Village Centenary Read online

We strolled happily around my small plot, enjoying the unusual calm and warmth.

  'Do you want to see my new purchases?' enquired Amy, as we made our way back to the house.

  She dived into the car and emerged with two exotic-looking dress boxes which she carried into the house. There seemed to be half a hundredweight of tissue paper in each one, but at last the garments were revealed. One was a set of glossy underwear, petticoat, knickers and brassiere in what was called, in my youth, oyster satin. The other was a stunning three-piece in silk jersey, cream in colour with delicate gold decorations at hem and neck.

  'Well!' I exclaimed. 'They are all truly gorgeous!'

  'So they should be at the ghastly price I had to pay for them. Now I'm beginning to wonder if they are a trifle young for me.'

  'Rubbish!' I told her. 'You're a very good-looking woman, as well you know, and can wear anything. You always could.'

  'So could you, my dear,' said Amy kindly. 'You were really quite pretty at eighteen when we first met.'

  'Everyone is quite pretty at eighteen,' I retorted. 'A few decades later it is really quite enough to be clean and respectable, and I only hope I'm that. Anyway, I have no doubt that you would soon tell me if I weren't.'

  Amy laughed, and began putting the clothes back among the tissue paper.

  'Are you going away?' she asked.

  'Not this holiday. At least, I haven't booked anything. I might slope off to Devon for a few days and hope to find bed and breakfast somewhere.'

  'You'll be lucky! You really should organise yourself better. I'm always scolding you about it.'

  'You are indeed,' I agreed, pouring her a glass of sherry.

  'You know, even the simplest holiday needs to be arranged well in advance. James and 1 are having a few days in the Scillies at the end of next month, and we booked the hotel and the helicopter flight across from Penzance, way back in January.'

  'Well, you're well-organised people, and I'm not.'

  'With James so terribly busy we simply have to plan things, or we'd never get a break together. We propose to sleep, sunbathe, bird watch and eat.'

  'Sounds heavenly,' I said. 'I'll do it myself one day, when I can get round to arranging a holiday six months ahead.'

  'I hope to live to see the day,' said Amy, putting down her empty glass. 'Well, I must be off. I'm glad you approve of my purchases.'

  She looked rather sadly at my cardigan. 'How long have you had that shapeless garment?'

  'About six years. And don't suggest that I give it to a jumble sale. It's pure wool, and hand-knitted by dear Mrs Willet. What's more, it's got pockets, which mighty few garments have these days, and I shall wear it till it drops into rags.'

  'That won't be long!' Amy assured me, and drove off.

  5 May

  This is easily my favourite month and 1 greeted its arrival by remembering to say 'White Rabbits' aloud before uttering another syllable.

  This childish superstition, told me first by a fellow six-year-old, is supposed to bring you luck for the rest of the month. When discussing such matters now, I tend to pooh-pooh the whole field of folklore, astrology, horoscopes and the rest of it, but I find myself hastily throwing spilt salt over my shoulder, dodging ladders and, if not in polite company, spitting in a ladylike way if I see one magpie.

  Fortified by my 'White Rabbits' incantation, I got up and hung out of the bedroom window to relish the perfection of a May morning. The copper beech was in tiny leaf, which spread a rosy gauze over the tracery of bare branches. Dew shimmered on the grass, and drops of moisture on the hawthorn hedge sparked a hundred miniature rainbows.

  Out in Mr Roberts's clover field a pheasant squawked. It was probably an anxious mother warning her chicks of the dangers that lurked around. Somewhere, high above, a lark was vying with another in the distance, the song pouring down from the blue in drops of pure music.

  The air was cool, and deliciously scented with hyacinths and narcissi from the garden bed below. Later, it would be hot, and with luck I should be able to take my tea tray into the garden, after my day's work, and relish the joy of growing things. I remembered, with immense pleasure, that there was nothing in the diary for the evening of May the first. What bliss!

