(8/20) Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre Read online

As usual, she had the last word, and swept out into the lobby, meeting the rush of children who were swarming into school.

  I had been at Fairacre School some five or six years when Joseph Coggs became a pupil. I liked the child from the start. He was dark-haired and dark-skinned, with large mournful eyes. Somewhere in the past there had been gipsy forbears. He was appreciative of all that happened in school, and seemed to settle into an ordered way of life for which his early years could not have trained him.

  He was in Miss Clare's class in the infants' room, so that I did not see a great deal of him. But he was an enthusiastic eater, and demolished his plates of school dinner with a joy which I shared whilst watching him.

  The Coggs family lived in a broken-down cottage, one of four collectively called Tyler's Row. Their landlord was an old soldier who could not afford to keep the property in good heart, and it was widely thought that it would be better to see the whole place pulled down, and the families rehoused.

  Not that all four cottages were as deplorable as the Coggs' establishment. The Waites next door kept their identical accommodation as neat as a new pin. An elderly couple in the first cottage were also house-proud, and Mrs Fowler who lived in the last one, although feared by all for her violent temper, was certainly house-proud to the point of fanaticism.

  It was not surprising that the Coggses were a source of trouble to their close neighbours. Arthur Coggs's habit of roaring home when the pubs had closed did not make him popular. The neglected garden sent its weeds into the neighbouring neat plots, and the cries of unhappy children were clearly heard through the thin dividing walls.

  'I wouldn't live near them Coggses for a bag of gold,' Mrs Pringle told me. 'They get more help than the rest of the village put together, but what good does that do 'em? All goes down Arthur's throat, that's what!'

  As usual, she was right of course. Mrs Partridge, our vicar's wife, had told me of the kindness of people in the village who had provided clothes, bed linen, furniture and even pots and pans for the pathetic family.

  'Most of the stuff,' said Mrs Partridge, 'was never seen again. Arthur exchanged all he could with his cronies and put the money on the bar counter. Gerald has taken him to task on many occasions, and I think he tries for a day or two, but soon falls back into his old bad habits. He was put on probation after one court appearance, and things were slightly better when the probation officer kept an eye on the family. But it really is a hopeless task.'

  Mrs Pringle's attitude to Joseph Coggs on his arrival as a pupil was one of lofty disdain. Anyone, or anything, as grubby as the little boy was unwelcome. Not that she said anything to hurt the child's feelings, but he was ignored rather pointedly, I considered, and my affection for him was obviously deplored.

  Not long after his entry into the school, there was a most disturbing incident. Mr Roberts, the farmer who is also one of Fairacre School's governors, had been missing eggs from the nest-boxes. He suspected that one of the children had been taking them, and very reluctantly asked me if he could look through the pockets of the coats hanging in the lobby.

  Poor man! He was most unhappy about it all. We asked the children if they knew anything about it, but there was no response. Consequently, Mr Roberts and I went through their pockets and found three marked eggs in young Eric's pocket.

  When faced with this, the boy confessed tearfully that he had indeed been taking the eggs, and on several occasions.

  'And I give some to little Joe Coggs,' he sniffled abjectly. 'He saw me, and I never wanted him to tell.'

  We dealt with the malefactor fairly leniently as he obviously was suffering much, though not as severely as Mr Roberts himself who was far more agitated than Eric or young Joseph when I confronted the little boy later. He had handed the eggs to his mother, who must have guessed that they were obtained by stealing, but was too delighted with the gift to take the matter further.

  Mrs Pringle's attitude to the incident was predictable. 'What do you expect from that lot?' she asked dismissively.

  'It won't happen again,' I assured her, 'both boys were very contrite.'

  'It's easy enough to be contrite, as you call it, when you've been found out. But in my opinion, that Joe wants watching. Them Coggses is all tarred with the same brush.'

  All the new entrants settled in quickly that term under Miss Clare's kindly guidance, and Joseph, although not particularly bright academically, proved to be a helpful and happy little boy.

  The weather remained quite warm all through September and the early part of October, but suddenly the chill of autumn struck with clammy fog which veiled the downs and misted the school windows.

