(16/20)Summer at Fairacre Read online

  '"I will lift up my eyes unto the hills: from whence cometh my help,"' quoted Mr Partridge. 'You know I find them as much comfort as the psalmist did. They put our own petty affairs into perspective.'

  'Absolutely,' I agreed. 'Like ducks.'

  'Ducks?'

  '"From troubles of the world

  I turn to ducks,

  Beautiful, comical things, sleeping

  or curled..." The rest escapes me but I'll look it up for you.'

  'I should appreciate that,' said the vicar gravely. 'Ducks or downs, we all need to gather comfort where we can, and I find a great deal in remembered fragments of writing.'

  A breathless five-year-old rushed up to us.

  'Miss, one of them Coggs kids has been to the lavatory on the lobby floor.'

  'That,' I told her, 'is what is known as a contradiction of terms, but I'll come at once.'

  'In that case,' said the vicar, 'I must let you return to your duties.'

  He departed, I thought, with unnecessary haste, and I went to find the floor cloth.

  What with one thing and another, I had forgotten Mrs Partridge's missive until I was rummaging for a handkerchief in my jacket pocket, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil in my peaceful kitchen. Out fell the envelope and up surged my misgivings again.

  I read it while I sipped my tea. After suitable greetings the letter continued:

  'My dear friend Hazel Smith is trying to raise some money for the Save The Children Fund in Caxley, and is organising an evening meeting which is going to be billed as "Our Children".

  'She is asking several speakers to say a few words and then to answer questions from the floor. I know she has a local magistrate who will talk about the juvenile court, and a most eminent educationalist, as well as a local doctor who specialises in children's ailments—a paediatrician, I believe is the correct word unless I am confusing it with something to do with feet, or even worse —but a very nice man indeed who once was on TV in one of those upsetting medical series.

  'I took the liberty of mentioning your name to her and she may get in touch to see if you would be a member of the panel. Perhaps you could talk on young children in school? Or children's literature? Anyway, I do so hope you don't mind my mentioning you to her. You would be so good, and I know you would love Hazel.

  'There would be a cold buffet and wine after the meeting, and a chance to get to know a great many people who are really caring about the young, just as you are.'

  She was mine affectionately after three pages.

  'Oh lor', Tibby,' I said to the cat. 'Now what do I do?'

  But that unfeeling animal continued to wash his face vigorously, callous to the sufferings of his mistress.

  With this awful prospect before me I spent the evening in a fine state of dithering. My first instinct was to turn down the proposal with a flat refusal. I had no wish to turn out for an evening in Caxley, and a downright antipathy to my unknown panel members.

  They were probably all as charming as Mrs Partridge's old friend Hazel. They certainly appeared to be much more public-spirited, unless of course they had been coerced into it and were feeling quite as reluctant as I was myself. But I see far too much of people 'who care for the young' and on the whole I find them exhaustingly earnest. I know I care for the young—look at the floor cloth interlude only that afternoon, and you can't get much nearer the bone of caring than that! Nevertheless, the thought of answering a lot of solemn questions about possible damage done to the young child's ego by thwarting it of some simple pleasure such as flooding the bathroom or jumping on the cat, filled me with horror.

  Besides what should I talk about? Even ten minutes' speaking takes the devil of a lot of writing, and I know my limits. No, I should have to decline.

  Having decided this, I then remembered the many kindnesses that Mrs Partridge has shown to me and the school, and began to feel a mean-spirited wretch. Would it hurt me to give up one evening? (Yes, squeaked my baser self.) Mrs Partridge must consider me capable of the job or I shouldn't have been asked. (Probably the seventeenth person on her list, all the others having sensibly made plans to go abroad, have visitors, contract shingles, and so on.) It would be letting down dear Mrs Partridge if I fobbed off Hazel Thingummy with some weak excuse.

  At that moment, the telephone bell rang, and I jumped as though I had been shot. This must be it! Well, better answer it and be guarded. Ask if I might ring her tomorrow when I've thought it over.

  I gave my number in a cracked voice. To my enormous relief it was Amy.

