(19/20) Farewell to Fairacre Read online

  Joseph Coggs, playing marbles outside the chapel, said he thought I was still in hospital because I'd been struck dumb. Mrs Pringle had said so to his auntie.

  I replied in clear and rather sharp tones.

  Mr Willet emerged from his gate, and entreated me to come in, to sit down, to give him my coat, and to have a cup of coffee which Alice was just making.

  I accepted gratefully.

  'Well,' said Bob, as we sat at the kitchen table with our steaming mugs, 'I didn't believe half what Maud Pringle said, but we was all real scared to hear the news.'

  'Not as scared as I was,' I told him. 'I'm not used to being ill.'

  'You take care of yourself,' said Mrs Willet. 'We don't want anyone else in your place at the school. Everyone was saying so, weren't they, Bob?'

  'So what's the news?' I asked hastily, changing the sub ject.

  'Not much. Except for Arthur Coggs.'

  'I thought he was safely in prison.'

  'He come out about a fortnight ago. You know how it is these days. These villains get sent down for six months, and they're out again before you can draw breath. Remission, or some such. Anyway, he's out, and got one of his religious turns again.'

  'Oh dear!' I exclaimed. We all know what havoc Arthur Coggs' religious turns can cause. On one occasion he had knocked up the Willets when they were asleep, and filled with burning zeal and too much strong beer had attempted to save their souls.

  On another occasion he had entered the church during Evensong and started a loud tirade, punctuated with inebriated hiccups, on the after-life of those present in the congregation. Two sidesmen had removed him to the churchyard, but not before he had overturned a pot of gladioli in the church porch, and ripped a warning about swine fever from the noticeboard hard by.

  On the present occasion evidently he had trespassed into the Women's Institute meeting at the village hall, whilst the members were engrossed in a cookery demonstration.

  The demonstrator was a young woman with little experience. She was nervous before the twenty or so elderly women, who sat clutching their handbags on their laps and watching the proceedings with critical eyes. Her employers, a firm of flour manufacturers, had given her a course in pastry-making of all types, and this knowledge she was now imparting to her audience.

  She had spent some time showing them different sorts of flour in half a dozen small bowls, and then continued with the making of choux pastry, puff pastry, and hot-water pastry for raised pork pies and the like. Whether she imagined that the women before her still ground their own flour from their harvest gleanings, no one could guess, but the rather condescending nature of her patter definitely irked them.

  Had she but known, nine out of ten of those present had long ago given up making their own pastry, and rummaged in the local shops' refrigerator cabinets for nice ready-made packets marked 'shortcrust' or 'puff', and with no sticky fingers or mixing bowls to worry about.

  It was while the earnest young woman was attempting to raise hot-water pastry round a jam jar that the interruption occurred.

  It was not entirely unwelcome. The tea ladies were already beginning to whisper to each other about switching on the urn, when the door from the kitchen burst open, and Arthur Coggs, clearly the worse for drink, stumbled into the hall.

  He approached the table unsteadily. The demonstrator, with a squeak of panic, retreated behind it, floury hands to her face in alarm.

  'Get out, Arthur Coggs!' shouted one brave woman, but was ignored.

  'Ish thish,' demanded Arthur, 'the 'all of shalvation?'

  'No, it isn't,' said Mrs Partridge, the vicar's wife, coming forward to take charge as president. 'This is the village hall, and well you know it. Go home now!'

  Arthur turned a bleary eye upon her. He put one hand on the table to steady himself, and smacked it down upon a wet mound of pastry.

  'I've seen the light,' he began, amidst outraged murmurs. 'I bin a shinner, but now I'm shaved. And I'm going to shave you lot too.'

  'Oh, no you're not, Arthur,' said Mrs Partridge firmly. 'You are going home, or we shall send for the police.'

  She attempted to edge him towards the door. A large dollop of pastry fell to the floor, and was flattened under Arthur's boot.

