by Miss Read
The children brought hazel nuts and walnuts to school, cracking them with their teeth, and as bright-eyed and intent as squirrels as they examined their treasures. Their fingers were stained brown with the green husks from the walnuts, and purple with the juice from late blackberries. Plums and apples from cottage gardens joined the biscuits on the side table ready for playtime refreshment. Autumn is the time of plenty, of stocking up for the lean days ahead, and Fairacre children take full advantage of nature's bounty.
So do the adults. We were all busy making plum jam and apple jelly, and keeping a sharp eye on the wild crab apples which would not be ready until later. There are several of these trees among the copses and hedges of Fairacre, and most years there is plenty of fruit for everyone. One year, however, soon after I arrived in Fairacre, there was a particularly poor crop of these lovely little apples. A newcomer to the village, one of the 'atomic wives', living in the cottage now inhabited by young Derek and his parents, was rash enough to pick the lot, much to the fury of the other good wives of Fairacre. I remember, in my innocence, attempting to be placatory, suggesting that ignorance, rather than greed, had prompted her wholesale appropriation.
'We'll learn her!' had been the vengeful cry. And they did. Perhaps it was as well that her husband was posted elsewhere after this unfortunate incident. I can't think that she really enjoyed her crab apple jelly.
There is a very neighbourly feeling about picking these wild fruits, and very few would strip a hedge of nuts or blackberries. Leaving some for the next comer is usual. It is as though the generosity of nature communicates itself to those blessed by it, and many a time I have heard the children, and their parents, recommending this hedge or that tree as the best place to try harvesting.
One of the group of elms at the corner of the playground was considered unsafe and had to come down. The children were allowed to watch the operation at a respectful distance. The two men had the small branches off, the trunk sawn through and the giant toppled, all within the hour.
It fell with a dreadful cracking sound, and thumped into Mr Roberts' field beyond. The children raised a great shout of triumph, but one of the infants grew tearful and said:
'I don't like it falling down.'
'Neither do I,' I said. We seemed to be the only two who felt saddened at the sight. Everyone else rejoiced, but I cannot see a tree felled, particularly a majestic one such as this was, without a shock of horror at the swift killing of something which has taken a hundred years or more to grow, and has given shelter and beauty to the other lives about it.
However, I was not too shattered to be grateful for some of its logs which Mr Willet procured for me. I helped him to stack them in my wood shed one afternoon after school.
The sky was that particularly intense blue which occasionally occurs in October. Across the fields, in the clear air, the trees glowed in their russet colours. It was invigorating handling the rough-barked wood, knowing that the winter's fires would be made splendid with its burning.
But it was cold too. Mr Willet, stacking the final few, blew out his moustache.
'Have a frost tonight, you'll see. Got your dahlias up?'
I had not. Mr Willet evinced no surprise.
'Shall I do 'em for you now?' he offered.
'No need. I've kept you long enough. It's time you were home.'
'That's all right. Alice has gone gadding into Caxley to a temperance meeting.'
Gadding seemed hardly the word to use under the circumstances, I felt.
'Come and have a cup of tea with me then,' I said. We stood back to admire the stack of logs before making for the kitchen.
'That baby of Mrs Coggs has got the measles, they say,' said Mr Willet, stirring his tea. 'Them others away from school?'
'Not today. I'd better look into it. Two more infants are down with it, but we're not as badly off as Bent.'
I told him what Amy had said about the possibility of the school there having to close.
'And how is your friend?' enquired Mr Willet. 'I did hear,' he added delicately, 'that she was in a bit of trouble.'
Here we were again, I thought. I had no desire to snub dear old Mr Willet, but equally I had no wish to betray Amy's confidences.
'Aren't we all in a bit of trouble, one way or the other?' I parried.
'That's true,' agreed Mr Willet. 'But you single ones don't have the same trouble as us married folk. Only got yourself to consider, you see. Any mistakes you make don't rebound on the other like. Take them dahlias.'
