by Miss Read
I settled the class with more paper. They could draw a picture of the crib or St Patrick's church, or a winter scene of any kind, I told them. Someone wanted to go on with his list of presents and was readily given permission. The main thing was to have a very quiet classroom at three o'clock. Our Gothic doors are of sturdy oak and the sleigh bells would have to be shaken to a frenzy in order to make themselves heard.
At two minutes to three by the wall clock Patrick looked up from drawing a church with all four sides showing at once, and surmounted by what looked like a mammoth ostrich.
'I've got muck on my hand,' he said. 'Can I go out the lobby and wash?'
Maddening child! What a moment to choose!
'Not now,' I said, as calmly as I could. 'Just wipe it on your hanky.'
He produced a dark grey rag from his pocket and rubbed the offending hand, sighing in a martyred way. He was one of the younger children and I wondered if he might possibly half-believe in the sleigh bells.
'I'm just going across to the house,' I told them, squaring my conscience. 'Be very quiet while I'm away. The infants are listening to a story.'
All went according to plan. I struggled back through the sleet with the two sacks, deposited one outside the infants' door into the lobby, and the other outside our own.
The lobby was as quiet as the grave. I withdrew the bells from behind a stack of bars of yellow soap which Mrs Pringle stores on a lofty shelf, and crept to the outside door to begin shaking. Santa Claus in the distance, and fast approaching, I told myself. Would they be heard, I wondered, waggling frantically in the open doorway?
I closed the door gently against the driving sleet and now shook with all my might by the two inner doors. Heaven help me if one of my children burst out to see what was happening!
There was an uncanny silence from inside both rooms. I gave a last magnificent agitation and then crept along the lobby to the soap and tucked the bells securely out of sight. Then I returned briskly to the classroom. You could have heard a pin drop.
'There was bells outside,' said Joseph huskily.
'The clock's just struck three,' I pointed out, busying myself at the blackboard.
'No. Little bells!' said someone.
At this point the dividing door between the infants' room and ours burst open to reveal a bright-eyed mob lugging a sack.
'Father Christmas has been!'
'We heard him!'
'We heard bells, didn't we?'
'That's right. Sleigh bells.'
Ernest, by this time, had opened our door into the lobby and was returning with the sack. A cheer went up and the whole class converged upon him.
'Into your desks,' I bellowed 'and Ernest can give them out.'
Ernest upended the sack and spilt the contents into a glorious heap of pink and blue parcels, as the children scampered to their desks and hung over them squeaking with excitement.
The babies sat on the floor receiving their presents with awed delight. There was no doubt about it, for them Father Christmas was as real as ever.
I became conscious of Patrick's gaze upon me.
'Did you see him?' he asked.
'Not a sign,' I said truthfully.
Patrick's brow was furrowed with perplexity.
'If you'd a let me wash my hand I reckon I'd just about've seen him,' he said at length.
I made no reply. Patrick's gaze remained fixed on my face, and then a slow lovely smile curved his countenance. Together, amidst the hubbub of parcel-opening around us, we shared the unspoken, immortal secret of Christmas.
Later, with the presents unwrapped, and the floor a sea of paper, Mrs Pringle arrived to start clearing up. Her face expressed considerable disapproval and her limp was very severe.
The children thronged around her showing her their toys.
'Ain't mine lovely?"
'Look, it's a dust cart!'
'This is a magic painting book! It says so!'
Mrs Pringle unbent a little among so much happiness, and gave a cramped smile.
Ernest raised his voice as she limped her way slowly across the room.
'Mrs Pringle, Mrs Pringle!'
The lady turned, a massive figure ankle deep in pink and blue wrappings.
'What do you want in your stocking, Mrs Pringle?' called Ernest. There was a sudden hush. Mrs Pringle became herself again.
'In my stocking?' she asked tartly. 'A new leg! That's what I want!'
She moved majestically into the lobby, pretending to ignore the laughter of the children at this sally.
As usual, I thought wryly, Mrs Pringle had had the last word.
