(2/20) Village Diary Page 8

  There were murmurs of assent, as people rose to their feet.

  'Wednesday afternoon?' shouted Mrs Partridge above the noise.

  'Clinic!' bellowed someone.

  'Thursday then?' persisted Mrs Partridge, in a stentorian tone.

  'Market day,' shrieked another.

  'Monday?' bellowed Mrs Partridge indefatigably. The noise of scraping chairs and forms was unbelievable.

  'Washday!' said someone; but she was howled down, by a self-righteous group near the door with lungs of brass.

  'Did ought to be finished that by midday!'

  'I gets mine done by eleven. And eight to wash for, my girl!'

  'You can get there Monday afternoon, if you gets a move on!'

  At last Monday afternoon was decided upon. The children would have broken up by then, and those that could be press-ganged into the pageant's service would be able to join their mothers in the fun at the vicarage.

  Mrs Pringle, picking her way over the puddles, as we emerged in a bunch from the hall, voiced her feelings on the proceedings.

  'Heathenish lot of nonsense!' boomed the familiar voice through the darkness. 'Furs and old sacks and bare feet! Why, my mother would turn in her grave to think of me tricked out so common. We was all brought up respectable. Our feet never so much as saw daylight except at Saturday bath-night and getting into bed. Catch me exposing my extremities to the gaze of all and sundry, and as like as not getting pneumonia into the bargain!'

  In the brief pause for breath which followed this diatribe a would-be peace-maker broke in.

  'Perhaps you could be a Roman soldier, Mrs Pringle.'

  The snort that this meek suggestion brought forth, would have done credit to an old war-horse.

  'And what would my figure look like hung round with a few bits of gilt cardboard?' demanded Mrs Pringle majestically.

  It seemed best to assume that this question was rhetorical and to be grateful for the merciful darkness which hid our faces.

  The last day of term is over. It was spent in the usual jubilant muddle of clearing desks, tidying cupboards, searching for lost books and taking down pictures and charts from the schoolroom wads.

  The last part of the afternoon was devoted to drawing a picture about Easter. Each child was given a very small piece of rough paper and a pencil, as everything else was packed securely away for three weeks, and had to do the best he could with this meagre ration.

  I expected a spate of Easter eggs, chicks and the like, but was surprised by the various reactions to the word 'Easter.' The most striking use of paper and pencil came from Patrick, who had carefully folded his paper in half to form an Easter card, which he finally presented to me. It showed three large tombstones with crosses, and the letters R.I.P. printed crookedly across them, and inside was neatly printed 'Happy Easter.' I accepted this gloomy missive as gravely as I could. It had taken the artist half an hour and a good quarter of an inch of blacklead pencil to execute it.

  When the pencils too had to be yielded up to the cupboard, we were reduced to the game of 'Left and Right,' that incomparable standby of empty-handed and busy teachers. Linda Moffat supplied a hair-grip and called upon Anne, her desk-mate, to guess which fist it was secreted in. She guessed correctly, took Linda's place, and the game followed its peaceful course with little attention from me, as I was engrossed in adding up the attendances for the term in the register. This wretched record does not hold the same fears for teachers these days, as it did when I was a girl, but it still exercises a baneful influence over me, and early memories of trips to my first headmistress with a wrongly-marked register in my trembling hand and instant dismissal hovering over me, have set up a horrid complex towards registers as a whole.

  At the end of the afternoon we made our special farewells to Mrs Annett, and one of the Coggs twins presented her with a bouquet of daffodils, tulips, Easter daisies and narcissi, which the children had brought from their gardens. We shall miss her sorely. It has been decided by the managers to wait until after the summer holidays for the permanent appointment, when the newly-trained young teachers will be out from the colleges. Meanwhile, I was delighted to hear from the vicar that Miss Clare will be with us for next term. This is good news indeed.

