Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis Page 31

  The small copse sloped at an angle to the road, and met it about a quarter of a mile from the pub. The two men entered the wood, and stood motionless for a minute or two.

  They heard the cracking of twigs nearby and held their breath. From behind the oak tree which screened them they had a view of a small clearing. Across this, gun in hand, went the figure of a man, followed by another.

  'Now,' whispered Bob.

  He and the policeman ran into the clearing.

  'Beat it, Arth!' shouted one of the men. They ran in opposite directions, crashing through the undergrowth, pursued by the game-keeper and policeman.

  Bob Dixon caught his man within fifty yards of the clearing. But as he made a grab for his jacket, the man turned and smote Bob with such viciousness in the face that the game-keeper fell to the ground with a cry of pain.

  The man ran off, as Bob was struggling to his feet. At the same time Danny Goss returned.

  'He had a bike in the hedge,' he said bitterly. 'But I'd take a bet it was Arthur Coggs from Fairacre. Your chap called out "Arth", didn't he?'

  Bob, staunching his bloodied nose, nodded.

  'And I'm pretty sure mine was Josh Pringle. I'm going over there now.'

  'I'll come with you,' said Danny grimly. 'They're a right pair, those two.'

  Josh Pringle sped for home by a roundabout route, two fat cock pheasants thumping his thighs as he ran. He was in roaring high spirits. He had outwitted his enemy and he had paid off old scores with that satisfying crash on his nose.

  Full of triumph, Josh did not fully realise the danger which he was in. The thought that Bob Dixon or Danny Goss might pursue him further that night did not seriously worry him. Tomorrow morning, perhaps, there might be a few awkward questions to face if they found him, but surely they'd had enough for tonight?

  He was a little perplexed, though, as he ran, about the hasty disposal of the birds. He wasn't going to hide them in the woods or hedges. He'd been fleeced that way before by unscrupulous neighbours. Besides, Bob knew every hiding place as well as he did. Better by far to get them home and cooked as soon as possible. The gentry might prefer their game hung. Poachers could not afford the time.

  'Get 'em under the crust,' he had told his wife often enough. 'No one can tell what's under the crust.' There would be pheasant pie tomorrow—enough for all.

  He found his wife kneeling before the fire, poker in hand, when he burst in breathlessly.

  'Don't rake that out, gal,' he told her roughly, tugging the birds from his poacher's pockets. 'We got to get these plucked straight away. Had a job gettin' away from Bob Dixon.'

  'You ain't been seen, 'ave you, Josh?' quavered his wife, Agnes.

  'He didn't 'ave no time to see anythink,' responded Josh, beginning to strip feathers expertly. He threw the second bird on to his wife's lap. 'Him and that great lump Goss come after us, but we give 'em the slip. You keep your mouth shut if they turns up tomorrow. Don't know nothin', see?'

  Agnes nodded dumbly, her hands busy with the feathers. She took a sheet of newspaper from the table and spread it at her feet to catch the bronze plumage as it fell. Josh's bird lolled upon the table top, its long tail feathers brushing his jacket.

  The fire whispered as they worked in silence. Josh raised his head suddenly.

  'By gum, there's someone outside,' he whispered, gazing at the dirty drawn curtains. 'Nip upstairs with these while I burn the feathers. If it's Bob Dixon—'

  His face was dark with fury. He thrust the two half-plucked birds into his wife's arms, and began to roll up the newspapers.

  'Get on upstairs,' he told her in a fierce whisper.

  'But where can I put 'em?' squeaked poor Agnes.

  'Bung 'em under the bed clothes with the kids, you great fool,' hissed Josh, stuffing the bundles of paper and feathers to the back of the fire.

  Agnes crept away, up the box staircase to the room above, on her errand. A strong smell of burning feathers floated about the room, and Josh cursed as he picked up a stray feather or two and added it to the blaze.

  A thunderous knocking came at the door. Josh ignored it. By now the bundles on the fire were black and almost burnt through. He blew on the fire to hasten its work.

  The knocking came again, and then a voice.

  'Open up, Josh Pringle. Police here.'

  Josh swore violently, and stirred the bundles until they disintegrated. He put on some chips of wood from a wooden box nearby, and watched them burst into flame.

