by Miss Read
My other call to Ethel Tibbie, Arthur Coggs' sister, was equally satisfactory. She said she would pass on my message to Bella George as she was just setting off for Fairacre to collect some of the children's clothes, and it would save me a trip. We agreed to keep in touch, and she said if she could find anything of joe's she would drop it in.
'Not that I expect much,' she said. 'You know that household as well as I do. I can't say I'm very proud of my brother. That place is a disgrace.'
I made non-committal noises, and rang off, but I pondered on her remarks as I ate my modest supper of soup and cheese and biscuits. The place certainly was a disgrace, partly due to Mrs Coggs' inability to cope with its running and her fear of Arthur's violence, but there must surely be this other cause—the driblets of money which came so spasmodically that regular budgeting was impossible.
I was fortunate. A cheque was paid into my bank account at the end of each month. I was no financial wizard, and often hard-pressed in the week before I was paid, but my store cupboard could provide for me in lean times and, thanks to Mr Willet, my garden produced fresh fruit and vegetables. I need never go hungry.
The Caxley Building Society took care of my modest savings, and I had some sixty or seventy pounds in my cherished Post Office savings' account. Friends in the profession managed far better than I did, raising families, buying houses, taking trips abroad, and still contriving to save regularly. Compared with them, I was a poor manager. But then, I comforted myself, compared with Joseph's mother, I was a paragon of efficiency. It was all relative.
I washed up, and set the breakfast for two in the kitchen. Boiled eggs tomorrow. It would be good to have Joseph's company for a few days.
By nine o'clock, I realised how tired I was, and was about to go to bed when the front door bell rang.
It was Ethel with a carrier bag ofjoe's garments.
'No, I won't come in,' she said, in answer to my invitation, it's a proper job lot in there,' she added, nodding at the bag. 'And none too clean. I'd burn a few of them things, if I was you.'
She departed into the dusk.
I left the bag in the hall for tomorrow's attention, and went wearily to bed.
Joseph fitted into the household with no bother at all. I found him helpful with the daily chores, keen to wash up, to fetch and carry, and he straightened his bed each morning without being told. For a child with his chaotic upbringing, he was remarkably practical and obviously liked order in his surroundings.
He even straightened piles of exercise books in the process of being marked, and set my pens and pencils in order in my pen tray. The only thing he found daunting was the setting of a table, but after a few demonstrations he soon mastered that art as well.
As I had suspected, young Joseph Coggs was a quick learner, and as he grew older his progress was becoming more assured. I had great hopes for my young friend's future.
He was much more alert than I was to the doings of the birds in my garden. He inspected the sitting swallow at a discreet distance, and it was he who pointed out the sparrowhawk who hunted along the hedges bordering the school playground and the fields beyond.
'He watches out for them little birds,' he told me, 'and catches 'em when they flutters away frightened. I bet he had that hen blackbird as brought off a brood in your lilac.'
'What makes you think that?'
'Her oP man keeps all on singing for another mate. Been at it all the week. He was the only one feeding them young 'uns, didn't you see?'
I had not, but obviously Joseph was keenly aware of the tragedy. Perhaps he had a fellow feeling for motherless young.
Mr Willet confirmed Joe's findings. He also told me that he had a whitethroat nesting in his garden, and promised to take the boy to see it. I was glad that the child was so happy in his new surroundings. It looked as though his mother would be in the hospital rather longer than we had thought. The trouble seemed to be diverticulitis, and it was plain that her general poor health would retard her recovery. We could only hope that enforced rest and proper diet would be of benefit to her eventually. Bella George, Ethel Tibbie and I had all visited her and given her news of the children. It seemed to me that she was hardly aware of any domestic problems left behind at Fairacre, and although she thanked all of us in a vague way, I suspect that she was in such a debilitated state that anxiety was beyond her powers. It was better so.
One evening I was helping Joseph with a mammoth jigsaw puzzle, to the neglect of a pile of ironing, when the door bell rang and Henry Mawne appeared beaming on the doorstep.
