by Miss Read
'Bully for her,' I said. 'I'd like the chance to wear either of 'em. My Aunt Clara's seed pearls are about the nearest I get to the real thing.'
Amy blew three perfect smoke rings in a row, one of the ex-curricular accomplishments I watched her learn at college.
'She's such a phoney,' said Amy. 'All that terrible stuff we heard tonight! If you could only see her three children!'
'No Flowering Minds? No Sharing of Love and Experience?'
'Plenty of that all right,' said Amy darkly. 'The two youngest are at school. The eldest, an unattractive amalgam of hair and spots, is at one of the danker universities in the north. He brought his girl-friend home for the entire vacation. Heavily pregnant too.'
'Is he going to marry her?'
'Well, it's not his baby, so he says, so probably not. Could you squeeze another cup of coffee out of that pot?'
I poured thoughtfully.
'What about the other two?'
'Both on probation. One steals, the other fights, and they both lie. I'd give them two years before the mast rather than probation, but of course it does mean Mrs Jollifant gets seen too by the probation officer when he visits.'
'You'd think she'd keep quiet about children,' I said, 'having such horrible children of her own.'
'The Mrs Jollifants of this world,' Amy told me pontifically, 'do not recognise horrible children—least of all their own. By the time your Parent-Teacher Association has brain-washed you, with half-a-dozen speakers like Mrs J, you'll think they're all perfect angels too.'
'That'll be the day!' I told her, reaching for the coffee-pot.
9. Callers
MAY, that loveliest of months, surpassed itself as the Hales settled into their new home. Shrubs, which had stood half-hidden by dead grass and weeds when Peter and Diana had first visited Tyler's Row, now flowered abundantly. Lilac bushes, pink, white and deep purple, tossed their scent into the air, and a fine cherry tree dangled its white blossom nearby. Unsuspected bulbs had pushed up bravely, and delighted them with late flowering narcissi and tulips. Those perennials which had escaped the notice of Mr Roberts' cows, flourished in the fine dark soil, and Diana already made plans for new beds in the autumn.
She was so busy that she had no time to miss the whirl of Caxley's social life. It was a relief, she found, to be free of coffee mornings, bazaars, cheese and wine parties, and all the other fund-raising affairs which she had felt obliged to attend. The invitations still came, but she was able to answer truthfully that she had too much to see to at the moment.
The workmen were still with them, and at times Peter wondered if they would ever go.
'I confidently expect to wrap up Christmas parcels for them,' he commented gloomily, watching their van depart one teatime. 'I shall give Bert a bottle of shampoo, and Frank a belt to keep up those filthy jeans. Binder twine doesn't appear to do the job.'
Bert and Frank were two cheerful youths, self-styled 'subcontractors', who were engaged in the last stages of the outdoor painting. They were accompanied everywhere by a transistor radio which blared out a stream of pop music to the unspoken despair of Diana, and the very outspoken fury—when he was there to hear it—of Peter. As they plied their brushes, squatting on their haunches or balanced on ladders, they shouted above the din to each other. Diana heard their exchanges and found them incomprehensible.
''E fouled 'im right 'nuff. Ref be blind 'arf the time.'
'Ar! Wants to drop ol' Betts. Never make the fourth round with 'im in goal. See 'im Sat'day?'
Football appeared to be the only topic of conversation, and this was punctuated with occasional bursts of discordant song with transistor accompaniment.
At eleven each morning, Diana made coffee for them. She carried it into the sunshine, and they knocked off with alacrity and sat on the garden seat. Sometimes she sat with them and they told her about their families. To her eyes they appeared only children themselves, but Bert had two boys of his own, and Frank three girls.
After ten minutes, Diana would hurry back to her work, but the two young men remained sitting and smoking until half-past eleven or twenty to twelve.
'Ah well,' one would say, rising reluctantly, 'best get back, I's pose.
'Ar! Get the ol'job done,' the other would agree, and they would amble back to their paint brushes, much refreshed.
And their wives, thought Diana, are scrubbing, and washing, and ironing, and cooking, and shopping, and dressing and undressing young children, and generally running round in circles. And when their husbands get home, no doubt the wives will think indulgently: 'Poor things, they've been working hard all day! Must give them a good meal, and let them have a nice rest while I wash up and put the children to bed!'