  He approached the door and opened it.

  The sight of Bob Dixon's swollen and bloodied nose frightened him. One eye too was blackening fast. He had not realised that he had done so much damage. Too late now to worry about that, he told himself, putting on an innocent expression.

  'What's all this about?' he asked truculently. 'Kicking up a fuss like this! We've got kids asleep, I'll have you know. And one's got spots—scarlet fever or summat, we reckon. Only just got off to sleep, he has.'

  'We'd like to come in,' said Goss.

  'I daresay,' responded Josh, with spirit. 'But I don't want you.' The longer he could keep them from the reek of burning feathers, the better.

  'There's such a thing as obstructing an officer of the law in the execution of his duty,' said Goss ponderously. 'I want a word with you on one or two matters.'

  'Such as?'

  'Such as poaching,' broke in Bob Dixon warmly. 'And knocking me down, you ruddy swine.'

  'Leave this to me,' said Goss, to his hot-headed friend. 'I've reason to believe,' he said to Josh, with a return to his official manner, 'that you have articles in this house which are not your property. I'd like to take a look round.'

  'Got a search warrant?' queried Josh. 'I knows me rights.'

  'There'll be one tomorrow morning,' promised Goss. There was a menacing ring in his tone. 'If you've got nothing to hide, what are you hedging for?'

  Josh appeared to waver. By now the feathers should have vanished. The smell too was practically non-existent. He opened the door grudgingly.

  'Come on in then, if you must. You won't find nothin' here, I'm warning you.'

  Danny Goss made straight for the fire and stirred it with the poker. He saw at once that he was too late. But on the shabby mat he noticed two small brown feathers.

  'Pheasant's, eh?' he said. Josh began to bluster.

  'Don't make me laugh. Folks like us don't 'ave pheasants. We leaves that to chaps like Bob Dixon 'ere.'

  At this point Agnes opened the door from the staircase and entered timidly.

  'These 'ere feathers,' said Josh loudly, giving his witless Agnes time to sum up the situation. 'They're from that old hen your mum gave us. That's right, ain't it?'

  'Yes,' whispered Agnes. Growing bolder, she added: ' 'Twas a Rhode Island Red. Finished laying. My mum give it to me to boil for the kids' dinner.'

  'That's right,' agreed Josh, nodding approval. 'I told you, they've bin poorly. One's all over spots, ain't he, Ag?'

  'Spots?' cried Agnes, her hand flying to her mouth. 'Who's got—?'

  Josh broke in loudly. Lord, was she thick? He'd have to get it through to her somehow, or they'd be upstairs in two shakes.

  'Our Tommy. Just bin up to see him, you should know. I was telling these chaps we wondered if it was scarlet fever. Don't want them catching nothin'.'

  'That's right,' said Agnes wonderingly.

  'You have a look down here,' said Josh, throwing open his arms expansively. 'Look in the washus, out the back, in the privy—we ain't got nothing to hide here.'

  'Take a look, if you've a mind,' said Goss to Dixon. The gamekeeper went through the kitchen to the ramshackle outbuildings at the rear of the house. They could hear him opening doors and stumbling among the heap of logs in the corner of the wash-house.

  Danny Goss raked the living room with an experienced eye. There were few places to hide a pheasant here. He'd lay a wager they were upstairs, but without a search warrant he was helpless. Nevertheless, he tried.

>   'I'd like a look upstairs. I won't disturb the children.'

  You can wait then! Them kids is asleep, I tell you. Can't you take a chap's word?'

  'No,' said Goss briefly.

  'I lets you in,' protested Josh, with a fine show of affronted innocence, 'and shows you downstairs. I'll show you more!'

  With a magnificent gesture, he wrenched open the door to the box staircase, displaying bare wooden stairs, much splintered, and the vanishing tail of a startled mouse.

  'There! See anythink? Any pheasants, partridges, hares, or whatever old codswallop you reckons I've got here?'

  'It's upstairs, Josh,' said Danny calmly.

  'Don't talk so daft! When could I 'ave got it? I bin sittin' 'ere all evening. That's the truth. Eh, Ag?'

