(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement Read online

  His coffin lay in the aisle in the middle of the sparse congregation. It bore a simple cross of white lilies, no doubt, I thought, a tribute from the little gathering across the aisle.

  It was bitterly cold, with that marrow-chilling dampness which is peculiar to old churches. I felt anxious for the old people nearby, and glad that I had put on a full-length winter coat.

  The organ began to play, and the officiating priest entered with one attendant, and as we rose I noticed for the first time two magnificent flower arrangements flanking the altar. They were composed of yellow carnations shading from cream to deep bronze and formed a glowing background to the black robe of the clergyman.

  The service was simple but moving. After the blessing we moved slowly outside, and talked in the shelter of the porch to the other mourners.

  The rain still lashed across the countryside. The yew trees dripped, the grass in the churchyard was flattened in a cruel wind, and a vase of dahlias on one of the graves blew over, scattering vivid petals to the wind.

  The undertakers had driven Uncle Sam's remains to the crematorium. Cars arrived to collect his old friends and return them to their luncheons, and John and I sought the shelter of his car.

  'We need something to keep out the cold,' said John. 'Would you have any objection to eating at the place we did before, with Uncle Sam? It's nearby and we liked it, didn't we?'

  I said it would be perfect, and we set off.

  'Nice service,' I said. 'Cheerful, but dignified. And the flowers were lovely.'

  'The nursing home did the lilies,' said John, 'so I plumped for the carnations for each side of the altar. They looked pretty good I thought.'

  'Splendid,' I told him.

  Well, the old boy was a great carnation grower in his heyday, and always had some beauties in his greenhouse. "Must have one for my buttonhole each day," he used to say, "and some for a bouquet for any lady that takes my fancy."'

  We had to run from the car into the shelter of the bar, where a log fire, a real one with flames, welcomed us.

  'What's yours?' asked John, helping me off with my wet coat. 'And don't say orange juice! It's too dam' cold. Have something stronger today.'

  And so I did.

  We were due at the crematorium, for our final farewell to Sam, at two o'clock. There were even fewer people present, although the good matron was there with two or three of the hardiest residents, who must have forgone their afternoon rest to see the last of their old friend.

  The service was conducted by the same young clergyman. I was much impressed by his beautiful voice and the kindness of his manner when talking to us after the ceremony.

  'He'd make a splendid bishop later on,' I told John, as we drove home. 'I must make a note of his name, and look out for his progress in years to come.'

  'Let's hope you're right,' said John, 'and by the way, I have news for you. I'm off to Portugal next week.'

  'Lucky you! Or is it just business?'

  'No, pleasure. Golf, in fact. I ran across an old school friend in town a month or two ago, and he and his brother own a villa out there.'

  'It sounds marvellous.'

  'They're both married with children, and they go out in turns during the school holidays. He reckons it works out quite cheaply, and they all love the country. What's more, there's a first-class golf-course nearby.'

  'I didn't know you played.'

  'I haven't for years, but I'm quite looking forward to it.'

  'Is this villa in the Algarve?'

  'No, somewhere on the west coast near Estoril. They let the villa when they're not using it, I gather. Quite a sound investment so far, Bill said.'

  'It sounds so.'

  By now we were close to Beech Green, and I invited John to tea. We were both tired, and I was still feeling cold. I asked John if he felt the same.

  'Just a bit,' he admitted. 'Shall I light your fire?'

  He got on with the job while I busied myself with the kettle and some cake.

  This is more like it,' said John when I had poured out, and the fire was burning nicely.

  'A holiday will do you good,' I assured him. 'I felt fine after that week in Florence. You didn't say how long you would be away in this super villa.'

  'Just the week, but I might think of taking it again if it's as splendid as Bill says.'

  He looked at me speculatively.

  'I thought perhaps it might be just the thing for our honeymoon one day.'

  'Well, you think about it, John dear,' I said kindly, 'but count me out. More tea?'

