(11/20) Farther Afield

by Miss Read

  Amy rang twice during the few days after the accident. The car, she said, on the first occasion, was beyond repair and James had been lucky to escape so lightly.

  'And Jane?' I dared to ask.

  'Simply treated here for superficial cuts on her face and a sprained wrist. She'd gone home by the time I arrived, fetched by mother. At least she'd had the sense to be wearing her seat belt. It saved her from hitting her head on the windscreen which is what happened to James.'

  'And how is he?'

  'Still running a temperature, which the doctor thinks is rather peculiar, I gather. He's very restless, and in pain, poor thing. He was terribly worried about Jane, but they've put his mind at rest about that.'

  'Any chance of bringing him home?'

  'They don't seem in any hurry to get rid of him. He's been strapped up and the collar bone set, and so on. And I'm afraid his beauty has been spoiled, at least for a time, as a little slice was cut off the end of his nose by the glass of the windscreen.'

  'Oh, poor James!'

  'He doesn't care about the look of it, but curses most horribly whenever he needs to blow it.'

  I sent my sympathy, assured Amy that all was well at Bent, and we rang off.

  I had not mentioned it to my old friend, but this was the evening when I had undertaken to give a talk to Fairacre Women's Institute about our holiday in Crete.

  Accordingly, soon after her telephone call, I dressed in my best and warmest garments and got ready for my ordeal. The Mawnes had promised to bring a projector and I had looked out my slides into some semblance of order. Amy had offered her own collection, but under the circumstances, I had to make do with my inferior efforts. Luckily, the brilliant Cretan light had guaranteed success with almost all the exposures.

  The village hall was gratifyingly full and a beautiful flower arrangement graced the W.I. tablecloth. Listening to the minutes, from the front row, I studied its form. This was obviously the handiwork of one of 'the floral ladies', expert in arrangement of colour and form with no 'Oasis' visible at all, as is usual with us lesser mortals. The whole thing had been fixed, with artistic cunning, to a mossy piece of wood, and I was so busy trying to work out how it was done, that it came as a severe shock to hear my name called and to be obliged to take the floor.

  I began by a brief description of our journey out, and of the attractions of the hotel. The projector, operated by Mr Mawne, worked splendidly for he had brought the correct plug for the village hall socket, a rare occurrence on these occasions, and we were all duly impressed at such efficiency and foresight.

  The vivid colours of the Cretan landscape were even more impressive on a grey October evening. The animals evoked cries of admiration, although someone commented that the R.S.P.C.A. would never have let a poor little donkey that small, hump a great load like that! I had to explain that, despite appearances, those four wispy legs beneath the piles of brushwood were really not suffering from hardship and that the load was light in weight.

  Knossos, of course, brought forth the most enthusiastic response. The great red pillars and the beautiful flights of stairs made spectacular viewing, and the frescoes of dolphins and bulls were much admired. Even the topless ladies were accepted, except for one gasp of shock from Mrs Pringle in the front row.

  I ended in good time, for I had seen Mrs Willet go quietly into the kitchen to attend to the boiling water in the urn, and knew that coffee break was scheduled.

  My final word was of thanks to Mr Mawne, who had so nobly coped with the projector, and to whom I felt I owed an apology as I had been unable to photograph the Cretan hawk for him.

  At this, Mr Mawne came forward and began a description of the elusive bird. I must say, his grasp of the subject was profound, and by the time he had described its appearance in detail, its habits, its mode of flight and its diet, a good many ladies were consulting their wrist watches while Mrs Willet hovered by the kitchen door, coffee pot in hand.

  Meanwhile, I had sat down in the front row beside Mrs Pringle, the better to enjoy Mr Mawne's impromptu discourse. It is this off-the-cuff situation which gives village meetings their particular flavour. Who wants to stick to such a dreary thing as an agenda? As everyone knows, the real business takes place on the way home, or an hour after the meeting finished, in the local pub.