  'Have you got a cold?' she asked solicitously.

  I babbled out my present problems, and Amy forbore to laugh, at least out loud.

  'What a funny old thing you are,' she commented, in such a loving voice that I very nearly burst into tears. 'You give the impression of being in command of every situation —'

  'Surely not!'

  'And yet you go all to pieces over a simple little matter like this.'

  'But it isn't a simple little matter, Amy,' I wailed. 'It scares me stiff, the whole idea, and yet I'm so fond of Mrs Partridge, I really don't want to hurt her by appearing disobliging. And, of course, it's a very good cause. Saving the children, I mean. Why, come to think of it, I spend my whole life saving children!'

  I told her that sad tale of the floor cloth.

  'I should think that is evading Mrs Pringle's wrath rather than saving children,' commented Amy shrewdly. 'But do you know what I'd do?'

  'No, tell me quickly,' I urged.

  'Forget it for this evening. Go to bed early with a nice juicy book to read. Ten chances to one you'll know your own mind in the morning.'

  'Thank you, Amy,' I said humbly and put down the receiver.

  Within a minute the telephone rang again. It was Amy.

  'Don't be so swift putting the phone back,' she said. 'I didn't have a chance to tell you why I was ringing.'

  I apologised.

  'I just wondered if you'd decided on any of the Caxley Festival items. I ought to start booking, I think.'

  'Amy,' I began, 'I'm afraid I haven't got round to—'

  'Never mind, never mind! Just tuck it away in your subconscious with Mrs Partridge's proposition, and you can deal with both tomorrow.'

  It was her turn to replace the receiver. Her tone had been kindly and forgiving, and I returned to my fireside thanking the gods for the good friends whom I hardly seemed to deserve.

  3 Henry Mawne Needs Company

  AFTER a night of solid sleep I felt robust enough to accede to Mrs Partridge's proposal, and decided to telephone after school that day to say how delighted I should be if her friend Hazel needed my services on the panel. Really, civilisation has a lot to answer for! What would happen if we all spoke the unvarnished truth?

  As my egg boiled that morning, I turned March over on the wall calendar and read the new motto. It said:

  A man's reach should exceed his grasp,

  Or what's a Heaven for?

  Could this refer to my brave decision? Should I find myself the most knowledgeable member of the panel on that fateful night? Would The Caxley Chronicle have a paragraph about the brilliance of repartee, breadth of knowledge, personal charm and, of course, the innate modesty of the head teacher of Fairacre School? Fame could go no higher.

  While I dallied with this day dream, I noticed two things. This was April Fool's Day, so I must be on my guard in school this morning, and my egg had cracked and was fizzing all over the stove.

  When I came to eat it, I found, predictably enough, that it was hard-boiled. Not that I minded. To me, an egg is an egg however it turns up, but I am always amused to hear people say scathingly that they know someone 'who couldn't boil an egg', as though this act of cookery is the simplest thing imaginable.

  Strangely enough, it is jolly difficult to get an egg with a firm white and a delectably moist yolk. It all depends on size, freshness, thickness of shell, and naturally, on the accuracy of the egg-timer or clock. Being called to the
telephone does not help either, as I know to my cost.

  Well, now, I wondered as I spooned mine down, what little tricks would my naughty children have been up to? One April Fool's Day I had managed to stop them from tying a rope just above floor level at the lobby door. Their victim then would have been Mrs Pringle, without doubt, and the consequences not in the least humorous, as I pointed out to them. A little clean fun was one thing. Injury to people was another. They were suitably chastened, and since then have found minor ways of celebrating the day.

  At first sight, all seemed as usual in the school room. I opened my desk, alert to find a mammoth spider or even a grass snake, but there was nothing of that nature there. My chair had no drawing pin or blob of glue on it. The piano keys were clean, the hymn book unsullied. Their little jokes are usually perpetrated in the first half-hour at school. Could they have forgotten? After twelve o'clock the magic was supposed to have vanished, and any larking about was reckoned invalid by ancient tradition.