  As I dressed, I pondered the problem of loneliness. I receive a great deal of unnecessary sympathy for my single state, and am touched by kind people's concern for the fact that I live alone. If they only knew! I find it much more exhausting to share my home with friends who come to stay, much as I love them, and the places I visit I remember much more clearly, and with keener affection, when I have visited them alone. I suppose that this is because one wanders around, looking at objects which are of particular personal interest, and absorbing their aspect and history without the distraction of a friend diverting one's attention to something which she has discovered.

  No doubt, it tends to make one extremely selfish, but such solitude has its compensations. For one thing, it is possible to pursue a train of thought, or to carry out a piece of work, unmolested. I heartily sympathise with widows and widowers who are used to a shared life, and suffer horribly when that is shattered. The fact that so many of them adjust relatively quickly to the situation is indicative of their bravery; the fact that others never really recover is understandable. But, as a spinster, I have never been called upon to try to mend a broken life, and I am deeply grateful for that mercy. Amy's many attempts to marry me off have failed, I like to think, largely because of my contentment with my lot. It would be insupportable, of course, to think that the men were lukewarm!

  The postman arrived as my egg was boiling. He brought a six-page document from the office about the necessity for Stringent Economies in Schools, and a glossy circular exhorting me to invest in a gold pendant which could be mine for rather more than two months' salary.

  The latter went into the wastepaper basket, and the former 1 resigned myself to reading when 1 felt stronger. But not this evening, I told myself, taking a refreshing look at the shimmering glory outside.

  The first of May was going to be devoted to savouring its hope and beauty.

  The Caxley Festival began to loom large. An enormous amount of organisation had gone into its arrangements and The Caxley Chronicle carried copious advance notices of the pleasures in store and the absolute necessity of sending early for tickets, not forgetting the stamped addressed envelope for their return.

  Although Fairacre was only on the edge of these stirring events and was spared the feverish activity in the market town itself, yet even so we had our small part in the excitement. The gardens, which were to be open on the first Saturday and Sunday of the month, were being tended with unnatural fervour. Mr Willet, whose garden is always in a state of perfection, was somewhat scathing about these unseemly efforts.

  'There's no call for panic,' he told me, 'if you keeps the hoe going regular. Some of these people is going fair demented! Why, I heard as that new couple up the other end of the street, is planting out their geraniums, pots and all, from the greenhouse! Just to make a show! It's a scandal, I reckon, and if there's a sharp frost, as can often happen in May, they've lost the lot.' He puffed out his moustache in disgust, and moved off about his business.

  Mrs Pringle was equally censorious when she arrived.

  'Never saw so much fuss in all me borns,' she said, chins quivering. 'Did you know as Mr Mawne borrowed Mr Hales's electric shears to tidy up his yew hedge, and nearly killed hisself by cutting through the cable?'

  I expressed my concern.

  'Oh, he's come to no harm,' shrugged Mrs Pringle. 'But if he hadn't got into this fever it would never have happened. And they say the vicar's now worrying about people disturbing his new bees, and wishing he hadn't offered to open the garden at all. These 'ere festivals can cause a mint of trouble it seems.'

  'They sometimes raise a mint of money,' I pointed out, and waited for the expected answer.

  'As my dear mother used to say: "Money isn't—'"

  Linda Moffat burst
in upon Mrs Pringle's mother's well-known maxim to tell us that the youngest Coggs had locked himself in the lavatory and was yelling for help.

  I went to supply it.

  So often was my attention drawn to the Caxley Festival that I was not in the least surprised to hear Amy's voice on the telephone, and confidently awaited the news about some festival plans.

  I was surprised to find that it was something entirely different that she had in mind.

  'Am I right in thinking that in these decadent days you get a whole week's holiday around what, in our youth, was known as Whitsun?'

  'That's right. Spring Bank Holiday is its official name, Amy, and it starts some time at the end of the month, and I believe we go back to school on Monday the third - maybe it's the fourth. I've mislaid my diary.'

  'Mislaid your diary?' squeaked Amy, profoundly shocked. 'What on earth will you do?'

