by Miss Read
Bertha swallowed her rage and tiptoed into the bedroom. The creaking of the old boards awakened Polly.
'Oh Bertha!' she said, with such affection and relief, that Bertha's anger melted. "Tis lovely to see you. Take a peep at the baby. Fancy me having a girl, just like you!'
Bertha could have said that it caused her no surprise, but this was hardly the time to be so uncharitable. In any case, the new-born infant quite won her heart with its red puckered face, cobwebby black hair and skinny fingers.
'Ain't she a real beauty!' she exclaimed with sincerity. A thought struck her.
'What are you going to call her?'
'Mildred,' replied the mother. 'It begins with M, just like yourn.'
Bertha was thankful that the child was not to be another Maria, and turning her eyes from the ribbons and flounces of the hated cradle, she settled the posy in water, made Polly some tea, reiterated her congratulations and returned next door.
Billy arrived home from school and was told the news. He took it stolidly. Babies did not mean much to Billy. If anything, he disapproved of them. They drew attention to themselves, he knew, to the detriment of their older brothers' welfare. But he brightened at the thought of telling Miss Clare, his teacher, all about it when he went to school next morning.
Miss Clare was as impressed with the news as he had hoped she would be, but Billy's eyes did not miss the flicker of amusement which crossed her kind face when he said:
'And it's a girl! Just like ourn!'
At playtime Miss Clare told the news to Mr Benson, the headmaster. In common with the rest of Fairacre, he had watched the doings of the pair of cottages with amusement and considerable sympathy for the much-tried Bertha Foster.
'Isn't that typical?' he commented. 'Poor Mrs Foster! I wonder what Polly will call it. Maria, no doubt, and it will have an identical pram.'
The village hummed with the news.
'Give Polly her due,' said one fair-minded neighbour, 'she couldn't help it being a girl. Now, could she?'
'She could help her curtains and the flowers in the front and this 'ere new cradle she's got,' answered a less charitable listener. 'Bertha must be a proper angel to stay friends with a copycat like Polly.'
Time passed. It was a long hot summer and both babies flourished. Bertha's polyanthuses were succeeded by sweet Williams and then asters. So were Polly's. Bertha whitewashed two large stones and set them one each side of her doorstep as ornaments. So did Polly. Leslie bought Bertha a canary in a cage for her birthday. Mike, under pressure, did the same for Polly.
By now, relations were decidedly strained between die two women, although they maintained a surface civility. Billy, overhearing many a tart comment at home, often told a tale to Miss Clare who did her best to discourage him. She found this comparatively easy. It was not so easy to stem the flow of confidences winch Bertha began to pour into her unwilling ear when she came to meet Billy from school. It was at this stage that the name 'Mrs Next-Door' began to be used in a fruitless attempt to veil Polly's identity from the young listeners milling round them.
'That Mrs Next-Door,' Bertha would whisper, 'has done it again. Pink asters, same as mine. It do fairly make my blood boil at times!'
'Ignore it,' Miss Clare used to answer. 'It really doesn't matter, you know.' But secretly she had every sympathy with poor provoked Bertha. How long, she wondered, would her patience last?
The children added fuel to the fire by teasing Billy.
'Your Mrs Next-Door's got a hat with daisies on, just like your mum's!'
'I see Mrs Next-Door's got a canary now!'
'Mrs Next-Door's got a pink bedspread on the line this morning. Looked like the one vour mum had out last week!'
At last the storm broke. The immediate cause, as Fairacre had foretold, involved the two babies. Christmas was now at hand, and as usual, a teaparty for the whole village was to be held in the school. Anyone was welcome to this festivity, whether a parent or not, and it was usual for all the women, and one or two old retired men, to foregather on this village occasion. The school children, dressed in their best, looked upon themselves as hosts.
Bertha took considerable trouble with her own appearance and even more with Maria's. The child was dressed in a white silk frock, embroidered with forget-me-nots on the bodice, and over this creation wore a blue coat edged with swansdown and a bonnet to match. Bertha had seen this delicious set in a Caxley shop window and had been unable to resist it. This was the first time that Maria had put it on, and very beautiful she looked.