  'My pastry!' wailed the demonstrator, bending down to rescue it. The table gave a lurch from the activities around it, and the jam jar with its skirt of raised pastry rolled to join the mess on the floor.

  'The police?' echoed Arthur. 'They needs to shee the light too.'

  At this point, three more women came to Mrs Partridge's aid and manhandled the protesting saviour-of-souls into the kitchen.

  'I'll just switch on while we're here,' said one, eminently practical, despite holding one of Arthur's ears.

  Protesting vociferously, Arthur was bundled through the back door.

  'I gotta meshage for you,' he shouted, 'a meshage from the Lord!'

  'Well, you'd better go and tell the vicar,' replied Mrs Partridge, giving him a final push.

  They slammed the door and bolted it.

  'The idea!' puffed one.

  'He ought to be put away!' said another.

  'Won't the vicar mind?' queried the third timidly, as they went back to the hall.

  'He can cope with Arthur,' replied Mrs Partridge. 'I have the WI on my hands.'

  She swept in like a triumphant general at the head of his troops, and was greeted with cheers.

  The New Year opened with a bitter wind blowing from the east.

  The ground was iron-hard and white with frost until mid-morning. The ice on puddles scarcely had time to unfreeze during the day, before darkness fell at tea time and the temperature plummeted again.

  Tibby and I went out as little as possible. Indoors we were snug enough, for the fire burned brightly in this weather, and my new curtains kept out any draughts after nightfall.

  I had plenty to do indoors. There were always school matters to deal with, as well as domestic jobs over and above the usual daily round. I turned out a store cupboard, marvelling at the low prices I had paid only a few years earlier, and even came across a tin of arrowroot which bore a label for one and ninepence. After such a length of time, the contents were given to the hungry birds. They appeared to be delighted with this vintage bounty.

  As the first day of the spring term grew closer, I gave more and more thought to the future. Amy's advice about retirement was sensible, I realized, but it seemed so terribly final, the end of my useful life, so to speak, and with what would I fill my days?

  On the other hand, was it fair to the school to struggle on with this constant dread at the back of my mind? I should not be the woman I was before these attacks, and I was reminded again, most uncomfortably, of the abilities of the new children in comparison with the indigenous Fairacre pupils whose accomplishments were not so high. Was it my fault? Were my teaching skills waning as I grew older? Was I pulling my weight?

  There was no one that I could turn to to answer these questions. It was up to me to make a decision.

  'There is a tide in the affairs of men,

  Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,'

  I said to Tibby.

  Tibby yawned again.

  'Or, of course, misfortune,' I added. 'I might be a perfect fool to give up, and live till ninety in dire penury.'

  Tibby yawned again.

  'Which means,' I said severely, 'that you would have to live on scraps, and not Pussi-luv. And you would not be having the top of the milk, because we should both be on the cheapest sort, and in any case I should be watering it down!'

  Oblivious to my warnings, Tibby rolled over to get the maximum benefit of the roaring fire, leaving me to wrestle with my doubts and fears.

  The first day of term seemed even more bitterly cold than usual. I told myself that I had risen earlier and so the world was still in its night-time icy state.

  The road to Fairacre was glassy, and the car did a few minor skids which could have been a problem
if there had been traffic about. I drove slowly and was glad to enter the school playground and park the car.

  Mr Willet had sanded the surface of the playground, for which I was grateful. I guessed that my pupils would not share my feelings, for there is nothing the boys enjoy more than a good long slide across the frozen asphalt, with a long line of them hurtling, one after the other, 'keeping the pot boiling'.

  The school was warm. Mrs Pringle, resigned to the fact that winter was really here, had stoked up the two tortoise stoves and it was a joy to get indoors out of the bitter cold.

  Mrs Pringle was flicking along the windowsill with a yellow duster, as I entered. She surveyed me morosely.

  'You seem to have picked up,' she said. I thought she sounded a little disappointed.

