(9/20) Tyler's Row Page 4

  She dusted a crumb or two from her massive bosom, and rose to continue her labours.

  'If he's in by next spring, he'll be lucky,' she foretold gloomily. 'And then I wish him joy of his neighbours, poor soul.'

  I must confess that the future of Tyler's Row did not concern me greatly, although I have as keen an interest in village affairs, I think, as most people in Fairacre.

  But I had troubles of my own at this time. As well as the intimidating prospect of Mrs Pringle's bottoming in the near future, I was also threatened with the formation of a Parent-Teacher Association at Fairacre School.

  For generations any association between parents and teachers has been a natural one—sometimes enthusiastically co-operative, sometimes acrimonious, according to circumstances. But always it has been of an informal type—and it has worked very well.

  I don't mind admitting that I am a non-committee woman. The very sight of an agenda fills me with dreadful boredom, and all that jargon about 'delegating authority to a subcommittee', and 'forwarding resolutions' to this and that, renders me numb and vague. The thought of an association which met once a month and involved speakers and demonstrations, and general sociability, filled me with depression. It would mean yet another evening away from my snug ¿reside, sitting in the draughty schoolroom and acting as reluctant hostess to a bevy of parents whom I saw quite enough of, in any case.

  The moving force behind this sudden activity was a newcomer to the village, Mrs Johnson. The family had moved into a cottage in the village street once occupied by a lovable slattern called Mrs Emery and her family. Mr Emery had worked at an establishment, some miles away, known to us as 'the Atomic'. Mr Johnson also worked there, and was a somewhat pompous young man of left-ish tendencies, who had some difficulty in finding cruel masters grinding the faces of the poor, but lived in hope.

  His wife, rather more militant, held strong views on education. She brought three young sons to the school soon after the summer term started. They were pale, bespectacled children, fiercely articulate, in contrast to my normal placid pupils, but quite amenable and keen to work. We got on very well.

  But their mother was a sore trial. She met them at the school gate every afternoon, and button-holed me. I was subjected to tirades of information—usually faulty—on such topics as the dangers of formal teaching, the necessity for monthly intelligence tests, absolute freedom of thought, word and deed for each child and, of course, the complete rebuilding of Fairacre school.

  There are very few teachers who welcome this sort of thing at four o'clock in the afternoon after a hard day's teaching. My civility soon grew thin, and I was obliged to tell her that any complaints must be dealt with at an appointed time. After this, I had fewer face-to-face encounters at the gate, but a number of letters, badly typed on flimsy paper and running to three or four pages, setting forth half-baked theories on education bearing no relevance, that I could see, upon present circumstances.

  Unfortunately, Mrs Johnson and Mrs Mawne became close friends, and Mrs Mawne is one of the school's managers.

  Whether she was still smarting from the wounds inflicted in the battle of Tyler's Row, from which she had emerged the victor, I shall never know. But certainly, soon after Mrs Pringle's conversation, the pressure for the formation of a Parent-Teacher Association was intensified. The vicar, who is chairman of the managers, mentioned the matter on several occasions.

  'I really think it is unnecessary,' I told him, yet again. 'Fairacre's managed very well without one, and it's going to be a real headache finding something to do regularly every month, or whenever it is proposed to meet. If I felt that the majority of parents wanted it, then I'd submit with good grace, but I feel sure Mrs Johnson's at the bottom of this, and I don't suppose that family will stay in the village any longer than the Emerys did. I give them two years at the most.'

  The poor vicar looked unhappy.

  'We have a managers' meeting tomorrow, and this is one of the matters to be discussed, as you know.'

  I did not, as a matter of fact, as the notice had been thrust, unread, behind the clock on the mantelpiece from whence I should snatch it one minute before the meeting.

  'Do consider it, my dear Miss Read,' said the vicar, his kind old face puckered with anxiety. 'And what does Mrs Bonny think about it?'

  I realised, with a shock, that I had never even thought of consulting Mrs Bonny, the infants' teacher, about this possibility. This was remiss of me, and I must put the matter right without delay.

