by Miss Read
'So that's settled.'
'Well, she's not there yet, but with any luck she will be within a week. Elizabeth has put the house on the market already, striking while the iron was hot, as they say.'
She rose to go, and I went with her to the gate. The air was balmy, and a newly-emerged bat flitted between the trees.
'What a relief all round,' I said.
'Except for poor Eileen Bonamy. I hear she's considering applying for a post overseas.'
'I hope Henry gives her a very nice farewell present. She deserves it, poor girl.'
It was a week later that Joan Benson came to tea with me after school.
Her hair was a little greyer, but her figure was as trim and her eyes as bright as ever. How was she enjoying life in Sussex, I asked her?
'Well, I feel very much the grandmother with the children so much with me, but I like that. People are very friendly, I'm already on the W.I. Committee—'
'That was inevitable,' I broke in.
'I suppose so,' she replied, laughing. 'All village newcomers get roped in, don't they? Yes, there's lots to do, and it's good to have the family at hand, but it was marvellous to come back to Fairacre. Here, you see, I really ran my own life.'
I must have looked surprised, for she went on.
'I mean, I was still a wife. And a daughter too, as my mother was living with us, you remember.'
I did indeed. Mrs Penwood had been a charming old lady though very frail when she first accompanied Ambrose and Joan Benson to Holly Lodge. She had died within a few months of Ambrose, and it was soon after that that Miriam had gone to live in the annexe, as Joan's lodger.
'I was very much my own person,' continued Joan, i felt needed, valuable, appreciated, both by my mother and my husband. I always faced the knowledge that my mother would go very soon after we moved here, and I missed her sorely, but Ambrose's death really shattered me.'
'I can well understand that, although I'm not likely to experience such a loss.'
'I don't know which is worse, the awful feeling that a shared life is broken, or the fact that everything seems so pointless when one is alone. It hardly seems worth the bother of cooking, for instance, or buying new clothes. For the first few weeks I lived on tins of soup, cups of coffee and biscuits, until my daughter made me see reason. What really pulled me together was her good sense. "I'vejust lost a father, and I don't want to lose a mother too," she said one day. It was blunt speaking, but after that I buckled to, and went shopping again, and faced all the financial affairs I had been shelving, and generally took up living again.'
'You're a brave woman,' I told her.
'Not really, but looking back I realise I was lucky in the way things happened to me then. For one thing, I had the house virtually to myself while I was getting over the shock. Miriam was there at night, but by day I was alone, and it helped me. So many of my friends in the same position have found company absolutely essential, but others, like me, want time alone to adjust to the idea of widowhood. I had that, and then just when I was beginning to get to the recluse stage, my daughter pulled me back into the world, and I bless her for it.'
I refilled her tea cup.
'And that's enough of my affairs,' she said briskly. 'Now tell me how things have been going with Fairacre. Any hatches, matches or dispatches?'
I told her several of each, and brought her up to date with Fairacre and Caxley news.
After tea we inspected the garden in warm sunlight, and then I wrote a note to Miriam, accepting her invitation to supper at the end of the week, for Joan to carry back with her.
'Any hope of you ever coming back here to live?' I asked as she said her farewells.
'When I see it like this, all flowers and sunlight, I'm sorely tempted, but I remember the winters here, and believe me, Sussex is a good deal kinder to my old bones when the cold weather comes!'
'You have to be tough to withstand the winds of Fairacre,' I agreed. 'I've already started knitting a hefty cardigan in double-knitting wool ready for next winter.'
Mrs Pringle regaled me with a blow-by-blow account of how Basil Pringle's fingers had to be dressed, and very upsetting I found it first thing the next morning. As usual it was impossible to quell the flow.
'And how are the others getting on?' I enquired hastily, hoping to lead her to pleasanter topics. The little Pringles' one day with me had been distinctly exhausting, and I must confess I was thankful that they were not my responsibility permanently.
'Much as usual,' replied Mrs Pringle shortly. 'Now, I meant to let you know the latest about Mrs Coggs.'