  I spent a very pleasant evening with the Annetts, after pottering happily about all day enjoying the freedom from school duties. I have turned out the cupboard under the stairs—one mad jumble of brooms, dusters, primus stove, and might-come-in-useful collection of pieces of brown paper, cardboard, carrier bags and the like—and feel much elated. From the schoolroom came sounds of Mrs Pringle at work scrubbing the floor-boards. Above the clanking of the pail and the groaning of heavy desks being shunted across the room, Mrs Pringle's carrying contralto voice could be heard raised in pious song, ranging from A few more years shall roll to Oft in danger, oft in woe.

  It was very pleasant to take my time over tea and dressing. The little car goes well now, and gone are the days when I imagined knots of children playing marbles in the middle of the road round each corner, and held my breath when another car approached. In fact I felt quite a dashing driver as I swept into Beech Green school's empty playground, and slammed the car door shut, only to realize that I had left my keys inside. Luckily, the other door was unlocked, so all was well; but I went in a more humble mood across to the school-house next door.

  It is very much more comfortable now that Mrs Annett is there to run the house, and I remembered my first visit there, when Mr Annett was officially looked after by a housekeeper, and how I had noticed the general neglect.

  Now the furniture gleamed and fresh flowers scented the house. In the corner Mrs Annett's violin stood beside Mr Annett's 'cello. They are both keen members of the Caxley orchestra, but Mrs Annett will probably not be able to take part next season, when she has a young baby to look after. Their radiogram is a great joy to them and we played Mr Annett's new records until supper-time.

  After supper we fell to talking about country schools and I was interested to hear that Beech Green is developing the practical farming side with even more vigour.

  'If I have to have the children here until they are fifteen,' said Mr Annett, 'and I have no woodwork shop, no place for metal work and mighty little other equipment, then I must find something that is worthwhile for them to do, and from which they learn. Otherwise they'd be bored and surly. Luckily we've plenty of land here, enough for a large vegetable plot, and we've got permission to keep hens, ducks and pigs as well.'

  I knew that Beech Green school had sent garden produce to Caxley market for some years, but the livestock was something quite new.

  'We've been given a small grant from the county,' he went on, 'and our profit from the market has helped. The boys have made really fine coops and runs, which have involved quite a bit of practical arithmetic, and the way the accounts are kept is a miracle of book-keeping. The pigs have only just arrived. Bricklaying took longer than we thought for the sties, and we had a bit of trouble with the concrete yards, but they should bring us in a substantial profit later. The leftovers from school dinners form the major part of their diet. You must bring a party over from Fairacre School to see our farm when it's really working.'

  I promised that I would, and as I drove home the sound good sense behind Mr Annett's scheme for these older rural pupils, impressed me more and more. One thing that he had said I found particularly significant.

  'I started by using these out-of-door and practical activities as a means to defeat apathy. After all, for generations most country children of fourteen and over have been out in the world earning their living. It is not surprising that today some still resent being kept at school, particularly if there's nothing new or absorbing to learn offered them. But the surprising thing is this. The defeat of apathy is only a by-product. For this itself is real education for the majority of the Beech Green children. Working with these methods brings out the patience, the endurance and the innate sagacity of the countryman; and, ad the time, I am
working with and not against the grain, as I so often felt I was when I urged them along reluctantly with book-work for which they had little sympathy.'

  Mr Annett is a townsman by birth and breeding, so that it is ad the more remarkable that he has stumbled on this truth, after a relatively short time as a country-dweller; but there are hundreds of rural schoolteachers from Land's End to John o' Groats who will endorse his views, and who know that the education of the countryman is a matter which must be given immediate and intelligent thought. Land today in England is more precious than ever before. It is our heritage and in trust for future generations. It is only right that it should be tilled and cared for by people who are not only capable and trained for this work, but who also are happy and contented to live among the farms and fields which give them their livelihood and—even more—a deep inner satisfaction.

  Rural education must be tackled realistically if the drift to the towns is to stop. In this way village life will come into its own again, not as a picturesque setting for week-end visitors to enjoy, when they come down, in some cases, to see how a most satisfactory way of income-tax evasion is getting on, but as a vital working unit.