  5. The Invalid

  AS TIME passed, the pattern of my days fell into a pleasant order.

  I still woke up about seven, but allowed myself the luxury of staying in bed a little longer than in my working days.

  When teaching I had a rough and ready timetable of early morning routine, getting downstairs about twenty to eight, dressed for the day, and ready to feed Tibby inside and the birds outside, take in the milk, collect my school work together, eat my breakfast and clear it away, and then set off for Fairacre.

  Nowadays I lingered over my toilet, Tibby's, the birds' and my breakfast, and relished the arrival of the post and paper, both of which had usually arrived, in my working days, after my departure.

  I thoroughly enjoyed this easing of pressure, and when I thought of school it was usually with the happy feeling that I had no need to be there. But I still found myself looking at the clock and thinking: 'Now they should be doing arithmetic,' or 'I wonder if it's fine enough for the children to play outside at Fairacre?'

  Sometimes too, on my walks, I would see something interesting, a spray of blackberries, some hazelnuts or a particularly fascinating fungus, and would think how well it would look on the classroom nature table.

  But these were only passing reminders of schooldays, and I was very content with my new and idler life.

  About once a week I drove to Fairacre, chiefly to buy stamps and to purchase groceries from Mr Lamb's shop, as I had done for so many years. Always I returned with up-to-date gossip as well as my bag of groceries, so that I felt in touch with all the goings-on in Fairacre.

  I was careful not to mention Henry Mawne's troubles, but Mr Lamb soon told me that Henry had gone to Ireland and no one knew when he proposed to be back.

  A fresh piece of news was that Joe Coggs' mother had found a part-time job in Caxley, filling the shelves in one of the supermarkets. Mr Lamb hoped that the extra money would help to pay off some of the debts which were still outstanding at his own modest establishment.

  After depositing my shopping in the car on this particular afternoon, I took a walk about the village I knew so well. There were signs of autumn everywhere. The horse-chestnut tree outside the Post Office was shedding green prickly fruits which split open on impact with the ground to disclose the glossy nuts within. Conker time was here again, and Jane Summers would have to cope with the clash of conker strings at playtime.

  I went as far as the bend in the lane from which I could see Fairacre school, but went no further. It was very quiet. The children were probably listening to a story.

  I did not propose to call. Once one has left a post, I think it wiser to stay away. Too often I have heard friends telling horrific stories of former heads dropping in, far too frequently, to give advice or simply to see what is going on in their former domain. Nothing can be more annoying, and I intended to wait until invited to return to Fairacre school.

  I liked Jane Summers. She had been to tea with me at Beech Green, and I had been invited to her house in Caxley. I suspected that I would be invited to Fairacre school's Christmas party with all the other friends of the school, and that would be an enormous pleasure.

  Meanwhile, I stood and looked at the quiet little building which had been the hub of my life. As I watched, a little girl came out of the infants' room outer door, and dashed across the playground to the stone wall. Here she paused, unaware of my watching eyes, snatched a garment from the top and returned to the
classroom, skipping cheerfully as she went.

  I could imagine the preliminaries to this trip. Mrs Richards, probably reading a story, would see the upraised hand.

  'What is it?'

  'I bin and left my cardigan out the back.'

  'Then go and fetch it. And be quick.'

  And so the delighted escape into the playground, the retrieving of the garment, and the obedient return to the rest of the story, after the refreshing break.

  It was a heartening glimpse. Obviously, things continued much as usual at Fairacre school.

  Mrs Pringle told me more about the ongoing saga of Henry Mawne and his troubles.

  'Do you know, he flew to Ireland? Costs a mint of money to fly there. Most people go on a boat, Ireland being an island. That's why it's called Ireland, I suppose.'

  She paused, looking at me for confirmation. I felt unequal to making any explanation, and she continued her narrative.

  'Alice Willet was up there when Mrs Mawne rang up. She was on that telephone for the best part of twenty minutes, and this at midday No waiting for cheap-rate time. No wonder they're short of money.'