'What about them?'
I was relieved that we seemed to have skated away from the thin ice of Amy's affairs.
'Well, if my Alice'd forgot them dahlias, I should have cut up a bit rough, seeing what they cost. But you, not having no husband, gets off scot free.'
'Not entirely. I shall have to pay for any new ones.'
'Yes, but that's your affair. There ain't no upsets, if you see what I mean. No bad feelings. You can afford to be slap-dash and casual-like. Who's to worry?'
I laughed.
'You sound like Mrs Pringle! Am I really slap-dash and casual, Mr Willet?'
'Lor, bless you,' said Mr Willet, rising to go, 'you're the most happy-go-lucky flibbertigibbet I've ever met in all me born days! Many thanks for the tea, Miss Read. See you bright and early!'
And off he went, chuckling behind his stained moustache, leaving me dumb-founded – and with all the washing-up.
I had time to savour Mr Willet's opinion of me as I sat knitting by the fire that evening. I was amused by his matter-of-fact acceptance of my shortcomings. His remarks about the drawbacks of matrimony I also knew to be true. Any unsettled feelings I had suffered during the holidays, had quite vanished, and I realised that I was back in my usual mood of thinking myself lucky to be single.
For some unknown reason I had a sudden craving for a pancake for my supper. I had not cooked one for years, and thoroughly enjoyed beating the batter, and cutting a lemon ready for my feast. I even tossed the pancake successfully, which added to my pleasure.
If I were having to provide for a husband, I thought, tucking into my creation, a pancake would hardly be the fare to offer as a complete meal. No doubt there would be 'upsets', as Mr Willet put it. Yes, there was certainly something to be said for the simple single life. I was well content.
The fire burnt brightly. Tibby purred on the rug. At ten o'clock I stepped outside the front door before locking up. There was a touch of frost in the air, as Mr Willet had forecast, and the stars glittered above the elm trees. Somewhere in the village a dog yelped, and near at hand there was a rustling among the dry leaves as some small nocturnal animal set out upon its foraging.
With my lungs full of clear cold air I went indoors and made all fast. I was in my petticoat when the telephone rang.
It was Amy. She sounded incoherent, and quite unlike her usual composed self.
'James has had an accident. I'm not sure where. In the car, I mean, and the girl, Jane, with him, I'm just off.'
'Where is he?'
'Somewhere near Salisbury, in a hospital. I've got the address scribbled down.'
'Shall I come with you?'
'No, no, my dear. I only rang because I felt someone should know where I was. Mrs Bennet's not on the phone, and anyway, as you know, she's ill. I must go.'
'Tell me,' I said, wondering how best to put it, 'is he much damaged?'
'I don't know. They told me nothing really. The hospital people found his address on him and simply rang me to say he was there. He's unconscious – they did say that.'
I felt suddenly very cold. "Was this the dreadful way that Amy's affairs were to be settled?
'Amy,' I urged, 'do let me come with you, please.'
I could hear her crying at the other end. It was unendurable.
'No. You're sweet, but I must go alone. I'll be careful, I promise. And I'll ring you first thing tomorrow morning when I know more.'
'I understand,' I said. 'Good luck, my love, and
call on me if there's anything I can do to help.'
We hung up. Mechanically, I got ready for the night and climbed into bed, but there was no hope of sleeping.
I think I heard every hour strike from the church tower, as I lay there imagining Amy on her long sad journey westward, pressing on through the darkness with a chill at her heart more cruel than the frosts around her.
What awaited Amy at the end of that dark road?
19 James Comes Home
AFTER my disturbed night I was late in waking. Fortunately, it was Saturday, and my time was my own.
I went shakily about the household chores, alert for the telephone bell and a message from Amy.
Outside, a wind had sprung up, rattling the rose against the window and ruffling the feathers of the robin on the bird table. Frost still whitened the grass, but great grey clouds, scudding from the west, promised rain before long with milder weather on the way.