  We ploughed gently on through arithmetic and reading. Playtime passed without incident, and I had quite forgotten to be on my guard, as no doubt my wily flock had intended.

  At twenty to twelve, before the dinner lady arrived, I set them to copy Robert Bridges' adorable poem 'Spring Goeth All In White' from the blackboard. This was to be a combined exercise in learning a poem and engaging their skills in handwriting.

  It was while I was concentrating on my own fair hand, as I wrote the last two lines, that Ernest's voice rang out with horrid urgency.

  'Miss! Quick! Patrick's fainted!'

  This has happened before, so that I dropped the chalk, and was at Patrick's side in one second fiat. The child had his head on the desk, and as I bent to attend to him the roar of delight nearly raised the roof.

  'April Fool, miss! You're April Fool!'

  Patrick sat up, rosy with health and mirth, and I joined in the general hilarity.

  It seemed to me, remembering the rope in the lobby, the odd spider and stickiness, that I had got off lightly this year.

  That evening, full of noble thoughts, I rang Mrs Partridge to say that I should be willing, if needed by her friend, to take my place on the panel.

  'How lovely!' boomed Mrs Partridge. 'I've no doubt Hazel will be as delighted as I am, and I'm sure she will be in touch very soon.'

  I replied suitably, and rang off, wondering if a well-deserved bolt from the blue would descend upon me for downright untruthfulness. It is to such passes, I thought gloomily, that Doing One's Duty, commits a frail body.

  Far too often, it seems to me, I am prevailed upon, as in this instance, to undertake some task which I abhor. Why do I do it? And how best can one minimise these occurrences?

  I suppose that one could give up belonging to certain clubs or activities that engender these minor irritations. For instance, if I were not a member of the Women's Institute I suppose I should not be roped in for providing something for teas, or for manning a stall, or for entering some competition for which I have no natural aptitude but give in weakly, to such strong characters as Mrs Partridge, because they have not enough entries.

  On the other hand, should one retreat and become a self-imposed hermit, simply to avoid trouble? After all, I like living in Fairacre, and I am a quite important member of its little community, I suppose, although Mrs Pringle would no doubt think otherwise. Consequently, I must take on my share of the burdens.

  I remember an aunt of mine saying once: 'Now that I've turned seventy, I'm not going to join anything which has meetings!'

  It must be a family failing, I think.

  Later that evening I was somewhat taken aback to find Henry Mawne on my doorstep again. He was carrying a fine bunch of daffodils, and came indoors with a beaming smile.

  'Thought you'd enjoy these. They're always early in that dell of ours, and everyone likes daffodils.'

  'They do indeed,' I said. 'The most cheering flowers of the spring, I always think. Mine are nowhere near ready. I often wonder what variety Shakespeare's were that took "the winds of March with beauty". Pretty early, I suspect.'

  'Poetic licence. After all, he couldn't have had "winds of April". It would've put out the rhythm,' said Henry, sitting down heavily. 'Are you busy? Things are a bit quiet at home without Elizabeth, and I felt in the need of company.'

  I could hardly say that he was a confounded nuisance, I certainly was busy, and how soon would he be off, when I was holding a bunch of the daffodils he had so kindly given me. Here was civilised behaviour rearing its ugly head again!

  'Would you like a drink?'

  'No thanks, I don't tipple much these days. Tends to repeat, like radishes.'

  'Or cucumber. Excuse me for a moment. I'll go and put these in water.'

  I have a nice Coalport vase shaped like a trumpet which is invaluable for a non-arranger of flowers like me. Drop a bunch into it and the flowers obligingly fall comfortably into place. I carried it back to my sitting room with real pride.

  'Good lord,' said my guest. 'That was quick! Elizabeth takes half an hour to arrange a vase of flowers.'

  'She does the thing properly,' I told him, 'and gives everyone a great deal of pleasure too. My arrangements are of the Fairacre Primitive school.'

  'And none the worse for that,' he said kindly. I began to warm to the man.

  'I'm giving a couple of lectures during the Caxley Festival,' he went on, 'and I wondered if you would care to come.'

  'It sounds lovely,' I said. 'Which dates would they be?' I added, playing for time.

