(9/20) Tyler's Row

by Miss Read

  12. A Fateful Day

  ON the last day of June, Diana drove to Oxford by herself. There she had an appointment with a specialist at two-thirty, for although her own doctor had been most reassuring, he was taking no risks.

  Peter, much alarmed by Diana's disclosure, had wanted to come with her to the appointment, but she had dissuaded him. She always preferred to face such crises alone. It was less exhausting than trying to put on a brave front in the presence of someone else. Frightened though she was, she wanted to tackle this in her own way, without the effort of calming another's fears as well as her own.

  She decided to go in the morning, do a little shopping, have a quiet solitary lunch and have plenty of time to drive to north Oxford where the specialist had his surgery.

  Two days of heavy rain had left the countryside fresh and shining. The sun was out as Diana drove away from Fairacre, turning the wet road to black satin, and sparking a thousand miniature rainbows from the raindrops on the hedges. Steam rose from the backs of the sheep as they grazed on the downs, and little birds splashed in the roadside puddles. There was a clean sweetness in the morning air, as the sun gained in strength, and Diana turned down the window of the car, revelling in the freshness. How could one be despondent on such an exhilarating day? How could anything go wrong?

  Her mind, suddenly anxious, turned back to the household details. Had she locked both doors? Had she switched off the cooker, the kettle and the electric fire? Had she left water as well as milk and fish for Tom? Had she remembered to put out the bread bin with a note to the baker? Was the shed unlocked so that the laundryman and the butcher could leave their deliveries? Had she put her cheque-book in her handbag, and the shopping list and the card giving particulars of her appointment? Really, going out for the day demanded a great deal of physical and mental activity before it even began, thought Diana! Perhaps she was getting old. As a young thing, she could not remember making such heavy weather over such simple preparations.

  This brought her mind back to the nagging worry which had been her constant companion for the last week or two. Could life really be so cruel? Would there be months of pain to face? Death, even? Just as retirement was in sight, and all the simple pleasures that that promised? How truly dreadful suspense was! If only she knew—even the worst could not be more torturing than this gnawing anxiety and apprehension. Well, today might supply the answer. She put her foot on the accelerator and sped forward to her fate.

  Oxford's parking problem was as formidable as ever. Diana did the usual round stoically. The car park opposite Nuffield College showed its FULL sign smugly. So did Gloucester Green's. A slow perambulation of Beaumont Street and St Giles showed a solid phalanx of cars, with not one space to be seen. Broad Street appeared equally packed, but to Diana's relief a large bearded man entered an estate car, grinned cheerfully at her to show he was about to go, and drove away, leaving her to take his place gratefully.

  The sun had dried the pavements, but the battered heads of the Roman emperors outside the Sheldonian still had one wet cheek where the sun had not yet reached it, and roofs in the shade still glistened with moisture. The city had a freshly-washed air, and a glimpse through the gates of Trinity at the cool beauty of the grass made Diana decide to collect a picnic lunch later on and take it into the hospitable grounds of St John's.

  She bought some knitting wool in Elliston and Cavell's, a pair of white sandals in Cornmarket and wandered round the market, enchanted as ever with the bustle and variety. While she was busy in these small affairs her fears were forgotten, but when she stopped for a cup of coffee at Fullers, they came crowding back again, as sinister as a cloud of black bats. If only she knew, if only she knew!

  She made herself walk briskly back to the car to deposit her shopping, doing her best to conquer her fears. She would make her way to the Ashmolean. There, among the treasures of centuries, she knew she would find peace. To be in their presence, in the tranquillity of the lovely building, put things in perspective.

  On her way she bought a ham sandwich and a banana for lunch. Not exactly a well-balanced meal, she thought with amusement, but easy to handle on a garden seat.

  Inside the museum she turned left and made her way to the room she loved most, crammed with a wonderful collection of Worcester china. As usual, it was empty, and Diana sat down on the bench and gazed about her enraptured. There was the set of yellow china she loved particularly, as sunny as primroses, as pretty as Spring itself. There were the handsome tureens and plates, the jugs and sauce-boats, which always gave her pleasure. And there was her particular pet—the little white china partridge that she greeted every time she visited the room.

