Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre Page 4

  'And gave satisfaction obviously.'

  'That's right. Well, you know yourself, our Mrs Pringle is a good worker, despite her funny little ways. No one can touch her for cleaning brass, and she can get any bit of furniture up to look like satin. The only snag was Henry.'

  'Henry?' I queried.

  'The chauffeur. He was a real knock-out. All us girls were a bit soft on Henry.'

  Mrs Willet's pale cheeks were suffused with a becoming blush, and her eyes grew misty with memories. Henry, I surmised, must have been a real lady-killer.

  'He had dark wavy hair,' continued Mrs Willet, looking dreamily towards the window as if he still lingered in the village outside. 'And one of them Ronald Coleman moustaches. And I've never seen such eye-lashes on anyone, girl or boy. He was nice with it, too. Very soft-spoken, and kind to everyone. Miss Parr thought the world of him, and we did too.'

  'Mrs Pringle as well?' I asked, my mind boggling at the thought of Mrs Pringle being undone by love.

  'Worse than any of us,' asserted Mrs Willet. 'She was forever making sheep's eyes at him. I was going steady at the time with Bob, so I didn't see a lot of Maud, but all the village was talking about her.'

  'What about Henry? It must have been embarrassing for him working at the same place.'

  'Nothing worried Henry. He was as nice to Maud as he was to everybody, but he did try and keep out of her way. He didn't want to lose his job after all.'

  'Did Miss Parr know?'

  'She guessed something was up when she saw Maud coming out of the bothy.'

  'The bothy?'

  'The room near the coach-house where Henry lived,' explained Mrs Willet. 'Maud had the cheek to take a cake over there for him. Of course, the bothy was out of bounds to women, just as the attics where the maids slept was out of bounds to the men. When Miss Parr caught her, she gave her a fine old dressing-down, but Maud wriggled out of it that time, and was allowed to stay on.'

  'She was lucky.'

  'But Henry wasn't. Miss Parr had him up in the drawing room that evening and cook heard it all.'

  'How?'

  'Well, I take it she was passing at the time,' said Mrs Willet, looking slightly confused, 'and then they was both shouting, cook said, so she couldn't help hearing.'

  'And what did she hear?'

  'Not as much from Miss Parr as she did from Henry, but I gather he fairly let fly when Miss Parr as good as told him that he'd been leading Maud on. "Such a young innocent girl too!" cook heard her say. And evidently that tore it.'

  Mrs Willet paused to find a snowy handkerchief in her sleeve. 'He told Miss Parr it was the other way round. Maud had been pestering him. And then he went on to say what he thought of Maud, in the most dreadful language that I wouldn't repeat to you, though cook never turned a hair when she repeated it to all and sundry in Fairacre. My Bob told her to wash out her mouth with carbolic, I remember.'

  'So Henry was sacked?'

  'No. He gave in his notice there and then, and left at the end of the week. I think Miss Parr regretted the whole affair, but of course it was easier to get a good chauffeur than a good worker like Maud in those days. But how we all missed him!'

  Mrs Willet sighed. 'He had a green uniform to match the car. Very trim figure he was in that. What with his smile and his nice ways, he was a real gentleman.'

  'What happened to him?'

  'He got a job in foreign parts.'

  I imagined that trim green-suited figure driving wealthy Americans about, or being snapped up by an Indian rajah.

  'Northampton, I think it was,' said Mrs Willet, 'or maybe Leicester. We never saw him again.'

  She sounded wistful.

  'And Mrs Pringle?'

  'Well, with Henry gone she turned her attention to the next best thing on the premises, and that was the under-gardener.'

  'What about the head gardener?'

  'He was married already, but the under one was easy game. And anyway the head gardener moved off soon after Henry to open a nursery garden of his own, so the under-gardener was promoted and had a rise in wages.'

  'How did he respond to Maud's advances?'

  'Didn't stand a chance. It was Fred Pringle, you see. He soon knuckled under, and he's stayed that way ever since.'

  It was a few days later that Bob Willet continued this enthralling episode in Fairacre's history.

