(9/20) Tyler's Row Read online

His glass was empty, and the pile of exercise books reduced by half, when he sat back, sighing.

  'Do they teach spelling these days?'

  'I think so. Why?'

  'Well, it appears from this young man's account of the finding of the treasure ship at Sutton Hoo, that "they discovered golden bowels, spoons and things." What d'you think of that?'

  'Odd.'

  'Very. Mind you, I must admit to getting a bit tangled with "necessary" and "occurred" myself.'

  'And "antirrhinum",' agreed Diana thoughtfully.

  'Luckily,' said Peter, 'that doesn't seem to crop up very frequently in History.'

  He resumed his marking doggedly.

  Now that the house was almost straight, the Hales began to entertain their friends. In a cottage as small as theirs, the perfect way to see one's friends was to invite two, or at most four, to dinner.

  Diana enjoyed cooking, and the frequent dinner parties which they gave in the early summer evenings gave everyone much pleasure.

  The weather was so warm that it was possible to have drinks, and sometimes after-dinner coffee, in the garden. Mrs Fowler and Sergeant Burnaby were interested and not-too-well-hidden spectators on these occasions.

  One evening, the Hales had an old college friend of Peter's for the evening. He had been invited to talk to the boys, have tea with the Headmaster, and then drive out to Fairacre.

  'Poached salmon?' said Diana. 'Everyone likes it, and if it's cold we needn't hurry with drinks.'

  'Fine, fine,' replied Peter, hastily finishing his breakfast.

  Diana spent most of the day on her preparations, poaching and skinning the fish, making a green salad, scraping new potatoes, whisking a strawberry mousse, and beating up fresh mayonnaise.

  By six-thirty the table was set in the diminutive dining room and Diana awaited their guest. How many years since she had seen Robert, she wondered? The boys had been at school, she remembered. It must be more than ten, though he and Peter had met occasionally during that time.

  She dwelt, with some satisfaction, on the meal she had prepared. Everything had gone well. It was bound to be appreciated.

  The car arrived and after affectionate greetings, they took their drinks into the garden. The windows of all three cottages stood open. There was no breeze, the air was warm and still, disturbed only by a flight of swifts that were screaming round the village and passed over Tyler's Row, now and again, in their career.

  'It's good to be back,' said Robert, his face tilted to watch the birds. 'Do you know it's three years since I've been in England?'

  'Is Hong Kong so attractive?'

  Robert was in banking and had been abroad for over seven years.

  'It is, of course. But it's not that. Somehow I seem to have spent "all my leaves elsewhere. My mother and sister are in France now, and I usually go there.'

  'How did the boys enjoy your talk?' asked Diana.

  'Never seen them so attentive,' said Peter. 'Not since we had that aged general who kept walking about so near the edge of the platform that they held their breath waiting for him to fall off.'

  Robert laughed.

  'The slides accounted for the attention. Hong Kong is very photogenic. But tell me all the news. How are the boys? And what about the Caxley friends? And how is it working out here? I must say, it all looks marvellous. You've done some good work in this garden.'

  'Come and see the vegetable patch,' said Peter, when Robert had finished admiring the flowers. 'Not that we grow much, but Diana thinks a few early potatoes are worthwhile, and lettuces and runner-beans.'

  'I grow peas too. Not potatoes though. Never touch 'em. My waist-line won't stand it.'

  Diana congratulated herself silently on the large green salad which awaited them. The new potatoes, simmering gently on the stove, would obviously only be eaten by the Hales.

  'Sometimes I wonder,' went on Robert, gazing at the young lettuces, 'if exercise helps at all.'

  'Of course it does,' said Peter, mounting his hobby-horse. 'Half today's ills are caused through lack of exercise and fresh air.'

  'Well, I play golf regularly, and spend a month salmon-fishing with old Craig. Remember him?'

  Peter nodded.

  'Salmon's rather fattening, I believe,' said Peter.

  'I never eat the stuff, anyway,' said Robert. 'Friends get any I catch.'

  Peter opened his mouth, caught Diana's eye, and said nothing.

