(2/20) Village Diary

by Miss Read

  Mr Willet, as the school's shipshape condition testifies, is equally resourceful. There are very few jobs that are beyond Mr Willet's powers. He replaces hinges, panes of glass, roof tiles, fence palings, and other casualties of school life. I have seen him giving a hand with thatching, cleaning out a wed, felling a tree, and catching a frightened horse. He can build a shed or a garage, laying bricks and smoothing cement with the best of them, fashion a pair of wooden gates, or erect a bird bath or sundial. He knows how to prune any shrub that grows, how to graft, how to lay a hedge, where to get the best manure, pea-sticks, bean-poles and everything else necessary to maintain a flourishing garden. To me and to the managers of Fairacre school he is beyond price, saving many a repair bid and foreseeing any possible trouble and forestalling it with his capable old hands.

  And yet, when his modest cheque arrives at the end of the month, he receives it with a bashfulness which puts my own eagerness to shame.

  Two days before half term I received a note from Miss Clare inviting me there for the next evening.

  Dr Martin had hailed me from his car, soon after his visit, and told me that 'he'd had a word with Miss Clare about having someone in the house.' With that he had driven off—so that I wondered how much Miss Clare knew, when I approached her door.

  She greeted me as warmly as ever, and before long, introduced the subject of lodgers herself.

  'Dr Martin suggested that I joined forces with my sister Ada, but of course that's out of the question. He insists that someone should be with me—foolishly, I think—but I feel that I must do as he says. Do you think my spare bedroom and the little front parlour would be suitable?'

  I said that any lodger would be lucky to get them. Then I took a deep breath, and said that I believed Miss Jackson would be prepared to make a change.

  'But I must warn you,' I said, 'that she's not awfully easy in some ways. Getting her up is a dreadful job each morning. She sleeps like the dead—and you shouldn't have to run up and down stairs after her, with your wonky heart.'

  'I shouldn't dream of doing so,' answered Miss Clare, 'and in any case Dr Martin said that she would have to understand, from the first, that I could not do all I should wish to do for her—' She broke off and began to laugh. 'There!

  Now the cat's out of the bag! Yes, my dear, I'm afraid the doctor and I have been discussing this business. Quite unforgiveable of us, behind your back!'

  'Don't worry,' I said. 'I can guess who started the conversation, and, frankly, I should be glad to be relieved of my lodger. We see too much of each other for the thing to work properly—and I'm probably a bit irritable after school, and let things rile me unnecessarily.'

  'As we're being honest, I'd better tell you that Doctor Martin said as much. His words were: "If you want to see Miss Read staying sane, you'll take pity on her and remove her assistant. That poor girl gets a pretty thin time of it, living with her headmistress"!'

  'Well!' I exclaimed, flabbergasted at Doctor Martin's duplicity. He'd certainly seen the best way to get Miss Clare to fall in with his machinations! I wouldn't mind betting, I thought to myself, that the harrowing tale he had pitched me was all part of his low cunning! However, I could not help feeling amused at the skilful way in which he had worked on us both, and could do nothing of course to let Miss Clare know of his conversation with me, which had led up to the present situation.

  'I'm sure he's right,' I said, swallowing my bitter pill. 'She'll be much happier with you, if you feel up to coping with the extra work. Why not write to her? I'll take a note back, if you like.'

  She fetched her old red leather writing-case, which the Partridges had given her one Christmas, and sat down at the table. The room was very quiet as she wrote. A coal clinked into the hearth and the tabby cat stretched itself on the rug. I leant back and closed my eyes and thought wryly of the lengths to which conscientious doctors will go for their favourite patients.

  At last the letter was finished, and Miss Clare handed it over for my perusal. It said:

  Dear Miss Jackson,

  I understand from Miss Read that you are still looking for permanent lodgings. Would you care to come here? lean offer you a bedroom and a separate sitting-room, and should be very glad to welcome you.

  If this interests you perhaps you could come to tea one day soon, to see if the accommodation is suitable and to discuss other arrangements.

  Yours sincerely,

  Dorothy Clare

  It was written in her beautiful, flowing, copper-plate hand, which has been Fairacre's model for forty years, and, with its even spacing and equal margins was a work of art, most pleasing to the eye.