  The first rehearsal at the vicarage went splendidly. Mrs Partridge said that she felt we really ought to get used to going barefoot, so that we removed our shoes and stockings, with varying degrees of reluctance, and left them on the veranda while we hobbled painftully over the gravel to the comparative comfort of the lawn, where we sat down to discuss casting plans.

  It was decided that twelve of our more comely members would constitute the invading Roman force, and that the rest would be Ancient Britons of both sexes. I watched Mrs Partridge running an appraising eye over the legs of the assembled company, rather as the local trainers do as they watch their race-horses on the gadolls above Fairacre.

  Mrs Moffat, that brave volunteer to the Ancient Britons' ranks, was persuaded to be pack-leader, captain, or whatever the Roman equivalent might be for the one in charge, instead. She is tall and carries herself well, and her legs are impeccable. Mrs Partridge obviously feared that there might be an ugly rush for the other eleven places, for she spoke firmly to Mrs Pratt when she rose from her seat on the lawn.

  'Now please, Mrs Pratt, I do so want you to be a rather influential Ancient Briton woman, with possibly a bundle of faggots, so will you forgo being a Roman?'

  Mrs Pratt looked mildly surprised.

  'I only got up because I was sitting on a thistle,' she said, in some bewilderment. Mrs Partridge said she had quite misunderstood her gesture, and were there any volunteers?

  As usual in Fairacre, the word 'volunteers' struck temporary paralysis upon its hearers, and we ad sat, eyes glazed and limbs frozen, like so many flies in amber. It was quite apparent that far from being an ugly rush to the Roman standard, Fairacre W.I. had elected to be Ancient Britons to a woman.

  At last Mrs Partridge broke the silence.

  'Miss Read, would you be a Roman?'

  I said that I should be delighted to be called to the colours at my age. This seemed to break the ice a little, and two young women who cycle over from Springbourne to our meetings, offered to join the ranks too. Gradually our twelve were collected, and if some of us were a trifle long in the tooth, at least we were reasonably athletic.

  There had been an awkward moment when Mrs Pringle had boomed a grudging offer of martial assistance, but Mrs Partridge had turned temporarily deaf, and as Mrs Fowler from Tyler's Row spoke up at the same time, all was well.

  'Now,' said Mrs Partridge brightly, 'if you Romans would sit over here near the rose-bed—but do mind your nylons—we shall know where we are. Perhaps we can work out how much cardboard we shall need for armour; but that must wait for another time.'

  'Breastplates and backplates should be enough,' said one of the Springbourne girls.

  'And helmets,' said the other.

  'And greaves,' said Mrs Moffat.

  'Graves?' boomed Mrs Pringle from the Ancient Britons' camp opposite. 'Graves? We having a war then? If so, I ted you straight, my leg won't stand up to it!'

  'Leg-pads—like in cricket,' volunteered a nephew of Mr Rogers at the forge, who attends Caxley Grammar School and is well up in greaves, helmets and other martial garments.

  Mrs Pringle snorted her disgust.

  'Got quite enough on me leg with me elastic stocking,' said that lady, 'without getting meself dolled-up in wicket-keeper's rubbish.'

  With brilliant dash Mrs Partridge put all to rights.

  'You won't need to be bothered with leg-pads, Mrs Pringle. As an Ancient Briton, I want you to be the mother of the chief warrior—a most important person—and you will sit on a kind of throne by the camp fire—which won't try your poor leg that you're always so brave about—and generally keep an eye on the rest of the tribe.'

  Mrs Pringle allowed herself to be mollified, and something very like a gratified smirk spread over her dour features. It is no wonder that Mrs Partridge is elected annually as our president. No one else can touch her for spontaneous and inspired diplomacy.

  As a nasty little wind had sneaked up, and the children were beginning to get restive, it was thought best to have a rudimentary rehearsal of the scene at once.

  'You must pretend to have weapons and tools,' shouted Mrs Partridge, above the general movement. 'One of you boys fetch a stool for Mrs Pringle, and that flower urn can be the camp fire.'