  'I must go and dish up,' said Diana, hoping that the tin-opener was in working order. At that moment, the sound of a brass-band, energetically playing 'The Turkish March', came from Sergeant Burnaby's windows. The old soldier must have had the volume well turned up, for the rhythm throbbed through the still air, shattering the evening's peace.

  'Well, let's hope that soon stops,' commented Peter, watching his wife disappear.

  They ate their melon to a musical accompaniment, although the sound was slightly less formidable indoors.

  'Ham and tongue,' announced Diana, bearing in the dish.

  'Delicious!' said Robert, rubbing his hands together.

  Peter said nothing, as he took up the carving knife and fork, but his look of conspiratorial admiration pleased his wife.

  Just then, Sergeant Burnaby's radio let forth a prolonged scream, then some whoops, and finally settled down to emit a strident tune with plenty of tympani in evidence. The cottage shook, and a copper bowl on the Hales' mantelpiece began to throb in sympathy.

  'I do apologise for this,' said Peter. 'It's worse than it's ever been.'

  'Tell me about your neighbours,' said Robert. 'I'm really interested. I never see mine in Hong Kong. I take it one of yours is deaf?'

  Diana laughed, grateful to him for the easy way in which he was dealing with the situation. He seemed genuinely amused by the racket next door. Peter, on the other hand, was becoming more furious each minute.

  During the strawberry mousse the music changed to a comedy programme of some sort which was interspersed with frequent screams, claps and laughs from what appeared to be a near-demented audience. Sergeant Burnaby's own laughter, punctuated by fits of raucous coughing, could be clearly heard, and added to the general rumpus.

  Peter threw his napkin down and pushed back his chair.

  'Excuse me. I'd better go and see the old boy. This is unbearable.'

  At that moment, they heard Sergeant Burnaby's door being thrown open, the radio blared forth, louder than ever, but above the noise was the shrill screaming of Mrs Fowler's voice. The language was strong, but Sergeant Burnaby, whose voice had been trained in the barrack squares of India, not only shouted her down, but used earthy expressions of Anglo-Saxon origin which were quite new to Diana, but sounded terrifyingly abusive.

  'Don't interfere,' said Diana nervously. Peter's face bore that grim look which generations of youthful sinners had come to fear.

  'That's exactly what I'm going to do,' he said ferociously, making for the door.

  Within two minutes the voices were silent, the set switched off, and the distant sound of the swifts could be heard again. A bee bumbled against the window pane. Peace had returned.

  'Our tenants,' said Peter, passing the cheese-board to his guest, 'are something of a problem. Let's hope we'll hear no more of them.'

  The evening passed pleasantly, and without further alarms and excursions, but Diana thought it prudent to have coffee indoors after all.

  When they had said goodbye to Robert, they returned to the cottage. An owl was hooting far away, and the scent of early roses hung about the garden like a blessing.

  Tyler's Row, quiet now as the grave, looked the epitome of tranquillity.

  Peter sighed happily.

  'Despite those two, it's a good spot to be,' he commented.

  Diana agreed, bending to stroke Tom who was just setting out on his nightly activities. There were far more mice to attend to here than in Caxley. It kept a cat pretty busy, he found.

  'By the way,' said Peter, as they mounted the stairs. 'I can
get home to lunch tomorrow. Is that all right?'

  'Splendid,' said Diana warmly. 'You can guess what it will be!'

  Peter's hope that they would hear no more of their tenants was a vain one.

  Certainly, Sergeant Burnaby's radio set seemed to be put on less frequently, but when it was then the volume was inordinately loud. Diana was positive that the old man's hearing was deteriorating. She had overheard visitors and tradespeople shouting messages at him, in a way which she had not noticed before.

  'Well, he'd better get head-phones,' said Peter, when she put forward her suspicions. 'This is no joke.'

  Both neighbours were now less friendly to their landlord. Mrs. Fowler went indoors, and slammed the door pointedly, if Diana appeared in the garden. Sergeant Burnaby ceased to put his head over the hedge to pass the time of day. Diana found this withdrawal sad, but something of a relief. In any case, there was little she could do.