  'Thanks to you and other good friends,' I told her as cheerfully as I could.

  'You want to keep in the warm,' she advised. 'The stoves is fair red hot.'

  This was an over-statement, but I took it as a kindly gesture to a convalescent, as Mrs Pringle departed to the lobby.

  It was good to be back. I looked round the empty classroom, with the bare shelves and nature table awaiting the fruits of the children's labours. The trappings of Christmas had gone. The paper chains, the Christmas tree, the nativity play, the school party, and all the other excitements of the end of term, were now behind us.

  Here, in this empty and quiet room, I awaited the new term. Outside I could hear children's voices, and soon the room would be loud with the noise of children clamouring to tell me their news, scuttling from desk to desk, laughing, teasing and all sniffing from the cold world they had just left outside.

  I went to let them in.

  I had come to a compromise agreement with myself.

  I would see how I coped with the first few weeks of term, and then decide whether I was fit to carry on or whether the sensible thing would be to retire.

  A newly retired friend had mentioned that she had given in her notice before mid-February when she proposed to retire at the end of the school year in July. It seemed a long time to me, but when one considered that the post had to be advertised, applicants interviewed and their notices to be given in, it was absolutely essential to have this time in hand.

  In a way, it helped me. I should have to make up my mind and stand by my decision. During that first week or two of term, I took stock. I felt well enough, but tired easily. I certainly did not have the burst of energy which followed my recovery from the first 'warning', but I was capable of teaching, doing my paperwork in the evenings, and coping with everyday living. What I had to admit was that I had really no resources of strength for any extra crisis that might crop up.

  I recalled several emergencies which had occurred at school over the years. A child broke its leg, and I had to track down the mother, take them both to hospital, and leave the school for a good half a day to my assistant to run in my absence.

  I myself had been smitten one day with a violent bilious attack which involved many a hasty trip to the lavatory, and eventually complete absence from school when I spent the rest of the day in the school-house bathroom.

  Then there were always minor crises in a building as old as Fairacre school. The skylight alone was a source of sudden upheavals involving instant attention. And beside these structural defects there was the constant problem of Mrs Pringle.

  Matters came to a head one day towards the end of January. The weather was still wickedly cold, but no snow had fallen. Mrs Pringle moaned daily about the work it made for her, the extra fuel needed for the stoves, the journey along slippery roads to take up her duties, her bad leg, the doctor's warnings, and so on.

  Just before school dinner time one of the infants fell and hit his head on the corner of a desk, and Mrs Richards and I were hard put to it to stop the bleeding. We put as much pressure as we safely could on the wound, while the poor child screamed blue murder.

  'You'd better take him into Caxley casualty,' I said, 'and I'll track down his mother. I think she works at Boots. She'll meet you at the hospital I expect.'

  The two set off in Mrs Richards' car, the screams slightly muffled by a boiled sweet from the school sweet tin. I coped with my extended family of pupils, until my assistant returned at two o'clock.

  'They stitched him up, and he and his mother came home with me. He's much calmer, and has been put to bed. Look, it's begun!'

  She pointed to the window, and there were whirling snowflakes, so thick that it was impossible to see the school house, my old home, across the playground.

  We closed school early, and I had a nightmare journey over the few miles to Beech Green, for the roads seemed even slipperier than before, and the windscreen wipers could not cope adequately with the raging blizzard.

  It was a relief to get indoors and to put the kettle on. As I drank my tea, I found that the old familiar shakes were back. Worse still, I was horrified to find that tears were coursing down my cheeks.

  I replaced my cup with a clatter into the saucer, and leant back, defeated, in the chair.

  This was it. It was time to go.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Die is Cast

  Once I had made my decision I felt better immediately. It was a Friday when school matters had come to a head and reduced me to such a demoralized condition. I spent the weekend contemplating the results of my overnight plans, and on the whole I felt mightily relieved.

