Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  When Jack was ten, his mother told him how she had come to the village. ‘I was an only child and my parents owned a bookshop in Butcher Row in Coventry, not far from the bishop’s palace. But one night the next-door furniture dealers caught fire that quickly spread to my father’s bookshop. We all lived above the shop and I was the only one to survive. It was horrible and sometimes I can still see that great fire. I was eighteen and maybe it was because I was younger than your grandparents that I was able to climb out and escape. I stayed with my grandmother for a while, but I realised I had to look after myself. In a magazine I saw a job for a nanny at Spinney Farm where an elderly gentleman, Mr Herbert, lived with his son and his wife and two young children. I applied for the job and two months later moved to Rusfield. Well, that’s how I came to live here. I’ve been very lucky because a lot of people have been very kind to me, just as they have to you.’

  Jack remembered so well his mother telling him all this and after two years at the farm that she had married and moved into the cottage where she and Jack now lived. However, Olivia could not bring herself, either then or now, to say much about her time with Edward. Nor had she ever bemoaned the fact that in one night in Coventry she had lost both her parents, her home and her life had been transformed from a middle-class eighteen-year-old girl to being a penniless orphan. Jack had often placed flowers on his father’s grave that showed the date of his father’s death on the modest headstone: 23 October 1894. He had realised his mother must have been pregnant at the time of her husband’s death as he was born the following April. Jack and his mother were very close and she had provided the strength to encourage him in his learning and had become the source of his own integrity and ambition. They had always done much together, talking about books, exploring the wonders of the countryside and sharing jokes, not least that he, along with most people who were baptised John, were expected to answer to the name of Jack. To Olivia, Jack was the centre of her world; having lost so much, he was so precious to her, but she could never be accused of mollycoddling him.

  He had told his mother that he would go straight to the reading room for a couple of hours and now as he reached the edge of the village he turned left into Jackson’s Farm, the home of the reading room. The door to the barn was open; Jack knew that one of Mr Jackson’s workers padlocked it at dusk each day. Fred Jackson, rather unkindly referred to as Fatty Jackson by Jack and his mates, was a generous man and just modestly said that he had always enjoyed reading. The roof had been repaired and walls made sound. Jack walked to the internal steps that led upwards to a floor opening, taking care as the light was mainly limited to the open door. Jack had noticed a bicycle leaning against the barn wall, but as that could have been left by any farm worker, he was still surprised to be made aware of slight movement in the area to which the stairs led, the reading room itself.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Windle,’ Jack said as he greeted the vicar’s wife with his captivating smile; his words said in such a way as to express genuine pleasure at seeing her.

  ‘Good afternoon to you, Jack. Not the first time we’ve seen each other here; I know how much you enjoy reading. I’m here because we’ve been fortunate enough to be given a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica. I’ve only managed to bring the first five copies on my bicycle this time, but we’ll soon have them all in place.’

  ‘That’s marvellous,’ exclaimed Jack. ‘I’ve seen them in Steepleton library, but I know they were always too expensive for Mr Meadows to buy them for our school.’

  ‘They are, indeed, expensive, but this was a gift. You may know that Mr Herbert, who had Spinney Farm before Mr Mansfield bought it, moved to Canchester quite a few years ago. Well, he must have learnt about our reading room because in his will he made special mention that all his books should come here. This is an old edition, actually printed in 1860 when I expect he had them as a child.’

  The red-haired Jack, whose grey eyes reflected his excitement, could not stop going over to the table where the thick, cloth-bound books lay. He touched them, they looked wonderful.

  ‘So, is there anything in particular you are looking for, Jack, although I realise you know your way around well enough?’

  ‘Well,’ responded Jack in his quiet, modest tone, ‘I want to find out more about the kinds of grain that make the best bread. I know quite a bit already, but Mr Davis sometimes wonders what’s best to buy from the mills around Steepleton. I recently read in a magazine how a lot of experiments have been going on with different kinds of wheat.’

  ‘Well, you may be lucky although clearly these volumes are out of date in many ways, but at least bread should be in one of the volumes I’ve brought along. Jack, I want you to be one of the first to know that we have managed to find someone to be here every morning, except Sundays of course, for half an hour which means anyone will be able to borrow a book. The committee, and I know your mother is one of its hardest workers, decided a small charge should be made for this and the money go towards buying new books. Have a look at these rules. Do you think they are all right?’

  ‘They look fine to me,’ replied Jack as soon as he had read through them. ‘It will be really good, although some of us will find it hard to get in at the right time to change books.’

  ‘Well, we are trying out the idea from the start of May and will just have to see how things work out. But before I go Jack, let me ask how your mother is; I haven’t seen her for a week or so?’ Eleanor thought highly of Olivia Atkins and admired her for the way she had brought her son up on her own, encouraged him at school and, so she had heard, never missed being on the touchline when he had been playing school matches. She knew that Olivia’s artistic skill with pen and ink drawings was well sought after by a number of children’s book publishers.