The hands of the clock crept from nine to ten, from ten to eleven, and still nothing happened. My imagination ran riot. Was James dying? Or dead, perhaps, and Amy too distraught to think of such things as telephone calls? And what about the girl? Was she equally seriously injured? And what result would this accident have upon all three people involved?
I made my mid-morning coffee and drank more than half before realising that the milk was still waiting in the saucepan. A shopping list progressed by fits and starts, as I made one entry and then gazed unseeingly through the window.
Suddenly, the bell rang, and I was about to lift the receiver when I realised that it was the back door bell.
Mrs Pringle stood on the doorstep holding a fine cabbage.
'Thought you could do with it,' she said. 'I was taking the school tea towels over the kitchen so thought I'd kill two birds with one stone.'
I thanked her and asked if she would like some coffee.
'Well, now,' she said graciously, 'I don't mind if I do.'
I very nearly retorted, as an ex-landlady of mine used to do when encountering this phrase:
'And I don't mind if you don't!' but I bit it back.
Mrs Pringle seated herself at the kitchen table, loosening her coat and rolling her hand-knitted gloves into a tidy ball.
I switched on the stove to heat the milk again. As one might expect, it was at this inconvenient moment that the telephone bell rang.
'Make the coffee when it's hot,' I cried to Mrs Pringle, and rushed into the hall.
It was Amy.
She sounded less distraught than the night before, but dog-tired.
'Sorry to be so late in ringing, but I thought I'd wait until the doctor had seen James, so that I had more news to tell you.'
'And what is it?'
'He's round this morning, but still in a good deal of pain. The collar bone is broken and a couple of ribs cracked, and he's complaining of internal pains. Still, he's all right, the doctor says, and can be patched up.'
'What about his head? Did he have concussion?'
I was suddenly conscious of Mrs Pringle's presence and, without doubt, her avid interest in the side of the conversation she could hear. Too pointed to close the kitchen door, I decided, and anyway too late.
'Yes. He was knocked out, and has a splitting head this morning, but, thank God, he'll survive.'
'Now, my dear, would you do something for me?'
'Of course. Say the word.'
'Could you pop over to Bent and take some steak out of the slow oven? Like an ass, I forgot it in the hurry last night. It's been stewing there for about fourteen hours now, so will probably be burnt to a frazzle.'
'What shall I do with it?'
'Let Tibby have it, if it's any use. Otherwise, chuck it out. And would you sort out the perishables in the fridge? And cancel the milk and bread? I'm sorry to bother you with all this, but I've decided to stay nearby. There's a comfortable hotel and James won't be able to be moved for a bit. Mrs Bennet isn't on the phone, and I don't like to worry her anyway while she's ill.'
I said I would go over immediately, scribbled down her forwarding address, and was about to put down the receiver when, luckily, Amy remembered to tell me where the spare key was.
'I've moved it from under the watering-can,' explained Amy, 'and now you'll find it inside one of those old-fashioned earthenware honey pots, labelled CARPET TACKS, on the top shelf at the left-hand side of the garden shed.'
I sent my love and sympathy to James.
'I'll ring again tomorrow,' promised Amy, and then the line went dead.
Mrs Pringle looked up expectantly as I returned, but I was not to be drawn.
'Have a biscuit, Mrs Pringle,' I said proffering the tin.
She selected a Nice biscuit with care. It was obviously a poor substitute for a morsel of hot news, but it had to do.
***
Half an hour later, I was on my way to Amy's, and it was only then that I remembered that nothing had been said about James's companion – Jane, wasn't it? What, I wondered, had happened to her?
The wind buffeted the car as I drove southward. The sheep were huddled together against the hedges, finding what shelter they could. Pedestrians were bent double against the onslaught, clutching hats and head-scarves, coat-tails flapping. Cyclists tacked dangerously to and fro across the road, dogs, exhilarated by the wind, bounded from verges, and children, screaming with excitement, tore after them.