  'I believe it's raining,' I said, looking out of the window.

  Mrs Pringle brushed aside this pathetic attempt to change the subject, and she continued remorselessly.

  'Give him his due he did pay Alice at the end of the morning, and told her not to bother to call until he sent word. He went off that afternoon to Bristol, I think it was.'

  She picked up a saucepan from the draining board and scrutinized it closely.

  'What's been in here?'

  'Only milk.'

  'I'd best give it a proper do. Have you had a go at it?'

  'Yes. Just before you came. What's wrong with it?'

  'It's dirty. Give you germane poisoning, as like as not.'

  Mrs Pringle's use of 'germane' instead of, I imagine, 'ptomaine', so intrigued me that my annoyance vanished. So often she gets a word half right, which makes it all the more potent. For instance, I have heard her refer to the slight stroke I suffered as 'Miss Read's inability', instead of 'her disability'.

  However, with her opinion of my capabilities, perhaps 'inability' is nearer the mark.

  As I drove her home after her ministrations, she told me a little more about Mrs Coggs' new duties at the supermarket.

  'She has to be there from four till seven, so Joe gets the meal.'

  'Can't that wretched Arthur get the children's meal? Don't tell me he's in work.'

  'No. He's inside again. Shoplifting this time. Fairacre's quite peaceful without him.'

  'Do you mean that Joe actually cooks a meal, or does his mother leave things ready?'

  I had visions of overturned boiling saucepans, frying-pans on fire, and the Coggs children being rushed to Caxley hospital.

  'You know how they live,' said Mrs Pringle sourly. 'She leaves a loaf of bread out and the jam pot, and that's it. Though I did hear as Joe heated up a tin of soup for 'em one cold day. He forgot to turn off the gas, but luckily their neighbour looked in, so all was well.'

  I did not find this very reassuring, and returned home after depositing my companion, with grave misgivings about the safety of the junior members of the Coggs family during their mother's working hours.

  But what could I do about it? Mighty little, I told myself sadly, turning into my drive.

  ***

  I spent that evening at Amy's. James was away and she asked me to keep her company.

  We sat watching a very old film in what someone once called 'nostalgic black and white' and thoroughly enjoyed it.

  'I wonder why,' commented Amy at one stage when the heroine was crying copiously, 'women in films never have a handkerchief and have to be given one by the leading man? I suppose the film-makers think it is touching, but does any woman go out without a handkerchief? I doubt it.'

  'You told me once,' I reminded her, 'of two sisters who used to go out with one hanky between them, frequently asking: "Have you got the handkerchief ?"'

  'That's absolutely true,' Amy assured me. 'By the way, I heard from Lucy Colegate. She's got her sister staying with her. She's just lost her husband.'

  'What, Lucy? She's always losing husbands.'

  'Now, don't be catty, dear. I know you and Lucy don't see eye to eye, but I quite like her. And it's the sister who has lost the husband. Lucy says she's quite numb with grief.'

  'Poor woman. It must be absolutely devastating to lose one's other half. Like having a leg off. An awful amputation.'

  Amy nodded.

  'I can't bear to think how I'd feel if James died. As you say, I suppose one would just feel half a person.'

  'Only for a time surely,' I comforted her. It was unusual to see Amy in such a sad mood. Perhaps the black and white weepie we had been watching had something to do with it. In the garden too the rain was tossing the trees in a dismal fashion.

  Time the Great Healer, and all that?' queried Amy.

  That's right. After a bit you would be bound to start again, getting interested in all sorts of things, doing a bit of travelling, visiting friends. And so on,' I ended weakly.

  'Maybe,' said Amy, not sounding very sure. 'I suppose one would just have to find comfort in Little Things, as the agony aunts tell us in the women's magazines.'

  'Such as?'

  'Well, one suggestion was that you should read all the old love letters. Personally, I can't imagine any more upsetting activity, but 1 suppose some women might be comforted.'