Diana's immediate neighbours were not greatly in evidence, she was relieved to find. Certainly, Sergeant Burnaby tended to hover near the dividing hedge whenever she had occasion to go into the garden, and was pathetically eager to prolong any little conversations they had. But her fears that he might make frequent calls proved groundless, and only the rattle of his poker in the grate next door, or the sharp tap-tap caused by knocking out his pipe on the fire-bars, called his presence to mind.
From Mrs Fowler's side, nothing was heard. 'Keeping herself to herself was one of her prides, and Diana only had a rare glimpse of her when she hung out some of her dazzling washing, or took a bowl down the garden path to pick some greens.
But if Diana saw little of her neighbour, the same could not be said of Mrs Fowler, who knew nine-tenths of the newcomers' movements. Before a week was out she knew that the Hales preferred brown bread to white, took one pint of Jersey milk a day, sent sheets, pillowslips, towels—even tea-towels and dusters, which Mrs Fowler thought scandalous—to the laundry, and that Peter Hale used an electric razor, and that the bed-side alarm went off at seven o'clock sharp.
Diana was unaware of the intense interest that the village as a whole took in their affairs. She would have been surprised and amused to know that Mr Lamb at the Post Office knew where her two sons were stationed, that the Hales banked with the National Westminster and had monthly accounts with a Caxley garage, butcher, and hardware store. He had still to find out who the titled lady was to whom Mrs Hale wrote regularly. (It was, in fact, an elderly aunt.) He was intrigued too by the number of letters addressed to a certain Oxford College in Mr Hale's neat hand, but Mr Lamb was used to biding his time, and was confident that all these things would be made clear to him, if he waited long enough.
There had been several callers at Tyler's Row. The vicar, the Reverend Gerald Partridge, and his wife were the first to come, and later Mrs Mawne descended upon Diana when she was engaged in the almost impossible task of pinning up the hem of a frock whilst wearing it. She opened the door to her visitor, very conscious of her uneven hem-line and the half-dozen pins threatening her stockings.
'I know that calling is out-of-date these days,' said Mrs Mawne when they were seated in the drawing room, 'and a great pity it is, I think. One can feel so lonely in a new place. I know I was quite daunted when I first came to Fairacre. Luckily, my husband had been here for some little time before me, and of course he'd made a number of friends.'
'I thought I would join the Women's Institute,' said Diana. 'It's a very good way of meeting people.'
'Excellent!' agreed Mrs Mawne, with energy. 'We can always do with new members, especially on the committee.'
'Well, I don't know—' began Diana, somewhat taken aback.
'Your leg,' said Mrs Mawne, peering through her glasses, 'appears to be bleeding.'
'Confound these pins!' exclaimed Diana, leaping to her feet, and explained her predicament.
'Well, we'll soon put that right,' said Mrs Mawne, and fell upon her knees on the new carpet. 'Hand me the pins and a ruler.'
'They're upstairs,' said Diana. 'One moment, and I'll fetch them.'
For the next five minutes the ladies were engrossed in their task, and Diana thought that Mrs Mawne, formidable though her manner
was, certainly had her practical side.
'Now stand still while I crawl round,' said her visitor. She thumped down the school ruler on its end, by one side seam.
'Seventeen,' puffed Mrs Mawne, circumnavigating her hostess, and pausing at intervals with the ruler.
'Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen-and-a-quarter—blast-it! Hold hard a minute!'
After a short battle with the pins, Mrs Mawne professed herself satisfied, and scrambled with difficulty to her feet.
'It's terribly kind of you,' said Diana. 'You couldn't have called at a better time for me. Now let me brush your skirt. This new carpet is shedding whiskers madly.'
Mrs Mawne gave the skirt a perfunctory bang with a massive hand.
'Don't vacuum clean it too much just yet,' she advised. 'Hand brush for a few weeks, I always say, until it's settled in.'
'Let me give you some tea.'
'No, no. I've the dogs to exercise, and Henry wants me to type a talk he's giving in Caxley.'
