(8/20) Mrs. Pringle of Fairacre

by Miss Read

  It was a time of great hope. There were lambs in the fields, the sun was warm, and the hedges were showing a tender green.

  Our little procession was in high spirits, and people waved to us from their gardens or windows, deserting their hoeing or dusting for a few minutes to watch us on our way to the windy downs.

  It is at times like this that I relish my life as a teacher in a country school. For me, there is nothing so satisfying as life in a village. It is good to know everybody, and good to be known. Occasionally, I resent the interest in my affairs, as in the case of Henry Mawne's attentions, but it is far better, I tell myself, to know that I am of interest rather than to be ignored.

  And then the job itself is so varied. How many people could walk away from their desks, their papers, their telephones, and take a refreshing stroll among grass and trees, with rooks cawing overhead?

  I thought of the glimpses one gets from the train, running into London, showing vast open-plan offices with row upon row of desks, strong overhead lighting and a regiment of workers, as confined as battery hens. No doubt these soulless places had windows hermetically sealed, and a system of air-conditioning liable to give the unfortunate inmates sinus trouble, sore throats and headaches. How much better to have one's shoes clogged with the pale chalky mud of the downs - despite the wrath of Mrs Pringle. At least our lungs were filled with exhilarating fresh air, and we were bursting with energy.

  There was something terrifying too about the vast numbers of people glimpsed in those offices and factories. The pressure on space, seen possibly at its worst on the platforms of stations at rush hour, was incredibly depressing and frightening. Here at Fairacre, our little school numbered less than thirty children, and it looked as if those numbers would fall again before long, a fact which brought its own problems, but fortunately not that of over-crowding and its attendant ills.

  By this time, the nature walk had left the village, and had taken a steep muddy track uphill. On our right a flock of Mr Roberts' sheep grazed on the close-bitten grass. Above us the skylarks vied with each other, pouring down their lively trickle of song, as they pushed higher and higher towards the blue sky.

  We sat down on a bank to get our breath. Most of the children were content, as I was, to sit in silence, studying the village spread out below us like a pictorial map.

  The spire of St Patrick's was the salient feature, and even at this distance we could catch the gleam of the weathercock on its tip, pointing to the south-west.

  Hard by the church stood our school, its playground now empty, as the infants were still in their classroom while we played truant. The vicarage and John Parr's house were hidden by the trees in their gardens, but the cottages lining the village street were visible, their thatched or weatherbeaten tiled roofs blending into the greys and browns of gardens and fields.

  Beyond the church we could see Mr Roberts' herd of black and white Friesians in one field, and in the next his bay hunter cropping as industriously as the cattle. They might have been farmhouse toys at this distance, I thought. It only needed a farmer in a smock, and a milkmaid carrying a stool and pail to take one back a century.

  A glance at my watch brought me to my feet.

  'Nearly dinner time,' I shouted to the few stragglers in the distance, and reluctantly we gathered for our return.

  I took another look at the view spread before us as we waited for the last two or three to join us. How idyllic it looked, that village of Fairacre! A stranger, gazing at it as we had done, would be forgiven for imagining that all was peace and plenty in that little community. Those of us who lived there knew better.

  Arthur Coggs's house held fear and poverty for his wife and children. At the Post Office, Mr Lamb's old mother was dying, slowly and painfully, from cancer. Next door there were money troubles, and the wife was threatening to leave home. It was not all rapture in Fairacre, any more than it was elsewhere.

  But at least we had space, we had wide views, we had almost unpolluted air and water and most of us had the inestimable blessing of robust health.

  We began to slither down the slope, each clutching the treasures so recently collected. As well as little bunches of spring flowers, Jimmy had found three empty snail shells, large and bleached white by the weather, and I told the children that I had heard that the Romans used to collect them and eat the contents when they lived in these parts.

  Eileen Burton had a rook's feather stuck behind her ear. Linda Moffat had found some late catkins and the front of her coat was yellow with pollen.

