Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

Arthur looked at Eleanor. Her cheeks had reddened and Arthur thought for a moment she was about to say something. He loved her and admired her all the more for remaining silent. Sparky cracked his whip, without touching the pony, and his parents were driven away.

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling, for that. My father always expresses his own views without thinking how others might be upset.’ He was then surprised to see that Eleanor was smiling and then collapsing into laughter.

  ‘What is it my love?’

  ‘I was just thinking of your father trying to slap my arse! He wouldn’t live to see another day.’ Arthur knew that he certainly would not have wanted to have been in his father’s shoes. He put his arms round his still laughing wife and together they went indoors. They had the rest of the afternoon and the whole of the evening to themselves.

  EIGHTEEN

  Morning & Afternoon, Monday, 27 May

  The children proudly began their parade from the church hall, crossing Bury Way and stepping up the slight bank on to the green. The sun shone and teenagers, parents, friends and other enthusiastic villagers clapped their approval as eight-year-old Rachel Reynolds, smiling broadly in her May Queen dress, led the way.

  ‘How splendid all the children look,’ remarked Jammy Carey to his great friend, Willy Johnson, as the children surged on to the grass which had received the Whitsuntide parade for more years than anyone could remember.

  ‘Children’s day, indeed,’ Olivia Atkins said to Pauline and Fred Richards. They were standing under one of the great elms with its new summer foliage providing a welcome shade on this unusually warm morning in late May.

  ‘And I see,’ added Pauline, ‘that many are keeping up with our tradition of wearing their new clothes. They all look splendid and there seem more children than ever.’

  Arthur Windle, standing nearby, quietly reflected on this old custom of buying new clothes to wear for Whitsuntide, although he knew that for many Rusfield families this meant that a child was wearing clothes handed down from an older sibling. He turned to Eleanor: ‘We can all be proud of the children and their parents who obviously do everything they can to turn them out well dressed for this special day. But looking round it seems a little strange, and certainly sad, that Mrs Cruise isn’t here this time. She always brought her little stool along and sat with her back to this very tree. I expect there will be a big number at her funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Eleanor replied, ‘Mrs Cooper was saying that the two of them used to straw-plait together when they were both young; taking it in turns as to whose home they worked in and she was really upset at losing her dear friend. She must have been a good age.’

  ‘When I last called,’ replied Arthur, ‘I dared to ask her just that. She told me that she wasn’t quite sure, but old Fred Piper told me she was at least seventy-five. So I think we have to settle with that for tomorrow. It will certainly keep Alfred, Fred and Jack Groves busy with the bells in the morning; hopefully all three can manage to get away from work.’

  Even as they were talking about one of the oldest Rusfield inhabitants, the children moved into a well-rehearsed, large group with the youngest helped by Rita Small. On their teacher’s signal they sang the first of three songs. After the clapping from all sides of the green, some younger children danced around the maypole which Fred and Abraham Richards had erected earlier in the morning. As soon as that finished a few novelty races were organised by Mr David Watts, the new master at the school.

  Just as the church bell sounded out its twelve peals, parents joined their children telling them how well they had sung, danced and raced. Picnic baskets were opened up and families enjoyed the beautiful day. Willy Johnson drew Jammy Carey apart. ‘That was really good. It doesn’t seem long since we were all parading on to the green for Whitsuntide. Do you remember?’ Jammy nodded. ‘Long time since you’ve been in the village, Jammy. Been busy?’

  ‘I can’t believe it was Easter the last time I was home: nearly two months ago. Busy, you ask. You’re right,’ replied the muscular Jammy. ‘The number of houses we’re putting up near Ilford is amazing; it never seems to stop. Anyway, how are you Willy, and the rest of our mates?’

  He knew by the seriousness of Willy’s face that something was not quite right and listened in amazement as Willy told him about their friend Racer’s problem with being instructed to lose his next race.

