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  Speechless with fury Mr Willet pulled the cover off and handed it to his wife, who tiptoed across the room and replaced it lovingly over the owls.

  'If I wasn't in me night-shirt,' said Mr Willet wrathfully, 'I'd 'old your fat 'ead under the pump! You git off home to your poor wife!'

  Arthur's militant spirit had evaporated suddenly, and at the mention of his wife a maudlin smile curved his moist mouth.

  'Me poor wife!' he repeated, and sat considering this for a full minute. 'Me only wife,' he said, looking up in some surprise. He lurched to his feet and caught Mr Willet by the neck of his shirt.

  'And do you know what?' he boomed, his face thrust close to his host's, 'she ain't saved, poor weasel! Me only wife, and she ain't saved!'

  Mr Willet broke away and flung open the door.

  'Then you can dam' well clear off 'ome and save her! Coming in 'ere kicking up like this! Be off with you, Arthur Coggs!'

  With inexpressible dignity Arthur drew himself up and crossed the threshold.

  'I 'opes,' he said coldly, swaying on the doorstep, 'that I knows when I'm not welcome. Arthur Coggs ain't the sort that pushes in where 'e's not wanted!'

  And with a shattering hiccup, he passed out into the night.

  This dreadful scene had direct repercussions on our school life, for Joseph Coggs was absent the next morning, spoiling the week's record of attendance for the infants' room. 'Me dad overdone it,' he explained in the afternoon, 'and we was all late up.'

  Worse still, Mr Willet had been 'so shook up by the rough night' that he cut his thumb badly as he was opening a tin of baked beans for breakfast and, as I have told, had to attend to his school duties with a heavily-bandaged hand for the rest of the week.

  So discouraged was Arthur Coggs by the unpopularity of his mission work, that he lapsed into his normal regrettable ways, much to the relief of the whole village.

  11. The New Teacher

  THERE were only three applicants for the post advertised at Fairacre School, although the advertisement had appeared in both The Teachers' World and The Times Educational Supplement for several weeks.

  The vicar had called a managers' meeting to interview the three applicants on a Thursday afternoon, late in January. It was to be held at two-thirty in the vicar's dining-room, and I was invited to be present. I appreciated this courtesy, which is not always extended to the headmaster or headmistress when new staff is being appointed, and arranged with Mrs Finch-Edwards a combined crayoning class of the whole school. As an added incentive to good behaviour I produced a box of small silver stars to be gummed on the best work, and from the children's rapt expressions when I told them of these joys I fully expected that Mrs Finch-Edwards would have a peaceful afternoon while I was at the vicarage.

  I walked across the churchyard to the meeting. Mr Partridge's vicarage stands in an enormous garden which abuts on to the graveyard. Mr Willet, who is St Patrick's sexton as well as our caretaker, was tidying up the graves, straightening a loose kerb-stone, breaking off a dead rose or setting an overturned flower vase upright again.

  'Snow on the way, miss,' he greeted me. 'Look at them clouds!' He pointed to the gilded weathercock that gleamed like gold against a pile of heavy, ominous clouds behind St Patrick's. 'Wind's dropped too.'

  He fell into step beside me and we walked across to the wicket-gate that opened into a shrubbery in the vicar's garden.

  'The graves look very nice and tidy,' I said, making conversation. Mr Willet looked gratified. He stopped by a particularly ugly memorial cross made from pinkish polished granite. It reminded me of brawn. 'My uncle Alf,' he said, patting it lovingly. 'Stands the weather well.'

  The vicarage is a large Georgian house of warm red brick, standing among sloping lawns and looking out upon two fine cedar trees. It has a square, pillared porch and a beautiful fanlight over the door. I was glad to see that the iron bell-pull which I had rung on my first visit there, and which had disconcerted me by coming away in my hand, had been replaced by a bell-push on the jamb of the door.

  The dining-table was set out with the applicants' papers at the head of it, and chairs set primly round. The vicar, as chairman, welcomed us and resumed his place at the head of the table. Miss Parr was already there, an old lady of nearly eighty, who lives at the other end of Fairacre in a house built 'in the reign of Queen Anne. The villagers maintain that she is fabulously wealthy. Certainly she is generous, and none going to her for financial help is disappointed. She says that she is fond of children, 'even these modern ones that do nothing but eat gum,' but so far as I know, she has never set foot in the school of which she has been a manager for nearly thirty years, during a school session.

