by Miss Read
The older generation dug out skates, and so keen were they that Mr Roberts switched on the headlights of his lorry and evening parties swirled and skimmed like rare winter swallows while the ice held.
Dr Martin and his wife brought Miss Clare, and the vicar, in a dashing red and white ski-ing jacket over his clerical greys and the inevitable leopard-skin gloves encasing his hands, brought his wife. Miss Parr came, with a sister who must have been eighty, and all these elderly people came into their own. They waltzed, they glided, they swerved magnificently in figures-of-eight, while we younger ones tottered tensely round on borrowed skates, or, more ignobly still, pushed old kitchen chairs before us and marvelled at the grace and beauty of those who were our seniors by thirty years or more.
Mrs Roberts, with true farmhouse hospitality, threw open her great kitchen, and sizzling sausages and hard-boiled eggs and hot dripping toast were offered to the hungry skaters, with beer or cocoa to wash down the welcome food. For a week the fun continued; then the church weathercock slewed round, a warm west wind rushed to us across the downs, the roofs began to drip and little rivers trickled and gurgled along the lanes of Fairacre.
The thaw had come; we packed away our skates, and Mr Roberts' ducks went back to their pond again.
13. Sad Affair of the Eggs
JOSEPH COGGS sidled round the half-shut door of his cottage. The baby's pram was just inside and wedged the door securely. After the February sunshine the little house was dark, and smelt of babies' washing and burnt potatoes.
Joseph put the cap that he was carrying very carefully on the table.
'Mum!' he shouted hopefully. There was no reply. He went through to the lean-to scullery and saw his mother through the open door feeling baby clothes against her cheek. Around her, on the ragged hedge and on the unkempt gooseberry bushes were innumerable tattered garments, drying as best they could.
'Got something for you!' said Joseph, in his hoarse cracked voice. His eyes gleamed with excitement.
'What? Some old trash from school again?' queried his mother crossly.
'Ah! I got a little house I done a 's' afternoon-but I got something special for you!' He tugged at her arm, and, snatching a few garments from the bushes as she went, his mother submitted to being pulled back to the house.
Proudly Joseph displayed the contents of his cap—five brown eggs, with the bloom of that day's laying still upon them.
'Where d'you get 'em?' inquired his mother suspiciously.
'Mrs Roberts give 'em to me,' said her son, but his fingers drummed uncomfortably on the table edge and his eyes remained downcast. His mother thought quickly. Five eggs would be a godsend with things as they were. Now that Arthur was back regular at 'The Beetle and Wedge,' there was mighty little handed over to her for food.
It was a pity they'd stopped teasing her husband about that night at Willet's, for while that had been going on Arthur had only dared to call in for a quick one and had escaped from their ribald tongues as hastily as he could. She'd noticed the difference in her housekeeping money. She looked again at the tempting eggs. Why, she could make something real nice for the kids with them, and Mrs Roberts wasn't likely to miss them anyway. She spoke kindly to her son.
'That was nice of her—a real lady, Mrs Roberts! I'll put 'em safe in the cupboard.' And she whisked them hastily away. She didn't want awkward questions from Arthur anyway, and somehow, well—out of sight was out of mind, wasn't it? And least said, soonest mended! Sensible sayings, both of 'em!
'And this is what I done today,' Joseph's voice broke in on her thoughts. 'Miss Gray done the door for me, but I cut up the lines myself.' He held up a small paper house, grubby and woefully askew. His face glowed with the pride of creation. 'Ain't it lovely?'
'Pity they don't learn you nothing better than that stuff,' said his mother shortly, still smarting from a guilty conscience. 'Them new teachers don't half fill you up with rubbish. Time you was learnt something useful.' But she suffered him to prop it on the window-sill and there he leant, gazing through the tiny open door, at the window beyond. Tomorrow he'd cut out little men and women from the paper, he told himself happily, and they could all live together in his house, his very own house. He sighed blissfully at the thought of all the joy ahead.