  'It'll turn up,' I said vaguely, i may have chucked it into the wastepaper basket with some other rubbish, or I may have left it in the post office. I shall have a look today some time.'

  'I have never met such a wholly lackadaisical person in my life,' scolded Amy. 'Why, if I were so careless as to lose my diary, I should be absolutely daunted! Life would have to stop until I'd found it again.'

  'My life will tick over quite well without it for a day or two,' I assured her. 'What's the news?'

  'Not very good, I'm afraid. James has muddled his dates, and now finds it is impossible for him to come to the Scillies at the end of the month. He has some engagement in Canada then, and we both wondered if you would like to come with me instead. What do you think? We were to go on the Sunday, stay overnight at Penzance, then fly across on the Monday morning. Do say you can come!' it sounds blissful! How long for?'

  'We had planned to come back on the Thursday or Friday, so you'd have time to do any chores before school started again, if that's in your mind.'

  I thought rapidly. I could not think of any particularly pressing engagement during that week, but without my diary it was difficult to be sure. I said as much to Amy, thanked her sincerely for an exciting invitation and promised to set about searching for my missing diary immediately.

  'I'll ring you the minute it's found,' I assured her.

  'And make the answer Yes,' said Amy, and rang off.

  The first two or three days of May had been deliciously balmy, and we all told each other how lovely it would be if it lasted over the weekend.

  Visions of suntanned visitors in summer frocks sauntering about the newly spruced Fairacre gardens kept most of us happy, but one or two pessimists shook their heads sadly. To my alarm, Mr Willet was one of them. He is such an accurate weather prophet that I viewed his forebodings seriously. The sky was cloudless on Friday afternoon and I only hoped that this time he might be wrong in his weather forecast.

  But, sure enough, when I watched the weather man on television that evening, some ominous whirligigs, like well-spun spiders' webs, hovered unpleasantly near the west coast, and would bring rain and strong winds to the entire country. It was small comfort to learn that the weather would be more severe in the north than the south. The hardy types up there can take it, I thought callously, turning to our own dispiriting outlook which affected my feelings much more sharply.

  I woke very early on Saturday morning. It was about five o'clock, and sure enough, a steady rain splashed along the gutters, and dripped from the trees. From the look of the garden, it had been pouring for several hours. Haifa dozen sparrows splashed energetically in a large puddle by the box edging. The bird bath was full to the brim, though not being used for its right purpose by any of my bird friends.

  The trees glistened, the roof tiles dropped miniature cascades on to those below, and some of the roses already drooped their heads, heavy with moisture. I decided to make myself a cup of tea and take it back to bed. Delicious Saturday morning, despite the rain, when I could call my time my own!

  Tibby burst through the cat flap on the kitchen door, as I poured my tea, and rubbed her sopping-wet bedraggled body round my bare legs, ignoring my vituperation in an ecstasy of love. To salve my conscience, and to give myself time to get safely upstairs with my precious cup, I hastily put down some Pussi-luv, and hoped that she might mistake it for liver.

  Hunched comfortably against the pillows I surveyed the streaming window over my cup. Would this rain stop? If not, would it be possible to postpone the opening of the gardens? And if so, how could it be advertised? I knew that a lot of people had planned to come from some distance to support the project. It was too bad.

  I remembered that Irene Umbleditch and David Mawne were to be among our visitors, and looked forward to hearing their news. My mind went back to the time when David's unhappy little boy, Simon, spent a short time at Fairacre School. He would be away at boarding school now, and I wondered if we should ever meet again.

  The rain continued all the morning, and by noon a nasty little wind had got up and was blowing the rain diagonally across the countryside. The sky was of uniform greyness. It was like being in a canvas tent, and the chances of a break in the clouds seemed non-existent.

  The gardens were to be open from two o'clock until eight on both Saturday and Sunday, and I knew that several coachloads of people were expected from Caxley. At two o'clock, I donned Wellingtons, my stoutest mackintosh and a rain hat which made me look like a witch, and set off bravely to do the rounds, or until exposure sent me home again.

