by Miss Read
'I thought about that old saying,' he said, when I remonstrated with him, 'that one about ignorance being bliss. Seemed to me a pity to shake you out of your fool's paradise.'
I felt somewhat nettled by this remark.
'I'm shaken all right,' I told him crossly. 'This is one step nearer closure, you know, and we shall both be out of a job.'
'Won't worry me,' he said sturdily. 'I can turn my hand to anything. Gardenin', carpenterin', decoratin', grave-diggin', there's allus summat to do. Now with you it's different. What can you do except teach school?'
'I can cook —' I began.
'Not good enough to get a proper job.'
'Well, I could work in a shop.'
'You ain't that quick with money.'
'Or learn to type, and go into an office.'
'The young 'uns would run rings round you. They has computers anyway.'
'Perhaps I could do market research. You know, walk about Caxley High Street with a clip-board, and annoy everyone with my questions when they were hurrying home to cook the lunch.'
'You wouldn't be bossy enough.'
I began to feel somewhat mollified by this remark.
'I mean,' he continued, 'you're bossy enough in school with the kids, but you'd never stand up to anyone your own size.'
'Thanks!' I said, back where we had started. 'So what do you suggest, other than the Caxley Workhouse?'
'That closed years ago,' he reminded me. He looked me over speculatively.
'I s' pose you might get married.' He sounded doubtful.
'A desperate measure,' I laughed. 'And not one I'm going to consider.'
'Maybe you're right,' he conceded and began to move towards the door. Then he stopped and turned.
'The first of those new houses is up for sale. Might get some children there, with any luck.'
Mr Roberts, our local farmer, had sold a strip of land a year or so earlier, and three good-sized houses had been put up by a local builder. They were fairly innocuous in appearance and had decent gardens, but their prices were steep by village standards.
The sale of the land had provided plenty of gossip at the time. Bob Willet told me that his grandfather had always gone to work at Springbourne by a footpath which had once crossed that piece of land.
'Used to save the old boy a good mile,' he told me. 'But after the war that path was never claimed. Roberts's old dad was a cunning one, and it served his purpose to let the path be covered by his crops. There was plenty around here did that, and we lost no end of old footpaths then.'
However, despite local protests, planning permission was granted, and Fairacre now had three new 'executive' houses, whatever that meant.
'It would be marvellous,' I said, 'if we had three families with lots of children coming to live there.'
'Make a nice change,' agreed Bob. 'Mighty few young 'uns in Fairacre coming along as it is.'
'Has anyone heard if the houses have attracted any buyers yet?'
'Two or three of them yuppy types. Real tinkers.'
'Tinkers?' My mind flew to a collection of shabby caravans, washing spread on hedges, swarthy men busy with clapped-out cars, and litter everywhere.
'Two-Incomes-No-Kids. T.I.N.K. or tinkers,' explained Mr Willet. 'If that sort comes, it'll be years before you get any of theirs into the school.'
'Well, I shall live in hope,' I told him. 'After all, Fairacre School is still alive and kicking.'
'Just,' agreed Bob Willet, departing.
3 At Amy's
THE following Sunday I prepared myself for Amy's dinner party.
I hoped that it would not be a large one, and was comforted by the thought that Amy had muttered something about six, which would save putting in the leaf of the table. However, knowing Amy, she might well have fallen victim to her own generous instincts and I might find myself among twice the number first envisaged.
In my modest wardrobe I have had, for more years than I can recall, a black velvet skirt and waistcoat to match. What is more, the waistcoat has pockets large enough for handkerchief, purse and spectacle case. They can also accommodate an indigestion tablet, although I knew that this would be quite unnecessary after a meal at Amy's.
The thing was, Amy had seen this ensemble many times over the years, worn with a white silk blouse, a white lace blouse, a black and white spotted blouse, and a fine white woollen blouse for draughty houses.