'She's progressing well, I gather.'
'And who told you that, may I ask? She looks as near death's door as a great many as are now in the churchyard, to my knowledge. What's more she showed me her operation scar—'
'Well, don't tell me!' I cried. But one might as well try to stop the Nile in flood.
'All of nine inches long and double punch holes like boot eyelets. An 'orrible sight!' said Mrs Pringle with relish. 'I thought my poor old ma's was bad enough, but this was more inflamed, if you follow me. I told her so.'
Trust Mrs Pringle to be pessimistic! I could bear no more, and walked swiftly into the infants' room on the pretext of speaking to Miss Briggs. I might have known that she would pursue me.
'And if I may say so,' she boomed behind me, 'you look a bit peaky yourself.'
'That,' I said firmly, 'is hardly surprising in the circumstances.'
And I shut the door smartly in her face.
Later, I was to rue this lapse on my part. Looking back, I see now, that this was the beginning of a rapid decline in Mrs Pringle's comparative patience and good temper.
I think if I could have foreseen the consequences, I would have made a superhuman effort to control my feelings—heaven alone knows I get plenty of practice in my dealings with Mrs Pringle! But I had been sorely goaded, and retaliated with the slammed door, sad to say.
Other matters cropped up about that time which distracted my attention from Mrs Pringle's pronounced limp, always in evidence when she has taken umbrage.
An evening or two later, James, Amy's husband, telephoned. He sounded unusually agitated, and dispensed with his habitual opening compliments which I found surprising.
'I'm ringing about Amy. Is she with you by any chance?'
'No,' I said, somewhat bewildered.
'Well, it's the oddest thing, but she's not here, and some of her clothes have gone, and her cheque book and so on, and not a word left for me. No note. Nothing. I can't make it out.'
'Come to think of it,' I said, 'she mentioned something about being away for a time. Naturally, I assumed that you knew.'
'That I don't!'James sounded thoroughly cross.
'Are you sure that her note hasn't slipped down somewhere and got hidden?' I enquired.
'Of course I'm sure!' snapped James. 'I've searched everywhere. There's not a clue as to where she can be, and it's jolly upsetting.'
'Have you rung anyone else?'
'No. You were the first. I thought she might have driven over to you, and stayed the night, I got home yesterday about seven, expecting her to arrive during the evening. In fact, I rang you about nine or ten, and there was no answer.'
He sounded aggrieved. I explained that I had spent the evening with Miriam Quinn and Joan Benson.
'She'll probably ring you any time now,' I said, trying to comfort him.
'Well, if she doesn't do so before dark, I shall inform the police. For all I know, she may be lying murdered in a lay-by.'
Why a lay-by, I wondered? But it was no moment to discuss this interesting side-line. Obviously, the poor chap was becoming more distraught every minute, and I was hard put to it to know how best to help him.
'If you think she might have been involved in an accident,' I began carefully, 'perhaps you should ring the local hospitals.'
'Oh, for pity's sake!' shouted the exasperated man, 'don't make things worse! What a ghoul you are, suggestin
g she might be lying injured in hospital!'
It was hardly the time to remind him that he had imagined his poor wife lying murdered in a lay-by, which was far more ghoulish than my modest and reasonable suggestion.
'If I hear anything at all to help you, I'll ring immediately,' I promised him, and put down the receiver.
'Now I wonder,' I said to Tibby, 'is Amy really in trouble, or is she just enjoying her freedom somewhere, with thoughts of what's sauce for the gander holds true for the goose?'
9 Troubles Never Come Singly
THE mystery of Amy's disappearance had to be shelved in the pressure of day to day school problems, but I intended to get in touch with James to find out if he had heard from her. Knowing James, I thought it would be unlikely if he rang me, whatever the news.
In the midst of halcyon weather, I struggled with a spate of problems. Miss Briggs fell ill with some sort of stomach trouble, and so was absent from school. My anguished pleas to the education office were met with some sympathy but little practical help. Supply teachers, it seemed, were like gold dust in our area.