  'You could've knocked us down with a feather when we heard poor old Fred was engaged to Maud. Not that he had a chance, of course, but Maud was so high and mighty and the Pringles had a bad name.'

  'Why?'

  'They was all a bit harum-scarum, and Josh Pringle, Fred's brother, was a proper bad lot - poachin', pinchin', fightin'—always in trouble and turnin' up in Caxley court. No end of kids, and half of them not his wife's, if you follow me.'

  I said I did.

  'The Bakers was upset about it, but couldn't do much. After all, Maud was of age - over age, come to that - and she and Fred got married in Caxley where her parents lived, so us Fairacre folk didn't see or hear much about the weddin'. All this was before the war, of course.'

  'But I take it they came to live in Fairacre?'

  'Oh yes! In one of Miss Parr's cottages, near where they are now. Fred did the garden and Maud helped in the house until John was on the way when she stopped workin' at Miss Parr's. She used to give a hand once a week to the Hopes who were livin' here at the school house, and then the Bensons when Mr Benson took over. That's when she became school cleaner.'

  Mr Willet paused, blowing out his cheeks. 'Still,' he went on, rallying slightly, 'I suppose she's done a good job, considerin'. She done it all through the war, while Fred was away. We all reckoned it did poor old Fred a power of good to get away from Maud during the war. He looked much fresher when he come back.'

  'I haven't seen Mr Pringle yet.'

  'Nor likely to,' responded Bob Willet. 'After the war he got a job up the Atomic, and he's still at it. Gets the Atomic bus soon after seven, and when he gets home he spends most of the time in that shed of his at the end of the garden.'

  'What does he do there?'

  'Keeps out of her ladyship's way, I shouldn't wonder, but he makes things with matchsticks as well.'

  'Matchsticks?' I exclaimed, my mind boggling.

  'Models and that. Fairacre Church he done once, and it was on show at the village fête. Then he done a piano not life size, of course - and that was a real masterpiece, and a set of chairs for a dolls' house. He's a clever chap in his way, although he don't say much. Come to think of it, I suppose he can't get a word in edgeways with his missus, so he's driven to matchsticks.'

  He made for the door. 'Best have another tidy up of the coke pile. Them little varmints can't leave well alone.'

  And he departed, leaving me to mull over the story of Mrs Pringle's love life.

  During these early days at Fairacre I had a great deal to learn, not only about my new job, but also about the people of the village.

  Mrs Pringle herself enlightened me on many aspects of life in the country. At that time the village had no piped water, and rain barrels stood by the houses collecting rainwater from the roofs.

  I soon learnt to appreciate this precious fluid, and Mrs Pringle was my chief adviser. What she called 'the top quality', that is the filtered water which supplied the school house, was used for drinking and cooking. The rainwater from the barrels was used for bathing, hair washing, laundering and other household activities, but still had other uses which Mrs Pringle explained to me.

  'The soapy water from the washing does for the floors,' she told me, 'and then after that you can use some for pouring over the flagstones on the path, and give them a good brushing with a stiff broom. And what's left you throws over the cabbages and such-like in the garden. There's no need,' she continued, turning a fierce eye upon me, 'to waste a drop!'

  In times of drought the villagers were hard-pressed, and Fairacre pond furnished a few precious bucketfuls for cleaning operations. Mr Roberts, the local
farmer, had put in a bore to keep his cattle watered, and he let each household have a bucket or two of fresh water from this well for drinking when things became serious.

  Of necessity we had earth closets, and thanks to Bob Willet and Mrs Pringle these were kept as hygienic as such primitive amenities could be, but it was a great relief to everyone when water was piped to the village some years after my arrival.

  Even so, the old ways persisted, and I noticed that Mrs Pringle transferred what she termed 'lovely suds' from the new wash basins to a pail, in readiness to wash over the lobby floor.

  Considering the somewhat primitive hygiene which the Fairacre folk had perforce to endure, it was surprising to see what a healthy lot we all were.

  I suppose the air had something to do with it. Even on a still summer's day there is a freshness in this downland air, and in the winter the winds can be ferocious, blowing away not only cobwebs but any germs hovering about, I suspect.

