(16/20)Summer at Fairacre Read online

  The copse at the foot of the downs was also busy with birds, as we discovered on one of our numerous nature walks during the fine spell.

  A few early primroses were opening, and the wild honeysuckle had put forth small strong leaves. It was all heady stuff after a long and miserable winter. The wood smelt of moss and damp earth. Every aspect of spring assailed our senses, the warmth, the fragrance, the welcome flowers and leaves. Even the first, bright, fringed leaves of the stinging nettles received our blessing.

  Easter Day was only a week or so away. Soon Fairacre school would be on holiday. What better way to spend the last few days of term than relishing this forerunner of joys to come?

  During the last week of term, two things happened which gave me much food for thought.

  In the first place, I had a very kind letter from Mrs Partridge's old friend giving me details of the dreaded evening when I had rashly offered my services on the panel.

  After profuse thanks, the letter continued:

  'The other members of the panel include Doctor Eric Biddle who specialises in children's complaints and has very advanced ideas on children's diet. I expect you have met him, as his practice is just south of Caxley. He once appeared in a television programme, so of course we are extremely lucky to get such a notable figure for our little evening.

  'The other man is Councillor James Ellis who is a magistrate on the Caxley bench and chairman of the juvenile Court panel. He is a charming man, and has taken a degree in Child Psychology in the Open University. He has a very sympathetic way with young offenders, as you may have noticed from reports in our local paper.

  'The lady who will keep you company is an outstanding educationalist who has set up her own school near the teachers' training college where she is a much respected lecturer. We are very fortunate to get her to come on the panel, as she is in great demand as a speaker, and has an international reputation. Her name is Miss Crabbe.'

  Good grief! That wicked old hag? I put the letter down, and took a large gulp of my breakfast coffee to get over the shock.

  So our paths were destined to cross again! Miss Crabbe had taught one of my assistants, by name Hilary Jackson, some years ago.

  Miss Jackson was an opinionated young woman who had imbibed her lecturer's psychology theories hook, line and sinker. She also had, what was termed in my schooldays, 'a crush' on the redoubtable Miss Crabbe, and everything that the older woman did or said was considered absolutely perfect.

  One dreadful weekend I had been obliged to put up this paragon, and to endure the most awful pseudo-psychological jargon whilst Hilary hung on her every word.

  At that time, the girl was going through a highly emotional phase. She had become infatuated with a local gamekeeper who was old enough to know better than to encourage the foolish girl. I was at my wits' end to know how to cope with this crisis, and agitated calls to her parents, and from them to me, aged me considerably.

  Miss Crabbe's visit proved in fact to be a heavily disguised blessing, for she soon got wind of the affair, and flung off in a fit of jealous pique.

  Things had been most uncomfortable at Fairacre School, and I had privately thought, and not for the first time, what a confounded nuisance love could be. How right of E. M. Delafield to put it far below good teeth and a sound bank balance, in order of merit!

  After a few months, Miss Crabbe offered the olive branch and, as the gamekeeper had found another love, Hilary Jackson accepted with alacrity, and the last I heard of the pair was that they were both interested in the progressive school mentioned in Hazel Smith's letter.

  Well, well! It would be fun to see if Miss Crabbe was still as formidable as when we last met. Then, I recalled, she had told me she was not a flesh-eater, and a hard time I had had of it trying to find enough non-meat sustenance that weekend. I only hoped that there would be plenty of cheese offered after our ordeal.

  The second surprise came one balmy evening when I was dawdling through the village on my way to post a letter.

  Hurrying in the opposite direction was Miriam Quinn. She seemed to be in some agitation.

  'You're in a hurry,' I quipped.

  'I'm a fugitive,' she explained, with a smile.

  'From what?'

  'From whom, is the right question. As a matter of fact, Henry Mawne.'

  Miriam lives in the attractive annexe to Holly Lodge where now David and Irene Mawne live. It is some little way from the centre of Fairacre, a charming house tucked away behind a high holly hedge which gives the place its name.

