by Miss Read
At the meeting of the Women's Institute, held in the garden of the vicarage, by kind permission of Mrs Partridge, Diana heard more theories put forward.
'Malaria,' boomed Mrs Pringle, resplendent in a navy blue straw hat decorated with a white duck's wing on the brim. 'It comes of visiting foreign parts. Mind you, Sergeant Burnaby was bound to go, being a soldier and under orders, but when I see the risks people run taking these holidays abroad among the foreigners and the germs and the water-not-fit-to-drink, I fairly trembles for them. And paying good money too to ruin their health!'
Mrs Mawne had heard, she told Diana over the teacups, that he was not expected to live. Pneumonia, wasn't it, and some virulent infection of the lungs? And what, if it wasn't being too premature, did the Hales propose to do about the cottage? If they were going to let it, until Mrs Fowler's became vacant too, she knew of a delightful couple, very musical, one with the flute and the other with the trumpet, who would make charming neighbours.
Mrs Johnson, hovering on the verge of the conversation, said that her husband knew of several young men, working with him at the atomic power station, who would be glad to rent a little place, no matter how primitive and inconvenient, until they could find better accommodation.
And the vicar too, amazingly enough, took Diana to admire his yellow roses, and in comparative privacy, away from the crowd of women, broached the subject of Sergeant Burnaby and his home.
'It sounds as though the poor fellow will be called to higher things before long,' he began, and before Diana could refute this statement, he continued.
'You may know that our infants' teacher at the village school has had to retire. Of course, the advertisement is in The Teachers' World and The Times Educational Supplement, and we hope to have a number of applicants. Accommodation is always such a problem for these young single women. In the old days, one could count on lodgings here and there, but there is no one, simply no one, who will board a girl in the village. Anyway, most of the young people seem to want to do for themselves, and Sergeant Burnaby's little place would be absolutely suitable, if you decide to let.'
'There is no question of it,' said Diana, with unaccustomed vigour. 'There is still a chance of the sergeant returning. As far as I know, he will be discharged from hospital in the next week or two. Friends are going to offer to have him with them, I believe, but he is an independent old man, as you know, and if he wants to return, then of course he must. In any case, at some time in the future we hope to incorporate the two end cottages into our own house.'
The vicar looked crest-fallen.
'Quite, quite! I felt I must mention the matter to you, as wc shall be holding our interviews before long, and a little cottage, such as yours, would be an added attraction to the post.'
Two more people approached Diana, before the meeting ended, to enquire about Sergeant Burnaby and to broach the subject of renting his cottage. Diana began to feel hunted, and was relieved when she could get away, and walk through the village to Tyler's Row.
On her way, she called at the Post Office. A woman, whom she had not seen before, was chattering to Mr Lamb.
'Poor old soul,' she was saying, 'and to think those new folk have driven him out of his own home! Want to add it to their own, I hear. Can you believe it? The way some people—'
Mr Lamb, getting rosier in the face every minute, broke in upon the torrent of words.
'This is the lady who lives at Tyler's Row now, Mrs Strong.'
The woman had the grace to look abashed, but her ready tongue continued its work.
'We lived there for a time as children, me and my brothers. I was talking over old times with Mr Lamb here.'
Diana nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
'Well, I must be off. Takes a good twenty minutes over the hill to Springbourne.'
Mr Lamb and Diana watched her depart in silence. It was plain to the postmaster that Diana had heard every word. He spoke comfortingly.
'I shouldn't take any notice of what Effie Strong says, ma'am. She's got a tongue as reaches from here to Caxley.'
'I only hope that other people aren't thinking as she is. My husband and I are fond of Sergeant Burnaby, and hope he will soon be fit enough to come home. You may tell anyone this who is spreading such dreadful rumours.'
'There won't be any need,' Mr Lamb assured her. 'Fairacre's a shockin' place for gossip, but in their hearts people know the truth.'
And with this crumb of comfort, Diana had to be content.
Peter's comments were much the same.
'Let 'em tittle-tattle. We know we've nothing to reproach ourselves about. Dammit, the old boy might have snuffed it, if you hadn't gone to the rescue! If he's pining to come back and can manage on his own again, then he must have the place, of course.'
