by Miss Read
During the years of war Elsie Parker was the cause of much head-shaking in Bent.
'A fast hussy!' declared one righteous matron, with three plain unmarried daughters. 'A proper flibbertigibbet, always running after the men!'
'No better than she should be, I don't doubt, up there in London where her parents can't see her!' quoth another.
There was certainly a hard gaiety about Elsie these days. She was now Sister Parker, conscientious and hard-working in the hospital. But off duty Elsie craved excitement. The admirers were more numerous than ever. Americans, Poles and Norwegians joined Elsie's village wooers, and she parried their advances with the same skill, if not perhaps quite the same endurance, as before.
When the war ended Elsie was twenty-five. There was a spate of weddings as the young men returned home. The villagers of Bent smiled kindly upon the newly-married couples and welcomed with genuine joy the offspring who were born into a world full of shortages, inordinately tired, but at least at peace.
And still Elsie remained unattached. The years slipped by. Roger Parker died one winter. His wife followed him two years later. Elsie, as sole heir, found herself in control of the house, a flourishing business and a comfortable sum of money in the bank. She was now thirty-eight. Her hair was untouched by greyness; in fact, its golden hue was rather brighter than it had been. Her teeth, though much-stopped, were her own. Her figure was as trim as ever, her blue eyes as devastating. Levelheadedly, Elsie took stock of her position.
The business could carry on, as it was doing, under its reliable manager. She would give up nursing, return to her home at Bent, and get married. Without her parents she might well be lonely. A husband was the thing and, with luck, there might still be time for children. Elsie set about putting these practical plans into action.
Within three months she was ensconced in the house, had joined the Caxley Golf Club and the Caxley Drama Group. She gave a handsome contribution to Caxley Cottage Hospital in gratitude for the kindness extended to her parents and was made a member of the hospital board. Her garden was lent for various local functions, she visited and was visited, and generally took her place in the gentle whirligig of Caxley's social life. People were genuinely glad to see her so engaged. The Parkers had always been liked, and Elsie deserved a break after those years of nursing, they told each other.
Unfortunately, Elsie's aims were only too apparent and soon became the object of derision by the less charitable. She had never been a very subtle person. One of her charms was her openness. Now that time was running short for Elsie, she became alarmingly direct in her hunt for a husband. Naturally, eligible men were scarce. In Caxley society, at that time, there were half a dozen elderly bachelors, about the same number of widowers, and a few middle-aged' men separated from their wives for an interesting variety of reasons.
They were not a very inspiring collection, but Elsie was a realist, and did not expect to find anyone who could compare, even remotely, with her first and only love. She looked now for kindness, companionship and protection. If humour and some physical attraction were added, she would count herself lucky, she decided. Financial stability was not essential, for her own position could comfortably support a husband, if need be.
Her first choice fell upon one of the widowers, a childless man in his forties, who was a partner in one of Caxley's firms of solicitors. She had known him slightly during her years of nursing and knew him to be liked by the little town. He played golf and took leading parts in Caxley plays. Elsie pursued him resolutely and charmingly, to the surprise of the flattered man and the intense interest of the neighbourhood. But, before long, the hunt was off. Elsie, to her dismay, found that her intended had one small, but unforgivable' fault. He did not wash—at least, not enough.
After this set-back, Elsie began to wonder if cleanliness perhaps should take precedence over kindness on her list of desirable qualities. She had not reckoned to be troubled by such elementáis, and was not impressed by excuses put forward by well-meaning friends who seemed to have guessed the cause of her withdrawal.
'Poor dear Oswald,' they said. 'So terribly cut up by Mary's death, you know. Seemed to go all to pieces. You can see that he really needs a woman to look after him.'
Maybe, thought Elsie privately, but not to the extent of washing his ears for him or cleaning his teeth. Personal fastidiousness, heightened by a nurse's training, did not condone greasy collars, black fingernails and the same filthy handkerchief for a week. Oswald, in his expensive, well-cut and smelly suits, was rejected.
