(8/20) Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre Page 9

  Their visitor seemed quite lively, but his poor Alice, thought Bob, looked ready to drop. He went into action at once.

  'Chalky'll drop you home, Josh. We'll take it easy. One arm round my shoulders, and my old blackthorn stick in the other hand. Let's try it.'

  In this fashion, Josh limped to the door, then turned to Alice. 'Thanks for the help. I'm real grateful, Mrs Willet.' He held up the stick. 'See you when I return this.'

  'No need to return it,' said Bob, urging him through the door. 'Keep it as a Christmas present. I've got half a dozen walkin' sticks. Now, watch the step, and put your weight on me.'

  Alice watched them out of sight, put up the fireguard and went thankfully upstairs to bed.

  Half an hour later, Bob Willet fell into bed beside her.

  'What an evenin'! Thank heavens we got him to old Chalky's. I'll take a few eggs round to them tomorrow to thank him for helpin' us out.'

  'That Josh!' murmured Alice. 'The yarns he tells! He'd been to see Fred, he said, and Fred had given him two pounds.'

  'Bet that didn't go farther than "The Beetle",' observed Bob, with a mighty yawn.

  'I don't think you should've given him that stick, you know, Bob. You was always fond of it.'

  'I'd never see it again, anyway,' said her husband. 'No point in lendin' anything to our Josh. You'd never get it back.'

  'Well, he said Fred Pringle lent him the two pounds.'

  'Fred Pringle,' said Mr Willet, 'is a fool, and always was. Well, look who he married!'

  CHAPTER 9

  Spinsters, 'Splashem' and Spring

  Although Mrs Pringle did her best to distance herself from what she termed 'that Springbourne lot', Minnie Pringle turned up far more frequently than her aunt-by-marriage wished.

  In the fullness of time, the third child born out of wedlock arrived, and not long afterwards Mrs Pringle told me some surprising news.

  'Believe it or not, Miss Read, but that Minnie is getting married.'

  'Good heavens! It hardly seems worth the bother, does it?'

  I was squatting down by the map cupboard, trying to extricate a large piece of cardboard which I needed for mounting the children's pictures.

  The map cupboard is a dangerous place to work in: furled maps, ranging from 'Great Britain's Possessions Overseas' (somewhat out of date) to 'The Disposition of the Tribes of Israel' (equally out of date) not to mention 'Aids to Resuscitation in case of Inhalation of Gas' (fat chance in Fairacre where we have no gas) to 'The Muscular System of the Human Body'.

  As well as these aids to education, all the awkward objects which have no real home seem to find their way into this cupboard: odd shoes, a broken croquet mallet, a moth-eaten rug, an archaic oil lamp and a cardboard box containing a jumble of jigsaw pieces which have lost their way over the years and share the space with an assortment of stray building bricks, bone counters, odd dominoes and the like.

  'That cupboard,' remarked Mrs, Pringle, 'is a menace. That great Union Jack fell out on me Monday afternoon, and brought up a lump the size of a pigeon's egg.'

  She put a hand to her head dramatically, while I tugged out the cardboard sheet successfully, wondering meanwhile why it is always a pigeon's egg. Why not a bantam's, or an owl's or even an everyday hen's egg?

  'So who's the lucky man?' I asked, dusting myself down. It seemed rather silly to get married when Minnie had been doing as nicely as she was capable of, without benefit of the clergy, all this time.

  'Quite a nice steady chap,' said Mrs Pringle. 'A widower with five children, called Ern.'

  I began to see the reason for this marriage.

  'But will Minnie be able to cope with such a large family? That will make eight altogether, won't it?'

  'Well, one or two are off his hands now, married or working in Caxley, so there will only be a few home to sleep, and the biggest girl's quite helpful. And you see, he's got a council house, so Minnie will be getting a place of her own at last.'

  It sounded as though it would be uncomfortably crowded, but Mrs Pringle seemed to think the whole affair was a good arrangement.

  'Minnie wanted a white wedding,' she went on, 'with some of the small children as bridesmaids and pages and that. She was all for bells and the organ as well, but her mum pointed out it would cost a pretty penny.'