'It was good of you to come, and kinder still to help with my pinning up. You must bring your husband to meet mine before long.'
She accompanied Mrs Mawne to the front door.
'How do you get on with the next door folk?' asked Mrs Mawne in a voice which was much too loud for Diana's peace of mind. Through one hedge she could see Mrs Fowler, bent to weed her path, but strategically placed to see and hear all that transpired. Intermittent coughing came from beyond the other hedge where Sergeant Burnaby sat enjoying the sunshine. His hearing, for so venerable a man, was amazingly acute at times, as Diana well knew.
'Very well. Very well indeed,' said Diana firmly. "We're extremely lucky.'
'Glad to hear it. Neighbours can be a curse or a comfort,' boomed Mrs Mawne. She dropped her voice a trifle and spoke now in a tone which was possibly more penetrating than before.
'You'll have to watch Mrs Fowler. A very awkward woman, I hear, and apt to be vindictive. Not to be trusted. Not to be trusted at all. Remind me to tell you a tale next time we meet. More in the nature of a warning, you understand.'
'Thank you again for calling,' said Diana. 'I shall look forward to seeing you at the W.I. meeting.'
Mrs Mawne stumped off to the gate, and Diana watched her departure with relief. The bent figure next door straightened itself with a loud sniff, and the banging of Mrs Fowler's front door seemed to prove the point of the old adage that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves.
The W.I. meeting did not take place for a week or more, but before that event occurred Diana met a great many more of Fairacre's inhabitants.
The village shop, which was also the bakery, proved to be as much a club as a business, and here she was introduced to other customers.
The owner was an old boy of Caxley Grammar School and knew Peter well. Old boys were ubiquitous within a radius of ten miles around Caxley and turned up as electricians, plumbers, nurserymen, as well as bank managers, solicitors, accountants and other men of business. The family feeling engendered by this tie was very reassuring, Diana found.
Mr Willet was one of the first friends she met at the shop.
'I'm going your way,' he said on the first occasion. 'Give us your basket, while you carry the cornflakes. That's one's work alone, them great packets.'
They walked amicably along the village street.
'That's my place,' said Mr Willet. 'You must meet my wife some time. She tells me you're going to join the W.I.'
'Yes, I am.'
'Jumble-jam-and-Jerusalem!' commented Mr Willet, with a rumbling laugh. 'That's what they calls it, eh? Well, keeps you ladies out of mischief, I suppose. You want to watch they don't get you on the Committee though. Fair sharpens their knives there, I understand.'
'Oh, I haven't been here long enough for that honour,' said Diana.
'It's the new ones that get copped,' replied Mr Willet shrewdly. 'You take a look round. You won't find many of the old sort running things in Fairacre—they're too fly. They likes to sit back and watch the newcomers make a mess o' things, and then they can criticise.'
They approached Tyler's Row and slowed to a halt.
'You all right for help in the house?' asked Mr Willet solicitously.
'At the moment, yes, thank you. Mrs Jones who worked for me in Caxley comes out once a week.'
'Good. 'Tisn't easy to get a decent body as you can trust.'
He handed over the basket.
'Well, I must be off to the school. Caretaker, see. Odd job man, like. Be plenty of coke spread about the playground for me to sweep up, I've no doubt. Still, I did the same meself when I was there fifty years back.'
He gave a smile which creased his weathered face, reminding Diana of a wrinkled apple.
'If you wants anything, let me know. Or your husband now, if he needs a load of logs or someone to fix that gate of yourn, tell him to come and see me. I've heard plenty about him from my two nephews as goes to his school. They've got more up top than I had at their age.'
'I very much doubt it,' said Diana with conviction.
On the following afternoon Diana went to Caxley, and returned to Tylers Row to find that the first salvo had been fired in a battle which was to last for months.
A light breeze was blowing, and Diana had noticed faint wisps of smoke drifting from the Sergeant's garden across their own, towards Mrs Fowler's property. The bonfire was at the end of the garden, and could have given no offence to anyone, at the stage when Diana first saw it.