  Colonel Wesley, also nearing his eightieth birthday, sat beside her. He calls in to see the children on occasions, and is, of course, invited to all school functions, as are all the managers.

  Both Miss Parr and the Colonel, despite their age and frequent indispositions, attend managers' meetings regularly. It will be difficult when these two leave the board of managers to find two people in the village who will come forward to take their place. Neither Miss Parr's nieces and nephews, nor Colonel Wesley's three sons and numerous grandchildren have ever used the state schools for any part of their education. Few people nowadays, even if they have close ties with their local school, have either the time or the desire to take on these voluntary duties which an earlier generation shouldered with the feeling of noblesse oblige.

  Mr Roberts the youngest school manager had attended an elementary school in Caxley as a small boy, and gone on from there to the local grammar school. He has a first-hand knowledge of elementary education and he, with the vicar, has a close understanding of the practical needs of the school in their care.

  Behind the vicar's chair, on the wall, hangs a portrait of one of his ancestors. He has a peevish expression and is holding out a piece of paper as though he were saying petulantly, 'Now, could you read this writing? Isn't it appalling?'

  The vicar is inordinately proud of this picture and the letter, he claims, was written by Charles II to his ancestor to thank him for services rendered during his exile. Be that as it may, the old gentleman would not appear to be overjoyed at its perusal.

  I was studying it again when the vicar said, 'I think we should begin. The applicants are Mrs Davis, who has come from Kent…' He paused, and looked at us over his glasses. 'Er … this lady has not had experience with infants, but would like to try. She has two children of her own, I believe.' From his tone it was clear that her application had not impressed him very favourably.

  'The second applicant,' he went on, 'is a little older and has had experience in infant and junior schools in several towns in the Midlands. She is, at the moment, teaching in Wolverhampton. She could begin in March.'

  'What's the last like?' asked Mr Roberts, stretching his long legs out under the table suddenly.

  'A Miss Gray, very much younger, still in her twenties. She left the teaching profession last summer——

  'No disgrace, I hope?' said Miss Parr.

  'Oh, no, indeed, no, no, no! Nothing of that sort,' the vicar assured her hastily.

  'I understand she nursed her mother for some months, but is now free to take a post.'

  'Does she come from a distance?' asked the Colonel. 'Any chance of her living at home, I mean; or will she have to have digs in the village?'

  'I expect it will have to be Mrs Pratt's,' answered the vicar. 'I have approached her and she has a very nice bedroom——'

  'Well, let's see these gals,' said Miss Parr, putting her gloves down on the table with an impatient slap. I suspected that she had given up an afternoon nap for this meeting, for she seemed restless and had stifled several yawns.

  'Well, there we are,' said the vicar, gazing round at us all. 'I rather feel that Miss Gray will be our best choice, judging from her application; but we will ask them in and see for ourselves. Shall we have the lady from Kent in first?'

  There were grunts of appro
val and the vicar went across the hall to ask Mrs Davis in.

  They returned together. The vicar took his place at the end of the table again and Mrs Davis sat nervously at the other. We all wished her 'Good afternoon,' and smiled at her encouragingly.

  She was a large woman with a shiny face. Her neck was flushed red with embarrassment and she answered the vicar's questions breathlessly.

  'May I ask something?' she said. 'Where is the nearest station?'

  'Why, Caxley!' said Mr Roberts in surprise.

  'And what sort of bus service?' she asked. The Colonel told her and her mouth dropped open.

  'I'm afraid that quite settles it,' she said with decision. 'I thought, coming along, how far away from everything it was; but if that's the situation—well, I'm sorry, but I would rather withdraw my application. I've got my two girls to think of, you know. We can't be buried miles from anywhere!'

  The vicar looked regretful.

  'Well, Mrs Davis,' he began, 'I know Fairacre is a little remote but——'

  'I'm sorry, I'm sure, for all the trouble I've given; but my mind's made up. I had a look round the village this morning and it's not a bit like Kent, you know.' Her tone was reproachful.

  The vicar said he was sorry, but if Mrs Davis was quite decided … He paused, his voice a query.