  A week or two after the visit of Robert, a new tactic was tried in the hostilities. Mrs Fowler, more vinegary of countenance than ever, came to the door one evening to complain that the kitchen tap was leaking.

  'Needs a new washer, I expect,' said Peter, and in a burst of generosity offered to replace it. Half an hour had gone by before he returned, looking exasperated.

  'I fell into that trap very successfully,' he told Diana. 'Our friend took me all over the house to point out jobs that need doing. The bedroom ceiling needs replastering, two doors have dropped, the rain comes in the spare room window, and something's amiss with the guttering.'

  'But you had it looked at when we took over,' protested Diana.

  'Maybe, but she's got grounds for a certain amount of dissatisfaction. I've promised to have a look at these things. Old property wants looking at every week, it seems to me.'

  'Was she friendly?'

  'Far from it. Frosty, I'd say, with just a hint of a knife up the sleeve somewhere.'

  'Oh dear, it is a wretched business! They've been awkward ever since you ticked them off.'

  'Well, what do you expect me to do? We do our best not to disturb them. They must do the same.'

  Two days later Sergeant Burnaby presented himself at the door and was invited in.

  'I hear you're having the workmen along to see to Mrs Fowler's guttering and the window,' said the old soldier. 'Thought it might save them another trip if I showed you the mess the overflow pipe's making down the wall. Wants seeing to badly.'

  Peter followed him resignedly.

  'What else is wrong? 'asked Diana when he came back.

  'Damp kitchen floor, stove wants replacing, and the sink's cracked.'

  'True?'

  'We-e-ll—' drawled Peter, spreading out his hands like a Frenchman, 'nothing's altered since it was inspected three months ago, I can't help feeling that our two tenants are doing their best to get their own back.'

  'And what have you told him?'

  'That the men will come and have another look round. Incidentally, I think you're right about his hearing. He couldn't hear me at all when I was speaking normally. I wonder if the doctor should see him?'

  'We shall need to be on better terms before we can broach that subject,' said Diana firmly.

  Meanwhile, as the days passed, Diana became convinced that, as with so many deaf people, Sergeant Burnaby heard a great deal more than others imagined.

  Mrs Fowler's niece, who lived in Caxley, occasionally came to see her aunt, bringing her two young children with her.

  On this particular afternoon, while the women talked over a cup of tea in the kitchen, the children were sent to play in the garden. To Diana, writing the weekly letters to her sons abroad, the sound of their chattering and laughter was very pleasant. Sergeant Burnaby evidently found it otherwise, for, to Diana's astonishment, she heard his voice bellowing across the garden.

  'Keep them bloody kids quiet, will you? Get 'em indoors!'

  Immediately, he was answered by Mrs Fowler.

  'You mind your own business. They make less noise than you do. And get indoors yourself.'

  'Fat lot of good trying to get a nap with that row goin' on'.

  Another female voice now joined the battle.

  'I can look after my own kids, thank you, without any help from you. Just a trouble-maker. I knows you!'

  ' Trouble-maker!' shouted the old soldier, and broke into a terrible fit of coughing. Diana felt that it was time she asserted herself. This was the first occasion on which the battle had been carried on across her premises, and it was going too far.

  She emerged from the cottage and approached the two furious women. They looked startled to see her, and Diana suspected that they thought she was out.

  'If you've anything to say to Sergeant Burnaby, please go to see him. Don't shout across my garden. It's extremely disturbing.'

  'Sorry, I'm sure,' said Mrs Fowler insolently, but she turned to go indoors and the children and their mother followed her.

  Sergeant Burnaby, still coughing, and scarlet in the face, peered over the hedge.

  'I advise you to go indoors and calm down,' said Diana. 'You are only making yourself worse by flying into such a temper. If you want to speak to Mrs Fowler don't do it across our premises.'

  'That old besom,' gasped the sergeant, 'eggs them kids on to make a row. Does it for spite. She knows I has a nap afternoons. If it's not children, it's that dam' dog of hers.'

  Still spluttering, he stumped indoors, and Diana watched him go with a sinking heart. The dog, an attractive mongrel bitch, was a new acquisition next door, and Diana had wondered how soon this would be yet another bone of contention. Obviously, Sergeant Burnaby was going to be alert to any little misdemeanours on the dog's part which might be an excuse for further battles.