  There was something very soothing about these beautiful objects. Perhaps their domestic usefulness, their perfect combination of service and splendour was of particular appeal to a woman. Whatever their magic, Diana found it of enormous solace and comfort during that dark hour of anxiety, and she went on her way to St John's in a calmer state of mind.

  She walked through the quadrangle to the gardens at the rear. Here it was very quiet. Only the pyracantha petals, falling like confetti over paths and seats, and the fluttering of a few small birds, disturbed the stillness.

  The lawns had just been mown. Stripes and swirls across the grass, where the mower had been used, were like gigantic green silk ribbons. In the borders delphiniums and peonies towered, a glory of blue, pink and cream, and in front of them clove pinks sent out their spicy fragrance.

  Diana settled herself on a seat in the sun, and took out her ham sandwich. Instantly, a robin appeared, then another and another, until four robins eyed her brightly from very near at hand. She threw them crumbs, relishing their boldness, their soft feathered rotundity, and the swiftness of their movements.

  Before long, a few more people wandered into the garden with their packets of lunch. Diana was struck by their general air of happiness. Most of them were women, faces upturned to the sunshine, half-smiling—children again in a world where flowers and birds, quietness and fragrance, took precedence, and one had time to observe, to reflect, to wonder and to be glad.

  One middle-aged woman in particular, dressed in a floral summer frock covered by a shapeless cardigan, settled not far from Diana. Her face was so serene, her happiness so apparent, that Diana began to wonder, not for the first time, if women imbibed the atmosphere of a place more quickly than men. Had they a more ready response to surroundings?

  A young girl, plain to the point of ugliness, peering through thick glasses between two swinging bunches of matted hair, suddenly knelt down on the damp path by the pinks, her arms crossed over her breast, and bent down to bury her face in them. She looked as though she were making obeisance to beauty, and when she sat back on her heels, Diana saw that her face was transformed. Sheer bliss had made her, suddenly and miraculously, into a beauty.

  Diana finished her simple meal, tidied away her rubbish and gave the last few crumbs to the attentive robins who, by now, had been joined by a hopeful band of sparrows. For a few minutes she leant back in the seat, just another middle-aged woman, enjoying the benison of June sunshine on her face, and gave herself over to the peace of the place.

  She must have dozed, for when she looked at her wrist watch she saw that it would soon be two o'clock. Reluctantly, she returned to this world, making her way towards the gate, stopping only to smell a single pink rose by the path. It seemed perfect, its petals translucent in the sunshine, cupping a glory of golden stamens; but, as she bent to smell it, Diana saw a small green maggot in its depths, and she drew back with a shudder.

  She regained the car, turned its nose northward, with a sinking heart, and began to thread her way through the traffic.

  The quiet world was behind her. Now she must face the darker side of reality with what courage she could muster.

  The specialist was a tall, lantern-jawed Scotsman, infinitely gentle and reassuring. He examined Diana with concentrated deliberation, and finally told her that the ch
ances of the growth being malignant were slight, but that he would like to have some tests made to make quite sure.

  He gave her a card to take to an Oxford hospital in the following week for this to be done, bade Diana a courteous farewell, and accompanied her to her car solicitously.

  Another delay, thought Diana, near to tears as she drove home to Fairacre. Another whole week to live through, frightened and apprehensive.

  She tried to concentrate on the words of comfort the Scotsman had given her, but doubts kept breaking in. It was very hot now, and the car seemed stifling despite having all the windows open. The distant downs shimmered in the heat.

  A dog lay panting on a cottage doorstep. His master, sitting on a wooden kitchen chair beside him, dozed with a panama hat tipped forward on his nose. Some children were coming out of the school in one of the villages. Even they appeared languid in the brilliant sunshine, drifting along, their hands brushing the long grasses by the hedge, instead of jumping and shouting as children normally do when released from their desks.

  For the last few miles of her homeward journey, Diana deliberately wrenched her mind from her troubles and tried to re-live the pleasure of the morning. She thought of the loveliness of rain-washed ancient streets and monuments, the garnered treasures in the Ashmolean, the exquisite beauty, ravishing all the senses, in the garden of St John's.

