevolence in her expression, was the prelude to my whipping up a sponge for some cause dear to her stony heart, I guessed.

  I was right, or nearly so.

  'I'm helping Mrs Benson with Cruelty to Children,' she announced. 'Could you give us a bottle of something? It's a good cause, this Cruelty to Children.'

  I wondered if a bottle of arsenic, or even castor oil, would be fitting in the circumstances.

  'Anything, Mrs Benson says, from whisky to shampoo. Or even homemade wine,' she added.

  At that moment the children surged in in a state of wild excitement.

  'It's snowing, miss,' they yelled fortissimo.

  In the stampede, Ernest stood heavily and painfully upon my foot.

  'I'll find you something,' I promised Mrs Pringle, as I retired, wincing.

  And if ever anyone needs support for the Prevention of Cruelty to Teachers, I thought, nursing my wounds, I shall be in the forefront.

  Fortunately the snow was not severe. One or two flurries during the afternoon soon died out, leaving the playground wet but not white, for which I was thankful. It was good to get home again by the fire on such a cheerless day. I was relishing a cup of tea and Tibby's welcoming purrs, when Mrs Willet arrived.

  She is a neat quiet little person and renowned in Fairacre for her domestic efficiency. Mrs Willet's sponge cakes and home-made jam invariably take first prizes at our Flower Show, and if there were awards for laundry work and exquisite mending she would doubtless take those too.

  She accepted a cup of tea after some demurring and sat rather primly on the edge of her chair. Tibby rubbed round her lisle-clad legs affectionately, and soon Mrs Willet began to look more relaxed.

  'Has Mrs Pringle asked for a bottle?' she said at last.

  'Yes. I can find her one quite easily.'

  This sounded as though I had a cellar stuffed with strong drink, and as I knew that Mrs Willet and her husband were staunch teetotallers I wondered if she would disapprove.

  'Then I hardly like to ask you for anything more, Miss Read, but the truth is I've taken on a book stall at this bazaar of Mrs Benson's, and I wondered if you could spare one.'

  'You can have a dozen,' I cried. 'Probably two dozen. I'll bring them down during the week.'

  'Bob'll do that,' Mrs Willet assured me. 'You put 'em in a sack, and he'll hump 'em home all right.'

  I was not too happy about my books-even rejected ones - ending up in a sack, but said I would have a word with Mr Willet when they were ready.

  'And what's happening about the centenary?' asked Mrs Willet. 'Any plans?'

  'Not firm ones,' I prevaricated. 'Do you remember much about the school when you were here?'

  'Quite a bit, though I started school in Caxley. We didn't move out to Fairacre until the end of the Great War, sometime in 1918. I had an auntie that lived in one of those cottages near the post office.

  'What brought you from Caxley?'

  'Lack of money,' said Mrs Willet sadly. 'My dad was killed in the January in France, and Mum had three of us at home with her. Mum got a good job helping at the Manor here, so we up-sticks and came to Fairacre.'

  'A big change for you.'

  'We liked it. Mr Hope was the headmaster here then, and a good kind chap he was although he was on the bottle then, poor soul, and that was the ruin of him. Fairacre was a lot different then - more shops and that. There was a smithy and two bakers, as well as a butcher and the stores. I used to have my dinner at the baker's sometimes.'

  'Why was that?'

  'Well, once a week my mum and auntie had to stay all day at the Manor. I believe Auntie did a bit of dressmaking there, and Mum had to do the windows. Something extra anyway. Most of the children took sandwiches to school, but there was a lot of horseplay among the big boys and Mr Hope didn't come over to stop 'em, as by rights he should've done. I was fair scared, so Mum made an arrangement that I had two boiled eggs and bread and butter and a cake at Webster's, on the day she was up the Manor.'

  'What happened to the other two children?'

  'Oh, they were younger, not school age, and went with Mum and Auntie. So they had their dinner in the Manor kitchen. Best meal of the week, Mum said. Always a cut off the joint and vegetables from the kitchen garden, and a great fruit pie to follow, but I wasn't envious. I felt like a queen having my boiled eggs at the shop.'

  'With the baker's family?'