  Agnes nodded obediently. She was wondering how soon it would be before the children awoke and discovered their gruesome bed-fellows, and how loudly they would scream the news.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Josh prudently closed the door. Bob Dixon returned, his discoloured face wearing a sullen look.

  'Dam' all,' he said briefly.

  Danny Goss, knowing he was beaten, prepared to leave, but not without a stern warning.

  'Bob saw his assailant, you know,' he said. 'He'll give evidence in court.'

  'Who else saw?' asked Josh pertinently.

  'You should know,' said Bob hotly.

  'I bin sittin' here all evening,' repeated Josh with emphasis.

  You'll have to prove that.'

  'Me brother come up with the paper about nine,' said Josh glibly. His brother would agree to anything Josh suggested. He was smaller than Josh. 'And Ag will vouch for me.'

  'You'll need to do better than that,' observed Danny Goss, opening the door. 'We'll be back.'

  Josh accompanied them to the rickety gate, and watched them until they were out of sight. He returned to hear the frenzied wailing of a child.

  'Mum! Mum! There's chickens in our bed! Dead 'uns, mum, but they're pricking us something awful! Mum! Mum!'

  Agnes started to climb aloft.

  'Chuck 'em under our bed till morning,' advised her husband. 'We'll finish 'em off before his lordship comes back. All this bloomin' fuss,' he growled. 'It's enough to make a chap go straight.'

  It so happened that no charge was made by the police against Josh on this occasion. Evidence was flimsy. No firm case could really be made. It would be Bob Dixon's word against Josh's. But both the gamekeeper and the policeman vowed to keep a sharp eye on Josh Pringle, and to make sure that next time he transgressed then justice would be done.

  Rumours flew about, of course, but Josh played the injured innocent and weathered this particular storm with some skill. In the privacy of his own home he boasted of his triumph, but he kept a still tongue abroad, and congratulated himself on having deceived his neighbours. He would not have been so smug if he had known that Emily Davis knew all.

  Some days after the poaching incident, Emily set her class an essay to write. She knew, from bitter experience, that it was little use to expect flights of fancy from the majority of the children. They were, on the whole, unimaginative and ploddingly prosaic. As she wanted, on this occasion, as lengthy a piece of writing as they could manage, she gave them a simple, down-to-earth subject which all could tackle.

  My Favourite Meal

  she wrote in a fair copper-plate hand on the blackboard. There were murmurs of approval from the victims.

  'And I want two or three pages,' said Emily briskly. 'Don't worry too much about spelling and writing this afternoon. Just show me how much you can do.'

  After a few preliminary enquiries, such as: 'Must we draw a line under the heading?' and 'Is jam tarts all one word?' which Emily dismissed smartly, the class settled down to literary composition with, all its accompanying sighs and groans.

  The children worked well, and at playtime Emily collected their books. They were left in a pile on her desk, and were carried across to the school house for marking that evening.

  Halfway through the pile she came across Minnie Pringle's effort.

  'Well done, Minnie,' murmured Emily, surveying the laboriously pencilled page. 'The longest essay to date. If only I can read it—'

  The spelling and the writing rendered Minnie's composition well-nigh incomprehensible. Minnie had no use for punctuation, so that the whole narrative appeared as one long breathless sentence.

  Translated, it read as follows:

  My Favourite Meal

  Best of all I likes pheasant pie what mum makes with pastry to hide whats inside as my dad tells her with gravy my dad finds them up the woods they just walks about the other night some men come and my mum put them pheasants in us kids bed to keep them warm she said they tickled us and had fleas we had two pies one Wednesday one Thursday today it was bread and sauce pheasant pie is best

  Emily who had heard the rumours smiled at this artless account. But it was Minnie's best effort to date. She was very pleased with the child. Taking out her box of gold stars, Emily stuck one securely at the end of the essay. 'For good work,' she wrote beside it.

  Gold stars were rarely given. They were much prized by those who earned them. Emily usually allowed the child to take home the work to show the proud parents. In this case, Emily thought, it would be wiser not to do so. She could imagine Josh's reaction to his daughter's innocent admission.

  Minnie was scarlet to the roots of her red hair when she found her star.