  'I should have thought a quiet wedding at Caxley Registry Office would have suited the occasion.'

  'That's just it! It is an occasion! After all, every girl likes to remember her wedding day. I can quite see why Minnie wanted it all nice and lovely.'

  I did not feel that this was the right time to remind Mrs Pringle that a bride in white was meant to represent virginity, and that Minnie could hardly be included in that state with three young children in attendance.

  'So what with one thing or another, our Minnie's got a blue dress with a matching coat, and making do with a white hat she got at the Plymouth Brethren jumble last month.'

  'Sounds splendid.'

  'And I'm lending her my white confirmation Bible to carry.'

  I privately hoped she would hold it the right way up. Minnie cannot read, but probably there would be no need to refer to it during the ceremony so the Bible would be for effect only.

  'That's the borrowed,' said Mrs Pringle.

  'The borrowed what?' I asked bewildered.

  Mrs Pringle tut-tutted crossly.

  'Something old,

  Something new,

  Something borrowed

  And something blue', she quoted. 'Well, my Bible's the borrowed, see?'

  At this moment, Joe Coggs rushed in to say that Ernest had got himself locked in the lavatory, and was hollering something awful.

  Minnie's nuptials were forgotten as I went to investigate.

  I did not come across Mrs Pringle during the rest of the day so heard no more of Minnie's plans for some time.

  But that evening Amy called on her way back from Oxford, and while we were drinking coffee and admiring her purchases, the subject of matrimony cropped up. It often does with Amy.

  'This is such a dear little house,' she said, 'such a shame that it only has you living in it.'

  'It doesn't complain,' I retorted, 'and neither do I.'

  'You know, the older you get,' continued Amy, changing tactics slightly, 'the more difficult it is going to be to find somebody suitable.'

  'Don't worry about it. I honestly prefer to be single.'

  'Of course you feel that way now. But what about the time when you retire? You're bound to be lonely.'

  'Don't you believe it! I shall kick up my heels and nip off to foreign parts, squandering my hard-earned pension in all directions.'

  'But again, it would be so much more fun if you had a companion.'

  'Why? They might want to do the things I don't want to do. Now I can please myself.'

  'That's a very selfish point of view,' said Amy severely. 'Anyway, it's not just holidays I'm thinking of. It's the general day-to-day companionship you need. Besides,' she added, catching sight of an untidy pile of books by the sofa, 'it might make you tidier, if you had someone else to consider.'

  'Mrs Pringle comes tomorrow,' I comforted her. 'I shall be thoroughly "bottomed", and not be able to find anything.'

  'Haven't you ever met anyone who attracts you? You were quite pretty when we were at college.'

  'Thanks for the compliment. And yes, of course I've seen lots of men who are attractive. Your James, for one, but you snapped him up first.'

  Amy looked smug. 'Yes, I did, didn't I? And I don't regret it.' She began to look pensive and then added: 'Really,' rather doubtfully.

  To cheer her up I told her about Minnie's wedding.

  'I'm glad to hear she's been persuaded from wearing white,' she said. 'What are you giving her for a wedding present?'

  'I didn't propose to give her anything. Mrs Pringle is giving her a set of saucepans and her old mincer, if she can find the wing nut that holds all the blades together.'

  'Is Minnie capa
ble of managing a mincer?'

  'I shouldn't think so for a minute, and if she does get it to work, I'm sure it will be Minnie's fingers that will go first through the contraption.'

  'What coffee is this?' asked Amy, swilling the dregs of her cup round and round.

  'This Week's Offer from the shop in the village.'

  'As I thought,' said Amy, and drank no more.

  After Amy had gone I pottered about my domestic duties. There was a blouse to iron, some clothes to wash, the window box to water and Tibby's belated supper to put down for that fastidious animal.

  Rain had set in, and I went about my affairs to the accompaniment of raindrops pattering against the window, and a musical trickling of water into the butt outside the kitchen door.

  It was all very peaceful. I relish my time alone in the school house, dealing rather inefficiently with my chores. This evening I pondered on Amy's urgings towards matrimony.