While I was worrying about the alternatives, a navy-blue foulard which was too tight in the waist, or a pink-flowered silk which I thought made me look like mutton dressed as lamb, I remembered that my only pair of black patent shoes was at the mender's, so that ruled out the black velvet duo.
Now I had only to choose between the navy-blue and the pink. I spent most of the afternoon vacillating between the two, as I marked history test papers in the garden.
The sun was warm, and out of the wind it was possible to enjoy this early warmth. The rain had done some good, and already the early daffodils were showing their buds. My red pencil slipped to the ground, and I closed my eyes against the sunshine.
Did other women fuss so about their clothes, I wondered? Heaven alone knows, I am the most undressy person alive, as Amy frequently tells me, and my wardrobe is scanty. What did women do who had twenty outfits to choose from? Went quite mad, I supposed, worrying about shoes and jewels and so on to go with the right clothes. Thank heaven I only owned Aunt Clara's seed pearls for my evening adornment, and one or two pieces of costume jewellery.
How did royal ladies cope? Did they choose their own emeralds and rubies or was that decision left to the Mistress of the Wardrobe, or whoever it was? And think of the horror of having to choose something from hundreds of ensembles! I supposed I was lucky with just the choice of my too-tight navy blue or the too-juvenile pink, and fell into a light doze.
When I awoke the sun had vanished behind a cloud, and my arms were covered in goose pimples.
I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. It should be the pink. My new cream handbag and matching shoes would be quite suitable, and Aunt Clara's seed pearls would tone beautifully.
I proposed to be the belle of the ball. It would make a nice change.
'Well, you do look pretty!' cried Amy when I arrived. 'You should wear pink more often. It's %o youthful. It makes you look like a bridesmaid.'
This was exactly what I had feared, but I did not enlarge on the theme.
Amy herself was in a filmy grey frock patterned with leaves and looked, as always, exactly right.
I was the first to arrive, so we had time to discuss the other guests before they joined us.
'Only Horace and Eve Umbleditch,' said Amy, 'to make a nice comfortable six. And if poor Brian is depressed we can always count on Horace to keep the ball rolling.'
I agreed. Horace, a fellow-teacher, was always an asset in company, as I had known for years.
'And is this Brian likely to be depressed? Where is he, by the way?' I asked.
'Getting dressed, I hope. He was late coming back from Caxley and had a quick shower. He's not a very tidy shower-taker, I'm afraid.'
'I think you are noble to have him at all,' I said truthfully. I imagined a gaunt sad figure drifting about the place, hollow-eyed and monosyllabic, mourning his lost wife and job. My heart bled for him just a little, but even more profusely for my gallant old friend.
'Oh, it won't be for long,' said Amy. 'James is looking out for something suitable for him. Ah! Here are Horace and Eve.'
She made her way to the front door, and I heard welcoming greetings from James and Amy, and Horace's well-known hearty voice.
I have always been fond of Horace, and he had been among the many local bachelors and widowers whom Amy had presented to me, over the years, as suitable husbands. Neither Horace nor I had had the slightest desire to satisfy Amy's ambitions, but we had always enjoyed each other's company. He taught at a local prep school and had recently married the school secretary. I imagine that Horace's loud voice was t
he result of years spent in making himself heard above hordes of little boys.
We sat with our glasses, exchanging news. I always feel that the inhabitants of the country south of Caxley are much more sophisticated than we are north of the town, and this evening the talk was of opera, a local bridge tournament, and the disgraceful condition of the nearby golf course. Eve and I launched out on a discussion of Caxley shops and their superiority over Oxford, Reading, Winchester and other large conurbations, until we both confessed we had not visited any of the latter for years and so then enjoyed a refreshing fit of the giggles.
Amy appeared somewhat distracted and was obviously listening for the arrival of Brian from upstairs. It would not have surprised me to see her go in quest of him, but she was spared that.
The door opened and Amy's visitor was revealed. Far from being gaunt, hollow-eyed and the picture of melancholy which I had envisaged, Brian turned out to be pink and bouncy, gleaming with soap and good health, and only a few inches over five feet. He apologized for being late.