  Slowly the Ancient Britons began to move shamefacedly about their occupations, their children tending to stand about with broad grins on their faces and with many a giggle behind hands. Mrs Pringle squatted in an unlovely attitude on her small stool, and folded her arms regally. Other women stirred imaginary pots, washed imaginary clothes, swept imaginary floors and occasionally cuffed far-from-imaginary children who crossed their path.

  Meanwhile we Roman soldiers formed a ragged column behind the laurel bushes, awaiting our entrance. We waited until one of the tribesmen had returned to his fellows, showing by gestures that we were about to descend upon them. The Ancient Britons were then supposed to point towards us dramatically, making low uncouth cries at the same time, as they bunched together in trepidation.

  The low, uncouth cries they did rather wed, as dramatically out-flung arms hit nearby bodies with considerable force. At a nervous command from our leader, Mrs Moffat, we marched into action from behind the laurels. The fact that some of us had started on the left, and some on the right foot, that we were ad too close and tended to trip each other up, did not enhance our war-like aspect. But never can a Roman cohort have been so polite, and it was quite pretty to hear us ad apologizing to each other as we stumbled along.

  We approached our future captives, smiling faintly upon them. They beamed back, and we ad mingled together in the happiest fraternity round the flower-urn and Mrs Pringle.

  Mrs Partridge clapped her hands and we sat down thankfully.

  'Very good indeed,' said she, with the greatest vigour. 'I think it's a wonderful beginning. When the soldiers have got their cardboard armour on, and their kilts,' (Mr Rogers's nephew, as a coming classics man, shuddered and turned pale) 'and the Ancient Britons are wearing their old fur and dreary hair, I think we shad all be quite—' she searched for the exact word, looked it over, found it good, and flung it at us triumphantly—'quite irresistible?

  Flown with such heady praise we ad returned, in great good spirits, to our homes.

  MAY

  AS usual, the holidays slipped by in a golden haze. Apart from four crowded days in London, staying with a married friend with three young children, and having the excitement of an evening at the ballet, shopping and meals out, I spent the rest of the time here at the school-house. The garden is at its best, and the fruit trees, planted by those who taught at Fairacre long ago, are a mass of pink and white blossom. Mr Willet and all the other good gardeners pull long faces and say: 'Don't like to see it so early. Bound to get some late frosts, mark my words.'

  A blackbird has built a nes
t in the lilac bush near the gate—so idiotically low that Tibby is much interested and spends her time glowering upon the foolish bird, from the top of the gate. I have tried to screen it with hazel boughs, but with small success. At my suggestion, to Mr Willet, that I might drape it with netting from the fruit cage, he looked at me pityingly, blew out his ragged old moustache, and said: 'Why not let the poor cat have a good meal? He's waited patient enough, ain't he?'

  Mrs Pringle came to give me a hand with some spring-cleaning during the holidays, which she did with much puffing and blowing. To hear her disparaging comments on the condition of the backs of the bookcases, and the loot that she extracted from the sides of the arm-chairs, one might wonder why I hadn't died of typhus.

  'Mrs Hope, what lived here in my young days, though an ailing woman with a child, and a husband with a Fading,' she told me, as she hauled out the loose cover from the crack of the sofa, 'never had so much as a biscuit crumb in her folds, they being brushed out regular twice a week, as is necessary for common cleanliness.' To add point to this stricture, she jerked out the last bit of the cover and projected a light shower of crumbs—biscuit and otherwise—two pencils, a safety-pin, a knitting needle and a liquorice allsort, upon the carpet. I was unrepentant.

  Term is now a week old. The children look all the better for their freedom and fresh air, and it is very pleasant to have Miss Clare back again in the infants' room, where she reigned for so many years. However it is not without certain small difficulties. The children are used to Mrs Annett's more modern methods, and have been allowed to move about the classroom, to talk a little and to make much more noise than Miss Clare will allow. They are finding Miss Clare's more formal methods rather irksome.

  'Can we play shops?' I heard Joseph Coggs ask, as I was collecting Miss Clare's savings money. 'Mrs Annett lets us play shops instead of writing down sums.' His dark eyes were fixed pleadingly upon her.