Village Affairs Read online

  Henry brightened a little.

  'But what about our guests? Come now, Miss Read, what are you having?'

  I said I should like melon, and then, bravely, the blanquette de veau.

  The waiter, who had been leaning against a nearby dresser looking bored to distraction, now deigned to approach and started to take down orders.

  As always, the meal was good. Caxley people are fond of their food, and are quite ready to complain if it is not to their liking. The Buttery knows its customers, and does its best to give satisfaction.

  By the time the cheese board was going the rounds we were all in fine spirits, except for poor Henry Mawne who was becoming more agitated as the dreaded hour drew near.

  'I've forgotten my reading glasses,' he exclaimed fretfully, slapping each pocket in turn. 'Now, what do I do?'

  Mrs Mawne remained calm.

  'You use your bifocals, as you always do, Henry. Really, the fuss!'

  'You know I never feel right with bifocals at a lecture,' wailed Henry, for all the world like one of my eight-year-olds. Gerald Partridge leant forward anxiously.

  'Shall I get the car, and go back for them?' he offered. 'I could be back here in half an hour.'

  Mrs Mawne took charge.

  'Certainly not, Gerald. I won't hear of it! You are the soul of kindness, but there is absolutely no need for Henry to have his reading glasses. And well he knows it!'

  She looked severely at her husband, who seeing himself beaten, turned his attention to a splendid Stilton cheese clothed in a snowy napkin, and began to look less fractious.

  His guests became more relaxed, and the conversation turned to Arthur Coggs and his future.

  'A friend of mine,' said Mary Waters, 'was in court when they carried in that massive pièce of lead. Poor young Albert Phipps nearly had a rapture !'

  'A careless one?' enquired Peter Hale.

  'You mean a rupture, dear,' said her sister reprovingly. 'You always get that word wrong. A rapture, as Mr Hale has reminded us, is what dear Ivor Novello wrote about.'

  'I'm sorry,' said Peter, 'I was being flippant.'

  'My English teacher once said: "Flippancy gets you nowhere,"' remarked his wife. 'I'd been trying to show off, I remember, about "trembling ears" in Milton. I said that the phrase smacked of the asinine, and was ticked off, quite rightly. Schoolgirls must be very trying to teach.'

  'No worse than schoolboys,' commented Henry.

  'I agree with that wholeheartedly,' said Peter Hale, schoolmaster.

  Someone then looked at the clock and murmured that perhaps we should be moving. Henry Mawne's agitation returned.

  'The bill, waiter ! Quickly, my dear fellow. We mustn't be late.'

  The waiter ambled off at a leisurely pace, while we collected bags and gloves and various other impedimenta, and Henry Mawne started his pocket-slapping again in the frenzy of finding his cheque book.

  'Henry,' said his wife, with a look which could have stopped a rogue elephant in its tracks. 'Calm down! You know perfectly well that I have the cheque book in my handbag. Now, if you will make sure that you have your notes and your bifocals, I will take charge of the account and meet you outside.'

  We gave our sincere thanks to the Mawnes for the delicious lunch as we made our way to the Corn Exchange. The Caxley market square was gay with stalls, and I should dearly have loved to buy some eggs and cheese from my favourite stallholder, but this was not the time, I realised, to clutch a piece of ripe gorgonzola for an hour and a half.

  The hall was half full, which was a creditable number to assemble on a Saturday afternoon. As we were the speaker's party, we were shown to the front row. On the way to our august places, I was delighted to catch sight of a contingent from Beech Green. Among the party I saw George and Isabel Annett and dear Miss Clare, who taught for many years at Fairacre School, sitting with them.

  I was seated by Mrs Mawne, who remained completely unmoved by the pathetic sight of her husband trying to arrange his papers with shaking hands.

  The chairman was the president of Caxley's Nature Conservancy Trust and was doing his best to put Henry at his ease before starting the meeting. He might just as well have saved his breath, for Henry took not the slightest notice, and brought matters to a climax by dropping all his papers on the floor.