  But Joseph Coggs had the most prized possession: an old nest damp from the recent rains, but still a miracle of bird-building and lined snugly with moss, feathers and shreds of wool from Mr Roberts' sheep.

  He held it close to his shabby coat and his eyes were shining as he looked up at me.

  'I'm going to find some little stones to put in it, like eggs,' he said.

  'A good idea,' I told him, hoping he would have the sense to keep his treasure out of his father's sight. Joe had lost things like that before.

  Ernest, at the head of our procession, set up a yell.

  'Dinner van's just gone up street, Miss!'

  Spurred into action, we fairly sprinted up the road. First things first, we told ourselves, as we puffed dinnerward.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mrs Pringle Goes to Hospital

  Over the years, I grew quite astute at gauging Mrs Pringle's state of mind by the barometer of her bad leg. Dragging the afflicted limb with many a sigh, heavy limping and the occasional yelp of pain on moving, all betokened umbrage on Mrs Pringle's part. I really did not think there was anything much the matter physically, but when she told me that she had to visit Caxley Cottage Hospital for some tests, I presumed that it must be something to do with her leg. Not that she said as much. I tended to hurry away with some excuse or other as I could not face the gruesome details of real or imagined symptoms.

  So I only had myself to blame for my ignorance when she informed me that she had to have two or three days in hospital, or 'up the Cottage', as it is affectionately known in these parts. (We locals often have to catch 'the Caxley' to attend 'up the Cottage'.)

  'Got to be there Wednesday evening, and they do me Thursday.'

  'I suppose they are going to try some physiotherapy,' I said, 'or traction, or something like that.'

  'Traction!' boomed Mrs Pringle. 'What, with my complaint?'

  'They do use traction on legs, I believe.'

  'And who said anything about legs?' she demanded.

  I began to falter. Mrs Pringle's beetling brows and flashing eyes would intimidate the bravest person.

  'Well, I just thought -' I began.

  'You just thought,' echoed the lady witheringly. 'I've told you time and again I've been having Inner Trouble.'

  'I'm sorry. I quite thought it was your leg giving trouble.'

  'My leg,' she said, 'is always giving me trouble, but I have learnt to live with it.'

  She began to limp about the classroom flicking a duster over cupboards and desks, while her last remark reminded me of a poignant little rhyme dealing with old age, which I had heard recently. It went something like this:

  'I can manage my bifocals,

  To my dentures I'm resigned,

  I can cope with my arthritis,

  But how I miss my mind!'

  Whether Mrs Pringle wanted to enlighten me about the true nature of her illness I was never to know, for the children came in at that moment, and she simply called out:

  'I'll let you know times and that when I comes up midday,' and departed.

  The whole incident had slipped from my mind during the morning's multifarious activities, but Mrs Pringle buttonholed me in the lobby as she washed up after school dinner.

  'I'll be up to do this next Wednesday, as usual. Don't have to be there till six, and Mr Partridge is giving me a lift in as the Caxley's no good that time of day. He's got to go to some Economical Council meeting, he says, so it's no both
er. A real gentleman, isn't he?'

  'Indeed he is.'

  'But you'll have to do without me here for the rest of the week. One thing, the stoves don't need doing. With any luck, I'll be all right by the Monday, but I expect they'll say "No heavy work", like lifting desks and that, after Inner Trouble.'

  'Naturally. And don't come back too soon,' I said, trying to sound solicitous rather than pleased.

  'I knows my duty,' said Mrs Pringle, 'and all being well I should be fit for light work by then. It all depends on what they find, and if the scar is a long one.'

  And on this ominous note she dropped the subject.

  ***

  I met Mrs Partridge that evening as I walked to post an urgent letter, and she enlightened me a little more, but not much.

  'How will you manage without Mrs Pringle?' she began.

  'It's only for a few days, she tells me. We shall be all right.'

  'Yes. As far as I can gather, it's only one of these little routine women's affairs. Quite straightforward.'

  The phrase 'routine women's affairs' reminded me of Henry Mawne's 'gentleman's complaint', but naturally I forbore to comment.