  Mrs Davis rose from the dining-room chair and said, 'I'm afraid I must say "No," but I'm grateful to you for calling me up for interview.'

  She smiled round at us; we made sounds of regret, and the vicar escorted her into the hall inviting her to stop for tea before she faced her long journey, but, like a freed bird, Mrs Davis was anxious to fly back to her nest in Kent and we heard her steps on the gravel path as she hurried to catch the three o'clock bus.

  'Well, well,' said the vicar, with a note of relief in his voice as he sorted out the next application form, 'a pity about Mrs Davis, but of course she must consider her family.'

  'Would never have done, anyway,' said Miss Parr flatly, voicing the secret thoughts of us all. The vicar cleared his throat noisily.

  'I'll fetch Miss Winter now. The lady from Wolverhampton,' he reminded us, as he set off across the hall again.

  Miss Winter was as pale as Mrs Davis had been rosy. Grey wisps of hair escaped from a grey hat, her gloved hands fluttered and her pale lips twitched with nervousness. She did not heed our greetings nor our smiles, as she was quite incapable of meeting our eyes.

  It transpired that she was run-down. She had had very large classes for many years and found them too much for her. It was quite apparent that they would be. Her discipline, I suspected, was non-existent, and even our local children, docile and amenable as they are by most standards, would soon take advantage of this poor, fluttering soul.

  'I think I could manage young children,' she said, in answer to the vicar. 'Oh, yes, a small class of good young children … I should enjoy that! And I'm sure my health would improve in the country! The doctor himself suggested that I needed a much less trying post. Town children can be very unruly, you know!'

  The managers asked a few more questions. The Colonel asked his stock one: 'A communicant, of course?'; and Miss Parr her stock one: 'I do so hope you are interested in needlework? Good, plain needlework—the number of girls these days with no idea of simple stitchery——'

  Miss Winter was asked to wait again in the drawing-room while we interviewed the last applicant.

  Miss Isobel Gray was twenty-nine, tall and dark. She was not good-looking, but had a pleasant pale face and a fine pair of grey eyes. We all felt more hopeful as she answered the vicar's questions calmly and concisely.

  'I see that you gave up teaching to nurse your mother. I gather that she is well enough for you to feel that you can apply for a permanent post?'

  'My mother, I'm afraid, died in the autumn. I did not feel like going back to teaching immediately, but I should like to now.'

  We all made noises of sympathy and the vicar made a kind little speech.

  Yes, she was a communicant, she replied to the Colonel, and yes, she was most interested in plain needlework and made many of her own garments, she told Miss Parr. There were a few more practical questions before the vicar escorted her back to the drawing-room.

  'Well?' he asked, when he returned.

  'Best of the bunch,' said Mr Roberts, stretching his legs again.

  'A very nice, ladylike gal,' said Miss Parr approvingly.

  'I liked her,' said the Colonel.

  The vicar turned to me. 'Miss Read, you have to work with our choice-what do you feel about it?'

  'I like her too,' I said; and the vicar, nodding happily, made his final trip across the hall to acquaint Miss Gray with her good fortune and offer Miss Winter solace in a cup of tea.

  Soon after five o'clock that day the vicar called at my house, bringing Miss Gray with him.

  'Could you show Miss Gray over the school?' he asked, 'and I wondered if you would be able to go down to Mrs Pratt's with her to arrange about board and lodging. I wish there were more choice,' he added, turning to the new teacher, 'but accommodation in a village is always difficult—very difficult!' He stroked his leopard-skin gloves sadly, and some stray fur fluttered down with his sigh. 'But I'm sure you will be very happy here with us,' he went on, bracing up, 'Fairacre is an example of cheerful living to our neighbouring villages. Don't you agree, Miss Read?'

  I assured him truthfully that I had been happy in Fairacre, but I wondered if Mrs Pringle and a few other such gloomy sprites could fairly be called examples of cheerful living.

  The vicar said good-bye and went off down the path with a swirl of his cloak. A few snow-flakes fluttered in the light from the porch.

  'You haven't got to make the journey home tonight, I hope?' I asked Miss Gray.

  'No, I'm staying with friends in Caxley. If I catch the 6.15 bus that will suit them very well.'