Now what, I thought, ushering him in.
'Ah! A young visitor!' he cried, espying Joseph perched on his chair at the table.
'Yes, he's staying here for a little while,' I told him.
Henry began to rummage in his pockets, and finally produced two dog-eared tickets.
'For my two lectures,' he explained, i'll pick you up in good time, and perhaps you would look after my notes for me?'
I was taken aback.
'But I thought I had explained that I shouldn't be able to come,' I cried. Obviously, this wretched fellow was not going to take 'No' for an answer. Joseph's eyes went from one to the other of us with intense interest.
'Well, I hadn't taken that in, I must say. Surely you can arrange things so that you can look after me? I'm really relying on you.'
'It's quite impossible,' I said firmly. 'Won't Elizabeth be back by then?'
'Very doubtful. Very doubtful indeed.'
He looked at me speculatively.
'What are you doing on those two evenings anyway?'
'My friend Amy has plans for me,' I said. It was half true, anyway. I decided to carry the war into the enemy's camp.
'Why not find someone who is free? There must be several keen bird people at your meetings who would be far more competent than I am to help you.'
'Perhaps Miriam Quinn would enjoy my lectures,' he hazarded.
'She's very busy, I know,' I said hastily, supporting my unsuspecting friend.
'I think I'll trot round there while I'm out, and just see if she will be free,' he said, picking up the tickets. 'I'm so disappointed that you can't come. I really feel quite let down.'
I made no reply, but accompanied him to the door.
As soon as he had shut the gate I rushed to the telephone and rang Miriam.
'Well, many thanks for the warning,' she said cheerfully. 'I shall pay a hasty visit to the wood and pick primroses until the coast's clear.'
'Why don't you like that man?' asked Joseph when I returned.
I did not propose to answer this direct question with a direct lie, nor, for that matter, with a direct truth.
'Here,' I said, bending over the table, 'let's fish out all the blue bits and get the sky done before bed-time.'
When we went over to the school the next morning, I found three children, whom I did not at first recognise, sitting in a row in the front desk.
Mrs Pringle, immense in a flowered overall, emerged from the infants' room, dustpan in hand.
'Minnie's lot,' she said. 'Just for the day, like you said. She's up home, giving Basil a good clean-up. Left him hollering something awful, didn't us?'
The three little Pringles nodded silently. I was relieved to see that their noses were not running. It made a pleasant change. No doubt Mrs Pringle had recently attended to this item of personal hygiene.
'Minnie says as she ought to be back about two or three,' went on my cleaner, 'but you knows hospitals. Time stands still, as they say. Anyway, I've left a pound of sausages at the ready, and I only hope she don't burn the pan.'
'Well, we'll look after these three for the day,' 1 told her. 'Miss Briggs can have the smallest, and these two can stay with me.'
Mrs Pringle advanced upon the trio, holding out her hand to the youngest. Without warning, all three threw back their heads and began to emit ear-splitting yells.
'Leave them! Leave them!' I begged Mrs Pringle. 'I'll see to it later. They can st
ay as they are for prayers.'
Obviously, the Pringle brigade was going to be a somewhat disruptive element in our normal routine.
Joseph, standing by my desk, broke his silence. i reckons they could do with a sweet,' he remarked conversationally. He made for the cupboard which holds the boiled-sweet tin.
'Not a bad idea,' I said, as he undid the lid. Expectancy was in the air. The room was blissfully quiet. Even Mrs Pringle stood transfixed, watching the boy.
'And take one for yourself, Joe,' I said to my ally.
8 Strange Behaviour of Amy
TWO days later, Amy arrived to take me to a piano recital in the Corn Exchange, one of the highlights of the Caxley Festival.
Kind Alice Willet had offered to sit-in with young Joseph, and arrived laden with enough knitting to keep her hands occupied for three weeks, let alone three hours. I went off with an easy conscience.
Amy was unusually subdued, I thought, as we drove to Caxley.