He paused to sneeze, fifteen times in quick succession.
'Those blasted pinks!' he gasped. 'But let's hope,' he continued, 'that Fate protects us from him after all.'
Honesty was one of Peter Hale's strongest virtues.
18. End of Term
FAIRACRE School said goodbye to Mrs Bonny with genuine regret.
The last few days of term had been over-shadowed by the problem of what to buy for her leaving present. All negotiations had to be conducted in secrecy, and many a sibilant whispering in my ear had driven me close to hysterics-by-tickling.
Ernest had suggested a silver tea-service. Someone had received such a gift after fifty years in the Caxley Borough offices, and no doubt the photograph in The Caxley Chronicle inspired Ernest's suggestion. "When I pointed out the probable price, it was generally agreed that such richness was beyond our resources.
Joseph Coggs nobly offered a pair of rabbits, as his doe had just had a litter of eight, and was willing to make a hutch to house them if he could get a wooden box from the stores. I was much touched by this generous offer, but felt that Mrs. Bonny might find it embarrassing. Joseph and I discussed the matter solemnly, and he agreed that transporting them would be exceedingly difficult, and that the sea air might not agree with country bred rabbits. Regretfully, the children turned down Joseph's suggestion, though there were plenty of offers to have any surplus rabbits for themselves, if Joseph wanted homes.
The girls' suggestions were rather uninspired, running to such things as scent, handkerchiefs and boxes of chocolates. The boys were outspokenly scornful.
'Has them for Christmas!'
'Scent! Proper soppy!'
'She don't eat chocolate. I know, 'cos she didn't want a bite off my Mars bar Thursday.'
'We wants to give her summat that'll last,' said Patrick. 'Like a tray.'
This inspired suggestion was greeted in respectful silence. It was Joseph Coggs who broke it.
'A tray'd be just right. We could get a little 'un for by her bed, or a big 'un for carrying out the washing up.'
I thought Patrick's idea was quite the best we had heard, and promised to go shopping in Caxley on Saturday on their behalf.
'Two-eighty us 'as got,' Ernest impressed upon me. 'Should get a good 'un for that. I suppose if you saw a real smasher for three pounds us might put a bit more towards it.'
I said I would be happy to add a little extra, but Ernest, brought up in a strict evangelical home, would have none of it.
'No, no! That's not right. You got enough to do with your money. It's the school's present, this is.'
Has he, I wondered, ever seen me rifling the Oxo tin when hard pressed? In any case, I admired his honourable outlook, and said I would do my best with the resources available.
That settled, we were able to cope with end-of-term activities such as Sports Day—refreshment tent under the kind supervision of the Parent-Teacher Association—clearing out cupboards, dismantling the nature table, writing reports, checking stock and so on.
Mrs Bonny was delighted, on the last afternoon, with her present of a sturdy carved oak tray, responded charmingly to the vicar's little speech, and invited us all to visit her whenever we were in h
er area.
Fairacre School broke up in a clamour of well-wishing, and the children streamed down the lane, shouting with exhilaration at the prospect of almost seven weeks of freedom.
Those mothers who had come to collect their offspring looked rather less joyous, I noticed.
One morning, in the early part of the holidays, I was wandering happily round the garden enjoying the morning sunshine. There is something wonderful about being free and outdoors at ten o'clock in the morning, when normally one is facing decimals or life in Anglo-Saxon England.
I was admiring my sweet williams and trying to persuade myself that they would do another year without splitting them when a car drew up, and out leapt Gerard Baker.
The passenger's door opened, and to my surprise, Vanessa emerged. She was actually smiling.
'Hello,' shouted Gerard. 'I'm Aloysius-hunting.'
'Well, he's not here,' I told him, 'but how lovely to see you both. Come and sit in the sun.'
'I came along for the ride,' said Vanessa, by way of explanation. 'Gerard brought Aunt Amy a book this morning, and offered me a lift. I feel rather a fraud. I'm sure I should never be able to do research on anything at all.'