  Now and again, as I went about my weekend chores, I had twinges of doubt. Was it pride that made me loath to join my retired friends? Did I think that I was still as energetic and as capable as when I was appointed to be head teacher at Fairacre school? Did I imagine, when I surveyed myself in the looking-glass, that I looked younger and livelier than my contemporaries? Was I really able to cope with another two, or possibly more, years before I retired?

  The honest answer to these questions was 'No'. Since my first stroke - mild or otherwise - I was not the robust and carefree woman that I had been. The second attack had robbed me of the small amount of self-confidence I had nurtured since the first. It was time to face reality.

  And so I pottered about that weekend, and faced the future. February would begin in a day or two's time, and I should let the vicar know first, as head of the school governors and a dear friend of many years, just what I had decided to do.

  Then I should confide in Mrs Richards, asking her to keep the matter to herself for a day or two while I composed a letter of resignation to the local authority.

  I spent some time reviewing my financial arrangements. My newly retired colleague in Caxley had told me that my small teacher's pension would be paid as soon as I retired in July. I should also receive a substantial amount as my 'lump sum'.

  This was comforting news. Moreover as I had told Amy, I had some savings in Caxley Building Society, and a wad of Savings Certificates somewhere upstairs, not to mention my useful Post Office book which was frequently raided in emergencies, but I had the inestimable good fortune of owning my own home, thanks to dear Dolly Clare's generosity. Few people, facing retirement, could be so happily placed.

  I had no family problems, no husband or children to consider. I was my own mistress, and apart from the recent minor health setbacks, I was hale and hearty.

  By the end of that weekend which had started so disastrously, I was beginning to look forward to my more leisured existence. Forewarned by my contemporaries, I should not make the mistake of being bounced into various village activities except those of my own choosing. But I should be able to be useful to my friends in various ways, babysitting for Eve and Horace Umbleditch, for instance, or running non-driving neighbours to Caxley when needed.

  My ties with Fairacre would not be severed, for Bob Willet and Joseph Coggs would come to help in the garden, and Mrs Pringle would be with me every Wednesday until death did us part, I felt sure.

  I went to bed on Sunday night facing a rosy future.

  ***

  I had rung the vicar and asked if I migh
t call after school on Monday.

  'Come to tea,' had been the reply, and here I was pulling up outside the vicarage door which stood open hospitably.

  'Tea first, and business later,' decreed Mrs Partridge, proffering buttered toast.

  The fire crackled. Outside the birds were squabbling at the bird-table, an easterly wind ruffling their feathers and rattling the leaves of the laurels near by. It was good to be in the warm with old friends.

  'Now tell us the news,' said Gerald Partridge when he had removed the tray to a side table.

  I told them.

  Dismay contorted their faces as I explained my plans, and I began to feel horribly guilty. But I soldiered on until the end of my monologue, and then waited for comment.

  To my surprise, the vicar rose from his chair, enveloped me in an embrace and kissed me on both cheeks.

  'What shall we do without you?' he cried.

  'We shall have to manage,' said his wife resolutely, watching her husband return to his chair. She turned to me. 'It's a terrible blow, you know, but I'm sure you are doing the sensible thing. We've been so lucky to have you at the school for so long. And you've given us plenty of notice, thoughtful as always.'

  'Won't you change your mind?' pleaded the vicar.

  I shook my head. 'I've thought about it for ages,' I told him. 'I'm going to miss the school, but I feel I must go.'

  'How we shall miss her,' he said, so mournfully that I felt he could not have been more cast down if I were emigrating to Australia.

  'I shall only be at Beech Green,' I pointed out. 'And I hope you'll come and see me frequently with all my other Fairacre friends.'

  They looked a little more cheerful, and we began to discuss the practical side of the matter.

  'We have a governors' meeting this month,' said Gerald Partridge, 'so we can tell them then.'

  I told him about sending in my resignation, and informing those involved. I think we were all feeling more settled when the time came for me to depart.