Next door Jimmy and Cathy Waites were at tea. This was what Mrs Waites called 'A scratch meal,' as they would be having high tea soon after six when the rest of the family returned from Caxley.
As the children chattered together and munched bread and shop honey, she studied an advertisement in her favourite women's weekly magazine.
'I've half a mind to,' she murmured to herself, 'only one and three! It's a saving really; that last lot of nail-varnish was never rightly my colour.' She inspected her hands minutely. Despite housework and vegetable peeling they were still pretty.
'Don't want to let myself go,' she told herself peering down at her reflection in the glass-bottomed tray. 'Be as slummocky as the creature next door!' And with one of her sharp nails she began to claw out 'This Week's Amazing Offer To Our Readers.'
Jimmy was intent on the label on the honey jar. He now knew his sounds and was beginning to find that, by piecing them together, real words sometimes evolved. He was agog to read, to be able to sit, as Cathy did, with her head in a book, sometimes looking sad, sometimes laughing, nicking over the magic pages that unrolled a story for her.
'MAD FROM—' he began painfully.
'It's got an E on it,' said Cathy exasperatedly. 'You know what Miss Gray said! It says its name not its sound! Not 'MAD,' silly, 'MADE!'
'MADE FROM' repeated Jimmy meekly, and began maddeningly on 'pure' with all its phonetic pitfalls. Cathy fidgeted restlessly, as he struggled. A thought struck her.
'Mum, I never told you yesterday! I've got to do the next bit of that exam, next week, Miss Read says. If I gets through I can go to Caxley.'
Mrs Waites looked up from the scraps of paper, round-eyed.
'Well, aren't you a one! My, I'm glad, Cath! You do your best, love, and if you gets it we'll let you go somehow.'
Visions of uniforms, hockey sticks, satchels and other paraphernalia flickered before her. It would cost a mint of money. But there, others managed, didn't they? And if the kid was clever enough to get to Caxley High School, or whatever its new-fangled name was, she'd see she was turned out nice. She looked again at her daughter's dark head, close to Jimmy's flaxen one, as she explained the intricacies of 'sugar' to him; and let herself dwell, for an indulgent minute, on the memory of the dark good looks of Cathy's father.
'He was a card, and no mistake,' she thought, blushing slightly. She pulled herself together and rose to clear the table. No good thinking on things past. Some people would say she'd been bad, but she didn't believe anything that could make you so happy could be all bad. She stood still, butter-dish in hand, puzzling over the niceties of moral conduct.
'Ah, well!' she said, at length, giving up the struggle to straighten the tangled skein, 'I've got a real good husband to think about now!' And, shutting the memory away in the secret drawer that all pretty women have, she went to put on the potatoes for his supper.
Mrs Finch-Edwards was sitting on Mrs Moffat's couch, admiring the new rug which lay before the tiled hearth, and listening to Mrs Moffat's account of Linda's progress under Miss Read.
'She can read anything, you know. Never had any difficulty with that; but surely she ought to know all her tables by eight years old! Didn't you teach them that in your room?'
'Only a few,' said Mrs Finch-Edwards. 'These days they don't expect children to start all that stuff as young as we did.'
'Then it's time things were altered,' said Mrs Moffat decidedly. 'How's Linda going to tackle the arithmetic paper in the exam, if she's still feeling her way round stuff she should have learnt in the infants' room? What we'll do if she doesn't get through to Caxley High School, I don't know. You know my husband's not one to worry, but I know money's short. This house took more than we thought, and th
e shop's not doing too well.'
Mrs Finch-Edwards studied her friend's worried countenance and offered what comfort she could.
'You don't have to worry about Linda. She's got a couple of years yet, and she's bright enough. As for money, well, we all worry about that, don't we?'
'Yes, but this is worse than usual! I've promised Linda she shall have dancing lessons next term at Caxley and now—well, I really don't know how we can do it! And she's that set on it!'
And so are you, thought Mrs Finch-Edwards, torn between pity and exasperation at this exhibition of maternal ambition.
'Can't you take in a bit of dressmaking?' she asked dubiously.
Mrs Moffat looked slightly offended.