She was just peeling off her gloves, when the knock came at the front door. On opening it, she was confronted by Mrs Fowler, dressed very neatly in an afternoon frock, and surmounted by a hat. It was of a masculine nature, something of a trilby, slightly modified for feminine wear, but still uncompromisingly severe. Beneath it, Mrs Fowler's grim countenance appeared more formidable than ever.
'Will you come in?' said Diana, regretting the invitation the moment she had made it.
She showed her visitor into the sitting room, and both perched on the edge of their chairs. Mrs Fowler wasted no time.
'I'm here to make a complaint,' she said formally. Her quick eyes were flickering about the room, noting everything. She would be the winner at any Kim's game, thought Diana, with wry amusement.
'I'm sorry to hear that,' she replied. 'Have we done something to offend you, Mrs Fowler?'
'It's not you, ma'am. It's 'im!'
She jerked a thumb at the dividing wall, in the direction of Sergeant Burnaby's abode.
''E does it for sheer devilment,' she went on, her face becoming flushed. 'Waits till 'e sees it 'anging out, then gets to work.'
'Sees what?' asked Diana, understandably bewildered.
'The washing. The clothes. Waits till I've pegged out the lot, and then lights 'is bonfire. Time and time again it's 'appened. All over smuts, they get, clear-starched, fresh-boiled, hand-washed woollies—'e don't care.'
Diana had often heard of people bridling, and had never quite known what this meant. Now she saw it in action. Mrs Fowler fairly bubbled over with her grievances, but with an air of militancy which boded no good to any who crossed her path just then.
'Surely,' she began gently, 'he doesn't do it intentionally?'
'Oh, don't 'e!' exclaimed Mrs Fowler vindictively. ''E watches the weather-cock on the church to see when 'is ol' bonfire can do most damage! I've seen 'im at it.'
'Then why not go to him and put your complaint directly? What can I do?'
'Well, he's your tenant, same as I am. 'E takes no notice of what I say. Laughs in me face, 'e does. But if you—or, say, Mr Hale—should have a word with the old devil—pardon my language, ma'am—there's a chance 'e might see reason."
Diana sighed.
'I don't like it at all, Mrs Fowler. We all live at close quarters, and we simply must be understanding and tolerant.'
'I've been that long enough,' retorted Mrs Fowler, buttoning up her mouth.
'Well, I'll tell my husband that you called,' said Diana, rising to her feet, 'but
I don't promise that he will intervene. I still advise you to mention the matter politely to Sergeant Burnaby. It's probably just male thoughtlessness. After all, he's getting very old, you know.'
'It's the old 'uns,' said Mrs Fowler darkly, as she crossed the threshold, 'as is the worst!'
'Bad-tempered old harridan,' was Peter Hale's comment that evening when he arrived home from school and was told the tale.
'Let them get on with it. We're not taking sides. Anyway, it's only a storm in a tea-cup. That woman's liverish. You can see that plain enough from her complexion. What she needs is more exercise. A sharp three-mile walk daily would soon put her right.'
'I'll leave you to tell her that,' commented Diana dryly.
10. Awkward Neighbours
NO more was heard of this incident, and as Sergeant Burnaby refrained from lighting a bonfire during the next few days, Diana hoped that all would be well.
Fairacre was so lovely in the May sunshine that nothing could daunt her spirits for long. They soared even higher when Bert told her that they reckoned to be finished in a week.
'Marvellous!' cried Diana, with heartfelt relief.
'Been a nice job, this has,' said Bert, turning up the transistor's volume a trifle.
'That's right,' shouted Frank, above the racket. 'Peaceful out here. I like a bit of country myself.'
'What say?' bellowed Bert, climbing the stepladder.
Frank executed a few intricate dance steps round a paint pot and ended up nearer his friend.
'Eh?'
'I said "What say?"' repeated Bert, fortissimo.
'Dunno what you're on about,' yelled Frank cheerfully, moving on a yard or two, and beginning to ply his brush languidly.
Diana retreated from the din, savouring this most welcome news. At last, to have the house to themselves!
She told Peter as soon as he came in.
'Now that,' he said approvingly, 'calls for a glass of sherry. And it will give me strength to tackle Form One's History essays.'