  In any case, I did not propose to enquire further. Mrs Partridge has had some nursing experience, and is apt to enlarge on symptoms and their treatment in unpleasantly explicit detail, and if Mrs Pringle's trouble were 'inner', then it would involve a conglomeration of tubes, I imagined, which would knock me cold at once.

  'How's your garden?' I asked.

  'Full of blossom,' she said. 'Come back with me and have a look.'

  But I excused myself saying that I had books to mark and some ironing to do. This was perfectly true, but I was pretty certain that both activities would be shelved while I did that day's crossword.

  A day or two later I fetched Miss Clare from Beech Green to spend the evening with me.

  A few hours of Dolly Clare's company is a real refreshment of spirits. Always calm, wise and dignified, old age seems to have increased these attributes, and her memories of Fairacre School are always fascinating.

  'We used to drink a lot of cocoa when I taught here before the war. Only in the winter, of course, but the children enjoyed it. Somehow, cocoa seems to have gone out of fashion.'

  'School milk took over, I expect,' I said. 'And some avant-garde mothers are already saying it's too fattening.'

  'There weren't many over-weight children when I started teaching,' responded Dolly. 'In fact, just the other way. The farm labourers' children were definitely under-nourished, on the whole. Plenty of garden produce, of course, but mighty little meat. And somehow fish was never much relished in these parts, and so often the eggs were sold to bring in a few pence. "Us has the cracked 'uns" the children used to say.'

  'Well, I'm just about to crack some for our omelettes,' I told her. 'Cheese, tomato or both, for a filling?'

  She pondered for a moment and then gave me her slow sweet smile.

  'Both, please. And I hear that Mrs Pringle is going to be away for a few days. Will you be able to cope?'

  'Very happily, believe me.'

  'Well, it can't be anything very serious if she expects to be back on the Monday.'

  I thought, not for the first time, how efficiently a village grapevine works. I supposed that absolutely everyone in Beech Green and Fairacre, if not Caxley itself, knew that Mrs Pringle was due at 'the Cottage' next Wednesday. Probably they knew why too, which was more than I did.

  'It can't be appendicitis,' mused Dolly, 'she had that done some time ago. Probably just one of those tiresome women's things.'

  'Mrs Partridge thinks so too,' I informed her. 'Now, do you like spring onions in your salad?'

  'I shall come and help,' said Dolly, rising from her chair.

  We spoke no more of Mrs Pringle.

  ***

  'So we're going to be without Madam Sunshine, for a day or two,' said Mr Willet. 'Do you reckon we can manage?'

  He gave me a sly grin.

  'One thing,' he went on, 'they won't keep her any longer than they need. Hospitals these days gets you in just long enough to slit you up, stitch you up and get you up. Needs the beds, see.'

  'Well, no one wants to linger anyway,' I replied.

  'Linger where?' asked Mrs Pringle, appearing from the lobby.

  Neither of us replied, and Bob Willet departed, rather smartly.

  'One thing does worry me,' said my cleaner, 'that house of yours. I could easily give it a quick doing-over before I went in with the vicar.'

  'We've had all this out already,' I told her. 'You'll have enough to do at your own place, and I can perfectly well cope for two Wednesdays.'

  'I could ask Minnie,' she said. My blood ran cold. Out of pity, some time before, I had let Minnie loose in my house so that she could earn a little money, but she had nearly wrecked the place. The tea towels had been put to soak in neat bleach. She had tried to clean the windows with the stuff one uses for the insides of particularly black ovens, and I never did find the furniture polish, or the screw which holds the floor-cleaner together.

  'No, don't bother Minnie,' I said hastily. 'I managed alone for years perfectly well.'

  'That's as maybe,' retorted Mrs Pringle. '"Managed" perhaps. I wouldn't say "perfectly well". Never have I seen such a cupboard as that one of yours under the stairs. But there it is. Some are born tidy, and some isn't.'

  I decided to be charitable and ignore these remarks.