The leaves of autumn, torn from the trees, fluttered down like showers of new pennies, sticking to the wind-screen, the bonnet, and plastering the road with their copper brightness. Amy's drive was littered with twigs and tiny cones from the fir tree which must have caught the full brunt of some particularly violent gust.
I found the key in the honey pot, and went indoors. A rich aroma of stewed beef greeted me, and my first duty was to rescue the casserole. Amazingly, it still had some liquor in it, and the meat had fallen into deliciously tender chunks. I decided that I should share this largesse with Tibby that evening.
Amy's refrigerator was far better stocked than mine, and much more tidy. There was little to remove – some milk, a portion of apricot pie, four sardines on a saucer, just the usual flotsam and jetsam of daily catering.
There were a few letters which I re-addressed, and then I wrote notes to the baker and milkman, before going round the house to make sure that the windows were shut and that any radiators were left at a low heat.
All seemed to be in order. I checked switches, locked doors, and took a final walk around Amy's garden, before replacing the key. It was while I was on my tour of inspection, that I saw a man battling his way from the gate.
He look surprised to see me.
'Oh, good morning! My name's John Bennet. My wife works here and asked me to come and see everything's all right.'
I asked after her.
'Getting on, but it's knocked all the stuffing out of her. These children's complaints are no joke when you're getting on.'
'So I believe. Don't worry about the house. Mrs Garfield asked me to look in. She's been called away.'
'Yes, we knew she must have been. That's why I came up. My sister, who lives just down the road from us, saw her setting off last night – very late it was – and looking very worried. My sister was taking out the dog, and guessed something must be up.'
I had imagined that Mrs Bennet had been concerned for any possible gale damage, but now revised my views.
'Mr Garfield,' I explained, 'has had a car accident, but is getting on quite well, I gather, and should be home before long. Tell Mrs Bennet not to worry. I'll keep an eye on the place while she's laid up, and if she wants to get in touch tell her to phone me.'
We took a final turn round the windy garden together before parting. All seemed well.
I got back into the car and set off for home, marvelling, yet again, at the extraordinary efficiency of bush telegraph in rural areas.
The gales continued for the rest of the week, and the children were as mad as hatters in consequence.
Wind is worse than any other element, I find, for causing chaos in a classroom. Snow, of course, is dramatic, and needs to be inspected through the windows at two-minute intervals to see if it is laying'. But this is something which occurs relatively seldom in school hours.
Sunshine and rain are accepted equably, but a good blustery wind which bangs doors, rattles windows, blows papers to the floor, and the breath from young bodies, is a fine excuse for boisterous behaviour.
Up here, on the downs, the wind is a force to be reckoned with. Not long ago, an elm tree crashed across the roof of St Patrick's church, and caused so much damage that the village was hard put to it to raise the money for its repair. Friends from near and far rallied to Fairacre's support, and the challenge was met, but we all, (and Mr Willet, in particular, who strongly suspects any elm tree of irresponsible falling-about through sheer cussedness), watch our trees with some apprehension when the gales come in force.
The only casualty this time, as far as I knew, was a venerable damson tree in Ernest's garden. He brought the remaining fruit to school in a paper bag, and the small purple plums were shared out among his school fellows.
I watched this generous act with some trepidation. Damsons, even when plentifully sugared, are as tart a fruit as one could wish to meet. To see the children scrunching them raw made me shudder, but apart from one or two who complained that 'they give them cat-strings' or 'turned their teeth all funny', Ernest's largesse was much enjoyed.
My own share arrived in the form of a little pot of damson cheese, made by Ernest's mother, and for this I was truly thankful.
Apart from fierce cross-draughts, and a continuous whistling one from the skylight above my desk, we were further bedevilled by smoke from the tortoise stove. Even Mrs Pringle, who can control our two monsters at a touch, confessed herself beaten, so that we worked with eyes sore with smoke and much coughing – most of it affected – and plenty of smuts floating in the air.