Amy introduced him to us all as: 'Brian Horner, who was at school with James, and is staying here for a while.' He had a nice smile, a low voice, and a firm handshake. He did not seem to be at all cast down by his circumstances, and I wondered if he were really as unhappy as Amy and James seemed to think.
He was put next to me at the table and although I knew that this time Amy was not thinking of matrimony, I remembered her request 'to cheer up Brain' and set about doing my duty to support my hostess.
As it happened, I had very little work to do. Apart from fixing a bright smile on my face, and laughing politely at Brian's jokes, all that was required was a listening ear.
Brian turned out to be one of those people who can eat and talk at the same time. He did both with great speed, and kept us all regaled with tales of recent holidays - the cottage in Wales which was so damp that fungi grew on the inside wall, the hotel in Greece where the hot tap in the bathroom refused to turn off creating a private sauna en suite, and the skiing holiday with no snow.
He told his tales well, and although I had the feeling that he was rather monopolizing the conversation, I put it down to nervousness which so often makes people garrulous. At any rate, it made my duties much lighter, and I was able to enjoy Amy's lovely meal.
Afterwards we sat round the fire with our coffee, and I had time to talk to Horace and his wife who were thinking of moving into a house of their own, a mile or two from the school.
'If we don't do it now,' he said, 'we never shall. It's just too easy to stay on in the school premises until I retire, but then where should we live?'
I told him that those were my feelings about my own school house, and later I was invited to visit them in their present tied home.
The party broke up about eleven. Brian, who had taken only a small part in the conversation about the new home, sighed rather heavily as he said goodbye to Eve and Horace.
'You don't know how lucky you are to be making domestic plans. That's something I miss so dreadfully.'
It was one of those remarks upon which it is impossible to comment, but the pair looked somewhat startled, simply making their adieux and expressing pleasure at making his acquaintance. Perhaps, I thought, watching his sad face, he really is as unhappy as Amy says.
I rang her at playtime next morning to thank her for a splendid evening.
'And did you like Brian?' she said.
'Yes, indeed.'
'Oh, good. He was most complimentary about you.'
I am quite accustomed to this sort of remark from Amy after meeting males at her parties, but could afford to ignore any implications of future romance as Brian was already married, although a grass widower at the moment.
'James thinks the world of him,' went on Amy. 'He is a few years older than James, and was captain of cricket when James was in the fourth form. Quite a hero, according to James, was our Brian. They keep harking back to cricket matches they remember, and going to see Bradman at the Oval when they were boys. The air is thick with Trent Bridge and Lords, and I must say, I find it a trifle over-powering.'
'Any sign of a job for him?'
'There's a possibility of something in Bristol. Another Old Boy, equally cricket-crazy, I gather, has a business there, and James said he would be ringing him today.'
'Good. Must go. I can see a fight developing in the playground. Between girls this time!'
I put down the telephone hastily, and went to the rescue.
Hostilities having been quelled, we all returned to the classroom where peace reigned as soon as the children got to work on their pictorial maps of the village of Fairacre.
It grew comparatively quiet, broken only by the stutter of coloured pencils, the drone of a bee, newly-emerged from hibernation, bumbling up and down the Gothic window, and the distant bleating of sheep in a field belonging to Mr Roberts. Soon it would be lambing time and the shepherd would be keeping his vigil. It was good to look forward to may blossom in the hawthorn hedges, tulips in cottage gardens, cowslips on the downs, and lighter evenings to relish such joys.
Meanwhile, I let my thoughts stray to my conversation with Amy. I sincerely hoped that she would soon be free of Brian, and that James's admiration for his school-fellow would result in a steady job, safely in Bristol.
I had noticed before this peculiarly male trait of hero-worship which seems to persist, to a certain extent, throughout a man's life. Usually the object of veneration is a sportsman, as in this case. Many times have I watched a man picking up the newspaper, turning immediately to the sports pages, and brightening or despairing at what was to be read there. The leaders of the nation, the heroes of war, those most eminent in the arts are as nothing compared with the man who scored a century or kicked the winning goal.