Bertha pushed her daughter proudly towards the school. The afternoon was cold and foggy, but Maria's face glowed from the becoming blue bonnet. She was much admired by the throng at the school.
About twenty minutes later Polly arrived, carrying Mildred. To the amusement of some, the resentment of others, and the speechless fury and astonishment of poor Bertha, the child had on exactly similar garments to Maria's. Bertha pointedly turned her back towards the newcomers and did her best to appear unconcerned, knowing that she was the centre of all eyes.
The party appeared to be as gay as it always was, but for Bertha it was sheer misery. She was one of the first to leave, pushing Maria in her finery, with Billy clinging to the pram, at a pace which taxed the strength of all three.
It was now dark. Maria was strapped into her high chair and Billy was told to look after her. Before Leslie came home, Bertha intended to confront her infuriating neighbour. She returned to the gate to await Polly's homecoming.
'Now she's going to have it!' Bertha told herself fiercely. 'I been too meek all along, sitting down under her impudence. I'll settle her!'
The sound of footsteps and the familiar squeak of Polly's pram wheels heralded her approach. Bertha advanced like some avenging fury.
'I'll thank you,' she began ominously, 'to step inside here a minute, Mrs Norton.'
This was the first time that Polly had been so called by her neighbour, and she was at once on her guard.
'What's up?' she enquired, trying to sound at ease, but her voice trembled.
'You knows, as well as I do, what's up!' breathed Bertha menacingly. 'You dare to dress up that kid of yours just like my Maria and parade it in front of all Fairacre! Trying to make me a laughing-stock! I've had enough of you and your copying ways!'
Polly tried to laugh, but she was very frightened. There is nothing more terrifying than a calm woman suddenly aroused. She had no idea that placid Bertha could feel such venom, or express it with such menace.
'No law against buying a coat and bonnet for my baby, I suppose?' queried Polly.
'No, nor curtains, nor flowers, nor hats, nor bedspreads, same as mine,' burst out Bertha, 'but you're not going to do it any longer, my girl, or you'll be in trouble! Take it from me, Polly Norton, if I ever sees any more copying from you I'll be round at your place and black your eye for you! I've just about had enough, see?"
She thrust a red furious face close to Polly's startled one and slammed the gate between them. Polly, much shaken, moved slowly towards her own.
'I'll tell—' she began truculently.
'You'll tell no-one,' Bertha cut in. 'All the village is on my side. You've branded yourself as a plain copycat. I ain't saying no more to you. Not ever. But just you mark what I've said to you!'
Still pulsing with righteous indignation, Bertha returned indoors to attend to the children and Leslie's tea.
'I feels all the better for that,' she told herself. 'It's cleared the air. Come to think of it, I should've done it months ago.'
Now that battle was joined, Bertha found life much more straightforward. She simply ignored her neighbour. If she met her in the garden, or in the village street, she had the exquisite pleasure of looking clean through her. Polly retaliated with a toss of the head or a muttered aside. The village watched with avid interest. There were a few who maintained that Polly was not as bad as she was painted, but the majority felt she had got off lightly in the affair and that Bertha had ev
ery justification for cutting off relations with her neighbour.
The two husbands found the whole thing very trying. At work, they talked normally to each other, each being careful to leave his wife's name out of the conversation. At home, they did their best to soothe their wives and keep out of trouble's way. It was not easy. Both women were expecting again, Bertha in October and Polly a month later, and tempers were frayed all round.
However, Polly had seen reason in Bertha's tirade that dark evening, and although she would not admit that she was in the wrong, she took care not to rouse her fire again by any obvious copying. Unfortunately, much remained that had been done before the split occurred. The canaries still sang and fluttered in the two front windows. The white stones flanked the two doorsteps, the curtains, the bedspreads and the babies' coats still remained identical, for neither would give way.