  Our building is old and damp, and the skylight an ever-present trouble to us, admitting rain in wet weather and a howling draught at all times.

  'Better start the stoves,' I said to Mrs Pringle, and waited for the usual delaying tactics.

  'Bob Willet hasn't done me any kindling wood.'

  'I'll see him at dinner time.'

  'One of the coke hods is broken at the bottom.'

  'I'll indent for another one. You should have told me before.'

  'Matches is short, too.'

  'I'll bring you a box from the house at play time.'

  Then, her final thrust: 'What will The Office say?'

  'I can deal with the Office. Just light the stoves/'

  Mrs Pringle, bristling with umbrage and muttering darkly, left my presence limping heavily.

  We needed those stoves in the weeks that followed for winter seemed to have arrived early. A sharp east wind blew away the fog after some days, and draughts whistled round the classrooms. Every time the door opened, papers fluttered to the floor and top-heavy vases, stuffed with branches of autumn foliage, capsized and spilt water, berries and leaves everywhere. It was impossible to dodge the draught from the skylight, and I had a stiff neck only partially eased by a scarf tied round it.

  The children wore their winter woollies or dungarees. Summer sandals were exchanged for Wellingtons or stout shoes. The shabbiest of all the children was Joseph, but even he had an extra cardigan - once owned by a girl if the buttoning was anything to go by - and I noticed that Miss Clare had moved him to a desk close to the stove.

  The infants went home a quarter of an hour earlier than my class, but on one particularly bitter afternoon, as I was seeing my children out, I saw that Joseph was still in the playground.

  'I was waitin' for Ernest,' he said gruffly in reply to my questioning. 'I goes a bit of the way with him.'

  The child's hands were red with the cold, and he was sniffing lustily. I handed him a tissue from my pocket supply.

  'No gloves?' I asked.

  'No, miss.'

  At that moment Ernest appeared.

  'Well put your hands in your pockets,' I advised, 'and run along together to get warm.'

  A few days later I had occasion to go into Miss Clare's classroom. As in my own, a row of damp scarves and gloves steamed gently over the top rail of the fireguard round the tortoise stove. Among the motley collection was a pair of thick red woollen gloves, obviously expertly knitted in double-knitting wool. I turned them over to help the drying process.

  Joseph, from his nearby desk, looked up with pride. 'They's mine,' he said, 'Mrs Pringle give 'em to me.'

  I exchanged puzzled glances with Miss Clare.

  'I'll tell you later,' she whispered.

  It all happened evidently on the afternoon when I had despatched Ernest and Joseph homeward in the bitter cold.

  When Ernest had turned into his cottage, not far from the school, Joseph had continued on his solitary way. Most of his schoolfellows had run homeward, keen to get to the fireside and some welcoming food. Joseph, whose home was short of both comforts, dawdled along the village street, occasionally looking through a lighted window for interest.

  As he came to the Post Office, which stood back from the village street, he was surprised, and a little alarmed, to hear a shout from Mr Lamb standing in his doorway. />
  'Joe! Come here a minute, boy.'

  Wondering if he had done anything wrong, Joe approached. Grown-ups meant authority, and young Joseph was wary of tangling with those in power, used as he was to his parents' attitude to the police, the probation officer and even the kindly vicar himself.

  Mr Lamb, unaware of the trepidation in young Joe's heart, was holding out a large door key.

  'Can you nip round to Mrs Pringle's, Joe? She left the school key here when she dropped in for some stamps just now. She'll need it to get in for her cleaning any time now.'

  Joseph, much relieved, and somewhat flattered to be entrusted with this task, nodded his assent and Mr Lamb put the heavy key into the small cold palm, folding the fingers over it.

  'Don't drop it, will you? Be a fine old to-do if that got lost. I can't leave the shop, or I'd pop down myself, but it's not much beyond your place.'

  'That's all right,' replied Joseph, and set off, clutching his burden.