  'I shall ring the hospital on Thursday and see if you are fit to see visitors,' I replied. 'Anyway, good luck and we'll see you back on duty when you feel up to it.'

  On Friday mornings, our vicar takes prayers in the school, gives a simple homily, discusses any problems with me and, all in all, is a welcome visitor.

  I was able to tell him that the news from the hospital, about Mrs Pringle's affairs, was good, and that I proposed to visit her on Saturday afternoon.

  He expressed relief, and then invited me to call at the vicarage after morning service on Sunday.

  'Just a few old friends,' he said vaguely. 'I think you know them all, and the garden is looking at its best. Cordelia wants you to see her irises. She was so disappointed that you couldn't come the other evening.'

  This, of course, caused intense feelings of guilt on my part, as I remembered my excuses about ironing and marking exercise books, when all I had attempted was the crossword, and a fine hash I had made of it, I recalled.

  I promised to come and said how much I should look forward to seeing the irises, and mentally arranged a Sunday lunch which could be left to look after itself. Cold meat, or something in a casserole? Two boiled eggs would go down well, and one of the joys of living alone was the pleasure of making one's Sunday lunch as simple as that. No doubt a husband would expect a roast joint, two or three vegetables and a substantial pudding to follow. Oh, blessed spinsterhood!

  On Saturday afternoon I set out for Caxley Cottage Hospital. It is situated on the outskirts of the town which is a good thing, particularly on a Saturday when Caxley High Street is choked with traffic and hundreds of shoppers intent upon committing hara-kiri by crossing the road inches in front of moving cars.

  I took the back route which involves waiting at a level crossing and having a view of a small tributary of the river Kennet which runs nearby.

  It is always peaceful waiting for the train to come. Small animals rustle in the reeds by the water. Wood anemones star a little copse, and in the summer meadowsweet grows in the marshy ground sending out its heady scent. In the autumn, there are some wonderful sprays of luscious blackberries at this spot, but it is hopeless to try and pick them, for no sooner are you out of the car than the gates soar up, and it is time to push on again.

  This particular afternoon, the waiting was enhanced by a mallard duck who crossed the road with six yellow ducklings, halting now and again to make sure that all were in attendance. Her beady eyes looked this way and that, not I think through fear, but because she wanted to be sure that we knew
that we had to wait for her. And, meekly, we did.

  The hospital car park was uncomfortably full, and the usual number of thickheads had parked diagonally so that they took up two spaces instead of one. However, I edged mine beside a magnificent Mercedes and hoped for the best.

  Mrs Pringle was looking resplendent in a pale blue nightgown and bright pink bed jacket. The ward seemed stiflingly hot after the fresh air, but she appeared to be quite comfortable.

  'I'm doing very well considering,' she replied in answer to my enquiry into her health. 'Should be out on Monday, the sister says.'

  'Will you need fetching?'

  'No, my John's coming for me soon after six, and he'll run me home. Fred's been told what to get ready for me.'

  I bet he has, I thought.

  'I have to see the doctor on Monday morning, just to make sure everything's holding up. Then I can have my lay-down in the afternoon, and my tea, and be ready to go home when John comes.'

  I was busy gazing at the other patients during this conversation, and felt that I ought to know one woman in a nearby bed. After all, you can hardly enter 'the Cottage' without seeing someone you know. It is part of its attraction, unlike the enormous town hospitals where everyone is strange.

  'Used to work in Boots,' replied Mrs Pringle in answer to my query. 'Then went on to the pork butcher's on the bridge. Nice girl. Had a brother with a hare lip.'

  I returned the distant lady's smile with more confidence.

  'And that woman in the next bed to her,' said Mrs Pringle, 'thinks herself the Queen of the Ward just because she's had her gall bladder out. Gets all the attention. Not that she's any worse than the rest of us, and sleeps like a log at nights, but you see she's got all her gall stones in that jam jar on the top of her cupboard, so everyone goes across to see them.'

  Mrs Pringle sounded resentful of this claim to fame.