  With startled cries, the two men bent to retrieve them, cracking their skulls together, thus occasioning further cries from the audience. The papers were collected, Henry shuffled them together with a look of utter despair, and the chairman rose to introduce him.

  Once Henry was on his feet, and the clapping had died away, he became wonderfully calm and happy. He smiled at us all, as though he were truly glad to tell us about the birds which gave such zest and joy to his life. It was difficult to believe that less than half an hour ago, he had been as nervous as a fretful baby.

  It was an enthralling talk, and the slides were superb. When he ended, the audience applauded enthusiastically. Clearly, here was a man who was master of his subject and able to transmit his own excitement to others.

  As we drove home again, Diana Hale summed up the feelings of us all.

  'He's a man who can make you forget your own world, and carry you into his.'

  With a start, I realised how true this was.

  For the first time for weeks, I had forgotten the shadow which hung menacingly over my future, and gratitude mingled with my admiration for our old friend Henry Mawne.

  9 Mrs Pringle Goes to War

  MINNIE Pringle continued to wreak havoc in my house every Friday afternoon. I did my best to forestall trouble, but was far from successful.

  Now that I realised that she could not read, I tried to put out the bottles and tins she would need for any specific job. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes such bottles as that containing window-cleaning liquid would be put in the bathroom cabinet beside witch hazel or gargle. It was all a little unnerving.

  My vacuum cleaner was maltreated weekly by having its cord twisted tightly into figures of eight round the handle, and the plug became so cracked with being dropped on the tiled floor of the kitchen, that I was obliged to renew it. Maddening though she was, I did not want to find Minnie electrocuted on my premises.

  She also had a peculiar way with dusters. Somewhere along the extensive line of previous employers, she had picked up the wholly admirable habit of washing the dusters before leaving work.

  Unfortunately, how to dry them seemed to be beyond her. I had indicated a small line conveniently near to the back door, but this was ignored. Sometimes she hung a wet duster on the newel post at the foot of the stairs, so that anyone mounting clapped her hand upon the clammy object. When remon strated with, Minnie changed her tactics and draped them along the newly polished dining-room table, or over the padded back of an armchair.

  Irritation gave way to incredulity, and I used to return to my home on Friday afternoons wondering what Minnie had got up to this time. There was always something untoward to greet me. If there were not some new place for the dusters to dry, then it might be a few broken)shards of a favourite cup, carefully arranged on a half-sheet of newspaper, on the draining board. At least, she did not try to cover up her little mishaps with my property. I supposed it was something to be thankful for, but I longed for the day when Minnie's future took her far, far away.

  Her own domestic affairs seemed to be shrouded in mystery. I had heard rumours about Mrs Fowler and her new paramour, and some said that she was asserting her authority to such an extent that it was likely that Minnie's husband might return to his wife and the children. Others said that Minnie too was finding consolation elsewhere, and that the under-gardener at Springbourne Manor had been seen leaving Minnie's premises at some very odd times.

  I rarely saw Minnie, only the results of her labours, and that was quite enough for me. Mrs Pringle, who usually volunteered any village news, was unusually taciturn these days, and I put it down to the debilitating effects of the diet. Not that she seemed any thinner,
but she was certainly paler, and her limp seemed to be permanent these days.

  I ventured to ask how the dieting was progressing one day.

  'You wants to ask Doctor Martin,' she said sourly. 'It's him what does the worrying. I told him straight: "Them scales of yourn are wrong," but he never batted an eyelid. He reckons I've only lost another two pound, after all this time. Not my fault, you know, I sticks to what's writ down.'

  It did seem odd.

  'Of course, I eats what's put afore me if I'm invited out. Stands to reason you can't offend people when they've slaved over a hot stove getting a nice bit of roast pork and potatoes ready, and a good suet pudden to follow.'

  'But do you go out often?'

  'Twice a week to my sister's. And of course I have her back, and have to do much the same for her.'

  'That can't help,' I felt obliged to point out.

  Mrs Pringle bridled.