  'I haven't brought the programme, but I think it is on a Thursday. One in the first week, and one in the second week of May.'

  'Well, thank you very much. May I let you know?'

  'Of course. Elizabeth ought to be back before then, but it's not at all sure. Aunt Thora is giving her the deuce of a time. No nearer getting her into a nursing home, I gather, from what Elizabeth said on the phone.'

  'Old people like their own way.'

  'That's putting it mildly. As long as she doesn't arrive in Fairacre with Elizabeth, that's all I ask.'

  He settled in for another half-hour, but stirred himself when the clock struck nine.

  'I'd better be going. Nice to have your company.'

  'Well, I'm sure Elizabeth will be home again soon.'

  'It's rather doubtful. That's why it would be particularly pleasant if you could attend my lectures. I get in rather a bother about them. Lose my spectacles, or muddle up the pages of my talk. Elizabeth looks after me very well on these occasions.'

  I accompanied him to the door and waved him goodbye.

  In my early days at Fairacre, Henry Mawne had been thought a bachelor on his arrival in the village. Elizabeth had then been on one of her protracted visits to relations in Ireland, and the local inhabitants, including Mrs Partridge, I recalled, had done their level best 'to bring us together', envisaging an elderly bridal couple tottering from St Patrick's between a guard of honour formed by my pupils and, possibly, some of Henry's bird-lovers' club.

  It had been a most embarrassing situation, and I was quite determined not to get embroiled with Henry Mawne while his wife was away. As for accepting his invitation to the bird lectures, that was now completely out. I should just have to find a water-tight excuse for both occasions, or I could imagine the tongues wagging all the way from Fairacre to Caxley.

  The Mawnes and I have grown quite close over the years. His great-nephew, Simon, attended my school for a short time, and incurred the wrath of the whole village by slaying an albino robin which we all adored.

  He was still seen here in the school holidays, as his father David had remarried after the tragic death of Simon's mother, and he had bought a house in the village. David was away quite a lot, but his wife Irene did a certain amount of entertaining at Holly Lodge, and I was often lucky enough to be invited to family occasions. Nevertheless, I did not want Henry Mawne's attentions in his present circumstances. I did not flatter myself that my beaux yeux were th
e attraction, but knew quite well that he was lonely at the moment, and simply wanted some company.

  Unfortunately, one's affairs are under constant scrutiny in a village, and as a headmistress I must appear to be above reproach. I alone know how many and varied are my failings, but I hope that flirting is not among them, particularly with an elderly and happily married man like silly old Henry.

  Before school the next morning Mrs Pringle greeted me with an unaccustomed smile.

  'A little bird told me you had a visitor last night. And a nice bunch of daffs,' she added archly.

  I forbore to reply.

  For a blissful few days in early April we had warm and sunny weather, and the children and I took full advantage of it.

  We even had one or two lessons outside, sitting in the playground in the shelter of the old school walls. The elder bushes were sprouting young leaves, and a few celandines turned shiny, yellow faces to the sun at the edge of Mr Roberts' field.

  Already some of his lambs frisked in the field near his farmhouse, and their bleating carried to us on the warm spring breeze.

  A pair of blackbirds was hard at work gathering nesting material, and as far as I could see the nest was being built low down in an ancient lauristinus bush in my garden. This shrub, much loved by the Victorians, is rather scorned by Fairacre gardeners today, but I treasure it because of its glossy evergreen leaves and its heartening way of producing pink and white blossom all through the darkest days of winter.

  'Scatter-brained animals, them blackbirds,' is Mr Willet's dictum, and he does not waste any pity on them, as I do, when Tibby or any other marauder attacks the young ones. Rarely a spring passes without my trying to screen an obvious blackbird's nest from Tibby's view. It is impossible to keep an eye on the cat while I am at school, and what horrors go on in my absence I shudder to think.

  'Well, it's only nature,' says Mr Willet. 'Them blackbirds gobble up worms but you don't wipe your eye about that, now do you? So what's wrong with your Tibby helping himself to a snack now and again?'