  When the vicar had gone, his cloak swirling in the fresh summer breeze from the downs, I made my way to the infants' room where Mrs Bonny was walking among her charges' desks, admiring plasticine baskets of fruit, crayoned portraits of each other, notable for rows of teeth like piano keys, and inordinately long necklaces of wooden beads which trailed over the desks like exotic knobbly snakes. It was a peaceful scene, and Mrs Bonny, a plump pink widow in her fifties, added to the air of cosiness.

  'Very nice,' I said, to an upheld blue banana.

  'Beautiful,' I said, to a picture executed by one of the Coggs' twins, showing her sister with one mauve eye, one yellow, and a mop of what appeared to be scarlet steel wool at the top of the portrait.

  By this time, every piece of work in the room was raised for my inspection and approval.

  'Wonderful! Very good effort! Lovely beads! Neat work! You have tried hard!'

  The comments rattled out as evenly as peas from a shooter. Then I clapped my hands, and told them to continue.

  'Sweets for quiet workers,' I added, resorting to a little bribery.

  'The vicar's been talking about this idea of a Parent-Teacher Association,' I began to Mrs Bonny.

  A bright smile lit her face.

  'It's a marvellous idea, isn't it?' she said enthusiastically, and I felt my spirits sink. 'All the Caxley Schools seem to have them, and the parents are wonderful—always raising money for things, and in and out of the school, helping, you know.'

  My face must have registered my misgivings, for she gazed at me anxiously.

  'You don't think it would work here?' she queried. There was a pause whilst she darted to the front row and ran an expert finger round the inside of a child's mouth and removed a wet red bead.

  'That would hurt if you swallowed it,' she said sternly. 'And what's more,' she added practically, 'we're very short of beads.'

  She turned to me.

  'Sorry, Miss Read. What's your objection to a P.T.A.?'

  I told her, somewhat lamely, I felt. It was quite apparent that she was strongly in favour of setting up one, and I could see I was going to be heavily outnumbered.

  'I think you would find it a great help,' she assured me. 'I'd welcome it myself.'

  She stopped suddenly, and her pink face grew pinker.

  'But there—I might not be here to enjoy it,' she said, looking confused.

  Novelists talk about a cold hand gripping their heroine's heart. Two cold ones gripped mine, and fairly twisted it into oblivion. The thought of losing Mrs Bonny and all that that entailed—the succession of 'supply' teachers, if any, or, much more likely, the squashing of the whole school into my classroom for me to instruct for some dreadful interminable period, froze my blood. It has happened so often before, and every time, it seems, is more appalling than the last.

  'Mrs Bonny,' I said, in a voice cracked with apprehension, 'what do you mean?'

  She rearranged her pearls self-consciously, slewing them round with energetic jerks to get the clasp tidily at the nape of her neck.

  'I was going to tell you on Friday,' said Mrs Bonny. To give me time, I thought despairingly, to recover from the news during the weekend.

  'I am getting married again. In the Christmas holidays, in fact.'

  I professed myself delighted, and waited for a bolt from heaven to strike me dead.

  'A friend of my husband's,' she said, warming to her theme. 'He's always been so close to our family. In fact, he's godfather to my boy.'

&nbs
p; 'Well, he's jolly lucky,' I said, and meant it, stopping a string of beads which a boy was whirling round and round in a dangerous circle, and getting a bruised hand in the process. The occupational hazards of an infants' teacher are something which would surprise the general public, if explained.

  'I don't want to give up teaching, at least for some time. We want to save as much money as we can for when we retire. Anyway, I should miss the children terribly.'

  'That's a relief,' I told her.

  'We thought we'd see how things go. Theo says that if I find it too much, then I must stop, of course. But I shall stay as long as I can.'

  'Let's hope it's for years,' I said.

  'So you see,' concluded Mrs Bonny happily, 'although I think the P.T.A. is a marvellous idea—and I think you will too, if it happens, Miss Read—I won't press you one way or the other, because it won't really affect me, will it?'

  'No,' I said morosely. 'I quite see that.'