  I am, far too often for my liking, the object of my friends' solicitude. Why this overwhelming desire to see everyone married? Quite a few of us, both men and women, are perfectly satisfied with the single state and seem to lead useful and happy lives.

  At this point, doubts assailed me. Was this being too smug and selfish? Certainly we did not have to consider other people in the home - husbands, children and so on. So were we really leading useful lives?

  Well, I jolly well am, I told myself robustly. I run my school with fair success. I do my best to help in the village, handing over clothes to the jumble sale (which I almost always regret later, as I could have done with them myself), I occasionally stand in for the organist, I do my stint of washing up at the Women's Institute, and a bit of sitting-in for friends with young children. I help at local fetes and concerts, stick up posters, deliver leaflets for worthy causes, and lend an ear to those who come to me for advice, and give them coffee as well.

  At this point, my mind veered to This Week's Offer. Was it really as dreadful as Amy seemed to think? It had tasted all right to me, but then I did not have Amy's rarefied palate.

  Perhaps Amy was right - not just about the coffee, but the selfish and narrow life I lead. But what could I do? I was in no position to put the world to rights. There was no way in which I could feed the Third World, stop global warfare, cope with sea, air and land pollution and other immense problems, except for adding my signature to the appropriate forms.

  No, I decided, it was just a case of soldiering on from day to day in one's own little sphere.

  'You in your small corner, and I in mine,' I sang to Tibby. The cat, startled, shot out of the window.

  Of course, it was nice of Amy, I thought charitably, to be so concerned about my solitary state, but also decidedly irritating. She would dredge up those middle-aged men! As bad as Mrs Pringle and the others in Fairacre, who had made my life uncomfortable over Henry Mawne.

  I began to put out the breakfast things on the kitchen table, ready for the morning, still pondering on the mentality of those who are intent on pressing matrimony upon those who don't need it. Had Minnie's approaching nuptials really set off a whole evening's train of thought?

  The clock struck ten, and I pulled myself together. Hot milk, and bed with a book. What bliss! Why, if I had a husband he might want the light off, or dislike me sipping hot milk! He would probably snore too.

  Feeling delightfully smug I surveyed the kitchen table. I saw that I had picked up Tibby's plate, still decorated with the remains of Pussi-luv, and set it carefully at my breakfast place.

  'That's what comes of thinking,' I said aloud, and went to bed.

  The wet weather continued for weeks. Mrs Pringle grew more and more morose as wet footmarks sullied the floors, and raincoats dripped from their pegs.

  Most days we were unable to let the children play outside. The consequence was that they grew peevish with being cooped up all day. The dog-eared comics grew even shabbier, the 'playtime toys' grubbier, and the children longed to rush about in the fresh air as keenly as I wanted them to do so.

  Occasionally, when the rain stopped at the appropriate time, I let them out, with terrible threats about what would happen to them if they played 'Splashem'.

  This game, which cannot be Fairacre's alone, is simplicity itself. All it needs is some puddles and plenty of unsuspecting victims.

  The idea is to wait until a child strays near a puddle and then to jump heavily into the water, sending a cascade over the victim. The harder you jump, the higher the spray, and it has been known to drench a small child from the neck down. Wild cries of 'Splashem' accompany this simple pursuit, and roars of laughter. It is a game which I forbid in the playground, with some success, but what happens on the way home I shudder to think, despite my exhortations.

  Mrs Pringle, of course, is as equally opposed to 'Splash-em' as I am, but with her floors rather than the unhappy victims in mind.

  'I see that Jimmy Waites and Joe Coggs jumping about in that long puddle by the Post Office. Their shoes was fair sopped. It's time the Council done something about that puddle. What do we pay rates for, I'd like to know?'

  'I hope you ticked them off.'

  'I done my best, but kids these days gets away with murder.'

  She bent down to scrape something sticky from the classroom floor with her finger nail.

  'Blessed bubble gum!' she grumbled. 'Our Minnie used to give it to hers until I told her I wouldn't have the stuff in my house.'

  'I meant to ask you, how did the wedding go?'

  She straightened up, wheezing heavily, and seated herself on the front desk. To my surprise, a maudlin smile spread over her face.