  'I'm sure she'll jump at the chance,' I told her, handing it back to be put in its envelope, 'and I shall be able to revert to my pleasant solitary state, and talk nonsense to the cat without being afraid that I'm overheard.'

  And so Miss Jackson's future was settled, to the great comfort of Miss Clare, Dr Martin, Fairacre's headmistress—and, most important, to the happiness of Miss Jackson herself.

  ***

  'Heard about that chap Mawne?' asked Mr Widet, the next morning. 'They were saying after choir practice that there's two places he's trying for. That pair of old cottages on the road to Springbourne, where Mr Roberts' old shepherd lived some while ago, afore he moved up to the council houses; and Captain Whatsisname's—you knows, up the back there.' He waved a massive thumb in the direction of the 'Beetle and Wedge.'

  'Bit big, aren't they?' I said, and then wished I hadn't.

  'They says as he's settling down here,' said Mr Willet stolidly. I was grateful for his sober face. 'Maybe he's having relations, and that, to live there too.'

  'Quite likely,' I said.

  'It do seem wrong to me,' went on Mr Willet thoughtfully, 'the way that folks with a bit of money, buys up these old cottages us village chaps have always lived in. Don't leave nothing for us.'

  'But everyone's bursting to get into a council house,' I protested. 'You know the heart-burning that goes on, every time a few are allotted to different families.'

  'Ah!' said Mr Willet, nodding sagely. 'They all wants a council house—but not at the rents they asks for them.'

  'Good lord!' I expostulated, 'the houses are subsidized now! They're living partly at other ratepayers' expense. They get the amenities they ask for cheaper than they would in a private house. What more can they want?'

  'Take old Burton, that used to be shepherd. He used to pay three bob a week for that cottage. Now his rent's nearer thirty-three.'

  'And how can you expect any landlord to keep a cottage in repair for three bob a week? I should have thought you'd have seen the sense in that!'

  Mr Willet was not at all put out by my heat. He stropped his chin thoughtfully, as he replied.

  'Tisn't that I don't see the sense. Of course, three bob's not enough. Of course, thirty-three don't cover the proper cost of one of them new council houses-I knows that. But, you think again. What is a chap like old Burton to do, on his bit of money? Where is he to live, if he's to stay in Fairacre?'

  I pondered this problem. Mr Willet, who had obviously given this matter much more earnest thought than I had ever done, spoke again.

  'If the council could build some real little places—nothin' elaborate, mind you—as could be let fairly cheap, why, they'd go like hot cakes. That's the thing—some real little places for us old 'uns.'

  He switched to another aspect of rural housing.

  'Mr Roberts gave young Miller the rough side of his tongue evidently.'

  'Oh? What's the trouble there?'

  'Well, you know his old dad is the main tractor driver and his old mum does a turn mornings for Mrs Roberts? That cottage has got four rooms, and when young Em got married he hadn't got no place to go, so home he comes, wife and all, to live with the old people. Mr Roberts told him dat he was to find somewhere—but you know how it is—he just never! Now the baby's come, and it grizzles all night and fair drives the old folks dotty. Young Em work
s up the atomic and gets good pay. He's got no business in a tied cottage and he knows it. It's been that awkward. Mr Roberts don't want to lose his best tractor man, by being too sharp, and yet why should that young Em live off of him?'

  I said it was certainly unjust.

  'Looks as though this baby'll settle things. The old chap's getting proper fell-up and Mr Roberts told Em he wasn't going to have one of his best workers upset, because his son was "a selfish lout." Ah! that was his words, miss! Ern says he ain't stopping to be insulted, so I reckons he'll sling his hook—and a good job too.'

  He seized the broom he had leant against the wall, during this interesting gossip, and stumped off to resume sweeping the scattered coke in the playground.

  'How all you ladies does run on!' he called wickedly over his shoulder.

  The half-term holiday flew by, and a week later Miss Jackson left the school-house to take up her new quarters with Miss Clare. I must say she seems very much happier, and has been remarkably punctual, despite her journey, each morning.

