Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre

by Miss Read

  Mrs Pringle sounded resentful of this claim to fame.

  'Not that they're much to write home about,' she continued. 'Why, my Uncle Perce had one much bigger than hers, and had it on his mantelpiece. Big as a walnut it was. Always attracted notice. Made a talking point, as people say.'

  'Not at meal times, I hope,' I said.

  'The meals aren't bad,' said Mrs Pringle, luckily mishearing me, 'not for a hospital, I mean. We had scrambled egg for breakfast. A bit too dry, but scrambled eggs is a bit tricky if they have to be kept warm. And fish in parsley sauce for our dinner just now. At least, they said it was parsley sauce but the parsley was pretty thin on the ground. Might just as well have been cigarette ash, and maybe it was.'

  I put my little offering of spring flowers on her bedspread, and there was a slight lifting of the corners of her down-turned mouth.

  'Well, thank you. Not that they'll stand a chance in this heat, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?'

  'You're not in any pain, I hope?'

  'Not but what I can't bear,' she said, with a martyred sigh, 'I don't take no pain-killers at night. Not like some!'

  She cast a malevolent glance across to the gall-bladder sufferer who was now holding up her jam jar for the admiration of half a dozen visitors.

  'So you'll be back on Monday,' I said hastily, to change the subject.

  'Not for work!' she cried.

  'No, no. I know you won't be fit for work for some time -' I began.

  'For some time?' she echoed. 'Of course, I'll be back the minute I can put one foot before the other. When have you ever seen me shirking?'

  I began to feel that I could never say the right thing, and that possibly I was making Mrs Pringle's condition worse than when I arrived.

  'You never shirk,' I said stoutly.

  'I will say one thing for this place. It may be noisy and too hot, and the pain is something cruel at times, but at least it's giving my leg a rest.'

  'That's splendid,' I said. I looked at my watch. I had been by the bedside for over twenty minutes, and I felt we should both enjoy a rest from each other's company.

  'I'm not going to stay any longer,' I said, 'because you need all the rest you can get. I'll pop in and see you when you have settled back at home.'

  She nodded her agreement, and picked up the bunch of flowers, holding them up to her nose.

  'That really do smell like Fairacre,' she cried. 'You couldn't have brought anything nicer.'

  And with this rare display of grace and gratitude, she waved me away.

  The next morning I gave my shoes an extra polish, my clothes an extra brush, looked out my prayer book, found finally among the cookery books, and went to morning service.

  As the head mistress of a church school I ought to go every Sunday, but somehow it does not work out that way. Friends tend to invite me to share their Sunday roast, or other friends come to me from some distance, so that I do not visit St Patrick's as often as I should. Dear Gerald Partridge, however, never upbraids me, and I am grateful for his Christian forbearance.

  The church, even on this sunny morning, was chilly, and I envied the sensible women who had put on knitted or tweed skirts and would be withstanding the clammy chill of the wooden pews more successfully than I was.

  But the peace of the place soon exerted its customary soothing influence. The monument to Sir Charles Dagbury, who had worshipped here a few hundred years before, was as commanding as ever, but his marble curls, which cascaded to his lace collar, could have done with a dusting. Mrs Hope's little feather duster could have been useful here, I thought.

  Our church is a simple structure, white-washed inside, and with a roof of stout oak beams. I remembered the magnificent fan-vaulting of Bent church at Christmas time, the beautiful carpets and the vicar's vestments.

  Now Mr Partridge emerged from the vestry, followed by the ten or twelve souls forming our church choir. The four boys were all my pupils, and uncommonly angelic they looked in their snowy surplices and their hair sleeked down with a wet brush.

  We began the service, and in due time settled down on our cold seats for the first lesson read by Henry Mawne.

  My gaze roamed around the church. On the altar were bright garden flowers and, on each side, on the floor of the chancel, stood two large vases filled with blossom, probably from the vicarage.

  I remembered the arum lilies which had flanked the chancel steps at Bent, and the plethora of exotic hothouse flowers which had scented the church that day.