  It was heartening to see how many other people were doing the same. We met under umbrellas, in porches, under trees, anywhere to escape the relentless rain, and admired the dripping and battered beauty before us. A wonderful sense of camaraderie united us, as we sloshed our way around, and I was delighted to meet the Mawnes, their nephew and his bride-to-be, Irene, acting as hosts to the brave visitors in their garden.

  They gave me good news of Simon.

  'He's settled down very well now, and may move up next term. He's made friends with a pair of twins, two solid matter-of-fact youngsters who are marvellous ballast for our volatile Simon,' said David. 'We hope to take all three away in the summer, if their parents agree.'

  Henry Mawne espied Miriam Quinn alone in the distance, and hurried to bring her over to meet his nephew. Once they were in conversation over a rare shrub of Henry's, I excused myself and splashed my way homeward.

  To my surprise, the clock said four-thirty. It was no wonder I was wet. My expensive mackintosh had let water through the shoulders. My hair was plastered to my head by pressure from the ugly rain hat. My feet were soaked, as the rain had run down my legs into my Wellingtons, but I was aglow with a sense of duty well done.

  In this complacent and self-congratulatory state I decided to treat myself to a small fire on such a cheerless day. Whether the chimney was damp, which was understandable, or whether the wind was in the wrong direction, no one could say, but the result was unpleasant.

  Clouds of acrid smoke blew into the room. My vision of

  'the small but bright wood fire' beloved by novelists vanished in three minutes flat, as I set about opening windows, holding up newspapers over the fireplace to assist in the right sort of draught, and cursing generally whilst my smug feeling of virtue rapidly evaporated.

  Trust Fate to deflate one's ego!

  The rain continued throughout the night. By morning, sheets of water covered the roads and some of Mr Roberts's fields. But slowly it improved, and by early afternoon a watery sun was visible fleetingly between the scudding clouds. It looked more hopeful for visitors to Fairacre's gardens, I thought.

  Having done my duty the day before, I decided to do my ironing, polish my few pieces of silver, write some letters, and generally catch up with some long-neglected household jobs. But as I was about to switch on the iron, I saw that a bird was fluttering madly at one of the schoolroom windows.

  I put down the iron, took the school key from its hook, and went to the rescue. As anyone who has been engaged on such an errand of mercy wi
ll know, the fact that every available window and door is open seems to make no difference to the demented captive, which dashes itself wildly against all the closed apertures. After ten minutes' pandemonium the wretched sparrow darted out of the door, and I sank thankfully into my chair.

  It was suddenly and blissfully peaceful. A shaft of watery sunshine illumined the classroom, a few dusty motes disturbed by the bird's and my agitation floating in its beam of light. A little breeze stirred one of the children's pictures pinned to the partition, but otherwise nothing ruffled the tranquillity of this ancient room.

  It must be full of ghosts, I thought, or at least of memories. I found the idea comforting. How many children had sat in this place, imbibing knowledge both good and bad, observing the quirks of their neighbours, forming their own judgements, growing into the adult people they would be in a few years?

  These same walls had seen the gamut of emotions from hilarity to despair. I remembered Miss Clare's remark about the celebratory tea party in the thirties, and the grief of children left fatherless in the First World War. This building had weathered sunshine and storm, peace and war. It had sheltered many who grew to be good men and women, and a few felons too. How far, I wondered, did the influence of this ancient school spread? All over the world there must be men and women who remembered something of the things taught them here, or were told of them by their forebears who knew the old school.

  It came to me, with a poignancy I had not felt before, that I was an insignificant part of a worthy and long heritage. It was a humbling thought. Here was the heart of the matter, the spirit of the place, the unifying thread which ran through a hundred years. If only something of that spirit could be transmitted during our centenary celebrations!

  I rose to return to my neglected kitchen tasks. As I locked the school door, holding that same ancient key which had chilled the palms of so many of my predecessors, I thought with keener appreciation of the centenary story which was to be told. Would it be possible, I wondered, to express that feeling of continuity which had enveloped me in my silent schoolroom?