Women, I mused, seemed to get over the hero-worshipping stage with commendable speed. The 'schoolgirl's crush' faded by the time the sixth form was reached, and she herself became briefly the object of adoration. Strange that the male should take so long to get over it. Stranger still that it should persist, in so many cases, for the rest of a man's life.
Well, perhaps Brian would benefit from James's feelings. I remembered that the Bristol business man was also a devotee. Between the two of them, Brian should find a haven.
At that moment, the door opened and Patrick appeared, his gap-toothed grin well in evidence.
'And where have you been?' I demanded.
'Out the back,' he replied. This is the vernacular in Fairacre for the lavatory. 'You never took no notice when I asked. And I had to go. So I went.'
I apologized. This did not seem the right moment to explain, yet again, the problems of the double negative. No doubt there would be plenty more occasions.
I put Brian Homer's affairs away, and returned to my own.
Before afternoon school, Mrs Pringle, our dour cleaner, arrived to perform her usual task of washing up the dinner things.
'You'll have to do without me this time next Wednesday,' she told me. 'Just had word from the Cottage that they wants to see my leg.'
The Cottage is our local Caxley Cottage Hospital. Sometimes it is known as 'The Caxley', but this is somewhat confusing as our local bus and our local newspaper are both known as 'The Caxley'.
One catches, or meets people, on 'The Caxley' (bus). To appear in print in The Caxley (newspaper) can be a matter of pride or shame according to which page one is given prominence. Naturally, to be mentioned under the heading Court Proceedings can be embarrassing. The Wedding page or Local Charity Events can be a pleasure, and if a personal photograph is included (even if it does look like 'An Explosion in a Pickle Factory', to quote P. G. Wodehouse), it is an added bonus to one's self-esteem.
'So I shan't be able to do the washing-up, or put your place to rights.'
'Well, never mind,' I said. 'I can do it with the children, and it doesn't matter about my house.'
'Doesn't matter?' boomed Mrs Pringle, turning puce. 'I was all set to do that brass
of yours, and not a minute before time, I may say. I thought of getting Minnie to step in for the day.'
At this my blood ran cold. Minnie Pringle is a niece, with as much sense as a demented hen. I have suffered from her ministrations in the past, and the thought of her at large in the school lobby with the dinner crockery was bad enough. Left to her own devices in my house was not to be borne.
'Definitely not!' I exclaimed. 'We can managed for one day without bothering Minnie.'
Mrs Pringle drew in an outraged breath. Her puce cheeks took on a purplish hue.
'I was only trying to help,' she said at last. 'Small thanks I gets for that, I can see. I'll say no more. Just to let you know I'll be catching the one o'clock Caxley to The Caxley next week.'
She limped heavily from the classroom, leaving me to wonder if she would possibly be reading The Caxley on The Caxley when she went for her appointment at The Caxley.
As usual it was Mr Willet who came to the rescue later.
'My Alice heard as our Madam Sunshine is off to hospital on Wednesday. You want her to wash up? She says she's willing. And she'll do whatever's needed at the school house.'
'I'd be glad of her help here,' I told him, 'but my house won't hurt. According to Mrs Pringle there's so much wants doing there that another week's neglect won't do much harm.'
'Right. I'll tell her. Mr Lamb mentioned it.'
Mr Lamb is our Fairacre post-master, and much respected, though I had often had the unworthy suspicion that he perused much that passed through his hands.
Bob Willet must have read my thoughts on this occasion.
'There was a postcard from the hospital,' said he. 'I don't say Mr Lamb exactly reads things like that, but he sort of imbibes them, as he's sorting out the mail.'
It seemed best not to comment.
On the next Saturday morning I had occasion to visit the Post Office myself. Mr Lamb was busy hanging up a multitude of various coloured forms around the glass enclosure which, we all hoped, would protect him in the event of robbers breaking in.