  St. Patrick's had no such grandeur, but it was just as moving in its homely simplicity. In both cases, honour and glory were being given.

  It seemed particularly appropriate when the vicar announced the next hymn:

  'Let us with a gladsome mind,

  Praise the Lord for He is kind.'

  It was good to get out into the sunshine again as the church clock struck twelve.

  Mrs Partridge caught up with me and took my arm, waving the while with her free hand at Henry Mawne and his wife. Evidently they, and also Peter and Diana Hale from Tyler's Row, were making their way to the vicarage.

  'I have my sister Edith and her husband with us for a few days,' she said, as we crunched up her drive. 'She's not been too fit, so she didn't come to church this morning. It's one of those sick headache maladies.'

  I hoped she would not go into further details, and was spared as the sister in question and her husband came out of the drawing room to greet us. Both, I was relieved to see, appeared to be in robust health.

  Peter Hale drifted over to me. He used to teach at Caxley Grammar School in the days when it went under that honourable name.

  'This is quite a scholastic gathering, isn't it?' he said waving towards Henry Mawne with a dangerously full sherry glass, 'Cordelia's sister used to teach too, I hear.'

  I enquired after his house and garden. He had bought all four cottages which comprised Tyler's Row, and was now spending his retirement improving his property.

  'I must say it's absolutely engrossing, though terribly hard work. But so much more satisfying than teaching. I'd far rather lay bricks than discuss the Unification of Italy.'

  'And you are now free of neighbours,' I commented. He and Diana had suffered much when they first bought the property, for Mrs Fowler, a virago of a widow, had lived next door in the end cottage, and had made their lives a misery.

  'Thank heaven for that!' he said. 'I hear she is living in Caxley, and I don't envy her neighbours there, I must say.'

  At this point the Mawnes came up and enquired after Mrs Pringle. I told them about my visit, sticking to the fact of the lady's good recovery, and her hopes to be home the next day.

  'Not a bad hospital that,' commented Henry. 'They did a good job on my hydraulic system.'

  'Well, we don't want to hear about that, Henry,' said his wife severely. He seemed unabashed.

  'Then I'll tell you about a spotted woodpecker that comes regularly to our bird table,' he said with a smile. And he did.

  Soon Mrs Partridge led us into the garden. She is one of those gardeners, maddening to the rest of us, who never seem to have any set-backs - if Cordelia Partridge plants anything, it grows. Even those most tricky of bulbs, the nerines, which bloom in October and November, flourish in the vicarage garden and supply the house with beautiful pink blooms when the rest of Fairacre is doing its best with hardy chrysanthemums.

  The irises, of course, were superb. I was not expecting anything quite so foreign-looking as the dark brown and yellow, the burgundy and cream, and even a two-coloured beauty in pale mauve which delighted our eyes. Cordelia Partridge was suitably smug with the praise heaped upon her, and we were allowed to wander at will after we had paid our respects to the iris bed.

  I found myself by the rockery in the company of Diana Hale.

  'It must be a mixed blessing for you having Mrs Pringle back again.'

  'That's true,' I admitted.

  'One thing about her,' went on Diana Hale, 'she is the
only person I ever met who could compete with our awful Mrs Fowler. They crossed swords once outside the Post Office, and I've never seen such a clash! I slunk home the other way, too scared to go near them. But I must say, it did my heart good to see Mrs Fowler being trounced.'

  'Oh, she's a doughty fighter, is Mrs Pringle,' I said. 'I know that to my cost.'

  But somehow, I thought as I made my way home to a late lunch, I should be quite glad to see the old harridan when she deigned to turn up.

  It dawned on me later that I still had no idea of the cause of Mrs Pringle's visit to 'the Cottage'.

  What is more, I had no intention of enquiring.

  CHAPTER 11

  Rumours and Conflicts

  As it happened, Mrs Pringle did not appear again until the week after her return.

  Apart from the limp she seemed as tough as ever, and quite disappointed to find that both the school and my house had survived without her attentions.