4. Mrs Next-door
ONE of the most exhilarating things about the holidays is the freedom to wander about the village at those hours which are, in term time, spent incarcerated in the class room. There is nothing I relish more than calling at the Post Office, or the village shop, in the mid-morning or afternoon, like all my lucky neighbours who are not confined by school hours.
A few days before term began I set off to buy stamps from Mr Lamb, our postmaster. It was a sharp, sunny January morning, with thin ice cracking on the puddles, and distant sounds could be heard exceptionally clearly. A winter robin piped from a high bare elm. Cows lowed three fields away, and somewhere, high above, an airliner whined its way to a warmer land than ours.
Nearer at hand I could hear a rhythmic chugging sound. As I turned the bend towards the Post Office I saw that it came from a cement mixer, hard at work, in front of a pair of cottages which were being made into one attractive house.
A group of my school children hovered nearby, gazing at the operations. Some traded shopping bags, and I could only hope that their mothers were not in urgent need of anything, for it was obvious that the fascination of men at work was overpowering. Patrick was among them, gyrating like a dervish, as an enormous scruffy dog on a lead tugged him round and round.
"Ello, miss,' he managed to puff on his giddy journey; and the others smiled and said 'Hullo' in an abstracted fashion. The workmen seemed to be getting far more concentrated attention than is my usual lot, I noticed.
As I waited my turn to be served, I looked through the window at the scene. I had ample time to watch, for this was Thursday, pensions day, and several elderly Fairacre worthies were collecting their money. Mr Lamb had a leisurely chat with each one, and as we all had a word with each other as well, it was a very pleasant and sociable twenty minutes, and we all felt the better for it.
The cottages had been stripped of their old rotting thatch, and the men were busy making a roof of cedar shingles. Watching them run up and down ladders I suddenly remembered that it was in one of these cottages that Mrs Next-Door had lived. Miss Clare had told me her story soon after I arrived as school mistress at Fairacre School.
It happened to be the first time I had visited Miss Clare's cottage at the neighbouring village of Beech Green. She had lived there since she was six years old. When I first met her she was in charge of the infants' class at Fairacre, a wise, patient, white-haired teacher who had taught there for half a century.
It was a gloriously hot August afternoon when I set out to walk to Miss Clare's, and I very soon found that it was much further than I realized. I toiled up a short steep hill, and leant thankfully upon a field gate near the summit. Cornfields spread before me, shimmering in the heat. Scarlet poppies dropped a petal or two, and high in the blue a hawk hovered motionless for a while, and then painted invisible circles with its wing-tip, slipping languidly and elegantly round the sky.
I resumed my travels, but determined to catch the bus home. Luckily it was market day, and a bus would leave Caxley just before six o'clock, passing Miss Clare's cottage about half past.
After one of Miss Clare's sumptuous teas, and a great deal of chatter, we walked together to her white gate. Two hawthorn trees flank it, and have met above to form a thick archway. In its welcome shade we waited, she on her side of the gate, and I on the other, ready to dart to the edge of the
road when the bus came in sight.
An old lady, very upright on an ancient bicycle, pedalled slowly past, and wished us 'Good evening'. When she was out of earshot, Miss Clare said:
'That's Mrs Next-Door. At least, she's really Mrs Wood, and my nearest neighbour, but I think of her as Mrs Next-Door.'
She began to laugh, and then noticed my puzzled air.
'Of course, I forgot. You don't know the story of Polly, who was the original Mrs Next-Door. It happened years ago in Fairacre and was as good as any serial story to us in the village.'
She leant comfortably upon her gate in the shade of the leafy archway and embarked on a gay snippet of Fairacre's history.
A few years after the Great War of 1914–1918, when Fairacre was doing its best to settle down again to peaceful village affairs, two young couples moved into the pair of thatched cottages opposite the Post Office, within a few weeks of each other.
The first pair were named Leslie and Bertha Foster. They were both big, fair and rather slow, with one boy, Billy, who was almost five years old. When they arrived, soon after Michaelmas Day, Bertha was again in an interesting condition; or, it might be more correct to say, in a condition interesting to the village. Fairacre speculated upon the possible date of the unknown's arrival, its sex, and the many vicissitudes it would cause its mother before, and during, birth.
