(8/20) Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre Page 3

  But my plans were frustrated by the weather. Rain lashed across the garden, the distant downs were invisible, and it was so cold that I lit a fire in my sitting room.

  Amy rang to see how I was getting on, and I vented my frustration into her listening ear.

  'As Burns says: "The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley",' she quoted.

  I was not comforted. 'Well my schemes certainly have "ganged agley",' I told her. 'What about yours?'

  'We're off to a wedding tomorrow, and apart from a mackintosh, Wellingtons and a sou-wester, I can't think what to wear.'

  'Thermal underwear for a start, and then anything warm under the mac.'

  'I expect you're right. And how are things with you? Is Mrs Pringle still playing up?'

  'Mrs Pringle,' I said forcefully, 'will be lighting the school stoves this week, come hell or high water, if this weather lasts.'

  'Attagirl!' said Amy, putting down the receiver.

  School began on the Tuesday. I saw Mrs Pringle sloshing through the puddles in the playground soon after eight that morning. She was wearing a raincoat, Wellingtons and a shiny plastic head square, and carried the usual oilcloth bag on her arm.

  I snatched a coat from the peg on the kitchen door and sped after her. She was busy unlocking the school when I caught up.

  'Mrs Pringle! Let's get inside and out of this downpour.'

  We gained the comparative peace of my classroom. A pool of water lay on the floor immediately below the skylight in the roof. It was my first encounter with a problem which would be with me throughout my teaching years at Fairacre School.

  'Good heavens!' I exclaimed. 'We must get this seen to.'

  Mrs Pringle gave something between a snort and a sarcastic laugh.

  'That there skylight has been seen to more times than I can remember,' she told me, with considerable satisfaction, 'and nothing don't make no difference.'

  'Do you mean it has leaked for years?'

  'Every winter. Every drop of rain. Every storm. Every snow shower..."

  'But it can't be beyond the wit of man to put it to rights,' I broke in before Mrs Pringle called upon all the armoury of the heavens to prove her point.

  'It's beyond the wit of Bob Willet,' she said, 'and if he can't fathom it, there's none else can. Why, we've even had people out from Caxley, sent by The Office what's more, and they've been beat.'

  'Well, we shall have to try again,' I said. 'It was sheer luck that it didn't drip all over my desk.'

  'Most head teachers have shifted this 'ere desk along a bit when it starts raining. Only needs a bit of forethought,' she said rudely.

  I ignored the thrust, and gave one of my own.

  'I came over early to say we'd better have the stoves alight now.'

  'The stoves? Alight?' gasped the lady. 'What, in this weather?'

  'Particularly in this weather.'

  'But it's still October!'

  'I really don't care if it is June, Mrs Pringle. The children can't work in this temperature, and I don't intend to let them try.'

  'But what will The Office say?"

  'What the Office says I can well answer,' I said, beginning to lose patience. 'All I am asking is that you will be good enough to put a match to each of the stoves. I know you have set them already, and Mr Willet has brought in coke.'

  Mrs Pringle's face began to be suffused with an unpleasant shade of red, and her bosom heaved as busily as a Regency heroine's. I began to wonder, with some alarm, how one dealt with an apoplectic fit, and wished, not for the first time, that I had undertaken that course in first-aid which I kept postponing.

  But her voice came out steadily and with such malevolence that Miss Clare's talk of evil rushed into my mind.

  'You knows what you are starting, I suppose? It's not just a match as is needed, it's cleaning out, setting again, clearing up the mess, heaving in the coke, day in and day out for months to come. And all when there's no need.'

  'But there is need,' I said as bravely as I could under this onslaught. I was ashamed to feel my legs beginning to shake, and my inside becoming decidedly queasy. There was no doubt about it, Mrs Pringle was a formidable enemy. I could see how she barged her way, like a tank, through village affairs.

  'And what about my poor leg?' she thundered, thrusting her furious face close to mine.

  I retreated hastily, stepping into the puddle. 'What about it?' I countered.

  'Doctor Martin says I'm to respect my leg. It flares up if I overdoes it, and seeing to these stoves isn't going to help.'