  'Have you still got James' love letters?'

  'No. I threw them away years ago. We were moving all over the place, and the less luggage one had the better.'

  I felt that this was the robust response which one expected of Amy.

  'I think Little Things like no snoring said Amy, becoming more animated, 'might be some comfort. And not having any shirts to iron. I must say that I should find that of considerable consolation in the midst of my sorrow.'

  'You are a very flippant woman,' I said severely.

  'And a hungry one,' said Amy rising. 'It's all this emotion. Come and have some supper in the kitchen.'

  So we did.

  John Jenkins had rung me before his departure to Portugal, and had also sent a pretty view of some gardens in Estoril with the sea in the background, of that peculiarly hard blue which all seaside postcards seem to show, whether of the Isle of Wight or Amalfi.

  He was expected back on Saturday, and the final line of his postcard read:

  "Will ring when I return. Love, John.'

  The last two words, I felt sure, had been read with great interest by the Beech Green postman, but I was not particularly perturbed.

  I half expected a telephone call during Saturday evening, but guessed that his flight might have been held up. No doubt I should hear tomorrow, I thought, as I went to bed.

  But Sunday brought no call, and I assumed that he had stayed on in Portugal. It did occur to me in the early evening that I might ring his home, but George and Isobel Annett called in after evensong, and I thought no more of the matter.

  On Monday morning I needed extra milk, and walked along to the obliging Beech Green shop to buy a pint. There were several people there, including Jessie, surname unknown to me, who was John's domestic help.

  'Poor Mr Jenkins,' she said to me, as I stood waiting to pay for my milk. 'Isn't it a shame?'

  Of course, by this time I had John in a Portuguese hospital with multiple injuries, and unable to speak a word of the language. Alternatively, he could be in the wreckage of an aeroplane at sea, with the rest of his fellow passengers.

  'The doctor's with him now,' continued Jessie, hoisting an enormous hold-all from the floor. 'I shall look in later on.'

  'But what's the matter? What's happened?'

  'He was ill on the flight and went straight to bed on Saturday night. Been there ever since.'

  She staggered out with her burden, and I left soon after.

  Within half an hour, I walked into John's hou
se bearing a few things which I thought might be acceptable to an invalid.

  The doctor had gone, and the place was very quiet. I called up the stairs.

  'Come up,' said a weak voice.

  He sat in bed looking thoroughly wretched, propped against his pillows. I was secretly shocked at his appearance. His smile, however, was welcoming.

  'I'm so sorry I didn't ring, but we were held up for hours at the airport. It was two o'clock in the morning when I crawled into this bed, and I've been here ever since.'

  What is it? Shouldn't you be in hospital?'

  'I didn't ring the doctor until this morning. Can't worry the poor devil on a Sunday.'

  I thought privately that this was being far too altruistic. If I had been as ill as John obviously was, I should have got the doctor whatever the day of the week. This patient was obviously of far nobler stuff than I was.

  'What did he say it was?'

  'Some bug which affects you rather like the malaria one. High temperature, shaking, nausea, all that.'

  'When did it start? In Portugal?'

  'I felt lousy on the plane. Some fly had bitten me earlier in the day, and it itched like mad. Doctor seems to think that started it. Anyway by the time I got home I was only fit for bed and quarts of water.'

  'What can I do?'

  'Nothing. Just stay and talk. Jessie is coming in every morning and evening, and she takes my sheets and pyjamas. I get soaked every few hours. With sweat, I hasten to add.'

  I remembered Jessie's burden and felt guilty.

  'I could wash some things for you.'

  'I can't think what the neighbours would say if they saw my pyjamas blowing on your washing line.'

  'To hell with the neighbours!'

  John laughed. It was a wheezy laugh, and a weak one, but good to hear.

  'That's my girl! But don't worry. Jessie's got a tumble drier, and she's taken everything at the moment.'

  'Can I get you a drink?'

  I made for a jug of orange juice standing nearby, but he grimaced.