  'Oh no! Much better than that! There were two or three marble-topped tables for customers. Not that anyone ever came in to eat when I was there, but the Websters did teas for these cyclists that were all about, and ramblers, as they were called before they turned into hikers. Sometimes someone from the village would pop in for a loaf or a pennorth of yeast, and then I'd feel very superior being waited on. My meal cost sixpence, 1 remember, and 1 could choose any cake I liked from the window, after the eggs and bread and butter.'

  'And what did you choose?'

  'Always a doughnut. It was either that, or a currant bun or a queen cake. I reckoned a doughnut was the best value. I had that with a glass of milk. Not bad for sixpence.'

  I agreed. Mrs Willet's eyes became dreamy as she looked back almost sixty years.

  'There was a lovely picture pinned up on the wall. I think it was an advertisement for Mazawattee tea. There was this lady in a long skirt and a fur stole, with a beautiful hat on top with her Queen Alexandra fluffy fringe just showing. She was sitting on a park bench, and dangling a little parcel, with "Mazawattee" written on it, from one finger. She had on the most beautiful long suede gloves. I often wondered why she was sitting on a park bench in such gorgeous clothes. It might have dirtied them.'

  'Probably collapsed exhausted after carrying a quarter of tea,' I suggested.

  'She had a lovely face,' went on Mrs Willet. 'I thought I should like to look like that when I was grown up. But there, it never happened.'

  She put down her cup, and began to get up.

  'How I do run on! But it's nice to talk of old times. Bob thinks it's a waste of time to hark back, but I enjoy it. That's why I hope you'll be able to think of something for the centenary. We've got a lot to be thankful for in this village, and the school's the real centre of it.'

  'It's good to hear you say so,' I told her. 'Never fear! We'll do the thing in style. And I won't forget the books.'

  I showed her out into the murky winter dusk, and returned to my fire with much to think about. One day soon, I told myself, I must look through the school log books for some inspiration.

  But before I had a chance to do this, Miss Briggs put forward an idea of her own.

  'What about dressing the children in the costume of the 1880s, and making the schoolroom much as it was then? We could have copybooks, with pot hooks and hangers, and let them chant their tables, and even have a cane on the teacher's desk.'

  I agreed that such a tableau vivant would no doubt appeal to the parents, but wondered if it might be rather ambitious.
r />   'Why?' demanded Miss Briggs.

  'Rigging out the children, for one thing. Plenty of parents could make the clothes for one, say, but I can't see big families like the Coggses even beginning.'

  Miss Briggs began to look mutinous, and I hastily made amends.

  'But I do like the idea, and we'll keep it in mind. After all, any brain waves we have will probably need to be modified. We must remember, though, that space is limited, and if all the children are present there won't be a lot of room for grown-ups.'

  My assistant looked slightly less aggressive, and I began to wonder if this would be a good opportunity to discuss her too-prompt departure after school, but decided to postpone the task, as a bevy of infants swarmed in bearing one of their number with a bleeding knee, all bawling as fiercely as the wounded one. It was not the time for a delicate matter of school discipline, but I determined to broach it before the week was out.

  Later that day, Miss Briggs approached me, starry-eyed.

  'I've had another idea. Perhaps the vicar would dress up as the Reverend Stephen Anderson-Williams. I see from the log book that he was here for the first ten years of the school's existence, and seemed to pop in daily.'

  I hardly liked to tell her, after throwing cold water on her earlier idea, that the reverend gentleman she had named was still remembered by the older generation, as the man who had left a perfectly good wife and six young children at his vicarage to run off with a sloe-eyed beauty from Beech Green. He was never seen again, but it was believed that he and his inamorata made a home together in Belgium.

  Somehow, I doubted if the present vicar would wish to portray him in our revels. The Reverend Stephen Anderson-Williams would be better forgotten in my opinion, especially as some of his descendants still lived in the Caxley area.

  'It's quite a thought,' I said guardedly, and we left it at that.

  There was a sudden lull in the bleak weather, and for the best part of a week the sky was a pellucid blue, and the wind from the downs was warm and balmy. The catkins fluttered in the hedge. Bulbs thrust their stubby noses through the soil, and the birds, bright in their courting finery, began looking for nesting places.