  But always, at the back of her consciousness, was the niggling fear of what might be. It reminded her of that rose—so perfect, it seemed, but with 'a worm in the bud'. A world, full of delights, was about her, but fear ate her heart, and spoilt perfection.

  Peter was home early, waiting to greet her and to hear how she had fared. He shared her dismay at yet more suspense, but did his best to cheer her.

  They sat in the garden, under the shade of the old plum tree, and sipped tea. The neighbours were very quiet, and Diana commented on it with relief.

  'They weren't half-an-hour ago,' said Peter. 'The old man met me on the doorstep when I got back. He was absolutely furious.

  'It seems that Mrs Fowler's dog got into the garden and buried a bone in his border. Heaven knows it's not all that spick and span! I should have thought he would have welcomed a bit of digging. However, he took umbrage, they evidently had a slanging match during the afternoon, and he was waiting to "complain about my tenant"!'

  'What did you do?'

  'Told him to forget it. I also told him that we were getting absolutely sick of these upsets, and that he might have to think of finding another place to live if he couldn't come to terms with things here.'

  'We certainly can't go on like this,' said Diana.

  Tom approached languorously, his tail flicking from side to side. He disliked the heat, but had stirred himself from under the shade of the lilac bushes to investigate the clinking of china and teaspoons. A saucerful of milk was always welcome.

  Diana watched him lapping, taking the milk fastidiously round the edge of the saucer. Her mind dwelt on the scene Peter had described.

  She knew why he had been so ruthless this time. He was anxious about her, and determined that nothing which he could prevent should worry her further. She herself could never have brought such pressure to bear on poor old Sergeant Burnaby, but she was glad that the words had been said. Their neighbours were fast becoming the serpent in their little Eden.

  'Worms in the bud,' quoted Diana aloud, with a sigh.

  'Where?' said Peter. 'I'll get the spray.'

  Diana laughed.

  'Just a figure of speech. Our neighbours—a canker at the heart of things—spoiling it all.'

  Peter looked grim.

  'They won't be at the heart of things much longer, if they don't mend their ways. I know we can't give them notice, but I can tell them to mend their ways. They're living on the edge of a volcano, if they did but know it, and it's liable to erupt at any moment!'

  'Perhaps they'll heed your words of warning.'

  'They'd better,' said Peter shortly.

  13. Dog Trouble

  'WHAT d'yer think of it?' enquired Mr Willet, proudly holding a small wooden structure before me. It looked like a miniature dog kennel without sides, but I guessed, accurately for once, that it was a rather superior bird-table.

  'Lovely!' I replied. 'Did you make it?'

  'Yes. It's for Mr Hale. They've got one already, and I copied it for him. Wondered if you could do with one, miss? I've got plenty of wood, and that old one I did you hasn't got a nice little roof like this. Keeps the birds' food nice and dry when it rains, this does.'

  'Yes, please. I'd love one.'

  'You can 'ave it on a stout pole, or 'ang it up by a bit of chain off of a bracket,' said Mr Willet, warming to his work. 'What say?'

  'Give me till tomorrow to decide,' I said, after some thought. 'I'll try and fix on a good spot where I can see it from the house.'

  'Fair enough,' agreed my caretaker, lodging the edifice carefully on the side desk which supports everything from models, paintings waiting to dry and large garnered objects such as a sheep's skull from the downs, bleached white and papery, down to packets of biscuits and half-sucked lollipops carefully shrouded in a scrap of grease-proof paper, awaiting their owners' attention at playtime.

  'Nice people them Hales,' went on Mr Willet conversationally. 'Friendly, but don't push in, like. For a schoolmaster he's really a very nice chap indeed. I mean, teachers can be funny old things. The women all teeth-and-britches, and the men a bit toffee-nosed, by and large.'

  He stopped suddenly, his rosy face turning an even deeper rose with embarrassment. It is not often one sees Mr Willet discomfited. I quite enjoyed the occasion.