  However, she cheered up when she studied the children's wash basins which she pronounced 'a death trap swarming with germs', and attacked them with Vim and plenty of elbow grease. She was positively genial when this task was over, and told me that the hospital had given her a diet sheet.

  'The doctor there said I was to lose two stone. But if I stuck to his diet I'd be in my grave by Christmas. All greenery and acid fruit, and what they calls "roughage" and I calls "animal feed". All them oats and raw carrots and apples! Never heard the like. I told him flat: "My sister was warned against just such a diet when she had colitis. Funny we never hear about colitis these days - just this 'ere roughage."'

  'And what did he say?'

  'Oh, you know doctors! He just waved it aside, and said to keep off sugar, fat and starches. And I said: "And what does that leave, pray, for a hard-working woman?" He simply walked away. I mean, it's so rude. Some of these so-called educated men what's been to college and that, haven't got any more manners than Minnie Pringle's boy Basil. And that's saying something.'

  I was foolish enough to enquire after Minnie, and Mrs Pringle's face grew sourer than ever.

  'Her husband Era's playing up,' she said, 'getting home late, and sometimes staying out all night. He's been seen in Caxley too.'

  She made Caxley sound like Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one.

  'Mind you,' she continued, 'our Minnie's no homemaker, and you can't blame the chap in some ways. You should see Minnie's cooking! Burnt pies, addled custard, potatoes full of eyes, and the house filthy with it.'

  'Still, that's no excuse for neglecting a wife, surely?'

  'It's plain you don't know nothing about men!' she retorted, and limped away.

  Later that morning some rhythmic thuds which disturbed the comparative peace of our Arithmetic lesson took me into the playground to investigate.

  I found Mr Willet, mallet in hand, thumping at the gatepost.

  'Bit out of true,' he told me, desisting for a moment. 'Why, can you hear me in there?'

  'That's why I've come out,' I said. 'I wondered if Mr Roberts had got one of those confounded bangers going in the field.'

  'What, a bird-scarer?'

  'That's right.'

  'Don't do a ha'porth of good, them things. Besides it's the wrong time of year for that lark.'

  'I'd better get back,' I said, 'before there's a riot.'

  'Heard about the Russells?'

  These were fairly recent arrivals in Fairacre, and I had three of their children at school.

  'No. What?'

  'Been made redundant, if that's the right word. Stood off anyway. Last come, first go, evidently.'

  'I didn't quite take in what he did do.'

  'Something to do with machines in Caxley. Make the bits they do there, in some back alley running down to the river.'

  'That's tough on him,' I said, 'and I shall miss the children. They're a nice little lot.'

  Bob Willet looked at me with an unusually solemn expression.

  'You knows what this means? The numbers get fewer every term. Looks to me as though the office will be closing us down. We'll both be out of a job, you'll see. Like poor Stan Russell.'

  'I doubt it,' I told him. 'And anyway, this school has been threatened with closure ever since I've been here. We've always fought it off. We'll do it again if need be.'

  I could hear the sound of voices coming from my classroom. No doubt warfare was about to break out.

  'Must go,' I said, and hastened away to quell the riot.

  Despite my brave words to Bob Willet, I felt a certain tremor about this latest piece of news, and wondered what the future would hold.

  During the next few hours I heard the same tale from the vicar, Mr Lamb and Mrs Pringle. All three added their own gloomy prognostications about the possibility of Fairacre School closing if numbers fell further.

  The evening was overcast, and now that the autumn was upon us the days were shorter. I could not rid myself of a feeling of foreboding as I sat, red pencil in hand, correcting essays and changing 'brids' to 'birds' and 'grils' to 'girls' with depressing regularity. 'Off of', 'meet up with' and 'never had none', also cropped up here and there, and after a while I put aside my work and made myself a cup of coffee. It was supposed to be a stimulant, and I could do with it.

