(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement Read online

  Nevertheless, there was still treasure to be found such as berries from the wayfaring-tree and hips and haws. Someone found a snail's shell, another found a flint broken in half so that a granular silicic deposit glittered in the light.

  We toiled up the grassy slopes until we were high above the village. It was too wet to sit on the grass, but we stood for a few minutes to get our breath back, and to admire the view spread out below us.

  There was not much activity to be seen in Fairacre. Washing was blowing in some gardens. Mr Roberts' Friesian cows made a moving pattern of black and white as they grazed, and a red tractor moved up and down a nearby field as bright as a ladybird.

  We returned to the village carrying our gleanings. John Todd had discovered a Coca-Cola tin among the natural beauties, and was prevailed upon to deposit it in the bin provided outside the Post Office, which he did under protest. The rest of the garnering was displayed on the nature table, and very attractive it looked.

  By common consent I read a story from The Heroes by Charles Kingsley, which Jane Summers, I was told, had just started with them, and all was delightfully peaceful.

  I was conscious of more attention being given to the newly decorated nature table than Theseus's exploits, but who could blame them?

  That afternoon I arrived home in much better shape. Downland air and exercise? Or simply getting back into my old groove? It was impossible to say.

  On Wednesday afternoon I arrived home in time to share a pot of tea with Mrs Pringle before running her home. As always, the place was immaculate. Mrs Pringle was a first-class worker, and it was worth putting up with her tales of woe.

  After getting up to date with the state of her ulcerated leg (no better, and the doctor worse than useless), we proceeded to the reaction of the inhabitants of Fairacre to my present duties at the school.

  'Great shame about Miss Summers everyone agrees. She was getting them children on a real treat. And they had to behave!'

  I agreed that all seemed to be going swimmingly.

  'Mr Lamb reckons that she's as good as a headmaster. Keeps them down to work. None of this skiving off for so-called nature walks.'

  I ignored this side-swipe by offering the plate of scones.

  'Not for me. I'm losing weight.'

  I looked at the clock, and Mrs Pringle took the hint, rising ■with much effort and going to fetch her coat.

  "Well, at least it's only for a week we all tell each other. Can't do much harm in that time.'

  On the way home, she changed the subject of my inadequacies to the troubles of her niece Minnie Pringle, who lived at nearby Springbourne with a most unsatisfactory husband, named Ern, and a gaggle of unkempt children.

  'She's looking for another cleaning job. Ern's keeping her short of money.'

  I was instantly on my guard. I have suffered from Minnie's domestic methods on several occasions.

  'Why is Ern keeping her short?'

  'Hard up, I suppose,' said Mrs Pringle. 'I told her flat that she's not to worry you. Lord knows there's enough to do in your place each week, but I can cope without her muddling about.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Pringle,' I said humbly.

  Bob Willet appeared one evening that week, bearing some fine eating apples.

  'They're good keepers,' he assured me. 'Lovely flavour.'

  1 complimented him on such fine specimens, but he halted me in mid-flow of thanks and admiration.

  'They're my neighbour's. New chap's just moved in. Nice enough, but don't know a thing about gardening. A townee, you see.'

  'He'll learn, I expect.'

  Bob looked gloomy, and puffed out his walrus moustache in a great sigh.

  'I doubt it. Do you know he's bin and dug up a great patch by the back door for what he calls "a car-port". It was the only bit of ground there as grew a decent onion. Enough to break your heart. I told him so when the cement-mixer arrived. D'you know what he said?'

  'What?'

  'He said there was plenty of onions in the shops! The shops!' added Bob in disgust.

  'He may learn.'

  'Never! He just don't have no interest in living things. He drives up to London every day. I'm fair sorry for him really. I offered to prune his fruit trees when the time comes. He was polite, and all that, but it's plain he don't care a button for them fine old apples he's got there. Fred Pringle's granny used to get first prize at the Horticultural Show every year with them russets. Still, to speak fair, he did say he'd advise me about investing my money.'