  I put on my coat and we went across to the dark school.

  'I wish you could have seen it in sunshine,' I said, 'it looks much better.'

  'But I have,' she said, to my surprise. 'When I thought of applying I came over from Caxley and looked at the school and the village. I liked it all so much that that made up my mind for me. I know the neighbourhood fairly well through staying with friends. They have a good deal to do with the orchestra in Caxley.'

  'Do you play at all?'

  'Yes, the violin and the piano. I should like to join the orchestra if it is easy to get in and out of Caxley.'

  The school was very still and unreal. The tidy rows of desks, the children's drawings, the pot of Roman hyacinths in flower on my desk all looked like stage properties awaiting the actors' presence to lend them validity. The artificial light heightened this effect.

  Our shoes echoed noisily on the boards as we went through to the infants' room that would be Miss Gray's own.

  'I wonder why they built the windows so horribly high!' exclaimed Miss Gray, looking at the narrow arches set up in the wall. 'Well, I know they didn't want the children to look out, but really—such a peculiar mentality!'

  She walked round her new domain, examining pictures and looking at books in the cupboards. Her pale face had grown quite pink with excitement and she looked almost pretty. It seemed a pity to take Iter away from it all, but if she had to catch the Caxley bus and we had to face Mrs Pratt first, there was no time to spare.

  'You are coming to us on the first of February, I believe?' I asked.

  'Yes, it seems best. I've no notice to give in, but it means that I shall have just over a week to settle in the village, and it gives your supply teacher a little notice.'

  So we arranged that she would come over one day before the beginning of February to see about syllabuses, schemes of work, children's records, reading methods and all the other interesting school matters, but that now, with time pressing, we must hurry down the road to Mrs Pratt's house, before that lady began putting her two little children to bed.

  Jasmine Villa had been built some eighty ye
ars ago by a prosperous retired tradesman from Caxley. His grandson still ran the business there, but let this property to Mr and Mrs Pratt for a rental so small that it was next to impossible for him to keep the house in adequate repair.

  It was square and grey with a slated roof. A verandah ran across its width, and over this in the summer-time grew masses of the shrub which gave the house its name. So dilapidated was this iron verandah that its curling trellis-work and the jasmine appeared to give each other much-needed mutual support. A neat black and white tiled path, edged with undulating grey stone coping, like so many penny buns in rows, led from the iron gate to the front door. It was an incongruous house to find in this village. It might have been lifted bodily from Finsbury Park or Shepherd's Bush and dropped down between the thatched row of cottages belonging to Mr Roberts' farm on the one side, and the warm red bulk of 'The Beetle and Wedge' on the other.

  Mrs Pratt, a plain cheerful woman in her thirties, opened the door to us. Her face always gleams like a polished apple, so tight and shiny is her well-scrubbed skin.

  'Come into the front room,' she invited us, 'I'm afraid the fire's not in—we live at the back mostly, and my husband's just having his tea out there.' An appetizing smell of grilled herring wreathed around us as she spoke.

  I explained why I had come and introduced the two to each other. Mrs Pratt began to rattle away about cooked breakfasts, bathing arrangements, washing and ironing, retention fees, door keys and all the other technical details that landladies need to discuss with prospective tenants, while Miss Gray listened and nodded and occasionally asked a question.

  The room was lit by a central hanging bulb. It was very cold and I was glad that Mrs Pratt's business methods were so brisk that I might reasonably get back to my fire within half an hour.

  Against one wall stood an upright piano on which Mrs Pratt practised her church music. A copy of 'The Crucifixion' was open on the stand. Mr Annett evidently started practising his Good Friday oratorio in good time. Two large photographs dominated the top. One showed a wasp-waisted young woman, with a bustle, leaning against a pedestal, in a sideways-bend position which must have given her ribs agony as her corsets could not have failed to dig in cruelly at the top. The same young woman appeared in the second photograph. She was in a wedding dress, and stood behind an ornately carved chair, in which sat a bewildered little man with a captured expression. One large capable hand rested on his shoulder, the other grasped the chair-back, and on her face was a look of triumph. Between the two photographs was a long green dish of thick china, shaped like a monstrous lettuce leaf, with three china tomatoes clustering at one end.