Leslie Foster was the newly appointed cowman to Walnut Tree Farm, and as he had an aunt in Fairacre his history was fairly well known. But his wife was a Caxley girl and the village watched closely to see how she would settle down.
On the whole she was approved. She was friendly and hardworking. By the evening of the first day her house was clean and tidy, and new curtains hung at the windows. To be sure, Fairacre was not at all certain about the curtains. Most people had lace ones, a few rose to flowered cretonne, and the gentry seemed to go in for damask or velvet as they had done for years. But Bertha's curtains were of plain cream cotton, and she had stitched five rows of coloured braid along the bottom. The braid was a. deep blue, exactly the same colour as the one cushion in the room, which, was placed squarely upon the seat of Leslie's wooden armchair. Some thought the curtains were 'a bit far-fetched and arty-crafty,' but one or two younger people thought them 'real pretty and up-to-date.'
A few weeks later the second cottage became occupied. Mike Norton was also going to work for the same employer as his neighbour, for these were tied cottages. They had not moved in earlier because a faulty chimney had needed attention. His wife Polly was thin and dark. It was noticed, by keen eyes around them, that their house was not put in order as quickly as the Fosters' had been, and that Polly's curtains were extremely shabby and obviously make-shift.
There were no children, but many a wife told another that Polly Norton looked a bit peaky and as they had been married now for six months (so they had heard) perhaps she had good cause.
The two families became friends. The men did not have the same opportunity to exchange confidences, obstetric and otherwise, which their wives had, for they only saw each other briefly on the farm and were both glad to rest indoors when they reached home in the evening. But the two women spent a great deal of time in each other's houses and often took Billy for a walk in the afternoon together.
Within a fortnight Bertha had told Polly that her second was due in January and that she wanted a girl, and Polly had coyly mentioned her hopes for the following June. She had set her heart on a boy and was already trying to decide between the names Mervyn and Clifford. Bertha's girl was to be called Maria, after Leslie's mother, and Polly secretly thought it a very common name indeed.
Thus began a halcyon period of exchanging knitting patterns, comparing the discomforts of early and advanced pregnancy, and shopping frugally in Caxley for all those things incidental to a new baby's arrival. Despite Bertha's slowness, her greater experience and her upbringing made her the leader of the two. She had been brought up in a respectable home in Caxley, had been taught well at one of the town schools and enjoyed the advantage of a mother who was an excellent cook and dressmaker. Bertha's few shillings went a good deal further than Polly's.
Polly was one of a large, and somewhat feckless, family from Beech Green. This was her first home and she was anxious to make it as splendid as she could without taking too much time and trouble in doing so. As soon as Mike brought home his first week's wages she clamoured for money for new curtains.
'Can't be done this week,' said her husband ruefully. 'You'll 'ave to put a bit by regular.'
Polly saw the sense in this and reckoned that she should have enough to buy the material before Christmas. She discussed the matter eagerly with Bertha, and this was her neighbour's first shock.
'If you don't mind,' said Polly brightly, 'I'd like 'em just exactly like yourn.'
Bertha was seriously taken aback.
'Well,' she began doubtfully, in her slow voice, 'I don't truthfully know as—'
Polly cut in swiftly.
'I reckons they're the prettiest curtains as I've ever seen. And another thing, the two houses'd look much nicer with matching curtains in the front. Dales had some real nice cream material in their sale last week, and I can get the braid there too.'
It was quite apparent to Bertha that the matter was as good as settled. Nettled though she was, she did not protest. After all, there was really nothing to stop Polly from having similar curtains, she told herself, and for the sake of the coming baby she tried not to feel upset.
But for the rest of the day resentment smouldered in Bertha's breast. When Leslie came home she poured the tale into his ears.
Leslie, cold, tired and busy with his rabbit stew, did his best to smooth things over.