Others, observing Elsie's aims and aware of her comfortable circumstances, made themselves pleasant. Elsie earnestly did her best to see them in the role of husband, never blinding herself to the true aim of their attentions but willing to ignore it if other less ignoble qualities were present. Too often there were none.
Time passed. Elsie continued her search, an object of pity to some and derision to others. She was still lovely, though now in her forties, and her energy seemed unimpaired. But at heart she was beginning to despair. Was marriage never to be her lot?
One bleak December afternoon she made her way to the churchyard at Bent bearing a bright-berried cross of holly for her parents' grave. She walked slowly between the mounds, reading the well-known inscriptions yet again.
'Loved and Loving wife of John Smith,' said one. 'A beloved wife and mother,' said a second. 'This stone was erected by a sorrowing husband to the memory of his much beloved wife, said a third.
All wives, all loved, all missed, all mourned, thought Elsie bitterly. Of what use was beauty, health, a loving heart and worldly possessions, if marriage never came? What would be written on her own tombstone for others to read?
Elsie Parker, Spinster? What a hateful word that was! She hastened her steps at the very thought, and reached her parents' resting-place.
'And Lily, his dearly-loved wife,' read Roger's daughter. 'In death they are united.'
Controlling an impulse to rush away from the spot, Elsie set the cross gently against the headstone, stood motionless in the biting cold and offered up a small prayer for her parents, and for their only child.
She made her way quickly to the gate, carefully averting her eyes from the inscriptions around her. There was only one other person in the churchyard, and he too was setting a holly wreath upon a grassy mound. As she came near him he stepped forward into her path. He was a big dark man, much about her own age, and unknown to Elsie.
'Elsie Parker?' asked the man gently. She nodded.
'I'm John Blundell,' said the man. 'I'd have known you anywhere. But you've forgotten me.'
Elsie felt a warm surge of recognition.
'John!' she exclaimed. 'My goodness, how many years is it since we saw each other?'
'I left Bent to join up in 1939,' he said. I don't think we've met since then, though I've heard about you.'
Elsie looked at him. John Blundell, the little dirty boy who had been her very first suitor! Undoubtedly he had prospered. His air was quiet and authoritative, his appearance immaculate. He had come a long way from the ragged child with the handkerchief pinned to his jersey who had been such a faithful admirer all those years ago.
She remembered, in a flash, that she had heard of his marriage during the war, but no further details. Lily Parker had risen above the station of the Blundes and had not passed on news of this family to Elsie.
'I'm still living at the old house,' said Elsie. 'Where are you now?'
'Near Southampton,' said John Blundell, falling into step beside her. 'I've a small shipping business there.'
'Alone?' asked Elsie, probing gently.
'No, I've two sons, both married now. They help me to run it. They're good boys.'
They emerged from the yew-flanked gateway into the village square. A beautiful glossy car was waiting near the railings of the village school which they had both attended so long before.
'I'll run you back, if I may,' said the man. They drove at a sedate pace to Elsie's h
ome.
'Do have some tea with me,' said Elsie. 'You don't have to hurry back, do you?'
He must not be too late, but he would love some tea, he said. They talked until it was half past six, and during that time Elsie learnt that he had married an Italian girl whose father was in an Italian shipping line and was a man of some substance. Their two sons were born in Italy. They had come back to England for the boys' schooling. The climate had not suited his wife but she refused to leave him during the winters to run the business alone, and had contracted Asian 'flu, five years before, which had proved fatal.
It was apparent that he had loved her dearly. His voice shook as he told the tale in the shadowy firelit room and Elsie was reminded of his early tears when she had so light-heartedly turned him down at the tender age of seven.
This was the first of many meetings. Elsie knew, before a month had gone by, that this would end happily. Despite local tales to the contrary, Elsie did not pursue John Blundell. There was no necessity. There was mutual attraction, affection and need. Before the end of February they were engaged, and the marriage was arranged to take place after Easter. To Elsie it seemed wonderfully fitting that her first suitor should also be her last.