  Doctor Martin, who looks after the local population, does not get called upon unnecessarily. Accidents on the farms, unlucky tractor drivers pinned beneath overturned vehicles, men carelessly wielding scythes, hedge slashers and other dangerous implements may get Doctor Martin's ready attention, but minor ailments are usually dealt with at home.

  Some of these remedies sound horrific, and over the years Mrs Pringle has curdled my blood with her first-aid tips.

  'My young nephew,' she told me once, 'had the whooping cough something dreadful. Nearly coughed his heart up, and Doctor's medicine never done him a bit of good.

  In the end, it was Bob Willet's old mother as suggested the fried mouse.'

  'Fried mouse?' I quavered.

  'Oh, it's a good old cure, is fried mouse. You want a fresh one, of course. And it's best to skin it, and then try and eat it whole.'

  I must have looked as horrified as I felt.

  'It does sound unpleasant, don't it?' said Mrs Pringle, with evident satisfaction. 'But no end of people swear by it.'

  'Did it help your nephew?'

  'Well, no, it didn't seem to work with him, but old Mrs Willet's cure for chilblains was always a winner.'

  'And what was that?'

  'A thorough thrashing with stinging nettles. Worked like a charm. Always.'

  Pondering on this, after Mrs Pringle had left to resume her duties, I could only suppose that the stings from the nettles acted as a counter-irritant to the itching of the chilblains, but it all seemed unnecessarily violent to me, and I resolved to treat any chilblains I might suffer with more orthodox methods.

  But in my early days at the school, I soon discovered that apart from the inevitable childish complaints such as measles and chickenpox, my thirty-odd pupils were a hardy lot, only succumbing occasionally to a bout of toothache or earache, or an upset tummy, the latter usually in August or September when the apples and plums were unripe.

  The first-aid box, on the wall above the map cupboard, was seldom used; a bottle of disinfectant, lint and bandages for scraped knees and cut fingers were the things most often in demand and, as I pointed out, if the children kept off the coke pile half the injuries would never occur at all.

  But I might just as well have saved my breath.

  ***

  It was Mrs Pringle who first pointed out to me that it was traditional at Fairacre School to give a Christmas party to parents and friends.

  'I thought as how it should be mentioned,' she told me, 'so's you can decide if you want to go on with it. Alice Willet usually bakes a cake - and very nice it is too,' she added graciously.

  I said that I thought it was an excellent idea and would start planning straightaway.

  Miss Clare confirmed Mrs Pringle's information, and was slightly amused at her early pronouncement.

  'I meant to tell you in good time,' she said, 'but Mrs P. has got there first.'

  I was careful to find out how things were traditionally done. One has to tread warily in a village, particularly if one is a newcomer. Mrs Willet, it seemed, had the largest square baking tin in the village, and was adept at producing enormous square cakes, ideal for cutting into neat fingers on festive occasions.

  'Her coronation cake,' Mrs Pringle told me, 'was a real masterpiece, with a Union Jack piped on it in icing. And waving at that!'

  It was Miss Clare who told me that it was right and proper for Mrs Willet to be given the ingredients for such an expensive product, but this had to be done with great diplomacy, and the money was usually taken from the school funds.

  I negotiated these perils as well as I could, and rather dreaded my meeting with Alice Willet to arrange about making the cake, but my fears were groundless.

  One misty November day I called at her cottage after school to broach the subject, but she greeted me with a smile.

  'The cake? Why, I made it nearly a month ago. It's not iced yet, of course, but the cake itself needs a few weeks to mature nicely. I always put a spoonful of brandy in it, but I don't tell Bob. He's a strict teetotaller, you see. I don't drink either, but I think a spot of brandy in a good fruit cake, a little drop of sherry in a trifle, makes all the difference.'

  I began to make a halting speech about the cost of the cake, and Mrs Willet opened a corner cupboard and took out a neat list which she handed me. It showed all the ingredients and the prices, and the total was shown clearly between two neatly-ruled lines. It seemed extraordinarily modest to me.

  I studied the list again.