  ‘That’s awful,’ he replied. ‘Poor old Racer. Do the others know?’ Willy went on to say how they had heard from Racer about the threat when they met before the farm party.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry I couldn’t manage it. Anyway, I’m sure we can sort things out. When is his next race?’

  ‘It’s towards the end of June, Saturday the twenty-second. It’s a really big race, the most important one he’s been in so far. It can’t be a great distance from where you’re working, at the Crystal Palace. He’s excited about it and says there are some really good runners. There’s no way he will do anything other than try to win, whatever anyone says or does. But what can we do?’

  As one or two families packed the few remains of their picnics, Willy and Jammy continued talking. After prolonged exchanges they agreed the best way to overcome the threat to Racer.

  ‘So when are you off back to Ilford?’ Willy asked.

  ‘Early, I need to catch the seven-fifteen from Steepleton. In fact, I really ought to go for the six-forty. What you’ve told me Willy, is a worry, but I’m sure what we’ve planned will put it right. You’ll tell the others what we’ve agreed, won’t you? I probably won’t be able to get home before the race, but if anything unexpected crops up I can always write you a note.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll explain everything to the others,’ promised his ever-reliable friend.

  ‘Anything else been happening? How’s your family, Willy?’

  ‘Well, I’m worried, and I know mum is too, about Ruby.’

  ‘Ruby? But what’s wrong? Is she unwell or something? She’s always such a sweet girl.’

  ‘Well,’ replied a sombre-faced Willy, ‘I know she finds things quite difficult at times, but she’s really being quite odd about some things recently.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ asked Jammy, sympathetic as always.

  ‘Well, she always used to like working up at the manor, but for the past couple of months she seems to have become frightened of things. Last week she asked me if I could help her find work somewhere else. I think some of the other girls may be bullying and offloading some of their work on her. I will just have to keep a close eye on things and maybe speak with Florrie and Elsie. But don’t worry, I’ll sort things out.’

  They parted, both pondering over the problems discussed but, as ever, delighted to have met and spent time together.

  NINETEEN

  Morning & Afternoon, Tuesday, 28 May

  ‘Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight,’ counted Fred Richards, smiling encouragement but becoming increasingly worried by the puffing from the heavily-bearded Jack Groves. ‘We’re nearly there.’ At seventy-five they stopped, with even the rugged Fred Richards dropping his head for a moment and catching his breath. Of the six bells just three had been rung to mark the departure of Rose Cruise, in unison with no attempted change ringing. Fred, as the most experienced of the three, had rung the treble; Alfred Reynolds, number three bell; and Jack Groves, the tenor. The trio each let go of their woollen sally and allowed the ropes to hang free.

  ‘I don’t know who thought of it, but it’s a great idea ringing the funeral bell once for every year of the person’s life and Mrs Cruise was a dear lady. I know I shouldn’t say it, but hopefully not too many people will live far beyond her age.’ The younger two men smiled at Jack’s words.

  In the stone-walled ringing chamber, the men took their jackets from the nearby coat hooks and from the cold and cheerless chamber in the tower these close friends carefully descended the stone steps, each worn in the centre by centuries of bell-ringers. The three exited from the tower by the narrow, stud-encruste
d wooden door and went round to the porch through which they joined the congregation for the funeral of one of Rusfield’s oldest inhabitants. Because of her age, Rose Cruise was one who had given permanency to the community and it would seem strange passing her cottage without seeing her sitting in the doorway. There, on her high-backed chair, holding under her left armpit a bundle of dampened straw from which she would pull out the individual lengths, moistening them with her tongue to keep them pliable and then plaiting them into the required size. She had borne the unpleasant and often painful scarring at the right side of her mouth, the trademark of most straw-plaiters. She was always dressed in black, the common colour for most of Rusfield’s older ladies. Protecting her dress she had a dark blue cover over her lap against which the straws showed up well. Only the oldest inhabitants could recall her husband who had died in a farming accident nearly half a century earlier.