  'There now!' he exclaimed, slapping his thigh with exasperation, 'I ought to be shot, that I ought. Talk about the tongue being an unruly member! I'm truly sorry I spoke as I done, Miss Read. I meant no offence. You're the last one to call a teeth-and-britches-madam. Why, you looked a fair picture the other night in that pink tippet you had round your throat.'

  'You're very kind,' I said, 'and don't bother your head about your very fair assessment of some of my profession. I'm glad Mr Hale passes muster.'

  'It'll teach me to guard my tongue. What a thing to say! I'll be hot and cold for weeks every time I remember it!'

  'Don't remember it then. It's not worth worrying over. If I took to heart all the bloomers I've made in my life, I should have slit my throat by now,' I assured him.

  'That Mrs Hale now, she's a real lady. Don't look very well to me though. Always busy in that house, getting it straight, you know, and only that Mrs Jones to help her once a week. They do say she's giving up. Have you heard?'

  I said that the grape-vine had not extended as far as the school house yet, but no doubt word would reach me before long.

  Mr Willet coughed delicately, and looked about him for any eavesdroppers.

  'It's like this. If Mrs Jones is leaving, my wife would dearly love a little job at Tyler's Row. She's been in good service, as you know, and we're only a few steps away. It would fit in lovely with her own bits of house-keeping. Should I mention it, do you think?'

  I felt a rare pang of envy. Mrs Willet is a sweet little mouse of a woman, wonderfully capable at running a home, discreet, kindly—in fact, the proverbial treasure. I should dearly love to have invited her to work for me, but my house is so small, needing only one morning's work a week, and Mrs Pringle, alas, already has the job. It would be open warfare to change the arrangements, even supposing Mrs Willet wished to come. I dismissed the happy dream with a sigh.

  'If Mrs Willet's agreeable,' I said, 'I don't see why not. Then it's up to Mrs Hale, if she needs her at any time. I may say, I think she's jolly lucky. There's no one in the village I should like more than your wife to work for me.'

  'Well, that's very handsome of you, miss, particularly after all I blurted out just now. Yes, my Alice is pretty good, I must say. Pretty good! I expect she'd like the chance to work for you, but then you're suited, aren't you?'

  '"
Suited" isn't the word I'd choose,' I told him. 'Let's say I am unable to alter present arrangements.'

  'Here comes the old girl now,' said Mr Willet, hurriedly picking up the bird-table. 'You let me know where you wants yours, when you've decided, and I'll be up one evening to fix it up for you.'

  'I shall look forward to that,' I told him.

  'With a smart contraption like this,' he said, smiling, 'you'll be gettin' all the fowl of the air. Tits, robins, nut-hatches, chaffinches—maybe hoopoes and peacocks!'

  'You'd better make it twice the size then,' I shouted after his retreating back.

  The week in which Diana Hale waited to go for her hospital tests seemed to be the longest of her life.

  Not that it was without incident. Mrs Jones, who had agreed to come once a week 'just to see how it goes', found that the journey made the day a long one, and having expressed her doubts about being able to continue, particularly during the winter, finally gave her notice during the week of waiting.

  Both women were genuinely sorry to part. Mrs Jones had been a faithful servant for many years, a staunch friend to the Hales and their two boys. But she was getting on in years, and Diana could see that she was wise to give up.

  'I shan't leave until you've found someone else,' declared Mrs Jones. 'But I thought you should know the minute I'd made up my mind. There'll be plenty in the village, I don't doubt, as would jump at the job.'

  'Well, I hope so,' admitted Diana, 'but it will be hard to find someone as reliable as you are.'

  She pondered the matter in bed that night, as Peter slept dreamlessly.

  Should she advertise in The Caxley Chronicle? Or would a postcard put up in Mr Lamb's Post Office be better? Or simply let him know that she was looking for domestic help?

  The night was warm, and the smell of jasmine crept sweetly through the open window. Somewhere, across the village, an owl hooted in the darkness. There seemed to be rustling sounds, too, in the garden. Tom, perhaps, stalking a poor mouse, or even hedgehogs on the prowl. They could make quite a lot of noise for such small animals.