'It's not quite the thing, is it? A little shop, now—the sort of idea we've talked about—that's different! But there again, you need capital. I don't like to say too much to Len, he always takes me up so short, saying other people can do on what we get. I tell him maybe they've no desire to better themselves.'
There were footsteps outside and Linda burst in.
'Hello, auntie, hello, mum!' She stood there, panting and sniffing.
'Wipe your nose!' said her mother, rather put out at her daughter's tousled appearance before a visitor. Linda rubbed her nose along her knuckles in a perfunctory way. Mrs Moffat's voice rose to a horrified scream.
'For pity's sake, Linda! Where do you pick up such ways?
That common school——!' She turned a scandalized glance at Mrs Finch-Edwards. 'Where's your hanky?'
'Lost it!' returned her daughter.
'Then go and get one!' said her mother, 'and wash yourself and do your hair!' she called after the retreating child. 'You see what I mean?' she appealed to her friend. 'She's getting as bad as the rest of them, and what can I do about it? If only I could get her to those dancing classes—she might meet some better-class children there.'
She rose to get the tea ready. At the door she turned with a refined shudder. 'I never thought to see a daughter of mine—COMMON!' she said.
It was arithmetic lesson and the classroom was quiet. Both blackboards were covered with sums, and the three groups groaned over such diverse problems as '½ lb. butter at 4s. lb.' in the lowest group, to '6d. as a decimal of £' in the highest one.
Beside me sat Cathy who was being shown once again the mysteries of long multiplication. She had some difficulty with this type of sum, though normally intelligent enough, and with the examination so near I felt we really must master this particular problem.
We were interrupted by the clang of the paint-bucket and heavy footsteps in the lobby, Mr Roberts' large head came round the door.
'Sorry to interrupt,' he said, in what he fondly imagined was a whisper. The children looked up, delighted at this welcome interruption. Who knows, Mr Roberts might have the old blackboard down again, their eyes sparkled to each other! And what could be more delightful than that, in the middle of an arithmetic test?
'Can I have a word with you alone?' he asked. I sent Cathy back to her desk, with a long multiplication sum to attempt, and followed him into the lobby. His big face was distressed.
'Look here!' he began, 'I don't like suspecting people, as you know.' He stopped and studied his boot so long that I felt he needed some assistance.
'Well, come on! Out with it!' I said peremptorily, 'they'll be copying wholesale in there if I don't get back quickly.' Mr Roberts shifted uncomfortably, took a deep breath and rattled it all out. It appeared that he had been missing eggs from the hen-house and had marked some very early that morning and put them back in the nest. He went to collect them at half-past nine and they had vanished. Would I mind … (here he peered earnestly at me and turned a deep red) if he looked through the children's pockets?
I said I thought we should ask the children first if they knew anything about the missing eggs; then they would have the chance to own up.
An unhappy silence greeted my inquiries. No, no one knew anything about the eggs. Blue eyes, brown eyes, hazel eyes, met mine in turn as I looked at their upturned faces. I nodded to Mr Roberts who returned miserably to the lobby. This was obviously hurting him as much as it hurt us, I thought with some amusement.
'Get on with your work again,' I said, and pens were resumed abstractedly, tongues twirled from the corners of mouths, and superficially, at least, all seemed normal; but there was a tension in the air. The door opened again and Mr Roberts beckoned me out with an enormous forefinger.
'Oh, miss!' came a choked cry as I went towards the door. It was Eric who had called out—his normally pale face suffused with a pink flush. Tears stood in his eyes.
'What is it, Eric?'
'Nothing, miss, nothing!' he said with a sob. And putting his head down in his arms his shoulders began to shake. His neighbours looked at him in astonishment and pity.
Out in the lobby Mr Roberts held open the pocket of Eric's raincoat. There, carefully wrapped in dock-leaves were three eggs. Each had a tiny cross on its side from Mr Roberts' pencil.
'Will you deal directly with this?' I asked, 'or shall I make it a caning job?'
Mr Roberts' unhappy face became aghast. 'Oh, by no means! Not caning! Such little children——' he began incoherently.