  I summoned all my failing strength. 'In that case, should you be doing this job? I've no wish to impose on an invalid, but these stoves must be lit this morning.'

  Mrs Pringle drew in an outraged breath, ready for a renewed attack, but I made a swift exit with as much dignity as I could muster, and was thankful to return to my kitchen, and a cup of coffee which did little to calm my shattered nerves.

  But the stoves were lit.

  I was conscious that Mrs Pringle's leg was being dragged along heavily for the rest of the day, and an ominous silence hung over any chance meeting we had, but I refused to offer an olive branch. If she wanted to sulk then that suited me; as long as she did her work that was really all that mattered. I was not going to pander to Mrs Pringle's feelings, or her leg.

  Mr Willet came up that evening bearing two large marrows which would have been enough for a family of twelve, let alone one spinster. I thanked him effusively and invited him in.

  'Well, just for half a minute,' he said, wiping his boots vigorously on the kitchen mat. 'I see you've managed to get the stoves goin'.'

  I had suspected that this visit was not only to deliver two marrows. Now I knew his real motive.

  'Well, it was cold enough,' I said. I was careful to remain unforthcoming. Village prattle grows as it spreads, like bindweed.

  'But I bet you had a battle with our Mrs Sunshine,' responded Mr Willet, unabashed.

  I confessed that I had.

  'You don't want to worry overmuch about her feelin's,' he said, sturdily. 'She's been the same since she was so high.'

  He held a horny hand six inches from the floor.

  'Always a tartar, that one. Why, I can tell you how I first rumbled our Mrs Pringle, and I bet she remembers it as well as I do.'

  'But I oughtn't to keep you,' I began weakly.

  Bob Willet settled back in his chair. 'It was like this,' he said.

  As a child, Bob Willet had lived in a cottage between the villages of Springbourne and Fairacre. There were several children, and Bob's mother was well known as a fine disciplinarian, a good mother and an exemplary housewife.

  In Springbourne itself was another family, the Picketts, who did not come up to Mrs Willet's high standards. One of the sons, Ted Pickett, attended Fairacre School and often called on his way to pick up the Willet children.

  Mrs Willet senior was not best pleased at this attention, and hoped that Bob's obvious admiration for Ted, a year or two older than he was, would soon fade. But the friendship grew stronger as the days passed, and Bob's mother resigned herself to the inevitable.

  One day, in the summer holidays when Bob was about eight and Ted nearing ten, the two boys wandered into Fairacre and sat on a sunny bank by the roadside.

  In those days there was a sizeable duck pond in Fairacre, and the boys watched the ducks going about their lawful occasions. It was too hot to be energetic, and the lads were content to loll back chewing grass and wishing they had a penny, or even a halfpenny, to buy liquorice strips or four gob-stoppers from the village shop.

  Before long, a little girl about Bob's age appeared on the other side of the pond where a duck board sloped from the further bank into the water. She took up her position at the top of the board and made clucking noises. The ducks, excited and trusting, rushed towards her in a flurry of wings and water.

  'Wotcher!' shouted Ted, languidly.

  'Who is she?' asked Bob.

  'That Maud
.'

  'What Maud?'

  'Comes to stop with the Bakers. Auntie or something.'

  Bob knew the Bakers. They were an elderly childless couple living in a neat bungalow at the other end of Springbourne. No one knew much about them, and they 'kept themselves to themselves' as the villagers said, usually with approval.

  The general feeling was that it was good of them to have young Maud Gordon now and again, to give her mother a rest. She was a singularly unattractive child which made their kindness even more laudable. Mrs Baker and Mrs Gordon, it was understood, had been in service together and had remained friends.

  'Them ducks wants some bread,' yelled Ted, hands behind his head and legs stretched out in the sunshine.

  Maud tossed her head, and then put out her tongue.

  'Watch it!' shouted Ted. 'You'll be stuck like it if the wind changes!'

  Bob was a silent admirer of these witticisms from his hero, but did not attempt to add his share.

  Maud squatted down on the board and began to splash water over the milling crowd of ducks. They quacked and flapped but did not retreat, still hoping, no doubt, that food would soon be forthcoming.