  Whilst Major de Maine read from Corinthians, Arthur was pleased to see that St Mary’s was full. He had felt it inappropriate to question the theological meaning of a “send-off ”, but knew that a full church was a suitable expression of how highly Rose Cruise was regarded. After the burial next to where her husband had been laid many years earlier, Arthur tried to speak, albeit briefly, with each person as they moved across to the green where the ladies, he was not always sure who this wonderful band of ladies were, had prepared cakes and sandwiches along with cups of tea. All had been set up near to Violet Rushton’s shop so that hot water was readily available.

  Some mourners had drifted away, but small groups of villagers were still chatting whilst Olivia Atkins, Pauline Richards and Eliza Carey led the way in clearing the plates and cups from the wake. Liz Smith had got the washing up well underway in Violet Rushton’s scullery when she passed that task over to Ruth Groves, apologising for leaving before all was done; but other helpers knew that she needed to get back to check that her mother was as comfortable as possible. Fred Richards had commandeered two helpers to move the four trestle-tables back to their resting place in the church vestry.

  ‘It was a good service, remembering an elderly villager for whom many clearly had a high regard. Thank you for your thoughtful words. We are, indeed, only a brief speck in the history of this earth and it is no bad thing for all of us to be reminded of our frailty and transitory place in time.’

  Arthur was faintly surprised, but grateful to hear Major de Maine’s words. He had found himself in one of the small groups left on the green, which included the de Maines and Mr and Mrs Mansfield, whose friendship seemed to have grown since the farm party in early April.

  ‘Indeed, Vicar,’ concurred Jack Mansfield. ‘I would add my thanks as I would for two other village matters.’

  ‘Thank you, but what are these other matters to which you refer?’ asked Arthur, slightly bewildered.

  ‘Well, firstly, the extra street lights which are now in place around Pond Corner and at the other end of the village near Sandy Lane. They really will make a difference when we move into winter.’

  Arthur blushed slightly as he gently held up a hand as if any further words would embarrass him. ‘Thanks for the lights should go to the entire lighting committee and more than anyone else we should thank Fred Richards who persuaded one or two who questioned the cost involved.’ Referring then to the young Methodist minister who had just taken up residence in the manse, Arthur added: ‘It has also been wonderful having the Reverend Reggie Gregg on the committee; he, too, has a persuasive nature.’

  The major smiled and turning to his friend said, ‘Jack, you mentioned two things for which we should thank the vicar. I see he is too modest to ask about the second, so I will.’

  ‘I refer,’ replied the well-built farmer, ‘to our new village nurse. I was chatting to her earlier and she is delighted to be in Rusfield. Undoubtedly, she will be a great asset to the community.’ He turned to Arthur and added, ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘But really,’ replied Arthur, ‘I had very little to do with that either. There has been a move in many parts of the country to provide more immediate medical help. I simply raised this with Sir Lancelot Prestwish, whom I knew was chairman of several hospital groups and has a big say in such matters.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ responded the major, ‘but you got things moving. As we are four miles from Steepleton and do not have a telegraph office in the village, we are helpless in an emergency. The nurse will be on hand to help.’

  ‘And she seems a very good person: really down-to-earth,’ interjected Mabel Mansfield. ‘She was telling me that she was at the Mildmay Memorial Hospital in North London, which trains many nurses, and was happy there, but had always hoped to work in the country. Let us hope Rusfield suits her.’ Turning to the de Maines, she added, ‘You will come back with us for tea, won’t you? Tommy Bruce can drive you home later.’ Farewells were exchanged and the four friends walked off towards West Lane where a smart carriage with a patient pair of greys awaited them.

  ‘They really are most pleasant people,’ said Eleanor to her husband as the quartet went out of earshot. ‘When I first met the major I thought he was aloof and didn’t really want to have much to do with other villagers, but I was very wrong, as first impressions often are.’