  His trepidation returned when he got to Mrs Pringle's back door. No one in his station of life would dare to knock at the front one, and Joseph automatically trotted round to the rear door, knocked timidly, and waited.

  Mrs Pringle, who had seen the little figure coming up the path, appeared in the doorway Mutely, Joseph held out the key. Here was authority at its most formidable, and the child was struck dumb.

  'Well, I'm blowed!' said Mrs Pringle, dignity abandoned in her shock. 'Where did you get that, Joe?'

  'Mr Lamb,' faltered Joseph. 'You left it in the Post Office.'

  'I've been looking all over for it,' said Mrs Pringle, 'and been worrying about where it could be. Been through my oil-cloth bag times without number, and was just going to search the street.'

  She took the key from the child's hand, and felt how cold it was, as cold as the heavy key itself.

  'Where's your gloves, boy?'

  'Ain't got none.'

  'Not at home even?'

  'No.'

  Mrs Pringle snorted, and Joseph felt his fear returning. Was it so wrong not to have gloves?

  'Well, you're a good boy to have brought my key back. You run along home now before it gets dark, and thank you.'

  The child turned without a word, cold hands thrust into the pockets of his dilapidated raincoat, and made his way homeward.

  ***

  Later in the day when I had first seen Joe's new gloves, Mrs Pringle and I were alone in the classroom. The children had gone home and all was quiet.

  I locked my desk drawers while Mrs Pringle dusted window sills and hummed 'Lead kindly light, amidst the encircling gloom', rather flat.

  The key in my hand reminded me of Joseph Coggs. Curiosity prompted me to broach the subject.

  'Young Joe has a splendid pair of winter gloves,' I observed.

  The humming stopped, and Mrs Pringle faced me, looking disconcerted, which was a rare occurrence.

  'Well, time he had! No child should be out in this weather with his hands bare.'

  'No,' I agreed. She was about to resume her dusting, but I wanted to know more.

  'And were you the kind soul who knitted them?'

  Mrs Pringle sat heavily on a desk which creaked in protest.

  'The child did me a good turn,' she said. 'I been and left the school key on Mr Lamb's counter, and he give it to Joe to bring along to me. And that child's hands!'

  Here Mrs Pringle raised her own podgy ones in horror. 'Cold as clams, they was. A perishing day it was, as well I know, having to get these stoves going far too early. I don't hold with encouraging them Coggses in their slatternly ways, but there's such a thing as Christian Kindness, and seeing how young Joe had helped me out, I thought: "One good turn deserves another" and I got down to the knitting that same evening.'

  'It was very good of you,' I said sincerely.

  'Well, I had a bit of double-knitting over from our John's sweater, and it did just nicely. The boy seemed grateful. I slipped them to him a morning or two later, and told him to keep them out of his dad's sight.'

  'Surely he wouldn't take those?'

  'Arthur Coggs,' said Mrs Pringle, 'would drink the coat off your back, if you gave him a chance. And now, if I don't get this dusting done I shan't be back in time to get Pringle's tea.'

  Thus dismissed, I left her to her cleaning. She was still humming as I closed the door - it sounded like 'Abide with me', rather sharp.

  Whether it was the inescapable draught from the skylight, the wintry weather, or simply what the medical profession calls 'a virus' these days, the result was the same. I went down with an appalling cold.

  It was one of those which cannot be ignored. For several days I had been at the tickly throat stage with an occasional polite blow into a handkerchief, but one night, soon after my conversation with Mrs Pringle, all the germs rose up in a body and attacked me.

  By morning every joint ached, eyes streamed, head throbbed and I was too cowardly to take my temperature. It was quite clear that I should be unable to go over to the school, for as well as being highly infectious and pretty useless, I was what Mr Willet described once as 'giddy as a whelk'.

  I scribbled a note to Miss Clare, and dropped it from my bedroom window to the first responsible child to appear in the playground.

  At twenty to nine, my gallant assistant appeared at the bedroom door.

  'Don't come any nearer,' I croaked. 'I'm absolutely leprous. I'm so sorry about this. As soon as it is nine o'clock I'll ring the Office and see if we can get a supply teacher for a couple of days.'