  Bob gave an ironic laugh.

  'I told him there was not much hope of that. Funny thing is though, I can't help liking the chap. He's so strange, you know. Like a foreigner.'

  He departed soon after, leaving me to ponder on his words.

  'Like a foreigner' Bob had said, and, of course, he was. Bob Willet was a countryman as had all his forbears been. If you plucked Bob from his green garden and dropped him in the arid wastes of a city he would wither as surely as a plant in the same circumstances.

  I remember him once saying to me: "When I gets twizzled up inside, I goes down to the vegetable plot and earths up the celery.'

  It was this close affinity with the land that gave him his strength and sanity. That's what people missed in the vast urban places where most had to live and work.

  It went against Bob's grain to see that cement laid over the best onion bed in Fairacre. It flew in the face of nature, and in his bones Bob rebelled.

  Of course, even in my time things had changed in Fairacre and Beech Green. Almost every household now had a car, if not two. Ease of travel meant that the breadwinner could leave his renovated country cottage and take the nearby motorway to work, leaving the village practically deserted during the day.

  When I first took up my headship at Fairacre school the village was an agricultural settlement, as it had been for centuries. The majority of the people worked for the three or four farmers and landowners as farm labourers, carters, ploughmen, shepherds and so on. There were still one or two farm horses in regular use.

  Over the years farming had changed. A farmer with only two or three men could cope with the work, thanks to modern machinery and the change in farming methods.

  The cottages were bought by strangers and refurbished. These were the people who were commuters, arriving home too late, and probably too tired, to do much gardening or to take an interest in village affairs.

  No wonder Bob Willet looked upon them as strangers. But how good to know that he 'couldn't help liking the chap!'

  I was still thinking about the changes to village life as I chopped up Tibby's supper. Soon all the old people who remembered that way of life would be gone, and what a pity it was that so much valuable social history will have vanished.

  Perhaps everyone should keep a diary, I thought, putting down the saucer, or even keep the monthly parish magazine for future generations to study.

  I recalled the tales that Dolly Clare had told me about her way of life as a child in this very cottage that I had inherited. Tales of mammoth washdays, fetching water from the well, clear-starching and goffering irons. Stories about gleaning, grinding the corn, using flails to separate the chaff from the grain, about country remedies and the use of herbs. Why had I not written it all down?

  Alice Willet, Bob and Mrs Pringle too often dropped a remark which gave a fascinating glimpse of life as it had been so recently, and which was now gone.

  Perhaps I should start myself? Or better still, get a tape recorder and get Bob and the other old people to record their memories. Maybe I would start a diary of my own as well in the New Year. After all, what pleasure I had enjoyed from reading other people's diaries, Francis Kilvert's, for example, or dear Parson Woodforde whose diary lay on my bedside table and took me into rural Norfolk in the eighteenth century whenever I cared to accompany him.

  Well, I must think about it, and also urge others to keep a diary. What success would I have in my encouragement of others, I wondered?

  I
recalled that I had once urged Bob to write down his memories, and his reply had been: 'I've no fist for writing. It's only the gentry as has the time and the learning to put pen to paper.'

  Nevertheless, I could try again, and a tape recorder could be my ally.

  Full of such plans for the future, I went early to bed and slept soundly.

  7. Disturbances

  I HAD KEPT in touch with Jane Summers throughout my time at school. Her sister had answered for the first few days, but on the Thursday Jane spoke herself.

  She sounded hoarse, but very cheerful, and said that she had been pronounced fit for work on Monday. She was profuse in her thanks before we rang off.

  I was mightily relieved to know that I should not be needed. It had been an interesting break, but I should be glad to return to my peaceful retirement.

  But was it peaceful, I asked myself? I remembered the pipe-dreams I had indulged in when I said farewell to Fairacre, the leisurely walks, the lounging on my new seat in the garden, the settling down to read in the afternoon at a time when I should normally have been teaching. Somehow such bliss had been interrupted by events.