I put down the telephone and racked my brain. In the old days, Miss Clare used to step into the breach. Sometimes Amy, a first-class teacher, had come to our aid. Old helpers like Mrs Bonner and Mrs Finch-Edwards had now moved away, and the outlook appeared bleak.
I struggled all through the first day of Miss Briggs' absence with the dividing door open, and by making sorties between the two rooms, a certain amount of work was kept going, but this state of things was far from satisfactory.
In the evening I rang Miss Briggs' landlady in Caxley to enquire how my assistant was progressing. I must confess that I hoped she was soon going to be fit to return, as much for my own sake as hers.
'Still in bed,' was the depressing response to my enquiry. 'To my mind, it's just nerves, Miss Read. Getting upset about the coming wedding. Girls do get these funny ideas, as no doubt you know.'
I had to admit that pre-marital qualms had never been experienced by me.
'Oh, it's quite common,' she assured me. 'You wonder if you're doing the right thing, you know. And then all the arrangements are a dreadful worry. Should you ask everybody, or nobody? I well remember how suicidal I got before my own wedding. I took such a dislike to my wedding dress, I threatened to go in my mackintosh. My mother couldn't do anything with me!'
She sounded rather proud of the fact, I thought, and privately congratulated myself on having escaped such traumas. There are many occasions when I thank my stars that I am single. This was one of them.
Getting back to the point, I asked if Miss Briggs seemed likely to be back within a few days.
'Oh, I doubt it,' she replied cheerfully. 'The doctor came this morning and I'vejust fetched the tablets he prescribed, and she says they make her feel awful, so what with the germs she's got and the cure the doctor's given her, I should say she'll be laid low for at least a week!'
A real Job's comforter here, obviously.
'Well, give her my love and I hope she will soon feel better,' I replied civilly.
And I went to prepare my modest supper for a little comfort.
I awoke about four o'clock the next morning with a stupendous idea. Why not ask Isobel Annett if she could come as a supply teacher in the infants' room in Miss Briggs' place? As Miss Gray, many years before, she had been one of my most successful assistants, until whipped from under my very nose by Mr Annett, the headmaster of our next village school, to become his wife.
It has been a happy marriage, for which I am doubly grateful, for his first wife was tragically killed, and when our paths first crossed he was a most unhappy and irritable fellow. Isobel has been the means of turning him into a cheerful family man. They are both musical and energetic, and much in demand at local concerts and musical festivals. Would she consider dropping her hobbies and household duties to hold sway in the infants' room she knew so well? I intended to ask her.
She sounded somewhat taken aback on the telephone.
'But it's years since I stood in front of a class,' she began. I burst in to tell her that, like riding a bicycle, one never quite lost the knack of teaching.
'And I half-promised to play for community singing at the concert for the blind in Caxley next Tuesday.'
I said that surely someone else could do that?
'How long would you need me?' she asked. This sounded much more hopeful, and I said that with any luck a week, or perhaps ten days, would see us through.
I could almost hear her brain working at the other end of the line, and began to plead my extreme necessity.
'I simply can't manage without help, and honestly I have tried. The office is a dead loss, and Miss Clare is past it, of course. As for Amy, she seems to have disappeared—'
'Disappeared! How do you mean?'
I hastily back-tracked.
'Well, she's away at the moment, so that's another person unavailable.' Better not to let rumours fly unnecessarily, I told myself. The village would have Amy eloping before one could turn round.
'So you see,' I added pathetically, 'I am in a terrible quandary, and would be so very grateful, Isobel, if you could manage to help us.'
'I'll have a word with George, and ring you back,' she promised. 'One thing, if the weather's like this I could cycle.'
'And if it's wet I can fetch you,' I said enthusiastically. 'Don't let the travelling worry you. I'll see to that, and if you want to get away early to get a meal ready I can easily manage both classes for the last period in the afternoon.'
'Well, I won't be long making up my mind. Will you be in all the evening?'