  'I shall ring the Office,' said Miss Clare, with great authority, 'and I shall bring you a cup of tea and some aspirins, and see that Doctor Martin calls.'

  I was too weak to argue and accepted her help gratefully.

  After my cup of tea I must have fallen asleep, for the next I knew was the sound of Doctor Martin's voice as he came upstairs. As always, he was cheerful, practical and brooked no argument.

  'When did this start?' he asked when he had put the thermometer into my mouth.

  I wondered, not for the first time, why doctors and dentists ask questions when you are effectively gagged by the tools of their trade.

  'About two or three days ago,' I replied, when released from the thermometer.

  'You should have called me then,' he said severely. How is it, I wondered, that doctors can so quickly put you in the wrong?

  Relenting, he patted my shoulder. 'You'll do. I'll just write you a prescription and you are to stay in bed until I come again.'

  'And when will that be?' I asked, much alarmed.

  'The day after tomorrow. But I shan't let you loose until that temperature's gone down.'

  He collected his bits and pieces, gave me a beaming smile, and vanished.

  I resumed my interrupted slumbers.

  It was getting dark when I awoke, and I could hear the children running across the playground on their way home. I could also hear movements downstairs, and wondered if Miss Clare had come over again on a mission of mercy, but to my surprise, it was Amy who appeared, bearing a tea tray.

  I struggled up, wheezing a welcome.

  'Dolly Clare rang me,' she said, 'and as James is in Budapest, or it may be Bucharest, I was delighted to come. What's more, I've collected your prescription, and pretty dire it looks and smells.'

  She deposited a bottle of dark brown liquid on the bedside table.

  'I may not need it,' I said, 'after a good cup of tea.'

  'You'll do as you're told,' replied Amy firmly, 'and take your nice medicine as Doctor Martin said.'

  We sipped our tea in amicable silence, and then Amy told me that she intended to stay until the doctor called again.

  'But what about the school? I can't leave Miss Clare to cope alone.'

  'Someone's coming out tomorrow, I gather, and in any case, I could do a hand's turn. I am a trained teacher, if you remember, and did rather better than you did in our final grades.'

  She vanished to make up the spare bed, and left me to m
y muddled thoughts for some time. I thought I heard her talking outside in the playground, but decided it must be Miss Clare or even Mrs Pringle going about their affairs.

  When Amy reappeared, the clock said half past seven.

  'I can't think what's happened to today,' I complained, 'I must keep falling asleep.'

  'You do,' she assured me, 'and a good thing too.'

  'But there's such a lot to do. The kitchen's in a fine mess. I left yesterday's washing up, and the grate hasn't been cleared.'

  'Oh yes, it has! Mrs Pringle came over after she'd finished at the school. She had it all spick and span in half an hour.'

  'Amy,' I squeaked, 'you haven't asked Mrs Pringle to help! You know how I've resisted all this time.'

  'And what's more,' went on Amy imperturbably, 'she is quite willing to come every Wednesday afternoon, if you need her.'

  'Traitor!' I said, but I was secretly amused and relieved.

  'Time for medicine,' replied Amy, advancing on the bottle.

  CHAPTER 7

  Christmas

  As so often happens in the wake of nervous apprehension, reality proved less severe than my fears.

  The advent of Mrs Pringle into my personal affairs had its advantages. For one thing, the house benefitted immediately from her ministrations. Furniture gleamed like satin, windows were crystal clear, copper and brass objects were dazzling, and even door knobs on cupboards, which had never hitherto seen a spot of Brasso, were transformed.

  The beauty of it was, from my point of view, that I hardly came across the lady when she was at her labours. She chose to come on a Wednesday afternoon. (Mrs Hope, that paragon of domestic virtue who had been an earlier occupant in the school house, had always preferred Wednesdays, according to Mrs Pringle.) So Wednesday it was.

  She went straight from her washing up in the school lobby to my house, and worked from half past one until four o'clock. As I was teaching then it meant that I seldom saw her in the house, but simply marvelled at the shining surfaces when I returned.