  ‘She’s very well. Thank you for asking. Mother is really quite busy at the moment as she needs to get some illustrations finished.’ He smiled, adding: ‘There are so many drawings of lions and tigers around that it’s quite frightening! But I do know she is always grateful for the way in which you and Mr Meadows set up this reading room. She was in here last week; something to do with looking up some shrubs that she didn’t know. And thank you for bringing along these encyclopaedias, they’re wonderful.’

  They smiled at each other and Eleanor turned to the steps and descended. Jack thought to himself: Jammy’s right. She is a pretty lady, nearly as pretty as my mother.

  The vicar’s wife always looked elegant, but never extravagantly dressed. Her skirt for cycling was slightly shorter than she would otherwise wear, its maroon colouring showing off well the cream blouse and medium-heavy fawn short topcoat. Her dark hair flowed freely, she generally refused to follow fashion and wear a hat. ‘Just an idle fashion dictated by some male designer,’ she had once declared to Arthur.

  Now on his own, Jack turned eagerly to the new books and was soon reading about bread in its many forms and then turned to look up dough. He read solidly until he was suddenly aware of the church clock striking. There were in this upper part of the barn four windows which gave reasonable reading light and by going to one facing west he could just read the church clock: four-thirty. He carefully put all five volumes of the encyclopaedia on the shelf that Mrs Windle had cleared for them.

  The sky was beginning to fade as he mounted his bicycle and rode the short distance to his home towards the far end of West Lane. Time to tell his mother about the new books, his meeting with Mrs Windle and then to get ready for the farm party to which he was greatly looking forward; and, before that, meeting up with his mates in The George for a quick drink.

  TEN

  Morning & Afternoon, Wednesday, 3 April

  Abraham Richards, along with the rest of Jack Mansfield’s workforce, had well finished the early sowing and were preparing to get the cattle and pigs out to the fields, although the recent spell of prolonged rain had set things back. Extra ditching had been necessary as a number of banks had collapsed with the seemingly incessant rain. But today saw a bre
ak from the usual work, as most were busy getting things ready for the Easter-week party. Somewhere around seventy could be expected and excitement at each of the three farms had increased as the event got closer.

  During the past days, Hezekiah Freeman and Aubrey Watson, next-door neighbours and two of Jack Mansfield’s older labourers had cleaned out the large timbered barn. Tall ladders had been used to get up high to clear cobwebs and bird and bat droppings although Abraham and Tommy Bruce, another fit young man, had carried out that duty. Soon after purchasing the farm, Mr Mansfield had the earth floor of the barn properly paved and the two older men had thoroughly washed it the previous day, carrying buckets of water in from the main farm pump and vigorously brushing until all traces of its recent use disappeared. They had then constructed a temporary stage using a motley selection of timbers although when Abraham jumped up and down on it, he found it safe enough. Now he and the rest were busy putting things in place.

  ‘It’s really good of Mr Mansfield to have this party,’ commented Abraham to Tommy. ‘I remember he organised something the first year I worked here, but that was just for those who worked for him.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied his mate, ‘it’s kind asking everyone over from the manor and Mr Jackson’s farm. Should be a really good evening.’

  ‘Let’s get the seating sorted out first,’ suggested Tommy. ‘Mr Mansfield said we should do our best to have seating for seventy. Your suggestion, Racer, of using the wooden boxes from the store next door is a good one.’

  Fifteen minutes later they had brought in enough boxes and allowing, as Tommy put it, ‘Two bums per box,’ they had enough for around forty. Next, they struggled in with several wide planks which they placed on upturned wooden barrels. ‘That’s enough for around sixty. Mr Mansfield said he wanted ten proper chairs for guests, so let’s take the small cart from outside up to the store next and load them on.’

  A short while later, Streaky Bacon and Dan Reynolds came in carrying an assortment of materials, with Dan announcing: ‘These will do to cover the boxes and help keep splinters out of people’s backsides.’

  ‘That looks really good,’ commented Racer. ‘With the stage over there we know where the entertainers are going to be, so let’s set up the chairs in the best position for the guests, keeping the middle for dancing.’

  ‘Don’t forget the tables we have to bring in for the drink and food, mugs and so on. I think they will all be best over in the corner furthest from the door,’ added Tommy.

  An hour later the barn was ready, lamps were brought in, some hung on previously fixed wall hooks and two buckets of water placed nearby. Doris Groves and Grace Reynolds, two young girls who worked in the large farmhouse, appeared carrying armfuls of bunting. ‘We’ve been cutting out triangles and squares in as many coloured cloths as we could find,’ said the pretty, dark-haired Doris, clearly aware of her good looks. Grace and Abraham gave each other a smile. They had been friends for years; their birthdays were only a month apart and the two had always vied for top place in the class. They saw each other less often now, but enjoyed exchanging news of families and what each was doing.

  ‘Come on,’ encouraged Abraham, ‘let’s see how long they are and then we can either hang them round the walls or fix them so they go from side to side.’ They agreed that running them between opposite walls gave the best effect and this was soon done.