  She went indoors, finished the second letter and read it through, but her mind was elsewhere. It harked back to the quiet privacy of the garden at the old house.

  There had been neighbours there, but at four times the distance, and they had been people who behaved in an adult and civilised way. To be in the cross-fire of two such opponents as Mrs Fowler and Sergeant Burnaby, barely twenty or thirty yards apart, was as frightening as it was exhausting. Life at Tyler's Row was going to be impossibly difficult if this sort of conduct continued. Diana had never quarrelled with anyone in her life. This ever-increasing hostility made her acutely unhappy.

  She stamped her letters abstractedly. In them she had dwelt on the pleasasant side of life at Tyler's Row, the flowers now blooming, the friends who had called, village activities and news of the family. There was no point in burdening the boys with her growing doubts about the wisdom of the move. It would be disloyal to Peter, and in any case, the neighbours were really the only fly in the ointment.

  There was one other matter which Diana kept to herself, but one which she knew she must tell Peter before long. For the past few days this fear had haunted her so terribly that she had tried to evade making a decision.

  A mole on her neck which had been there for several years was beginning to grow at an alarming rate. She noticed it first as she was drying herself after a bath. It seemed slightly painful and definitely larger than usual.

  She watched it anxiously for the next three or four days, and was now positive that it was growing steadily. Could it be malignant? Could it be cancerous? She knew so little about these things, but remembered reading somewhere that moles sometimes became a menace.

  She knew quite well that she must go and see the doctor. He would probably allay her fears, and if he could not, then the sooner the wretched thing was removed the better.

  It was telling Peter which worried her so much. As a family they had all been so wonderfully healthy that any kind of illness seemed doubly horrifying to them. No doubt, thought Diana, with a wry smile, Peter would prescribe a good walk to scotch her trouble.

  He had enough to think about, in all conscience. Tyler's Row had cost more than at first estimated, as is usual. The problem of their irascible tenants was going to grow
, and he was anxious, Diana knew, that she should settle happily.

  Well, one could not arrange these things, thought Diana, taking up her letters. Illness struck without warning. She had lived with this fear now for a week. She must not delay further. This evening she would share the problem with Peter and make an appointment with their doctor first thing in the morning.

  She stood up and looked into the sunlit garden. The single roses were wide open in the heat, showing their golden stamens. A yellow and orange butterfly fluttered over a lavender bush, and a blackbird scratched busily under the lilacs.

  It was so beautiful. How could she bear to be taken from it? And how would Peter manage if she died?

  Her vision was suddenly blurred by tears, and she pulled herself together. No more morbid thoughts, she told herself. Indulging in self-pity helped no one. She would take her letters and walk in the sunshine to Mr Lamb's Post Office to calm herself.

  But a line of poetry throbbed in her head as she walked beneath the trees up to the village:

  'Look thy last on all things lovely

  Every hour...'

  and, despite the sunshine, Diana was shaken with the chill of fear.

  11. A Village Quiz

  'I WARN you,' said Mr Willet, one June morning. 'Mrs Pringle's comin' up the village street draggin' her leg.'

  'Oh no!' I cried, my heart sinking. 'What's wrong then?'

  'Didn't you ask her to pull out that cupboard to see if there was a mouse there?'

  'I asked her to have a look when she swept—yes!'

  'Well, she did, and there was, and she says she's strained herself.'

  This was dispiriting news. If Mrs Pringle feels that too much has been asked of her, which is a frequent occurrence, then it has dire consequences upon her bad leg. This limb reflects the state of Mrs Pringle's temper and martyrdom as surely as a weather-cock shows the prevailing wind. It 'flares up', as Mrs Pringle puts it, at the slightest provocation. Any little extra effort, such as moving a cupboard, aggravates this combustible quality of her leg, and we all behave with circumspection when Mrs Pringle appears with a limp.

  'Let her get on with it,' advised Mr Willet sturdily. 'Pretend you don't notice it, silly old faggot.'