Even worse was the simultaneous ripening of the two rowan trees in the front gardens. Bertha's had been planted soon after their arrival, Polly's a month or two later. This year Polly's was covered in bright red clusters of berries. Bertha's was decidedly inferior. Bertha, now near her time, a massive unwieldy figure venturing no further than the garden, watched her neighbour picking sprays to take indoors It gave her no comfort to see that Polly was wearing a blue flowered smock over her bulk exactly like the one she had on. They had been worn during their earlier pregnancies and one could hardly expect Polly to throw hers away Nevertheless, Bertha found the sight annoying. Would she never be free from Polly shadowing her?
A week later Bertha was brought to bed. Mrs Drew arrived in the morning confidently expecting to be back in her own cottage in rime to cook her midday dinner. But the day wore on, Bertha continued her labours, Leslie ate bread and cheese for his dinner, the same for his tea, and went post-haste for the doctor at six o'clock when Mrs Drew clattered down the stairs in a state of urgent alarm.
Fairacre watched with some agitation. What could be happening to Bertha? Always had her babies as easy as shelling peas! Could Mrs Drew have bungled things? Not like her to send for the doctor! Mind you, she was getting on a bit; perhaps she was a shade past it!
So the tongues wagged. Doctor Martin was seen to enter the cottage at a quarter to seven. No-one saw him leave. Of course it was dark, but then the doctor's old Ford car made enough noise to rouse the dead. What could be going on?
As St Patrick's church clock struck eleven Dr Martin was drying his hands in Bertha's crowded bedroom. He was smiling broadly, but his eyes were on his patient. Her eyes were closed, her hair, damp and dishevelled, clung to her forehead. Mrs Drew was busy with baby clothes. Leslie Foster, summoned from his vigil below, had just approached the bed. He looked thunderstruck, as well he might. Beside his exhausted wife lay three tightly-wrapped snuffling bundles.
He stroked the hair back from his wife's hot forehead.
'Bertha?' he whispered questioningly.
Her eyes opened slowly. She gazed at Leslie and then at the three small faces beside her. A look of intense joy lit her face.
'Let Mrs Next-Door copy that!' cried Bertha triumphantly.
5. A Tale of Love
THE alterations to the pair of cottages where Polly and Bertha had once lived took many weeks. The children's interest in all that went on continued unabated. The four workmen who were engaged on the job became their friends and heroes, and I became more and more annoyed as the children arrived late for school.
'You can miss your playtime,' I announced to a little knot of malefactors who entered noisily, bursting with good spirits, at a quarter past nine. 'I'm tired of telling you to be punctual.'
They looked at each other with dismay.
'But we was only givin' the workmen a hand, like,' said Richard, assuming an air of injured innocence. 'They had an ol' bucket they was pulling up to the top windows, see, on a bit of rope—'
'On a little wheel, sort of-' broke in Ernest, his eyes alight at the happy memory.
'A pulley, he means, miss,' said John, sniffing appallingly. 'They has cement in this 'ere bucket and it's heavy to lug up the ladders, so they has this wheel thing called a pulley, miss, as pulls it up. That's why it's called a pulley,' explained John patiently, as though to a particularly backward child.
'I daresay,' I said shortly. 'And nine o'clock is not the time to stand and watch it. Get to your desks at once, and for pity's sake blow your nose, John.'
There followed a great fuss of pocket searching, feeling under his jersey, exploring sleeves, looking in his desk and so on, accompanied throughout by sniffs and exclamations of surprise and dismay.
'Don't seem to have one, miss,' said John at length.
'Get a Kleenex from the cupboard,' I said ominously, 'and don't let me hear another squeak, or sniff from you for the rest of the morning!'
This sort of thing went on intermittently throughout the early part of the spring term and I should be heartily glad, I told myself, when the workmen had vanished and the new house was occupied. Mrs Pringle agreed with me.
'Bad enough sweeping up honest Fairacre mud,' boomed the lady, after school one afternoon, 'without bits of cement off their boots, and shavings and nails and that out of their pockets. And when it comes to this,' added Mrs Pringle opening a massive fist and thrusting it before my nose, 'it's time to speak!'
In her palm lay some glutinous grey matter which I recognised as putty.