  'He's been coming down some evenings to have a meal with David and Irene while Elizabeth is away. That suits everyone, of course, but once he's had it he will gravitate to my end of the establishment, and I'm really getting rather cheesed off.'

  'I can sympathise.'

  'So tonight I told a white lie and said I was paying a visit to someone in the village, and here I am on the run.'

  'Pay a visit to me,' I said, 'I'd love it.'

  'Truly?'

  'Truly,' I assured her.

  We posted the letter, and wandered back to the school house.

  'He's paid me two surprise visits,' I told her when we were comfortably settled in our armchairs. 'He seems to need company pretty badly.'

  'Between ourselves,' said Miriam, 'I'm inclined to think that Elizabeth is to blame. Irene was telling me that there have been several periods in her married life when she has just pushed off. Sometimes for months.'

  I remembered Henry's first year at Fairacre, with no wife in evidence.

  'You don't think this is another protracted absence?' I asked, with some alarm. The thought of choking off Henry's attentions with tact, kindness and firmness, was a daunting one.

  'Who knows? The snag is that we're all fond of the dear old boy, but this popping in to see us maiden ladies certainly sets the village tongues wagging, and I don't want Elizabeth to be upset when she does return.'

  I told her about Mrs Pringle's coy remark about my bouquet of daffodils.

  'I'm going to see how things go for a few days,' said Miriam. 'With any luck we'll hear that she is on her way home, and our troubles will be at an end.'

  'But if nothing happens?'

  'I've decided to tell Irene how I feel—'

  'Me too,' I begged. 'Put in a word for a beleaguered schoolmarm.'

  'And ask her to speak to him about it. It's just thoughtlessness on his part, I'm sure. He's too nice a fellow to want to embarrass us. Leave it to me.'

  'I shall be only too delighted,' I assured her. 'And now, as you are paying me an official visit, what about scrambled eggs on toast? You can always upgrade them to an omelette if you are questioned about the meal you had.'

  'An excellent idea,' agreed Miriam, following me into the kitchen.

  4 The Coggs Are in Distress

  OUR local paper, The Caxley Chronicle, is much esteemed in Fairacre. I suppose that the headlines on the front page are the first to be read, closely followed by Births, Marriages and Deaths, and accounts of cases dealt with by the Caxley magistrates coming in third.

  Among the latter, during the last week of term, the name Coggs caught my eye. Arthur Coggs, father of Joseph, girl twins and one or two other offspring, is an incorrigible rogue, and Fairacre has no time for him.

  He is out of work more often than in, which is hardly surprising. Any money which he does earn goes mainly on drink, and his poor wife sees very little of it.

  He is a very weak character, and easily led by his drinking companions, many of whom are habitual offenders and well known to the local magistrates. Arthur is the fellow that they get to keep a look-out while they are engaged in such pastimes as breaking into shops and offices at night, or stripping lead from the roofs of ancient buildings.

  It is Arthur who is persuaded to drive a van to a hide-out in the country, or to deliver stolen goods from one malefactor to another in the chain. Left alone, I think that Arthur might be quite content to do a little poaching, or local petty thieving, b
ut he is helpless to withstand the pressure put upon him by his wilier companions who use him without a qualm.

  Of course, he gets payment, but a very small share of the total sum, I imagine, and it is a befuddled mixture of feelings which keeps him on the fringe of this collection of petty criminals. He is proud to belong to these desperadoes, and flattered by their attention. If he is called 'chicken', he will bluster, and then do anything required of him. There is a certain amount of fear mixed up in his general reaction. One or two of his companions are not above menacing him, and there have been occasional injuries, such as a suspicious cut at the throat and a broken finger, which were never satisfactorily explained, although Doctor Martin, who has known the family for years, guesses the cause and has no hesitation in giving Arthur some trenchant advice which, of course, is not taken. Poor old Arthur, we all agree, is past redemption.

  This week's Caxley Chronicle gave a short account of the proceedings of the case in which Arthur was involved. It ended with the chairman's comment that in view of the seriousness of the crime, and his deplorable record, he would be sentenced to six months' imprisonment.