  'Watch your step, Maudie!' bawled Ted, and at that the girl stood up, slipped on the slimy board and landed with one leg sunk deep into the muddy water and one outstretched on the duckboard. Her cotton skirt was stained and dripping, and she was gasping with shock.

  Bob was half-frightened although he could see that very little had happened to the girl. But Ted put back his head and roared his amusement to the blue sky above.

  'That'll learn you,' he wheezed. 'Teasin' them poor birds! Serves you right. Now run home and tell yer auntie. She'll give you what for!'

  Maud struggled out of the pond, and stumped furiously past the boys. Her face was scarlet and one shoe squelched as she made for home.

  'You wait, Ted Pickett!' she stormed. 'I'll tell on you!'

  Mr Willet paused and looked at my kitchen clock.

  'Here I sits natterin' on, and I expect I'm keepin' you from somethin'. Ironin' and that, say?'

  'Fat from it,' I assured him. 'Go on. Did she tell?'

  'That she did, the little besom,' said Mr Willet. 'She went straight home, and she knew damn well she'd get into trouble over that mucky frock, so she said Ted Pickett had pushed her in.'

  'No!'

  'Yes! The little liar! Why, Ted and me hadn't stirred from that bank. It was much too hot to muck about.'

  'What happened?'

  'Our Maud told the tale all right, tears and all, and Mrs Baker came storming up to the Picketts' place, breathin' fire and brimstone, so poor old Ted was sent upstairs to wait for his Dad to come home and use his belt.'

  'Ted wasn't believed?'

  'No. And I didn't know until the next day when Ted showed me his behind - begging your pardon, miss.'

  I assured him that I was not shocked.

  'And even if I had stuck up for Ted that afternoon, I don't suppose them Picketts would have believed me. After all, boys hangs together at times like that. No, poor old Ted fairly copped it, and all through our Mrs Pringle. Ted's dad was a hefty bloke, and when he used the strap you knew it all right.'

  Mr Willet sighed heavily at things remembered, and got to his feet.

  'Poor old Ted,' he repeated. 'We stayed friends right up to the outbreak of war, though my old ma never really approved. We joined up the same day in Caxley, but Ted never got back from Dunkirk.'

  'That's a sad ending.'

  'Sad for both of us,' admitted Bob Willet. 'I always touches his name when I pass the war memorial by the church gate. I miss him still, poor old Ted.'

  I accompanied him out of the front door, and thanked him again for the marrows and his story.

  'Well, I only told you because I don't want you to worry about Maud Pringle's little ways. She was born a tartar, and she's stayed that way. All Fairacre knows it, so you keep a stout heart.'

  I promised that I would, and went back into my house much comforted.

  To my secret relief, Mrs Pringle kept the stoves going throughout this unreasonably chilly spell. She even bent so far as to address me now and again, and her leg was not dragged quite so heavily as the days passed. I was not so sanguine as to imagine that all was forgiven, but at least our relationship was civil, if not exactly cordial.

  A week or two after our clash over the stoves, Mrs Pringle spoke of Fairacre Women's Institute, and urged me to join.

  'It sounds a good idea,' I told her, 'it means that I shall get to know more people.'

  'Well, that's a mixed blessing,' was her gloomy reply. 'There's some in this village as should be drummed out, to my way of thinking. Like them Coggses.'

  I had heard about Arthur Coggs already, evidently the village ne'er-do-well, and a strong supporter of 'The Beetle and Wedge'. His young and fast-growing family, not to mention his down-trodden wife, went in fear of him. Later I was to have his son Joseph as a pupil.

  'But apart from them undesirables,' continued Mrs Pringle, 'there's a lot of good folk you'd like. Mrs Partridge is President. She looks after us a fair treat.'

  I could imagine that she would, brave, fair-minded and tactful woman that she was. A vicar's wife must get plenty of day-to-day training in diplomacy.

  Consequently, I took myself along to the next meeting and was welcomed with surprising warmth.