  'I've halved my chocolate! I'm used to what we knew as a tuppeny bar in the old days, after my tea. Well, I makes that do for two days now, and I only takes one spoonful of sugar instead of two in my tea. No call for Doctor Martin to be so sharp with me, I tell him. After all, I'm still losing weight, aren't I?'

  I began to feel sorry for Doctor Martin.

  'Couldn't you use those sweeteners instead of sugar, and perhaps have half an apple instead of the chocolate?'

  Mrs Pringle looked at me as if I were an earwig discovered in the beclothes.

  'And start my heart-burn up again? It's plain to see, Miss Read, as you and Doctor Martin is hand in glove. If you wants me to go on working here, day in and day out, giving of my best and my heart's blood to this 'ere thankless job, then I must have a bit of nourishing food.'

  She made her way towards the door, limping heavily.

  I said no more. I know when I am beaten.

  ***

  The second half of the Summer term brought some of the hottest weather of the century. Day after day dawned clear and cloudless, and by half past ten in the morning, it was beginning to get too hot for comfort outside.

  Our ancient schoolroom was one of the coolest places in the village. With its lofty ceiling and high windows, it was remarkably airy, and the gnarled elder trees which tapped against the West-facing windows, cast a green shade which was more than welcome.

  The door was propped open permanently to let in any stray breeze. It also let in Tibby, much to the rapture of the children, and an assortment of wild life ranging from wasps-which threw the children into violent demonstrations of assumed fear—to butterflies, and once, a fieldmouse.

  The latter threw me into a transport of fear, which was certainly not assumed, but which I tried to hide from the children. My efforts were not completely successful.

  'Shall I whack it on the 'ead?' enquired Ernest, advancing with his geography reader in hand.

  'No, no,' I said hastily. After all my exhortations on kindness to animals, it was disappointing to see Ernest's bloodthirsty reaction to the intruder. 'It will find its way out in a minute.'

  Nose twitching, it scampered along by the map cupboard, watched by the class. I observed its movements with inward horror. Suppose it turned in my direction?

  As luck would have it, Patrick gave an enormous sneeze, which sent it bolting from the room, and out once again to the field from which it had emerged.

  I breathed again.

  The afternoons were so hot that it was impossible to expect much in the way of work from the children. The older ones went by school bus to Caxley once a week for a swimming lesson, and were the envy of all those left behind to swelter in the heat of Fairacre.

  I did my best to make their lot easier by taking them outside. We have one particularly fine beech tree near the edge of the field which borders the playground, and here the shade was deep and refreshing on those baking afternoons.

  I read them folk tales, and let them lie as they pleased, flat on their backs, or lodged on an elbow, their hair lifting in the light wind that stirred the leaves above them. What did it matter if they heard little of the story? On those golden afternoons they absorbed more than any printed page could give them—happy Summer memories which would remain with them for a lifetime.

  Whether it was the heat, or Mrs Pringle's growing touchiness, or a combination of both, which triggered off the great row between that lady and inoffensive Mrs Rose, it is impossible to say.

  It began one hot after-dinner session, and the battleground was the lobby at the back of the school where Mrs Pringle does the washing-up.

  It is usually a peaceful period, preceding the afternoon session, and occasionally running into the first lesson. I am quite used to giving out handwork material to a background of clashing cutlery and Mrs Pringle's contralto rendering of the more lugubrious numbers from Hymns Ancient and Modern.

  The first I heard was the sound of infants on the move next door. They were obviously surging towards the door leading into the lobby. Adult voices were raised, one shrill, one booming. The latter was only too familar to me, but I could not think who the other shrill-voiced contestant could be.

  Daring my children to bat an eyelid, I strode forth to investigate.

  'Into your seats this minute!' I bellowed at Mrs Rose's excited children, who were milling round the door. Reluctantly they obeyed, and I posted the largest infant at the front to tell me on my return who had been the quietest. The battle was gaining in volume and speed of action behind me.

  It was now plain that Mrs Rose was engaged in combat with Mrs Pringle, and I quaked at the thought of what I might see by—or even under—the lobby sink.