  'But you haven't put in eggs,' I said, feeling rather proud of my perspicacity.

  Mrs Willet looked shocked. 'Oh, I wouldn't dream of charging for the eggs! They come from our own chickens, you see.'

  'But all the more reason why you should charge for such a first-class product.'

  'No, no. I've never done that in all these years. Call it my contribution to Christmas, if you like.'

  And with that I had to be content.

  The Christmas party took place during the last week of term. The school room was garlanded with home-made paper chains, and a Christmas tree glittered in the corner.

  The children acted as hosts to their parents and friends of the school, the stoves roared merrily, and Mrs Willet's Christmas cake was the centre piece of the long tea table. In its centre stood a snowman, some over-large robins and a tiny Christmas tree, and the children were loud in their admiration of Mrs Willet's handiwork.

  Among our visitors was Amy, who was quite the most elegant figure among us, and also one of the most appreciative.

  At the end of the proceedings, when we had waved goodbye to the children and their guests, we turned back into the quiet school room, crumbs and chaos about us, but also a blessed silence after the junketings.

  'Well,' said Amy, 'I don't know when I have enjoyed a party more. You certainly know how to do things in Fairacre.'

  I was just beginning to glow with pride at these kind words when the door was flung open and Mrs Pringle stood there surveying the scene.

  'Humph!' said the lady, 'about time I made a start, I can see.'

  Suddenly chilled, Amy and I made our escape to the school house.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wartime Memories

  As time passed, Mrs Pringle and I established a precarious truce. Every now and again she would broach the question of cleaning my house, but I resisted her offers as civilly as I could. Mrs Pringle during school hours was quite enough for me. I hoped that I could keep my home out of that lady's clutches.

  There were occasional clashes, of course, and after each one Mrs Pringle's combustible leg would 'flare up', and oblige her to drag the suffering limb about her duties with many a sigh and a wince. I grew very skilled at ignoring these manifestations of Mrs Pringle's umbrage.

  The stoves were the usual source of trouble. For some reason, pencil sharpenings near these monsters, usually inside their fireguards, were a major source of irritation. The milk saucepan sometimes left a ring on the jet-black surface, and this too caused sharp comment.

  Wet footmarks,
coke crunched in, bubble gum, crumbs from lunch packets and any other hazards to Mrs Pringle's floors were also severely criticised and, up to a point, she had my support.

  She was indeed a sore trial, but I reminded myself that she was a superb cleaner, as I was always being told, and that Fairacre School was a model of hygiene in the area.

  I also remembered Mr Willet's advice. 'You don't want to worry about her funny ways. She's always been a tartar since a girl. All Fairacre knows that.'

  It was some comfort in times of crisis.

  Mrs Pringle's bossiness had been well to the fore during the war years it seems. Fairacre, in company with most rural communities, had its fair share of evacuees, and Mrs Pringle was lucky in that the couple billeted upon her were a middle-aged self-effacing pair who inhabited one room of her semi-detached cottage, and who were careful to creep into the kitchen when Mrs Pringle had finished her labours there.

  Next door there lived a middle-aged lady, Jane Morgan, who was not as fortunate as Mrs Pringle in her evacuees, Mrs Jarman and her four boisterous children.

  They ruled the roost, and soon clashed with Mrs Pringle next door. At the time, Jane Morgan's husband and Fred Pringle were both away in the army. Mrs Jarman's husband had been killed in the blitz of May 1941. It was then that the three solitary women, the four Jarman children, and Mrs Pringle's schoolboy son John were fated to meet at close quarters.

  The Jarman family was an indomitable one. Despite the loss of a husband and father, not to mention their home and all that was in it, the Jarmans' cockney spirit remained irrepressible. The children took to taunting Mrs Pringle over the hedge, and when that lady reported the matter to their mother, Mrs Jarman joined battle with equal zest. For once, it seemed, Mrs Pringle was on the losing side.

  One of their skirmishes took place in the village hall. During wartime this building was in constant use for a great many village functions, and also as an extra classroom on weekdays to accommodate the London children evacuated to Fairacre.