  I pondered on the problems of John Jenkins and Henry Mawne which had arisen, and those presented by Mrs Pringle every Wednesday, and possibly Minnie Pringle in the future. I remembered George Annett's increasing pressure to help with church activities, and even dear old Amy's well-meant efforts to marry me off. It dawned on me suddenly that almost all my worries came from people. Left alone I should be much more content in my retirement.

  I looked through the window at the November scene. A few chaffinches foraged below the bird table. Two rooks squabbled over a bread crust. Otherwise all was silent and peaceful.

  The bare branches of the copper beech and lime trees dripped gently after the night's rain. The grey trunks, so reminiscent of an elephant's hide, were streaked with moisture. Nothing moved, nothing could be heard.

  Here was peace indeed, I told myself. If only people would leave me quite alone to relish my solitude then I should certainly enjoy that peaceful retirement which so many kind souls had wished for me.

  Where every prospect pleases

  And only man is vile.

  Whoever wrote that knew his onions, I thought, turning from the window.

  ***

  On Friday I said farewell to Fairacre school with a light heart. The vicar had called first thing to take prayers as usual and to thank me for my efforts during the week. He was so genuinely sorry to see me go that I felt quite guilty.

  'But you will come again?' he pleaded earnestly. 'Should anything like this crop up again, I mean?'

  I pointed out that it was the office's decision, and that I had only been asked this time because the flu bug had cut down the number of local supply teachers.

  'Of course, of course, I do realize that, but it is so pleasant to see you here when I call in. Will you be coming to the Christmas festivities?'

  I said that I hoped to be invited, and he left slightly comforted.

  The children were refreshingly off-hand about my departure, saying how nice it would be to see Miss Summers again, and go on with the story she was telling them 'out of her head' about a Roman soldier who used to live in a camp up on the downs.

  This was the first I had heard of Jane Summers' imaginative skills and I was full of admiration for her, and very conscious of my own limitations.

  I did my best by leaving the sweet-tin replenished to the top, and by leaving a handsome pink cyclamen for their headmistress as a welcome-back present.

  Driving home I felt that I had done my poor best for the week, but trusted that now I could resume my leisurely existence.

  During the evening John Jenkins rang sounding his usual cheerful self.

  'I've been given a brace of pheasants, just right for cooking. Come and help me eat one of them on Sunday.'

  I said that I should be delighted, and was he roasting them?

  'No, no,' he said, sounding rather pleased with himself. 'I'm cooking them in a casserole with apple. I warn you, it's the first time I've tried the recipe. Are you still on?'

  I assured him that I was and promised to be there just after noon.

  Obviously he was now back to normal, and relishing one of his favourite hobbies. He was an adventurous cook, and I admired his willingness to experiment. I was still thinking how good it would be to see him again, when someone knocked at the door, and on opening it, I was surprised to see George Annett.

  'Hello! Do come in.'

  'Mustn't stop. I'm supposed to be in Caxley.'

  This was typical of George Annett. He never seemed to stay in one place for long, but flitted from here to there like a bird on the wing. A restless fellow, I had always thought, but on this occasion he actually sat down, and I took an armchair opposite him.

  He began to rummage in a large envelope, and took out a small pamphlet.

  'Now, this,' he said in a schoolmasterish way, 'is the pamphlet we leave in Beech Green church for visitors to peruse. They are supposed to buy it, but more often than not they simply walk around the church with it, noting the things mentioned, and then dump it back on the table. And pretty grubby some of these get, I can tell you.'

  I agreed that such conduct was highly reprehensible, but wondered privately what I was being asked to do about it.

  I soon learned.

  'The thing is that this little history is now rather out of date, and I wondered if you could possibly find time to up-date it. Now you've retired, I mean. I expect you find time rather heavy on your hands and it's the sort of thing you'd do so well. Have a look anyway. For instance, some of the memorial tablets are not mentioned, and the new stained-glass window should have a note. I'd give you a hand of course, when I have a spare minute.'