  ‘My love, that sounds just like me, yet I never seem to learn. But did you know that it’s the major who has made a cottage available for Nurse Hazlett, virtually rent free. I think he probably owns all four of those cottages over in Meadow Way, where the Smiths and the two Johnson families live.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Arthur. Judith Johnson said as much to me a while ago and added how fortunate she is with the low rent. Of course, the end cottage had been empty since old Aubrey Rayfield died back in February and just after Easter Willy Johnson was doing some roof repairs and painting the inside of the cottage. Nurse Hazlett remarked how clean and light it was inside.’

  As Eleanor spoke she moved on a little before saying, ‘Arthur, it’s still pleasant enough to go for a short walk along Church Stream. It will give us the chance just to talk through my dilemma.’ She took her husband’s hand, smiled and they crossed the green and narrow track near Miss Rushton’s shop, moving on to the well-trodden path that led alongside the small, sparkling stream.

  ‘It’s as well the ground is firm after all the recent dry weather,’ she remarked, looking down at her dainty shoes. ‘Well, my love, I’ve told you everything and yet I still don’t really know what to do. How about you being the parish priest and advising me?’

  ‘You’re teasing, darling. When you told me after my parents had returned home about getting that letter from Mrs Payne-Croft, I felt things would be difficult for you. I understand your dilemma.’

  ‘You are right, Arthur. Yes, I was pleased to be recognised as a person supporting women’s right to vote and I was happy to go to the meeting last Friday. It was good to know that there are many others who feel the same. I agreed with the speaker that strong action is needed to show the government that we mean to change the law and I can support such things as chaining oneself to railings, but her passion seemed to tip over into a dangerous obsession.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, Eleanor, it was extremely brave of you to speak out as you did. When you mentioned all the glares you got, I felt almost frightened for you.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Eleanor recalling the evening all too clearly, ‘I hope I didn’t leave anyone in doubt that I supported the movement, but that I would not embark on anything that might injure or cause great distress to anyone. I felt I had to say something. I think I was rather silly to do that, but it just came out.’

  Gently squeezing her hand, Arthur said, ‘You know I don’t agree with the present suffrage movement, though I think there will be a time when everyone has the vote. I just don’t believe that time is now. We both know each other’s feelings well enough, but it certainly wasn’t silly for you to speak out. It was brave of you.’

  ‘Arthur, I love you for not opposing my view; most hus
bands aren’t like you. It’s wonderful that we can disagree, but still respect what the other thinks and does.’ Her clasp of his hand tightened, causing him to stop. Eleanor stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘I think you’ve really solved my dilemma. Thank you. Come on, it’s time we turned round. I really do fancy a nice cup of tea. Race you home!’

  As she gained three paces, Eleanor stopped, turned, smiled and said, ‘I think it not comely that our parish priest be seen running.’

  TWENTY

  Saturday, 22 June

  ‘At least it isn’t raining this morning, but it is so grey, as if the weather has gone into mourning since old Mrs Cruise’s funeral,’ Robert Berry commented to Sammy Hatfield, good friends since they had played at the farm party. Indeed, there had barely been a day without rain. The roads and footpaths were awash and no one could remember the stream by the vicarage being so high. The village green squelched with water and the fields of wheat and barley were like paddy fields.

  The pond had overflowed into parts of Wood Lane and Pond Street, making it an irresistible pathway for the children fortunate enough to live at the east end of the village. Mr Watts had told the children to bring a spare pair of shoes, his newness as master making him unaware that many of the scholars only had one pair. After a gentle word from Arthur he sensibly relented in his advice and now many children padded round their classrooms barefoot or in stockinged feet.

  Peter Woods’ light postal delivery on this unusually dry morning had included two for the vicarage and it was an hour later that Eleanor and Arthur, returning from a visit to Liz Smith, collected the letters from the hall. The first bore a Canadian stamp; Eleanor wondered whether Peter would be asking for it on his next visit. It was from Fred Bamford who had emigrated two years previously. ‘It’s good to see that young Fred is getting on well. I’m sure his parents are very proud of him,’ Arthur said. ‘This other letter is from the bishop’s palace, so I can’t imagine it will be very exciting.’ He slit the typed envelope open, drew out the single sheet, read and looked aghast.