  There was something Wagnerian about the sight which met my eyes. Steam from the washing-up bowl wreathed the forms of the two martial bodies. Mrs Pringle held a saucepan aloft as though about to cleave Mrs Rose's skull, some inches below her own. Mrs Rose, her normally pale face suffused with blotchy red patches, clung to Mrs Pringle's flowered overall and screamed her head off.

  'Ladies!' I shouted. It seemed a singularly inappropriate title to bestow upon the two viragos before me, but was the best I could manage. At least it had the desired effect, and the combatants parted and faced me, bosoms heaving and eyes flashing. They were too winded with warfare to speak.

  'What on earth,' I said sternly, 'are you two doing? You are frightening the life out of the children.'

  This was not strictly true. Even now, some bold bad infants had crept to the doorway and were surveying the scene with every appearance of joy. This little contretemps would soon be common knowledge in Fairacre, I surmised.

  'Stand back,' I hissed. 'Into your seats this instant! The very idea!'

  This last phrase, idiotic though it may be, has an uncanny power over the young, if expressed forcibly. It worked yet again, and the faces vanished.

  Mrs Rose tidied her hair, and without a word, followed her pupils, leaving Mrs Pringle muttering malevolently to herself.

  'I don't know what all that was about, and I don't want to know,' I said loftily, 'but if it happens again we shall have to look for another cleaner.'

  'And lucky you'll be to get one with that old cat on the premises,' boomed Mrs Pringle, as I departed with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Mrs Rose was tying a shoelace with trembling fingers, as I passed through the infants' room on the way to my own.

  'Sorry about that,' she whispered. 'I'll tell you all at playtime.'

  A rare silence had fallen upon her class. They gazed upon her round-eyed. I left her to face the infants alone.

  My own children were equally silent, but their eyes were bright with expectation.

  'See if you can stay as quiet as that for the next ten minutes,' I said frostily, propping myself on the edge of the table, and trying to regain my composure.

  Long-suffering looks were exchanged. Obviously not a word of explanation was going to be given them. Was there no justice?

  I saw Mrs Pringle departing soon afterwards, her black bag swinging on her arm, her stout bac
k registering martyrdom, and her limp much in evidence.

  Mrs Rose, calmer now, told me about the cause of the fuss, as we sipped our tea in the playground.

  The real culprits were some new babies who had emptied their dinner scraps into the wrong bucket. It was as simple as that.

  From time immemorial, Mrs Pringle has taken home a dank parcel of plate-scrapings for her chickens. This is one of the many uses to which her black oil cloth bag is pressed. One bucket stands beneath the sink for such revolting left-overs as fat-trimmings, tough morsels of cabbage stalk and so on, combined with gobbets of custard, jelly or pastry from the second course.

  Sometimes, turning from this receptacle with nausea, I am reminded of the tubs which are reputed to have been left outside the gates of Blenheim Palace, years ago, for the poor of Woodstock. It took an American Duchess to suggest that at least the savoury matter could be put in a separate container from the sweet. Mrs Pringle's chickens are not so fortunate, but appear to thrive on what they get.

  The second bucket contains the true rubbish destined for the dustbin, along with the contents of the waste paper baskets. What had happened was that four or five innocents had scraped their plates into the latter, and such delicacies as half chewed gristle, dear to the hearts of Mrs Pringle's hens, were in danger of being thrown out.

  Nagged by pain from her empty stomach, Mrs Pringle reacted furiously to this scandalous filching from her hungry hens, and began berating the poor babies who soon began to weep.

  Mrs Rose, as zealous for her children as Mrs Pringle was for her chickens, rushed to their defence, and the ugly scene then ensured.

  'She had no business to shout at the children like that,' asserted Mrs Rose, pink at the memory. 'Nor at me. I've never in my life been subjected to such impertinence.'

  'I think you could have been a little more tolerant,' I said mildly. 'You know what Mrs Pringle is—and since this confounded dieting she's been twice as touchy.'