'I've had a slight headache for the last two days,' she admitted. 'Nothing much. I'm only glad we haven't got to sit through Wagner played by a full orchestra. A nice tinkly bit of Mozart on the piano is just about right.'
'Are you sure you are up to it? I'm quite happy to give it a miss, you know.'
'No, indeed. It's a good programme—light and melodious, thank God. I'm looking forward to it.'
We drove in silence until we approached Caxley.
'There is just one thing,' she said at last. 'I don't think I'll be able to go with you to the outdoor sculpture exhibition. If I gave you the tickets, could you find a companion?'
I explained about Joseph. Could she find two other people?
'Of course,' she replied. She sounded rather relieved. 'I believe it's going to be a permanent display eventually, so perhaps we can go later in the summer.'
And so the matter was left. I told her about Henry Mawne's lectures and my own prevarication, and a good thing it was that I had done so, for Henry was sitting only two rows from us, in the company of a young fluffy-haired girl who seemed somewhat in awe of him.
We met in the interval when introductions were made.
'Eileen Bonamy, one of our most devoted bird-watchers,' said Henry, gazing fondly at his companion. 'She is going to help me during my lectures.'
'I'm so glad,' I said, with absolute truth.
'Miss Read was already engaged with you, I believe,' said Henry turning to Amy.
'Yes indeed,' said that stalwart friend. 'As you know, she is always in great demand.'
We were saved by the bell, summoning us back to our places.
'Thank you, Amy,' I said, 'for coming to my rescue.'
'No doubt you'd do the same for me,' replied Amy.
We settled back to enjoy an elegant little piece by Schubert.
Later, when we parted at my gate, Amy gave me a good-night kiss.
'I may not see you for a bit,' she said, 'so look after yourself. By the way, have you looked out that dye for the awful man?'
'I'd forgotten all about him.'
'As far as I can see,' said Amy severely, 'you'll be one of his easiest victims.'
She drove off with a cheerful hooting, and I went indoors feeling that Amy was herself again.
The unseasonable and chilly weather suddenly changed, and May became 'the loveliest month' which the poets praise.
Sunlight flooded the ancient schoolroom, and chalk dust danced in the slanting rays. The massive brass inkstand on my desk gleamed like gold, and little rainbows glanced from the glass over the photograph of our Queen, centrally placed on the rear wall, in the most honoured position.
The nature table was bright with specimens of coltsfoot, primrose, dandelion, an early wild daffodil and a cowslip. Why, I wondered yet again, are so many of our early wild flowers yellow? No one seems to know.
The cherry tree in the Post Office garden dangled white flowers, and everywhere, it seemed, the fruit trees were breaking into a froth of blossom and tender green leaf. The lilac bush in the most sheltered corner of my garden was in full bloom, and the heady scent floated up to my bedroom window in the warm nights. This old-fashioned pale mauve variety was always ahead of its more sophisticated companions, the white and the dark purple. It meant that the school house garden was fragrant for several weeks, for by the time the first blooms had turned rusty the others followed with their own scent. Later still the double white philadelphus, or mock orange blossom, as the Fairacre folk call it, would continue to delight our noses. It grows by my compost heap, and obviously enjoys its nourishment from that less pleasantly odorous source.
I had planted double dwarf tulips in the urn in front of the house. It is hopeless to grow the stately tall variety in this windswept quarter. I have seen a splendid row of scarlet beauties, tall and straight as guardsmen, flattened in ten minutes by a sudden onslaught of mighty wind from the downs. I learnt my lesson early here, and this year the short rosy tulips held their own against the elements and delighted all who saw them. Even Mr Willet admired them, calling my urn 'a brave show'.
We all thrived in the sunshine. Tibby basked in the shelter of a hedge. Even the little birds, now finding enough chalky dust for a bath, were ignored, as they performed their toilet.
One of the most welcome visitors to the school during this halcyon period was my pupil Ernest's pet tortoise. This hardy reptile survives even our cold Fairacre winters and always comes to school for a spring visit after he has emerged from his hibernation in a box of straw under the stairs of Ernest's cottage. He lumbers around the room, thumping his shell against the legs of the desks, accepting a morsel of fruit or a young leaf now and again, and generally adding his tribute to the coming of fair weather.