  I faced the various possibilities which my future might hold if Mr Willet's forecast proved correct. The obvious one would be a transfer to another school, or I could apply for a post elsewhere. On the other hand, I could take early retirement, but should I really like that?

  I lived in a tied house which went with the job. Pre sumably the education authority would put it up for sale, as it would the school building itself.

  Normally this would have been the most serious blow, for I had certainly not enough money to buy another, and had been foolish enough not to acquire one over the years, as some prudent teachers did when contemplating retirement.

  But this worry was spared me, for a year or two earlier Dolly Clare had told me that she had left her Beech Green cottage to me in her will. This overwhelmingly generous deed had lifted the fears of the future from my undeserving shoulders. I should not be homeless whenever the blow fell, for Dolly had stipulated that I could stay with her whenever I liked, and however short the notice. To be so spoilt touched me deeply, and I knew that I should never be able to repay my old friend as she deserved.

  Naturally, we had agreed that nothing would be said by either of us. Miss Clare's solicitor had the legal side of the transaction drawn up, but Dolly and I preserved strict silence about the matter.

  Nevertheless, as the months passed, I grew conscious of the fact that the disposition of Dolly's main asset was known in the neighbourhood. How, or why, or by whom this knowledge was transmitted, neither of us could imagine. But we had both heard a remark here and there, noticed a knowing look, a nod of the head and so on, which made it clear that this piece of news was airborne like the seeds of thistledown, and lodged just as tenaciously wherever it happened to alight. Was everything known in a village, I wondered, sipping my coffee?

  Echo answered: 'Of course it is!'

  I was about to take my worries to bed when the telephone rang. It was Amy, offering me early plums.

  'Rather sharp, from a funny old tree, but they make lovely jelly. Like some?'

  I said that I should.

  'You sound mopey,' said Amy. 'Are you ill or something?'

  'No, no. Just tired. I've been marking essays.'

  'Well, you should be used to that. I'll pop over tomorrow after school and bring the plums. What's more, I'll bring some crumpets for tea. It's getting quite nippy when the sun goes down, and crumpets are wonderfully cheering.'

  'You are a stout friend,' I told her sincerely, 'and I'll look forward to seeing you and the crumpets tomorrow.'

  'I'd better warn you, I have a new car. It's automatic, and I only hope I can manage it from Bent to Fairacre. I'll come the back way, so if I'm not with you by four-thirty you'll know where to direct the search party.'<
br />
  And on this practical note I went to bed, much cheered.

  By the morning, of course, I was feeling much more hopeful. As I had said to Bob Willet, we were quite accustomed to the threat of closure, and there was no reason to suppose that the departure of the three Russell children would make much difference. With any luck, I told myself in my present buoyant mood, we should have another family with children moving into Fairacre.

  I might have guessed that Fate was waiting to have another crack at me. My assistant, who had been in the infants' classroom as Miss Briggs for some time, was now Mrs Richards, and still doing sterling work.

  She now approached me with unusual diffidence and told me that the doctor had confirmed her hopes and that she was pregnant.

  'Oh dear!' I said involuntarily, and then hastily added congratulations, and asked when the baby was due.

  'Early March,' she said. 'If all goes well, I thought I could work until half-term in February, and then give up.'

  'But you'll come back later?' I queried. She was a good teacher and we had always got on well together. In a two-teacher school this relationship is extra important, and I must admit I have had so many changes over the years that I dreaded yet another.

  'I'm not sure,' she said, 'it all depends on how I feel when the time comes. I shall certainly take the full maternity leave, but of course I'll be in touch to let you know how things are going.'

  'Fair enough,' I replied. 'But I hope you will return. I've enjoyed your company.'

  'That goes for me too,' she said, 'and Wayne says will you be godmother?'

  'My goodness,' I cried, quite overcome by this, 'I think it's a bit early to decide on that, but yes, if you still feel the same way next March I should count it an honour.'

  'We shan't change our minds.'

  'Well, I think you should choose the hymn this morning in celebration.'

  'What about "Praise to the Holiest in the height"?' she replied with a smile.