  'Seen the Caxley?' asked Mrs Pringle the next morning. 'The Caxley' can refer to the local paper or to the bus which very infrequently used to serve the village. This time I knew Mrs Pringle referred to the paper, and to Arthur Coggs' tribulations in particular.

  'What's six months?' she demanded. 'That means four, I suppose. They takes off a bit for good conduct, though why they should, you may well ask.'

  'It will keep him out of the way for the summer in any case,' I pointed out.

  'He'll start all over again when he does get out,' said Mrs Pringle, with some truth. 'When I think that Arthur Coggs signed the pledge the same year as I did, it fair makes me grieve! He didn't keep that vow long did he? I mind his sister Ethel took the pledge the same day. As nice a girl as you could wish to meet, with long black hair as she could sit on. When it was down, I mean.'

  I had a brief mental picture of a brunette attempting to sit on her hair when it was pinned up. Mrs Pringle continued unabated.

  'All dressed in white she was. It was her old confirmation dress, I recall, and very nice too with a crochet collar. Ethel and Arthur's old ma was a great one for crochet. Yards of it she did. Bedspreads, table clorths, nothing was too much for her, and Ethel's drawers, if you will pardon the word, was always edged with crochet work.'

  'Mrs Pringle,' I began, glancing at the clock, but one might just as well try to stop the Niagara Falls as our cleaner in full spate.

  'She went into the Caxley Co-op when she left school. The bacon counter. She married Charlie Tibbie whose uncle used to sweep the High Street, if you remember, a funny old party with a waxed moustache like the Kaiser.'

  'No, I don't think I ever saw him. And now, Mrs Pringle—'

  'I was always fond of Ethel,' she continued. 'Never deserved to have a rapscallion like that Arthur for a brother. Mind you, she's not the good looker she was. Got rather fat, but she'd had two boys and they was both nine-pounders which don't do a woman much good, especially is she's narrow in the hips. They've been in trouble too, so I hear.'

  'What sort of trouble?'

  'Fighting, and that, in pubs.'

  'So they didn't take after Ethel?'

  'Doesn't look like it. Both on probation, I was told.'

  She gave a massive sigh, and picked up the dustpan.

  'Ah well! Bad blood will out, I always say, and I can't stand here gossiping with you all day.'

  There was general sympathy in the village for Arthur's wife, although it was agreed that by this time she must be inured to any discomfort caused by her husband's absences from home.

  Mr Willet was more forthright.

  'She's far better off without that good-for-nothing round the house. He's not above giving her a walloping when he's the worse for drink, and I reckon it's a dog's life when he's about.'

  'I suppose she'll be worse off financially though,' I suggested.

  Mr Willet snorted.

  'She gets the same hand-out as anyone else, plus the children's allowances which ain't to be sneezed at in that Coggs family. And she's got a little cleaning at the vicarage, and I know for a fact she brings home some pretty tasty bits of left-overs what the Partridges give her. She had a basin of beef drippin' last Thursday as fair made my mouth water. Lovely that'd be on toast with a sprinkle of salt. I told her so, and she said she'd try it on the kids. Now, wouldn't you have thought she'd 'ave known that anyway? A poor feckless body, she is! My Alice tries to give her a few tips like getting bones and simmering them with a few root veg, but she still goes on buying them great packets of cornflakes for three times the price.'

  I sympathised with good kind-hearted Mrs Willet. I too am constantly casting my pearls before swine. How many of the poems I offer my children carry any weight beside the comics they devour? I like to think that an occasional felicitous phrase will stick, and one day give them pleasure to recall. One must live in hope, as a teacher, or go under for ever.

  Although Mrs Coggs' plight was a familiar one, I somehow could not put the little family out of my mind after these two conversations.

  Joseph and his younger twin sisters seemed unmoved by this latest disaster, and as they were the only children of school age I had little idea of how the younger ones were faring. There were two toddlers, and a weakly-looking baby which seemed to spend its time in a battered pram which smelled overpoweringly of ammonia and disintegrating plastic fabric.