  We all sang 'Jerusalem' with varied success, listened to interminable arrangements about various activities to which no one apparently wanted to go, and voted on paper for our choice of Christmas treat, Caxley pantomime, tea-party with magician in the village hall, or coach trip to London for Christmas shopping. I plumped for the last, and had visions of going straight to Harrods Food Hall and buying almost all my Christmas presents there in one fell swoop.

  After that, a very nervous flower-arranger who was inaudible except to those of us in the front row, showed us how to make 'The Best of our Late Blooms'. The response was lack-lustre, I felt, and only the knitters behind me, busy clicking their needles, really benefitted.

  But tea time was the real highlight. Despite the fact that it was past eight o'clock in the evening, we all fell upon home-made sponges, wedges of treacle tart, shortbread fingers, and squares of sticky gingerbread, as though we had not seen food for weeks.

  I met a host of cheerful women, several of them with children at the school, and many of them former pupils, and went home as a fully paid-up member of Fairacre's W.I.

  It will not surprise any newcomer to a village to know that I was also committed to supplying a contribution to the next month's tea table, and had agreed to stand in for the Treasurer when she had her baby.

  Of such stuff is village life made. And very nice, too.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mrs Willet Goes Farther

  One of the nicest women I met at our local Women's Institute was Alice Willet, wife of Bob. She had been at our school as a child, and had many memories of Fairacre folk including Maud Gordon when she visited her adopted uncle and aunt during the school holidays.

  'Mind you,' she said, 'I could never take to her. She was a year or two older than me, and bossy with it. I kept out of her way when she was around in Fairacre.'

  Some years later, it seems, Miss Parr, who lived at the largest house in Fairacre, was looking for a housemaid to replace her well-trained Mary who had been with her for over twenty years and had had the effrontery to get married.

  Miss Parr was a great power in the village. She had, in fact, been the most venerable of the school governors who had appointed me to the headship of Fairacre School, and so I was particularly interested in her history.

  Her family, it appears, came from Lancashire where innumerable cotton mills had brought them much wealth in the last century. Hard-headed and shrewd, the money had been invested, not only in enlarging the mills, but in divers other money-making ventures. Miss Parr had inherited a fortune, as well as the commonsense of her forbears, and lived in style in the Queen Anne hous
e in Fairacre.

  She employed a head gardener and an under-gardener, and a chauffeur to look after her limousine. Indoors, a cook and a housemaid coped with most of the chores, although a succession of what Miss Parr termed 'village women' came in to help with 'the rough' and the laundry work.

  Those she employed spoke well of her, and stayed in her service. She was not lavish in her payments but they were paid on the dot, and in those hard times one was lucky to have a job at all. Also, when the garden was producing more than one lone lady and her staff could consume, the gardeners and the daily helpers could take home this welcome largesse to their families.

  'She kept a sharp eye on things, of course,' said Mrs Willet. 'I mean, her people had made their money by looking after the pennies, and she took after them. And when she found old Biddy Stamper had helped herself to a bunch of grapes and some peaches from the hot-house, and was trying to smuggle them out with the washing, she got the sack there and then, and never set foot in the house again.'

  Mrs Willet nodded her approval before continuing. 'Well, when Mary left, Mrs Pringle's auntie, Mrs Baker, she went up to Miss Parr's to see if she could put in a word for her Maud. Mrs Baker was one of the women that helped with the ironing each week, so she knew the house and all that. Miss Parr thought a lot of her. She was a dab hand with the ironing, and could use a goffering iron.'

  'I've never heard of such a thing!' I exclaimed.

  'Oh, it was what you used to crimp the edges of things. Mary's afternoon caps had to be goffered, and some collars too that she wore. I believe some people even goffered the frills round their pillow cases. Anyway, Mrs Baker was famous for her goffering, and Miss Parr had a soft spot for anyone as was good at their particular job.'

  Thus it was that Miss Parr agreed to see Maud, and up the girl went, all dressed neat-but-not-gaudy, to the big house one evening.

  'And did she get the job?'

  'She did. We was all a bit surprised seeing that Maud was so much younger than Mary, but she'd had a good bit of experience at the Howards' place in Caxley, both in their house and the restaurant, so top and bottom of it was she was taken on.'