  I renewed my congratulations, smiled brightly upon the infants, and returned to my own classroom.

  There I found that the children had put away their work, books had been stacked neatly on the cupboard, the large hymn-book had been propped upon the ancient piano in readiness for the next morning's prayers, and all that the class awaited was the word to go home.

  Certainly, the clock's hands were at five to four, but I felt slightly nettled at such officious time-keeping. The children, however, arms folded, stout country boots neatly side by side, were so pleased with their efforts that I had not the heart—broken-spirited woman that I was—to chide them.

  They sang grace lustily, and then tumbled out into the lobby, while I locked my desk. An ear-splitting shriek, followed by a babble of voices, took me to the lobby in record time.

  Mrs Pringle, broom upheld like Britannia's trident, gazed wrathfully upon the horde milling round her.

  'If I'm laid up tomorrow,' she boomed, 'lay it at the door of that boy.'

  She pointed to Joseph Coggs, whose dark eyes looked piteously towards me.

  'Stepped full on me bunion with his great hobnail boots! Enough to cripple me for life!'

  I looked at the terrified Joseph.

  'Have you said you were sorry?'

  'Yes, miss,' he whispered abjectly.

  Mrs Pringle snorted. For some unworthy reason my spirits rose unaccountably.

  'Ah well, Mrs Pringle,' I said, with as much gravity as I could muster, 'we all have our troubles.'

  5. Making a Start

  TROUBLE was certainly looming for Peter Hale. The two surveys confirmed that there was dry rot in the ground floor of the cottages, and in one king beam, and that rising damp at the back of the property was causing considerable damage to the fabric of the outer walls.

  'Nevertheless,' said Mr Croft, the architect, 'there is nothing to worry about. All these little matters can be put right.'

  He leant back in his swivel armchair and surveyed Peter Hale benevolently. He was the senior partner in the firm of Croft and Cumberland, and something of a personage in Caxley. He was a man of unusual appearance, affecting from his youth rather long hair and a style of dress which blended the artist with the country gentleman.

  His tweed suits were pale, and with them he wore a bow tie which carefully matched them in colour. His shirts were always made of white silk, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle. Someone once said that Bellamy Croft was the cleanest man in Caxley, and certainly his face shone with soap and his hair, now white, formed a fluffy halo round his gleaming pink scalp. A whiff" of eau-de-Cologne accompanied him, and was particularly evident when he shook out the large vivid silk handkerchiefs he affected.

  Caxley's more sober citizens thought Bellamy Croft rather a popinjay, but as time passed he was looked upon as a distinguished member of the community, and the results of his work were much admired.

  As a young man, he had spent some years in India when the British Raj held sway. Indian princes had employed him, and he had worked on some projects instigated by Sir Edwin Lutyens himself. Caxley was impressed by this exotic background, but even more impressed with the solid work he did in their own neighbourhood when he settled there.

  Now, nearing seventy, he took on only those projects which he liked, and certainly only those within easy range of the Caxley Office. The conversion of old property was a speciality of his, and Tyler's Row attracted him.

  Peter Hale knew he was lucky to have his services, but was a little apprehensive about the cost of the job.

  'I don't want Bellamy Croft to run away with the idea that I'm one of his Indian-prince clients with strong-rooms stuffed with emeralds and rubies of pigeon-egg size, and diamonds too heavy to lift,' he said to Diana. 'Do you think he has any idea of teachers' salaries?'

  'Of course he has,' replied Diana robustly. 'Anyway, ask him. If he's outrageously expensive, we'll manage without him.'

  'Impossible,' said Peter. 'He knows his stuff", and will see that old Fairbrother gets on with the building properly. I don't grudge Croft's fee—it'll be an investment—but I must see that he doesn't get carried away with all kinds of schemes for improving the place.'

  'What do you expect? A miniature Taj Mahal rising between Mrs Fowler's and Sergeant Burnaby's?'

  'Not quite, but I intend to keep a tight rein on him. He's already contemplating shutters, and a sort of Chinese porch which would set us back a hundred or two. I can see he'll want watching.'