  In many ways, poor, apathetic Mrs Coggs had much in common with Mrs Pringle's crazy niece Minnie. Both had a tribe of neglected children. Both lived in a state of dirt and muddle. Both had trouble with their menfolk, and neither seemed to have any idea of managing money, as Mrs Willet had discovered.

  If anything, Minnie was less to be pitied. Despite her turbulent domestic life, she seemed to enjoy the excitement of two men competing for her favours at the same time. Her bevy of noisy wet-nosed children did not seem to ruffle her. The wide mad grin stayed permanently on her freckled face. She could not read, nor tell the time, relying on the chimes of St Patrick's church to give her a rough idea of the passage of the hours or the arrival of the Caxley bus, when the village was fortunate enough to have such a service. But she always seemed to find life utterly absorbing and pleasurable, living as she did in the present. With her limited intelligence, the past was soon forgotten, and what lay in the future was beyond her comprehension. In some ways, one could almost envy Minnie's dotty euphoria. She seemed immune to remorse or apprehension.

  Mrs Coggs was only marginally more intelligent, but was much more pathetic. She certainly remembered the past, and lived in fear of her husband's violence, knowing only too well, from experience, what terror and damage he could cause when drunk. Lack of money, and utter hopelessness, contributed to her neglect of the children, and any attempts to help her met with overpowering apathy, as the local probation officer could testify. Mrs Coggs had once been discovered shoplifting, and the time she had spent under supervision from the probation service had certainly given some help and direction to the family. But once that had gone, the same slip-shod ways returned. Perhaps, as Mr Willet had said, the departure of Arthur to the care of Her Majesty's prison might give his pathetic wife some relief. Time alone would tell.

  ***

  Elizabeth Mawne was still away from home, and no one seemed to have any news of her.

  Henry spoke of her quite cheerfully, and with no hint of there being anything untoward in the circumstances. Perhaps he was accustomed to his wife's absences, as Miriam had told me.

  He had called again, so Mr Willet informed me, but luckily I had gone to see Amy who lives some miles south of Caxley in the village of Bent, so that I missed him.

  'He'd got a great roll of books with him,' Mr Willet informed me. 'Books', I took it, meant magazines. It is the common term here for anything printed. I was just congratulating myself on my timely absence from home on that part
icular evening when my caretaker sent my hopes plummeting.

  'I was oiling that dratted lock on the lobby door, and I says should I take the books for you, but Mr Mawne said he'd come again another time.'

  'He could have left them in the porch.'

  'Well, he never, did 'e? Strikes me he wanted an excuse to pay you another visit. Seems he's a bit lost without his missus.'

  Confound the fellow, I thought! However, no point in making a fuss about it, and certainly no need to let Mr Willet see how annoyed I was. It would be all over the village in no time.

  I gave Mr Willet what I imagined was a carefree smile.

  'Nice to see the hedges beginning to show green,' I observed, casually changing the subject.

  'I wouldn't encourage him, if I was you,' said Mr Willet.

  He was gone before I could reply. Perhaps it was as well.

  But the slight irritation caused by Henry Mawne was overwhelmed in the bliss of breaking up.

  All teachers are glad to welcome the end of term, and particularly the end of the winter term when the weather is at its most bitter, playtimes have to be spent indoors, pupils and staff are suffering from coughs, colds and worse afflictions, and tempers are short.

  To add to our general happiness, the sun shone warmly, the little birds fluttered about their nest-building and egg-hatching, and a few early tulips ventured into flower. What could be more hopeful?

  We set about tidying up the classroom in the afternoon. Desks were relieved of mountains of used paper, the flower vases were emptied and washed, pencils and pens collected, text books and exercise books stacked in the cupboards, so that the time soon came when the children had nothing to occupy them, and we were back to simple games such as I Spy and Left and Right. This invaluable aid to teachers consists of hiding a piece of chalk in one or the other hand, then holding out the two fists, naming a child and then displaying one's open palms. If the child chosen has guessed correctly it is his turn to come to the front and continue. That such an unsophisticated game should give so much pleasure does one's heart good these days.