She looked with open admiration at Gerard. This was the longest speech I had ever heard Vanessa utter. Gerard Baker certainly seemed to work miracles.
'Rubbish!' said Gerard. 'You've a very good brain. I'm going to ask you to make notes on this morning's discoveries. I'm sure you'll do it beautifully.'
He spoke briskly, like a kindly schoolmaster to a dim but striving pupil. I had to admit that the treatment seemed to be working.
'We've really called for directions. Can you tell us where Tyler's Row is? And do you think the people there will let us look at the cottage?'
I told him about Sergeant Burnaby's illness, and about the Hales who would be next door.
'But you simply must visit Mr Willet in the village before you go,' I said. 'He's the real authority on Loyshus. He had to sit through hours of his poem-readings. A real case of "And did you once see Shelley plain?".'
'Does Shelley come into it?' asked Vanessa.
'A quotation,' explained Gerard. 'Shelley lived some time before Aloysius.'
'And wrote rather better poetry,' I added. 'Have some coffee.'
'Now, that's real poetry,' said Gerard. 'I didn't have breakfast this morning.'
'Why ever not?' demanded Vanessa, looking protective. 'It's very wrong to miss breakfast. It sets you up for the day, and burns up all sorts of toxic whatnots.'
'You,' I said accusingly, 'have been listening to Aunt Amy. I bet she's on another dieting bout.'
'She is.'
They followed me into the kitchen, Gerard giving little grunts of appreciation as he came.
'This Victorian Gothic period is really due for a come-back. The windows of your school are perfect, and I love that pointed doorway.'
'Draughty,' I told him.
'And this house! A perfect period piece. What lovely wide window-sills!'
'I had those put in ten years ago.'
Gerard was unabashed, and peered round the kitchen door interestedly.
'Oh, but you've modernised this! What a pity!'
'The Beatrice stove wore out,' I said, 'and the kitchen range needed to be burnished daily with emery paper, and black-leaded as well. Life wasn't long enough. Filling oil lamps, and trimming wicks, took more time than I could spare too.'
'Yes, I suppose so. No doubt, electricity does make things simpler.'
But he sounded disappointed nevertheless.
Over coffee, Vanessa told us that she was hoping to get a post at an hotel in Scotland in the early autumn.
'More fun than an office, and I can use my typing and bookkeeping, as well as meeting lots of people, and helping to look after them. Meanwhile, Aunt Amy says I can stay at Bent as long as I like, or I can go home. I feel terribly lazy, but better in health since I've been here.'
And in spirits, was my unspoken comment. Clearly, the middle-aged philanderer was fast being forgotten.
'You just want to find as many interests as possible,' advised Gerard, 'until you get snapped up in matrimony in about six months' time.'
Vanessa turned great soulful eyes upon him.
'I shall never marry,' she told him earnestly. 'Never.'
'Don't you believe it,' was the robust reply. 'If you aren't the adored wife of some nice young man, with a baby in a pram on the lawn, within two years, I'll eat my new Irish tweed deer-stalker.'
Vanessa shook her dark head sadly.
'Come on, my dear,' said Gerard, jumping up. 'Work to do. The notebook's waiting for you in the car, and we must be off to Tyler's Row and Mr Willet.'
'Good luck with Loyshus!' I called after them, as they proceeded, with a series of alarming reports from the exhaust, towards the village.
A day or two later, I met Mr Willet as I went to buy my groceries.
'Very nice couple you sent me,' he said, leaning over his gate. 'They thinking of gettin' wed?'
'I shouldn't think so.'
'Ah well! Might be a case of May and December, though he's a clever man there's no denying.'
'I'm sure you were able to tell him quite a lot about. Aloysius.'
'A tidy bit. He wanted to know what he looked like.
"Proper mess," I told him. "Gravy stains all down 'is front, and none too fragrant behind the ears." 'E never 'ad a bath, you know, Miss Read, not for months and months towards the end.'
'He might have done if he'd had a bathroom.'
'A bathroom!' echoed Mr Willet, with scorn. 'None of us had no bathrooms, but we all kep' clean. We heaved the old tub in afore the kitchen fire of a Saturday night, and got out the scrubbing brush, and a chunk of yellow soap chopped off of the bar with the coal shovel, and we fair went to town. But not ol' Loyshus, not him!'