'And so, you see,' said Amy, 'it all ended happily. Elsie adores the boys and the first one is going to live at the old house at Bent with his wife and children. Elsie and John want something smaller, and I think they both want to be at a little distance from Bent. Everyone says they're tremendously happy, even though they are, well-somewhat mature.'
Amy eyed me speculatively. I returned her gaze blandly.
'Funnily enough,' I said, 'I had my first proposal at the age of seven. I was fishing for frogs' spawn at the time. Not a very glamorous pursuit, when you come to think of it.'
Amy leant forward with growing interest.
'What happened to him? Do you ever hear?' Clearly, she was hoping that history would repeat itself.
'I heard only the other day,' I told her. 'He's doing time for bigamy.'
6. Black Week
I suppose everyone encounters periods when absolutely everything goes wrong. The week after my friend Amy's visit was just such a one, and left Fairacre village school and its suffering headmistress sorely scarred.
On Monday morning I awoke to find that there was no electricity in the house. I am not a great breakfast-eater and can face a plate of cornflakes with cold milk as bravely as any other woman on a bleak March morning. But it is very hard to go without a cheering pot of tea, and this I saw I should have to do, for the clock stood at twenty to nine—inevitably, I had overslept—and the oil stove would not boil water in time.
A wicked north-easter cut across the playground. A few wilting children huddled in the stone porch.
'Go inside!' I shouted to them, as I bore down upon them.
'Can't get in!' they shouted back. I joined the mob. Sure enough, the great iron ring which lifts the latch faded to admit us.
'Mrs Pringle's inside, miss,' said Ernest.
'Well, why didn't you knock?' I asked, mystified.
'She don't want us mucking up her floor, she says.'
'What nonsense!' I was about to exclaim, but managed to bite it back. Instead I hammered loudly with the iron ring. After some considerable time, during which icy blasts played round our legs and blew our hair all over our faces, there was the sound of shuffling footsteps, the grating of a key, and Mrs Pringle's malevolent countenance appeared in the chink of the door. I widened the crack rapidly with a furious shove and had the satisfaction of hearing a sharp bang occasioned by the door meeting Mrs Pringle's kneecap.
'Can I have a word with you?' I said with some asperity, ignoring her closed eyes and martyred expression. The children surged past us to their pegs in the lobby, and I went through to my room followed by Mrs Pringle. As I guessed, her limp was much in evidence. I hoped that this rime the affliction was genuine. Judging by that crack on the kneecap, it might well be.
'I have asked you before, Mrs Pringle,' I began In my best schoolteacher manner, 'to leave the door open when you arrive so that the children can come inside. It isn't fit for them to be out in this weather."
Mrs Pringle arranged a massive hand across her mauve cardigan and gasped slightly. She replied with an air of aggrieved dignity.
'Seeing as the lobby floor was wet I didn't want the children to catch their deaths in the damp atmosphere,' began the lady, with such brazen mendacity that I felt my ire rising.
'Mrs Pringle,' I expostulated, 'you know quite well that you locked the door because you wanted to keep the floor clean.'
Mrs Pringle's martyred expression changed suddenly to one of fury.
'And what if I did? Mighty little thanks I gets in this place for my everlasting slaving day in and day out. What's the good of me washing the floor simply to have them kids mucking it up the minute it's done, eh?'
Fists on hips she thrust her face forward belligerently.
'And what's more,' she continued, in a sonorous boom audible to all Fairacre, 'you've no call to give me a vicious hit like you done with the door. My knee's almost broke! I could have you up for assault and battery, if I was so minded!'
'I'm sorry about your knee,' I said handsomely. 'Of course, if you'd left the door unlocked there would have been no need to push our way in.'
'H'm!' grunted Mrs Pringle, far from mollified. 'No doubt I'll have to lay up with this injury, and with the stoves drawing so bad as they are with the wind in this quarter someone's going to find a bit of trouble!'
She limped heavily from the room, wincing ostentatiously.