'I shouldn't fret about it. Don't hurt you if the curtains are the same. My ma says: "Imitation is the best form of flattery." Come to think of it, Bertha, it's a compliment really. Shows she likes your choice.'
Bertha was somewhat mollified by this aspect of the matter. In any case, she did not want to fall out with her neighbour, and nothing more was said. Nevertheless, the incident rankled, and when the curtains were hung, at last, she felt crosser than ever when she saw that the braid was the identical width and colour, and arranged in exactly the same five rows.
'Should have thought she could've had red or green, or summat different,' exclaimed Bertha to her husband. 'I should be ashamed to be such a copycat.'
Bertha's placid countenance was quite pink with wrath and Leslie again had to act as a soothing agent. The baby was now due, and whether the curtains next door had anything to do with the arrival of a fine daughter that night, no one could tell. The birth was easy, and Leslie was able to set off to work at his usual time, leaving Bertha and Maria in the capable hands of the local midwife.
'Ain't she just lovely?' breathed Polly admiringly, when she came round to see the baby. Her sharp eyes fell upon the cradle. It had been dressed in yard upon yard of spotted muslin, by Bertha's mother, and caught at the top with a splendid pink satin bow.
'You never showed me the cradle,' she said reproachfully. Bertha, sleepy and content, smiled upon her.
'It was at my ma's. She only brought it over yesterday. What's more, she made two bows, one pink and one blue, so's we'd have the right one.'
Polly was full of admiration. United in baby-worship, the two neighbours were in happy accord.
But this blissful state of affairs was not to last long. Spring arrived, and a double row of purple crocuses bordered Bertha's path. Behind them stood a fine row of polyanthuses heavy with buds. In Polly's identical border, there were also purple crocuses, and behind hers grew an equally fine collection of polyanthus plants.
"Tis too bad!' exclaimed Bertha to Leslie, thoroughly vexed. 'She knew I'd put them in. And I wouldn't mind betting her spring flowers comes out yellow, same as ourn!'
They did, and Bertha's wrath grew. The tart comments which hovered on her tongue she managed to restrain, however, although she wondered at rimes if a bit of pla
in speaking would be a good thing.
Her baby was now a few months old, a big, fair, placid child like her parents. Billy had started school and Bertha was free to attend to her neighbour when she felt the onset of birth pangs. Polly was unduly fearful, clinging to Bertha in much agitation.
'Don't 'ee leave me till Mrs Drew comes!' she begged, naming the local midwife.
'Don't fret,' answered Bertha soothingly. Til stay with you; but I think you'd be better upstairs.'
'No, no,' responded Polly. Til walk about down here and get Mike's dinner ready atween whiles. Keeps my mind off it a bit, to have summat to do.'
Bertha saw the sense in this and did not press the matter. She was greatly relieved, though, when the midwife came and hustled her patient upstairs.
The baby was a long time arriving. Bertha and Leslie could hear muffled activity in the bedroom next door to their own.
'I do feel downright sorry for Polly,' murmured Bertha, the memory of her own experiences still fresh in her mind. 'It must be over soon, that's one comfort.'
But the baby had not arrived when the Fosters rose next morning. Mike came round, haggard and unshaven, to ask Leslie to take a message to the farm.
'She's about all in,' he said. 'By George, that's the last baby we're having. Never thought it'd be such a set-to.'
Bertha and Leslie made light of it, teasing him, but he was too tired to appreciate badinage, and returned moodily to his home.
At midday the child was born. The midwife called in to tell Bertha it was a girl.
'They're both asleep, and can do with it,' declared the old woman who had brought half Fairacre into the world.
'I'll look in tomorrow,' promised Bertha, 'when she's feeling better.'
The next morning, a posy in her hand for Polly and a freshly-made pie for Mike's supper in her basket, Bertha went next door. She called, but there was no reply. She mounted the stairs and gently pushed open the bedroom door.
What Bertha saw, before the opening had widened enough to include a view of mother and child, made her grip the posy in a furiously clenched fist. For there, beside the bed, stood a cradle which was the replica of her own, even to a splendid pink satin bow.