  ‘I’ll just run up to the house,’ said Racer. ‘Mr Mansfield asked me to let him know when everything was done.’ He hurried up the short distance to the substantial Georgian farmhouse. The Mansfields’ two daughters had married and moved away, but five domestic workers were maintained, not least to ensure the farm workers had proper meals. Within five minutes Abraham was back accompanied by the farmer. He was a well-built man in his mid-fifties, comfortably dressed in dark grey matching jacket, waistcoat and trousers, the latter embraced by tight-fitting calf-high boots.

  He took a long look around and then his strong-looking face broke into a smile. ‘It looks good, lads and ladies.’ Doris and Grace immediately broke into blushes. ‘You’ve all done well. Maybe just move those tables for the drinks and food a little forward. Tommy, go and find Peter and a couple of other lads and tell them they can start moving the ale and other drinks down here. Thanks to all of you. It’s nearly midday so I don’t see why everyone can’t finish around two o’clock, go home and get ready for this evening.’

  By fifteen minutes past two, the barn and yard were quiet. Abraham and Tommy, helped by two other strong youngsters, had negotiated the last items needed for the evening and all except Abraham had departed. He was just changing from his working clothes into more suitable attire for his next activity. He put on some lighter footwear which together with his loose-fitting top and leggings made him ready to run home, his working clothes in the backpack. Not wanting to miss any opportunity to improve his fitness for the new season, he set off along Wood Lane, away from the village for a mile, turned right to circumvent the most outlying farm cottages before turning north to approach Rusfield by way of Parkers Wood and the meadow. As he got to the village green, Miss Rushton briefly stopped cleaning the window of the haberdashery, smiled and called out, ‘You’re doing well, Racer. We’re all proud of you.’ He wondered how Miss Rushton’s mother, who also lived above the shop, was faring as she had not been well of late. Abraham waved back, running between the towering, yet still bare elms around the green and sprinted the final hundred yards to his house at the church end of West Lane.

  He had drawn off a bucket of water before setting out for work and fixed it to a wooden contraption which he had often used. In the seclusion of an outside shed he stripped. Then taking one of the ropes fixed to the bucket he pulled it slowly so the water ran over his fair hair and down his well-muscled body. Refreshed, he dried and prepared himself for the long-awaited farm party. He knew his parents would not be in for a couple of hours; he had always been grateful for the way they had supported him in schoolwork at which he excelled and his sport. Now, no one was prouder of his achievements on the athletics track.

  Abraham had a younger brother, James, who worked with their father and although there were only four of them in the immediate family, the web of relations spread to several in the village. Boney Jones and Willy Johnson were his first cousins, as well as close friends. His grandfather had told Abraham when he was a small boy the story of Jeremiah Richards, from whom all the family were descended. His story went that this man had served as a private in the young Colonel Arthur Wellesley’s army in South India well over a century earlier, returned to England and finding his wife had disappeared just walked until he came to a village where there was some work. That was Rusfield and from his marriage to a robust village lady, a large family had descended. Abraham promised himself that one day he would try to find out more about his ancestors.

  Albert Jones had been delighted when he successfully bargained with his boss at the brewery that by working an extra Saturday afternoon he could store up a free half-day for a later occasion. At first Albert had thought the future afternoon off could be for watching a cricket match in Canchester, but when Racer mentioned the farm party he had gained permission to use it for this Wednesday afternoon. Leaving Bifields at one o’clock, he had caught the quarter to two train from Branton and by alternating between a fast walk and a long-striding trot had got home in well under an hour.

  Albert and his family lived in Wood Lane, a short distance from the pond on the way to Spinney Farm. He did not enjoy the work at the brewery, but was grateful for it; almost the sole income for the family of seven. His feelings towards the brewery had taken an upward turn when his mother told him that the brewery boss had promised that some thought would be given towards compensation for his disabled father, but still no letter had arrived. His mother earned little more than a pittance with her straw-plaiting and irregular help at Spinney Farm. She was more than willing to work all hours of day or night, but little work was available. Then there were Albert
’s four young siblings to support: George, Henrietta, William and Florence.

  The back door was open as his father had slipped down to the reading room to do a little tidying. His family admired him for always doing his best in domestic and voluntary village work in spite of the pain that still emanated from his arm stump. As he entered the cottage, Albert ducked; with his height of over six feet he had long grown accustomed to the low lintels and ceilings in the cottage. He, William and George used one room upstairs, his sisters sharing with his parents. Albert was liked by all for his ever-happy nature; he thought of himself as fortunate when he heard of so many sad life stories, but he harboured various ambitions. Maybe, when his younger siblings were old enough to go to work, he might follow the older lads who had set off to Canada. They had arrived there some months earlier and letters home had spoken of good work opportunities. He had even talked this over with his close cousins, Racer and Willy Johnson, but had sworn them to secrecy. It would all be at least seven years away since George, the youngest of his brothers, was still only six.