  It was soon after her departure that Amy called to insist on taking me to a play, being performed nightly at the Corn Exchange in Caxley, by a repertory company.

  'But it's so cold in the evenings,' I protested weakly. 'All I want to do after school, is to settle in here by the fire and doze with Tibby.'

  'Exactly? said Amy vehemently. She was back in her old dictatorial form, I noticed, quite unlike the unhappy Amy who had told me of her mythical friend's matrimonial sorrows, on an earlier visit.

  'You live in this backwater'—here she waved a disdainful hand round my comfortable sitting-room, with such effect, that I could almost imagine the reeds standing in muddy water and the whirring of wild duck around us—'and dream your life away! This play will pull you up sharply, my girl!'

  I began to say that I didn't want to be pulled up sharply, but Amy swept relentlessly onward.

  'It deals with Problems of the Present. I admit it's Sordid and Brutal—but life's like that these days. Even the decor is symbolic. The first set shows a back alley in a slum. It could be anywhere, the Gorbals, or New Orleans, or Hong Kong —and the windows are shuttered, symbolizing Blank Weariness. In the centre of the stage is a dustbin, symbolizing Filth and Hopeless Waste and Rejection.'

  'You don't sav!' I interjected, trying to restrain my mounting hysteria.

  'If you are going to be flippant,' said Amy severely, 'I shall think twice about taking you, I haven't forgotten your disgraceful behaviour at that Moral Rearmament meeting!'

  I said that I was sorry, and begged her to forgive me. She looked somewhat mollified.

  'The actors speak in blank verse—the language is rather strong, naturally—but when the play is dealing with such things as rape, homosexuality, betrayal and lingering death, both of spirit and body—one must expect it!'

  I said it sounded quite delightful, so fresh and wholesome, but that they were reviving Genevieve at the local cinema, and could we go to that instead? Amy ignored this pathetic plea, and was about to continue, when I capitulated.

  'All right, I'd come,' I said sighing. 'But I warn you! If any old Father This or Brother That comes wailing on to the stage—as I feel in my bones he must—I shad walk straight out, stating in a clear, carrying voice that I am taking my custom to a nice, clean, cheerful entertainment at the cinema opposite!'

  I gave Mrs Partridge a lift to Caxley on Saturday morning. I was off to buy some really thick winter gloves, despite the reproaches of my account book which makes gloomy reading. Mrs Partridge was about to buy Christmas presents for relatives abroad.

  'Have you heard the good news about Mr Mawne?' she asked, as we passed Beech Green school. My godson, I noticed, was taking the air in his perambulator in the front garden of the school-house.

  'I heard that he was trying to find a house,' I said guardedly.

  'Well, it's ad settled. He's renting Brackenhurst, where Captain Horner and his family were. He has been posted to Nairobi or Vancouver, or one of those places out East,' said the vicar's wife with a fine disregard for geography, 'and will be away for five years, poor dear. Still, it's very nice for Mr Mawne. Now, he really will be able to settle down in Fairacre, and look for a place to buy if he feels like it. He's a great asset to the village, you know.'

  I said yes, I did know—the church accounts, for instance.

  Mrs Partridge laughed and said that she didn't suppose that it was for the sake of the church accounts that Mr Mawne was making his home in Fairacre, and added that I was apt to belittle myself.

  With this cryptic and uncomfortable remark still echoing in my ears, I drew up by the kerb, and allowed Mrs Partridge to alight.

  As I made my way through Caxley's jammed High Street to the car park-which is ignored by most of the residents, who prefer to drive themselves mad by attempting to wedge their cars outside the shops rather than carry a basket for five minutes—I wondered how much longer I should have to endure Fairacre's romantic and ill-founded conjectures about my private life, in silence.

  In the Public Library I was delighted to come across Mrs Finch-Edwards. She was looking through an enormous book, with plates showing eighteenth-century costumes. We had a sibilant but eager exchange of news under the silence notice. Lucidly, we were alone in the non-fiction department, and apart from a glare from a tousled young man in a spotty duffle coat who passed through, carrying an aggressive-looking book with a Left-Wing coloured jacket, we were undisturbed.