  'Oh, it was a real lovely wedding! Minnie looked a treat in blue, and she had his youngest girl as bridesmaid. It wouldn't have looked too good to have had her own children.'

  'Quite,' I said.

  'I left the baby in the pram just outside the church porch, and looked after the other two in the back pew. They wasn't too bad, considering. His four was further up the church. Not very well turned out, I thought, and no hats.'

  'People don't seem to bother about hats these days.'

  'Well, I certainly do. I bought a real beauty in Caxley. Navy blue straw with a white feather ornament. Very smart. I always think navy and white looks classy, and it don't date.'

  'Did you have a wedding breakfast?'

  'We did indeed! In Springbourne village hall, and though the toilet arrangements there are not what they should be, we had some lovely ham and salad.'

  'So now Minnie is really settling down,' I said, one eye on the clock, and hoping to see my school cleaner depart.

  'Well, she's married,' she said cautiously, 'but settled I'd not like to say. You can never tell with Minnie.'

  And with this ominous comment she made her way into the lobby to see that the doormat was thoroughly used by the children.

  Much to the relief of everyone in Fairacre, the wet spell of weather was followed by days of sunshine.

  Blankets and quilts, coats and curtains blew on the clothes lines. Mats and rugs were draped over hedges ready for thorough beating, as the long delayed spring cleaning got on its way.

  Mrs Pringle caught the fever and insisted on tackling my house room by room. I took to staying a little longer in school to miss the severe censure I faced about my housekeeping methods.

  She started on the bedrooms and I was unfortunate enough to encounter her on the first occasion.

  'I've been droring my finger along the top of this pelmet,' she told me, from her vantage post on a bedroom chair, 'and you could write your name in the dust, that you could. When Mrs Hope was here, she had a feather broom in constant use! Tops of doors, picture rails, curtain tops, she done 'em all regular. Everything smelt as sweet as a nut.'

  'It doesn't smell,' I protested.

  'You gets used to it,' she retorted. 'Living in your own mess, you gets used to it. Like pigs,' she added malevolently.

  I was about to retire worsted in this battle, but Mrs Pringle called
me back.

  'I'll take these curtains home with me and give the poor things a bit of soap and water. So you'd better let me have your summer ones to put up while I'm here.'

  'I don't have any summer ones,' I told her, 'those are simply The Curtains. They stay up all the year round.'

  Mrs Pringle gasped, and nearly fell off the chair with shock.

  'You mean to say you've no spares in the linen cupboard?'

  'That's right.' I was beginning to enjoy myself.

  'The gentry,' said Mrs Pringle, 'always has two sets, winter and summer.'

  'I'm not gentry.'

  'That's quite plain,' she said offensively, 'but even poor Mrs Hope had velvet for winter and sprigged cotton for summer. Made them herself too,' she added for good measure, 'and her a chronic invalid.'

  When Mrs Hope's name is invoked I know that I don't stand a chance. My predecessor in the school house must have been a perfect housewife.

  'Well, take them by all means,' I said, 'they are probably ready for a wash.'

  'That's more than true,' she panted, beginning to struggle with the hooks, 'but what about bed time, when you're undressing?'

  'No one will be watching,' 1 assured her, 'only the birds in the garden, and they'll be roosting by the time I go to bed.'

  'My old mother,' she said, 'would have been scandalised at having no curtains to the bedroom windows.'

  Mrs Pringle's mother has been dead for many years, so I forbore to comment on her possible disapproval and made for the door.

  'Mrs Hope began Mrs Pringle.

  But by that time I was well out of earshot.

  School, in this balmy spell of weather, returned to normal and 'Splashem' was a thing of the past.

  We had rather more nature walks than the timetable allowed, and thoroughly enjoyed finding spring flowers for the nature table. Celandines and primroses starred the banks and coppices, and white and blue violets hid themselves in the dry grass under Mr Roberts' hedgerows.

  Birds were already nesting, and some still building, flying across our path trailing long grasses or struggling with beaks full of moss or feathers. Soon the swallows would be back, searching in cottage porches and barns for the nests they left behind the autumn before.