For the rest of the day she maintained an ominous silence. I can't say I let it worry me. Mrs Pringle and I have sparred for many a long year and I know every move by heart. Now I confidently awaited her notice, and was rather surprised when it was not forthcoming.
The wind was fiendish all day. Every time the door opened, papers whirled to the floor. The partition developed a steady squeak as the strong draught shook it, and the door to the infants' lobby made the whole building shudder every time an infant burst forth to cross to the lavatory.
During afternoon playtime, when my back was turned for three minutes, Patrick, trying to shut the windows with the window pole lost his balance and broke an upper pane, bringing down a shower of glass upon the floor and a shower of invective upon himself. Now we had an even fiercer draught among us, accompamed by banshee wailing among the pitch pine rafters. We were all glad when it was time to go home.
Mrs Pringle, black oilcloth bag swinging on her arm, stumped into the lobby as I went out. She stared stonily before her and did not deign to answer my greeting. Past caring, I fled through the wind to die haven of my little house, craving only peace and tea.
On Tuesday I woke to hear the hiss of sleet on my bedroom window. The playground was white, and the branches of the elms swayed in the same wicked north-easter. Luckily, the electricity was functioning again, and after breakfast I made my way back to the school to see if the stoves were doing well.
They were not going at all. Mrs Pringle, with devilish riming, was going to give in her notice this morning, I could see. Meanwhile, sleet and snow blew energetically through the broken pane, and the usual cross-draughts stirred the papers on the walls.
Mr Willet arrived as I was lighting the stove in the infants' room. His face was red with the wind's buffeting, and his moustache spangled with snowflakes.
'Here, I'll do that,' he said cheerfully. 'They tell me her ladyship's gone on strike again.'
'I'm not surprised,' I said, and told him about yesterday's fracas.
'She's a Tartar,' commented Mr Willet. 'But never you fear, we'll manage without her. Soon as these ere stoves is drawing I'll paste a bit of brown paper over that there broken window. Best tell the Caxley folk to come and do a bit of glazing, I suppose. That's too high for me to manage this time.'
The children arrived. Ernest handed me a note. The handwriting was Mrs Pringle's.
; 'Am laid up with my damaged knee,' it said. 'Doctor is coming today and may say give in my notice. Will let you know. Matches is short.
Mrs Pringle.'
Matches were not short, they were non-existent, as I had discovered, but by now the stoves were going, in a sullen black mood, and little puffs of smoke occasionally escaped from them. Mrs Pringle had been correct about their dislike of a north-east wind. The stoves resented it as much as we did. As the fuel grew warm the smoke increased, and we worked throughout the morning amid lightly-floating smuts and eye-watering fumes.
Mr Willet, working perilously on an inadequate ladder as he blocked up the hole in the window pane, left his lofty perch now and again to survey the stoves.
'Beats me,' he said, scratching his head. 'I'll bet Mrs P. put the evd eye on 'em before she left!'
It seemed more than likely.
In the afternoon Eileen Burton complained of a stiff neck. I was about to dismiss this as a result of the draughts, but observing her flushed appearance I took her temperature. It was over a hundred, her neck glands were painful and she had not had mumps. I surveyed her anxiously.
'But my cousin's just had them,' she told me. 'And we often plays together.'
There was nothing for it but to wrap her up warmly, put her in my car and run her home at playtime. How many more, I wondered, peering through the gloom of the smoke-filled room on my return, would succumb in the next few days?
The sleet had changed to heavy snow by Wednesday morning, but mercifully the wind had dropped and the stoves behaved themselves.
The relief was tremendous, and I began to enjoy school without Mrs Pringle's presence. But the snow brought its own problems. The children were excited and fussy, quite incapable of working for more than three consecutive minutes, and standing up to look out of the windows whenever it was possible to see 'if it was laying.'
'Eggs or bricks?' I asked them tartly, but, quite rightly, they did not rise to this badinage and I was forced to give an elementary grammar lesson, in the middle of a spirited account of Moses in the bulrushes, knowing full well that neither would bear much fruit.