  'Can I take it home, miss? Can I?' she begged.

  Emily spoke gently.

  'I've put a star on a piece of paper, Minnie. You can take that home to show them. Tell them it was for a good piece of writing.'

  She wondered if she should warn the child not to mention the subject matter of the essay. It would seem rather hard to Minnie if Josh's leather belt greeted her success.

  'Just for good work,' repeated Emily carefully. Minnie nodded, dumb with delight.

  Emily need not have worried. The gold star was given a cursory glance by Agnes and no attention at all by Josh. Not that this worried Minnie. She expected nothing more at home. Her hour of triumph had been at school. But she would have liked to take her book home, nevertheless.

  It had been Minnie's aunt, Mrs Pringle herself, Fairacre School's formidable cleaner, who had warned Minnie about disclosing the theme of the essay.

  The child had shown her the famous star soon after it had been won.

  'What was it for?' asked Mrs Pringle, and listened, aghast, as she was told. She had already heard the rumours about that fateful night, and suspected that they were true. This confirmed them.

  'Have you told anyone else?' she asked.

  'No, auntie.'

  'Then don't. Your dad'll leather you if he finds out.'

  'Miss Davis knows.'

  'Maybe. But Miss Davis won't tell.'

  The child had seemed bewildered. Mrs Pringle often wondered if she realised the reason for keeping quiet. She doubted it. Minnie was as dim as a dark night, thought her aunt, but at least she'd kept her mouth shut after that, and Josh had got away with it.

  But not for long, remembered Mrs Pringle, with satisfaction. A month or two later he had been caught with a carrier-bag stuffed with stolen silver. With a string of other cases taken into consideration, this escapade earned him six months in jail. Agnes and the children missed the rabbits, but the house was wonderfully peaceful.

  'Though mills of God grind slowly

  Yet they grind exceeding small,'

  Mrs Pringle hummed to herself, recollecting Josh's imprisonment with pleasure.

  The squeaking of Minnie's pram became apparent, and Mrs Pringle warmed the teapot. She must let Minnie know about poor Miss Davis. It ought to upset her nicely.

  That is, if she remembered her at all, she thought, with some asperity. Knowing Minnie she wouldn't be surprised to find Miss Davis had been forgotten completely.

  Sighing deeply, she reached for the tea-caddy.

  14. Peeping Tom
/>   MR WILLET filled his basket, stepped carefully down the ladder and went into the kitchen. His wife was ironing, a clothes horse beside her laden with Mr Willet's striped pyjamas and substantial underwear, and some snowy sheets and pillow cases. The comfortable smell of warm linen filled the air.

  'Old Misery Pringle's just stopped by,' said Mr Willet disrespectfully. 'Got bad news as usual, and enjoying it.'

  'What's that?'

  'Emily Davis has gone.'

  'No! Why, she was at church the Sunday before last!'

  'She'll be going again, poor soul,' said Mr Willet. 'And for the last time.'

  He watched his wife sprinkling some water over the handkerchiefs.

  'Thought I might pop up and see if Dolly Clare wants anything.'

  'Oh, I wouldn't do that just yet!' protested Mrs Willet. 'Leave it a day or two.'

  Women! thought Mr Willet. All the same, maybe she was right.

  He puffed out his stained moustache with a resigned sigh.

  'Maybe that's best,' he agreed, and went off to his hoeing.

  ***

  Emily's death had stirred memories for Mrs Pringle of her reprehensible brother-in-law. The event had stirred memories too for Bob Willet, memories which even now filled him with some shame. Both Mrs Pringle and Mr Willet kept their recollections to themselves with much prudence, but this did not render them any less painful.

  It had all started when Bob Willet was at the impressionable age of seven. He lived then, with his four brothers and sisters, in a little house between Springbourne and Fairacre, and attended Fairacre School.

  At that time the schoolmaster was a dreamy idealistic fellow called Hope. He was looked upon as 'a bit of a milk-sop' by the parents, but the children liked him. For one thing, he believed in reading them stories, which children always enjoy. Those who are attentive learn a great deal. Those who close their ears and daydream can get away with such behaviour with impunity. One way or another, storytime is universally popular.