  Now, on this bright August morning, Peter did his best to impress upon Bellamy Croft the absolute necessity of keeping costs as low as possible.

  'This dry rot. What will it cost to put right?'

  Bellamy told him, and Peter flinched.

  'And a damp course?'

  'I should prefer to tell you that after I have had a longer look at the place. But we ought to make a good job of it while we're about it. No point in cheese-paring.'

  'Naturally. The essentials must be done, and done well. But I simply haven't the money to indulge in extras such as this porch you show on the plan. Heaven knows what I'll get for my present home—a lot, I sincerely hope, but the bridging loan from the bank must be met eventually, and I'm determined to cut my coat according to the cloth. Maybe we can do all the fancy bits when the other two cottages become vacant.'

  'Ah yes, indeed! Stage two,' said Bellamy, shuffling enormous sheets of crackling paper upon the desk. 'I quite appreciate your position—and frankly, I'm glad to work for a man who knows his mind. Stage one, the conversion of the middle two cottages, we can keep very simple, and by the time we've reached stage two we shall know how much more you feel able to embark upon.'

  His bland pink face was creased in smiles. He looks happy enough, thought Peter, but then he doesn't have to foot the bill. Was it a hare-brained project he had started? What other snags, besides dry rot, rising damp, two awkward tenants, a jungle of a garden and an architect with alarmingly lavish plans did the future hold?

  Was he going to bless or curse the day he decided to buy Tyler's Row?

  Time alone would tell.

  What with one thing or the other it was well on into August by the time the contract was signed and the die cast.

  One sultry afternoon, Diana and Peter drove over to their new property with a formidable collection of gardening tools in the back of the car.

  'Do you really think you'll need that enormous great pick axe?'

  'It's a mattock,' corrected Peter. 'And the answer's "Yes". It will probably be the most useful tool of the lot. You won't need that trowel and hand fork, you've so hopefully put in, until next season.'

  The gate still scraped a deepening semi-circle in the path as they pushed it open.

  'I must see to that,' said Peter, shaking his head.

  They carried the tools into the back garden and surveyed the jungle with mingled awe and dismay.

  'Look at the height of those nettles!' said Diana.

  'Take a look at the brambles! Tentacles like octopuses—or do I mean octopi? An
d those prickles! We really need a flamethrower before we can begin with orthodox tools.'

  He picked up a bill-hook and stepped bravely into the weeds, followed by Diana carrying a pair of shears.

  'We'll start at the bottom of the garden and work our way towards the house,' Peter said. 'Knock off the top stuff first, and burn it as we go.'

  It was hot work. Faraway could be heard die rumblings of a storm, and dark clouds massed ominously on the horizon. Thousands of tiny black thunder-flies settled everywhere, maddening them with their tickling, and swarming into their hair, ears and eyes. Their labours were punctuated by slapping noises as they smote the unprotected parts of their bodies which were under constant attack from the tormentors.

  They had been working for about an hour, and cleared a strip about two yards wide across the width of the garden, when they became conscious of Mrs Fowler watching them sharply over the hedge.

  'Oh, good afternoon,' called Diana, wiping her sticky face on the back of her glove. 'As you see, we're just making a start on this terrible mess.'

  'There's some good rhubarb just where you're standing,' replied Mrs Fowler austerely. 'And there used to be a row of raspberry canes. Looks as though you've cut them down now.'

  Diana refused to be daunted.

  'Well, there it is,' she said lightly. 'We shall have to start from scratch, it's obvious. It's impossible to tell weeds from plants now that it's got to this state.'

  'Should have been seen to weeks ago,' continued Mrs Fowler. 'All them weeds have seeded and blown over into my garden. Never had so much groundsel and couch grass in my life.'

  Peter straightened his back and came to his wife's support.

  'And ground elder,' went on Mrs Fowler, before he could say anything, 'and them dratted buttercups. Bindweed, chickweed, docks, the lot! All come over from this patch.'

  'Any poison ivy?' asked Peter mildly. 'Or scold's-tongue?'