  He glanced at the clock, gave a cry, and leapt to his feet.

  'Must fly. Shall I leave it on the table?'

  Within two minutes he had gone.

  Peace came surging back as I resumed my seat and had a preliminary look at the pamphlet. So this was the great work I was supposed to rejuvenate! Now I was retired, as George had said, with 'Time heavy on my hands' (a chance would be a fine thing!), here was something to console me.

  I studied it more closely. Penned originally by a hand long dead, it was a dispiriting account of the church's attractions. The print was small, the paragraphs immensely long and the style pedantic. I wondered who could have been the author. I told myself that I must be particularly careful to keep my opinions to myself. It was bound to have been the work of some aunt, uncle or grandparent of a neighbour in Beech Green. No doubt any alteration of mine would be construed as vandalizing Holy Writ, but I agreed with George Annett that a new edition was needed.

  The first thing to do, I decided, was to scrap the very poor photograph on the front. It must have been taken on a foggy day one winter's afternoon some fifty or more years ago, for it was indistinct and the trees, which now towered above the roof, were shown as mere saplings in the picture. Perhaps a nice bold wood-cut, or a really artistic modern photograph would liven things up?

  At this juncture the telephone rang again, and it was Amy enquiring if I were still alive after a week's teaching.

  'Just about,' I told her, and added that it had brought home to me the wisdom of retiring when I did.

  She expressed her sympathy.

  "What I really rang about was a recipe for gooseberry fool. Have you got such a thing? I seem to have half a dozen bottles of gooseberries in my store cupboard, and I thought I'd have a stab at gooseberry fool. The only thing is I believe you have to make a proper egg custard and I'm not sure if one uses the whites.'

  'Don't burden yourself with egg-yolks, double saucepans and all that lark,' I told her. 'You'll have a sink full of dirty crocks and probably the custard won't have thickened. I'll post you my recipe unless you're coming over, but just use dear old Bird's custard and add plenty of cream.'

  'Thanks for the tip,' said Amy. 'I'll pop over to
morrow evening if that suits you.'

  'Perfectly.'

  And who were you buying three pairs of pyjamas for?'

  'Never end your sentence with a preposition,' I countered, playing for time.

  Now how on earth could Amy, at Bent, ten miles away, have heard of my purchases? I had half expected to have a comment or two from my Fairacre friends, but obviously Mrs Richards' momentary interest in the shop had passed, and she had made no comments. I was, as always, intrigued by this dissemination of knowledge.

  'Don't be so pedantic,' said Amy. 'There's such a thing as common usage these days.'

  'I bought them for John when he was ill,' I said. 'But how on earth did you know?'

  'Charlie, who helps us in the garden when it suits him, was buying his winter pants at the same time.'

  I remembered the only other customer in the men's department who had seemed totally absorbed in choosing his winter underwear. Ah well! That was explained.

  'And how is John?' she went on.

  'Fine now. He's giving me Sunday lunch. Pheasant cooked with apples.'

  'Lovely!' enthused Amy, but whether she was so delighted at the thought of pheasant cooked with apples or my approaching visit to John Jenkins, was anyone's guess.

  'See you tomorrow then,' she cried, and rang off.

  Sunday dawned so bright and fair it might have been May rather than November. Only the bare trees outlined against a tender blue sky, and the shagginess of the lawn showed the true rime of year. But the air was warm, the birds sang, and there was even a drowsy bumble-bee trying to get in at the window.

  My spirits rose to match the sparkling day as, dressed in my best and bearing a pot of honey for my host's delectation, I set out for John's house.

  The congregation of Beech Green church was just emerging from the porch. Someone raised a hand to me, and I tooted the horn in reply, edging out to turn away from all these good folk as I went towards my old parish.