'They're quite big enough to know the difference between right and wrong,' I said firmly, 'but if you feel that way about it I shall hand him over to you and content myself with a short lecture about this.'
Mr Roberts twisted his great hands together and I felt a twinge of compunction for his soft heart as I opened the classroom door.
'Eric,' I called, 'come here a moment!'
With a dreadful shuddering sigh Eric lifted his mottled face. Slowly he came towards the lobby where Mr Roberts awaited him with quite as much agitation of spirit. I looked at them both as the distance between them dwindled, and then returned to the classroom, leaving the coats and hats to witness the meeting between accuser and accused.
'And I give a few to little Joe Coggs,' Eric had sniffed to me later, ''cos he saw me taking 'em and I never wanted him to say nothing.'
History lesson, about a little Roman boy, to whom the children were becoming much attached, was sacrificed to a lecture on respect for other people's property, common honesty, the power of example and the evil of leading others into bad ways. It was a much-chastened class that settled down to its nature lesson about the common newt, several of which disported themselves in a glass tank at the side of the room. I left them drawing sharply-spiked backs and starfish feet, and went into the next room to bring home to Joseph Coggs the wickedness of his crime.
'And another two?' Miss Gray was asking, stacking milk bottles in pairs into the crate.
'Four!' chorused the group clustered round her.
'And another two?'
'Six!'
'And two more?' The milk bottles clinked again.
'Eight!' This rather more doubtfully. Miss Gray left them to count again, and straightened her back to greet me. I told her the story and asked if I might take Joseph out into her lobby.
'I wanted to see you about my digs,' said Miss Gray.
'Us makes it seven!' shouted one of the mathematicians by the milk crate.
'Count again,' advised Miss Gray. 'We're getting ready for the two times table tomorrow, but heavens, what murder it is!'
'What is the matter at Mrs Pratt's?' I asked.
'Well, you know how it is——' she began uncomfortably.
'Nine!' interrupted another child.
'Tell me later,' I said taking Joseph's sticky hand and leading him from the class to the quiet order of the lobby.
Mrs Pringle's copper was humming merrily as I drew from Joseph the sorry tale of his part in the egg crime. Fat tears coursed down his face and splashed on to his dirty jersey.
'And my mum put 'em in the cupboard and we had one each for breakfast when our dad 'ad gone to work.' His tears flowed afresh as he burst out, 'Nothing ain't nice today! My little house, what I took home … my dad used it to
light his pipe this morning … he never cared, he never cared!'
Truly Joseph Coggs suffered much. When the storm had spent itself I gave what tardy consolation I could by telling him that it was treacle tart for dinner and he might make another little house. The tears dried miraculously.
'But mind,' I added, in a firm school-marm voice, 'there's to be no more stealing. You understand?'
'Yes, miss,' answered Joseph with a repentant sniff; but I noticed that his eyes were on the school oven.
14. The Jumble Sale
FOR the past week, posters announcing the jumble sale to be held in the schoolroom in aid of the Church Roof Fund had fluttered from the wall by the bus stop, the grocer's window, and from a hook in the butcher's shop.
At the end of afternoon school, Miss Gray and I pushed back the creaking partition between our rooms, and trundled the heavy desks into a long L-shaped counter, in readiness for the people who were coming to price the jumble before the public were admitted at seven o'clock.
'I wish I could help you with the pricing,' Miss Gray said, puffing slightly with her exertions, 'but I do so want to go to the orchestra practice and it begins at 6.30.'
'How are you getting into Caxley?'
'Mr Annett said he would fetch me and bring me back. I know him a little through the people I used to stay with in Caxley. They play in the orchestra too.'
We sat down on the desks to get our breath and surveyed our filthy hands.
'Miss Clare's coming to tea,' I said, 'she's helping with the jumble sale. Can you stop for tea with us?'
'I'd rather not, many thanks. I must collect my violin and music; and I shall need to change. Which reminds me … It looks as though I shall have to leave Mrs Pratt's, I'm afraid.'