'Did Mr Baker see his cottage, do you know?'
'Yes, Mrs Hale took him in herself. That gal of his took a shine to it. Said she'd like to live there herself.'
'I wonder.'
'Tell you what, though,' said Mr Willet, lowering his voice. 'That Mr Baker don't know a thing about gardening. I was takin' him round the vegetables, and he never knew peas from carrots. What's more, when I was talking about my Kelvedon Wonder he kept looking across at my border and saying: "Which flowers are they?" It shook me, I can tell you. Been to school, and college too, I hear, and don't recognise Kelvedon Wonder. Makes you think about raisin' the school leavin' age, don't it? I mean, if a boy don't know about Kelvedon Wonder by fifteen, when's he going to?'
I thought the subject should be changed swiftly, as I was not too sure about Kelvedon Wonder myself, and asked him to come and have a look at the school skylight some time before term started.
'I'll do that,' he assured me, 'though you knows as well as I do that that dam' skylight's let water in for nigh on a hundred years, and ain't likely to stop now, unless we takes the bull by the horns one day and boards it over. That'd settle it!'
His eye brightened at the thought of vanquishing his old enemy, and I left him to his dreams.
Diana Hale was weeding the herbaceous border which ran down the garden, against the hedge which divied Mrs Fowler's garden from her own. On the whole, it had recovered very well from the onslaught of Mr Robert's cows, and certainly the front of the border flourished.
But Diana was puzzled about the plants at the back. The tall delphiniums and lupins, the red-hot pokers and lofty Michaelmas daisies were looking decidedly peaky, and the leaves were turning brown. No doubt, Diana told herself, the old hawthorn hedge which had been there for so many years was the culprit, taking nourishment from the soil to the detriment of the newcomers. Nevertheless, it was perplexing.
As she pondered on the problem, Tom strolled through from Mrs Fowler's garden. Mrs Fowler appeared too, looking grim. Diana thought it might be a propitious time for extending the olive branch, and greeted her cheerfully.
'Lovely morning, Mrs Fowler. Are
you well?'
'Mustn't grumble, I suppose,' said she, doing just that, from her tone.
'I do apologise for Tom. I hope he's not a nuisance to you. It's so difficult keeping a cat on his own premises.'
'Those of us with dogs has to,' commented Mrs Fowler tardy, 'or they gets criticised.'
She whisked indoors, and Diana resumed her weeding, very conscious that her olive branch had been thrown in her face.
Some days later, Tom was sick.
'What's he had for breakfast?' asked Peter, holding the shovel, a look of intense distaste on his face.
'Some new stuff, Pussi-luvs.'
'Well, ours doesn't obviously. I should throw the tin away. We don't get this trouble very often, thank God. The old boy's got a digestion like an ostrich's.'
A few days after this, Tom was sick again, and Diana was perturbed.
'Shall we get the vet?'
'No, don't bother him. He's obviously all right as soon as the stuff's out of the poor old chap. Has he had that rubbish again?'
'Pussi-luvs? No, just a morsel of liver this morning. He likes that normally.'
Tom's spirits certainly recovered quickly after the mishap, and nothing more occurred in the day or two before the Hales were due to set off on their brief holiday.
Kitty, their former neighbour in Caxley, was having Tom for the duration. He and Charlie could renew their friendship and their suburban hunting together.
Diana told Kitty about the mysterious attacks, but Kitty was reassuring.
'I'll watch his diet, don't worry. He probably picked up some mouse or shrew that had been sprayed with an insecticide—something of that nature. You two go off and enjoy your break. Tom will be happy enough here.'
Diana was unusually silent as they drove back to Tyler's Row. Kitty's remark about picking up something poisonous had started an alarming train of thought. Those flowers against the dividing hedge, the implacable malice with which her greetings were returned, could they really be clues to something sinister which was going on? Could anyone, even someone as spiteful as Mrs Fowler obviously was, set out to hurt an unsuspecting animal, simply because it trespassed?