I was reminded of Gilbert White's tortoise which he observed so lovingly at a village near Lewes. He noted that: 'The tortoise, like other reptiles, has an arbitrary stomach; and can refrain from eating as well as breathing for a great part of the year.'
We do not see Ernest's tortoise regularly enough to test Gilbert White's assertion that it makes 'an excellent weatherglass'. He goes on to say that 'as sure as it walks elate, and as it were on tip-toe, feeding with great earnestness in a morning, so sure will it rain before night.'
Sometimes I think it would be a good idea to have a permanent tortoise on the strength. Certainly Ernest's is much loved at Fairacre school and his visit is a highlight of early summer.
It was during this warm spell that Mrs Coggs was discharged from hospital, and Joseph went back to his own home.
I missed his company in the house, and his cheerful presence at the breakfast table.
The baby went back to its own home too, but Ethel Tibbie had volunteered to keep the little girls for another week to give her sister-in-law time to recover.
Bella George was a stalwart neighbour and the district nurse was calling regularly. It looked as though Mrs Coggs would have plenty of support in the first days of her home-coming.
One evening Miriam Quinn called to ask if I could collect for the Red Cross at the school end of the village. She had undertaken the Holly Lodge part, and Alice Willet, ever willing, had nobly taken on the main street of the village.
'In fact,' said Miriam, 'she's doing two-thirds of the job, but she says she can easily fit it in with her other work, and it's handy if she has to go a second time. It's only when you go collecting these days that you realise how many houses are empty during working hours.'
'Nice pickings for the opportunist thief,' I commented.
'It seems to me that they operate even if people are in,' replied Miriam. 'Joan Benson had her week's groceries lifted, basket and all, while she was upstairs taking off her coat.'
Joan Benson had once owned Holly Lodge where Miriam lived in the annexe. She had sold it to David and Irene Mawne, who now lived there, and had gone to live near her daughter in Sussex after her husband's death.
We all missed her in the village, and I was pleased when Miriam told me that she was coming to stay with h
er for a few days.
'Do bring her round one evening,' I said.
'I'd love to.' She hesitated for a moment and then went on. 'It would be an enormous help to me if she could call after school one day, perhaps?'
'Of course. Any day she likes. I'm here at four.'
'The thing is I'm going to be unexpectedly busy during that week, preparing for a business conference. Joan understands, but I feel I'm being somewhat neglectful.'
I assured her truthfully that Joan Benson would be welcome at any time. Miriam looked relieved.
'Another thing. Elizabeth Mawne is coming home.'
'Now that is good news! I've had three telephone calls from Henry this week, and my excuses are getting thinner every time. Did Irene speak to him? Or to Elizabeth?'
'Luckily there was no need. You know the fluffy little thing who was hanging on his words at the lecture? Eileen Something?'
'Bonamy.'
'That's right. Well, apparently after that she pursued Henry doggedly, and after the first flush of flattery had faded, Henry began to feel that he was being hunted. One or two friends in Caxley and Fairacre had added their mite by saying he was making himself ridiculous by encouraging an innocent girl young enough to be his daughter. You know the kind remarks people make in such a situation!'
'Indeed I do!'
'Well, Henry began to get desperate—so desperate in fact, that he rang Elizabeth and asked when she proposed to return.'
'And what was the answer to that?'
'Immediately! The ancient aunt had completely changed her tune, and instead of vowing to end up in her own bed with nothing altered in that great barn of a place she lives in, she told Elizabeth tearfully that she needed looking after, that nobody cared for her, the house was too big, too cold and too expensive to run, and she had decided that life in a comfortable nursing home was what she wanted.'
'I should think Elizabeth was flabbergasted.'
'Not too flabbergasted to act at once, and to fix up her admission immediately to the nursing home she'd had in mind for months.'