'Stuck on the lobby wall, if you please,' said Mrs Pringle, disengaging the stuff with a squelch and putting it, unasked, on my desk. 'I thought it might be that chewing gum again when I first saw it, and then I thought: "Not likely. Not that sized lump. No one could get a lump that big in his mouth. Not even Eric Williams, and dear knows his mouth's big enough, on account of his poor foolish mother feeding him with a dessertspoon at six months." So I looked closer and saw it was this 'orrible putty. Them workmen want sorting out, Miss Read, letting the children have such stuff.'
'I believe they've nearly finished,' I answered, trying to soothe the savage breast. I glanced at the clock. Amy was coming to tea and it was already past four. Mrs Pringle grunted disbelievingly.
'I knows workmen,' she said darkly. 'Got no sense of time. I feel downright sorry for that couple waiting to move in. They'll be lucky to close their own door behind them before Easter, at this rate.'
This was the first I had heard of the future occupiers and though, as any normal villager, I should dearly have loved to hear more, I did not intend to probe Mrs Pringle for details, and, in any case, it was time I put on the kettle for Amy. I made my way to the door. Mrs Pringle, who can read my thoughts much too easily for my comfort, sent a parting shot after me.
'Name of Blundell,' trumpeted Mrs Pringle. 'Could tell you more, but I can see you're not interested.'
I caught the glimpse of smug triumph on her unlovely face as I closed the door.
Amy and I were at college together many years ago. We lost touch with each other and only met again when I came to Fairacre. She had moved to Bent, a village a few miles south of Caxley, when she married, and so knew more about the Caxley neighbourhood than I did.
Amy is a dynamic person, full of good works and good ideas. I only wish I had half her energy. It is always exhilarating to have a visit from her and I looked forward to an hour or two of her company on this particular afternoon.
The car arrived as I set tea. Amy, elegant as ever in a new suit, emerged with a bunch of daffodils and a new hair style. We greeted each other warmly and I complimented her on her looks.
'Do you like it?' she asked, patting her variegated locks and preening herself.
'Very much,' I answered truthfully. 'I like all those stripes, like a humbug.'
Amy looked at me with distaste.
'Like a humbug!' she echoed disgustedly. 'What a dreadful way of putting it!'
'What's wrong with it?' I asked. 'I'm very fond of humbugs, and those auburn streaks remind me of the treacly ones.'
Amy bit delicately into a sandwich.
&n
bsp; 'It cost a fortune,' she said sadly. 'And took hours to do, with all the strands sprouting through a bathing-cap affair. I thought James would like it, but he hasn't noticed yet.'
I enquired after James, her husband, and learnt that he was away for the night at a conference in the north. To my mind, James has a suspiciously large number of overnight engagements, but it is no affair of mine, and Amy is wise enough not to discuss the matter with me.
'You know,' said Amy, looking at me closely, 'I think you could take this high-lighting effect. It would do something for you.'
'Now, Amy,' I begged, seriously alarmed, for I have had many a battle with my old friend about my mousy appearance, 'please don't start on me again! I am a plain, shabby, middle-aged woman with no pretensions to glamour. I like being like this, so leave me alone.'
Amy waved aside my pleading and took another sandwich.
'A few glints in your hair, some decent make-up, and a good strong pair of corsets would work wonders for you,' said Amy. 'Which reminds me—I want you to come to the Charity Ball at the Corn Exchange next month!'
'Never!' I cried, with spirit. 'You know I can't keep awake after eleven o'clock. And I don't like dancing. And I haven't got a frock to wear anyway.'
Amy sighed.
'Then it's time you bought one. You simply can't waste the whole of your life in this one-eyed village. You never meet a soul—'
'I do, I protested. 'Every day. I meet far too many souls. There are thirty-odd to be faced every morning.'
'I mean men,' snapped Amy with exasperation. 'There's no reason why you shouldn't get married, even at your age, and it's time someone took you in hand and made you see reason.'
'But I don't want to get married!' I wailed. 'I should have done it years ago if I'd intended to do.'
'And who,' said Amy coldly, 'ever asked you?'