'Yes, yes,' I cried.
And with my hand ready to snatch up the telephone, I thought, and with high hopes.
For the next hour or so I hovered about the house within earshot of the telephone bell. I wanted to get in touch with James to hear if he had any news of Amy, but I knew that Isobel would undoubtedly try to ring me at the very same moment, and so I resisted temptation.
My mind turned to another of my present problems. Mrs Pringle's limp seemed to have worsened in the last day or two, and her manner was distinctly frosty. It stemmed, I guessed, from my shortness of temper after enduring her ghastly descriptions of Basil Pringle's and Mrs Coggs' afflictions. However, I had no intention of apologising, and we had had far worse tiffs before this one. No doubt she would come round in time, but that morning's conversation had certainly been heavily ominous.
'How's Minnie getting on?' I had enquired. 'Not giving you any trouble?'
'No more than others I could name,' said the lady blackly.
'Good!' I replied, with false cheerfulness. 'So things are going smoothly?'
'I wouldn't say that.' (I bet you wouldn't, I thought.) 'With all there is to do in this place, I've more than enough on my plate. And all taken for granted! Not a word of praise from one week's end to the other.'
'Oh, come now, Mrs Pringle! You know your work's appreciated, but you can't expect praise all the time. Why, dammit, I don't ask you to admire our work when it's done, do I? I mean, that nature table is exceptionally splendid at the moment, but I don't expect you or anyone else to gush over it.'
'I don't feel like gushing, as you call it, when I've got to bend down to sweep up the mess it makes. It's more work for me, and just when I could well do without it, with my leg.'
Mr Willet had arrived at this moment, and the conversation ended with Mrs Pringle limping heavily into the lobby. Obviously, something more than her usual grievances was worrying her, but Mrs Pringle's martyred moods appear so frequently that it is impossible to waste much time on them.
But still, I told myself, the poor old dear was getting on, and perhaps I should make the effort and be gentler with her in the future.
And with this rare charitable thought, I went to cut up raw liver for Tibby's supper.
As was only to be expected, the telephone rang whilst I was in the midst of this gory operation with hands that rivalled Lady Macbeth
's.
It was Isobel, and yes, she could come tomorrow, and it would be absolutely splendid to be back, but what about The Office?
I said I would see to that. I told her that she was an angel, I should sleep easily in my bed that night, and it would be marvellous to see her again in her own infants' room.
And now for James, I thought, when I had replaced the receiver.
The bell rang for such a long time that I decided that Amy's house must be empty, and was about to ring off when James answered.
He sounded breathless.
'Oh, it's you!' he panted. 'Sorry I was so long answering. The bacon was spluttering, and I think I've burnt the frying pan. Hell of a lot of smoke in the kitchen. What temperature do you use when you're frying?'
I said I had no idea. I turned the heat down if the pan smoked, and up if it didn't. It seemed to work.
'Any news of Amy?' I asked. 'I've been worrying about her.'
'Not half as much as I have! The police know she's missing, and I've had to give a minute description of her. As though I know how tall she is, or how much she weighs! As for what she was wearing "on the day of her disappearance", as they keep saying, I simply don't know.'
I expressed my sympathy.
'I suppose you haven't any idea where she could be?' He sounded suspicious, i mean, you two are pretty thick, She might have dropped a hint, or even told you outright, and then sworn you to secrecy.'
'I don't know any more than you do,' I said indignantly. 'You ought to know I wouldn't be such a rat as to let you worry like this!'
'Oh, sorry, sorry!' he cried hastily. 'It's just such a problem! How on earth do you begin to look for a wife who has vanished?'
'Well, I imagine you do exactly what you have done—told the police, rung up friends, had a word with the neighbours. I suppose you could put an advertisement in the Personal Column,' I ended doubtfully.
'You don't happen to know,' said James, sounding carefully casual, 'of any men friends she has been seeing lately? I know I have to be away a lot, and I believe Horace Umbleditch has been calling.'