  'We're making costumes for the Caxley Octet's concert after Christmas,' she whispered excitedly. 'It's to be a period programme. Eighteenth-century music and clothes and furniture. Isn't it lovely? Mrs Bond plays the viola and it was she who asked us to design and make the costumes. Isn't it fun?'

  I said it certainly was, and that she and Mrs Moffat would be famous in no time, and that Mr Oliver Messel and Mr Cecd Beaton would have to look to their laurels.

  'Oh, I don't think so!' protested Mrs Finch-Edwards seriously. 'I mean, they're really good. It will be some rime before we can compete with them!'

  On which satisfactory note we parted.

  Mrs Pringle staggered in with a bucket of coke this morning, puffing and blowing like a grampus, and limping with great exaggeration whenever she remembered.

  'If them as uses this coke so heavy-handed had to lug this 'ere bucket in, day in and day out,' she remarked morosely, dumping it noisily on a well-placed People by the guard, 'it might be an eye-opener to them! Flared up again, my leg has."

  I said I was sorry to hear that, and perhaps Minnie would help out again. As I had intended, this touched Mrs Pringle's pride. She drew in her breath sharply.

  'What? And let her ruin my blackleading again? Not likely! I'll struggle on, thank you!'

  She settled herself on the front desk, folded her arms upon her black wooden jumper, and embarked on a short gossip, before the school bell summoned the children.

  'I hear there's going to be more changes in the village,' she began circumspectly. This, I suspected, referred to Mr Mawne's plans, but since our altercation over that gentleman, Mrs Pringle has been most careful not to mention him by name.

  `That poor young Captain Horner's been took off to Siberia or Singapore—some place anyway—where the army's looking for trouble," she continued. From her tone one would have imagined that the army had nothing better to do than stir up strife in a desultory way, with the ends of their bayonets, and solely for their own idle pleasure.

  'So his house, I understand," went on Mrs Pringle delicately, 'has been let to someone!"

  I said shortly that I knew that Mr Mawne had taken it.

  'Oh, Mr Mawne is it?" said Mrs Pringle, feigning extreme surprise. 'There now, that will be nice!"

  'What other changes are there?' I asked, leading her, I hoped, to safer ground.

  'That empty cottage, where old Mr Burton used to live years back—that's being done up.'

  'Who for?'

  'Well, now, it's for a distant relation of
mine. My old auntie married again, on the passing of her first husband to higher things, the second one being quite a young man, but steady. They had two children, pretty sharp, and this girl's the daughter of the second one. No! I'm telling a he! He had but the two boys. Gladys was Tom's girl. Very refined she is—has her hair permed and all that, and speaks ladylike—and marrying a nice young chap at a baker's in Caxley. She was over last week. We had a nice set-down with the teapot and she told me all about him. "Auntie," she said, "he's wonderful! Love is the most important thing in the world!"'

  Mrs Pringle's sour old face wore a maudlin simper which astonished me.

  'And what did you say?' I asked, fascinated.

  'I said: "Glad," I said, "you're right," I said, "it's only True Love that matters!" Don't you reckon that's right, Miss Read?'

  Thus appealed to I found myself saying cautiously that I supposed it was important, but agreed privately with the Provincial Lady's secret feeling that a satisfactory banking account and sound teeth matter a great deal more.

  'Believe me,' said Mrs Pringle, rising from the desk to continue her labours, 'there's nothing like it! Let it come early, let it come late-' Here she fixed me with an earnest and slightly watery eye—'it's love that makes the world go round!'

  Walking almost jauntily, and without a trace of a limp, she went, humming romantically, on her way.

  The children came rushing in a few minutes later, in the greatest excitement.

  'Joe Coggs, miss!'

  ''E's fell over!'

  'Cut his head open, miss!'

  I quelled them as best I could as I made my way into the playground, thinking, not for the first time, how very much I disliked that word 'open,' added to these statements of injury. Somehow, 'He has cut his head,' sounds the sort of injury that I can cope with. Add that unnecessary and obnoxious word, and at once I visualize a child's head cloven in half, and looking like a transverse section in a botanical drawing. It is unnerving, to say the least of it, and I must admit that I am a squeamish woman at the best of times.