  Henry Mawne was just about to begin on the breeding habits and nesting sites of the hawk, and had broken off to suggest that he would just slip down to his house to fetch a reference book on the subject, if the ladies were agreeable, when Mrs Partridge, as President, bravely rose and checked the flow with her usual charm and aplomb. What was more, she invited her old friend to speak at one of the monthly meetings next year about any of his favourite birds.

  'I am sure that they will soon be our favourites as well,' she finished, with a disarming smile, and Henry resumed his seat, flushed with pleasure, while Mrs Willet hastened to bring in the coffee amidst general relief.

  I was presented with the magnificent flower arrangement, so that, all in all, the evening was a resounding success.

  Amy's second call came soon after I returned from school the next day.

  'There's a bit of a panic here,' said Amy calmly. 'Don't laugh, but poor James has the measles?

  'Oh no! As though he hasn't enough to put up with.'

  'Exactly. I suppose he picked it up when he was at home recently. Mrs Bennet was about in the house then. It might have been contact with her. But there, it could have been anyone! The point is, the hospital people seem dead anxious to get rid of him before he gives it to the rest of the ward, so they tell me he is fit enough to go home tomorrow.'

  'I bet he's pleased.'

  'He is. So am I. It's funny they didn't spot this rash earlier, but I think they put it down to a fairly common reaction to anti-biotics, and in any case, he hasn't got a great many spots.'

  'Can I do anything this end?'

  'Yes, please. Could you turn up the heating, and get some milk and bread for us? I'll shop the next day when he's settled in.'

  I said I could do whatever was needed.

  'He's still at the soup and egg-and-milk stage. A front tooth was knocked out, which gives him a piratical look, and his mouth hurts him quite a bit.'

  'He sounds as though he's taken quite a pasting.'

  'Well, evidently he was turning right, and a van was coming behind him pretty swiftly, and James caught the full force of the impact. Luckily, nothing too serious seems to have resulted apart from the collarbone and ribs. It's just that he looks rather odd with his sliced nose and gappy smile. And, of course, it is rather ignominious to have the measles in your fifties! In fact, rather a humiliating end altogether to what was going to be a glamorous few days in Devonshire.'

  'Does he feel that?' I asked hesitantly.

  'Yes, he certainly does,' said Amy. 'Wasn't it Moliere who said: "One may have no objection to being wicked, but one hates to be ridiculous"? Well, that sums up James's feelings at the moment.'

  The pips went for the second time, and I felt we should terminate our conversation.

  'What time do you expect to be home?'

  'During the late afternoon, I imagine. We'll have to see the doctor here, and I shall drive slowly. The poor old thing is pretty battered and bruised. He'll go straight to bed, of course.'

  I said that I would put hot bottles in the beds, and we rang off.

  An hour or so later, I drove over to Bent to do my little duties.

  I took with me a few late roses to cheer the invalid's room, and half a dozen of Mrs Pringle's new-laid eggs.

  On the way, I left a message at the dairy and collected a brown loaf. The house struck pleasantly warm when I entered, but I duly turned up the heating and set a fire ready in the sitting room for Amy to light on her return.

  There was little else to do except to fill the hot-water bottles and to transfer the few letters from the floor to the hall table. I was home again by eight o'clock to join Tibby by my own fire.

 
Leg upraised, she washed herself industriously, spitting out little balls of goosegrass on to the hearthrug. As cat-slave, I transferred them meekly from the rug to the fire, my thoughts with Amy and James.

  They were much in my mind throughout lessons the next day. Soon after five, Amy rang to thank me for my ministrations.

  'What sort of journey?'

  'Better than I thought. He stood it very well, and feels easier now that he's in his own bed. His temperature is almost back to normal. I shall get our own doctor to call in tomorrow, but I think he'll mend fast now.'

  There was relief and happiness in Amy's voice which I had not heard for many months.

  And I knew, as Amy certainly must know, that, in every sense of the expression, James had come home.

  20 The Final Scene

  THE autumn gales gave way to a spell of quiet grey weather, and we were all mightily relieved. The stoves behaved properly, the children almost as well, and their parents finished tidying their gardens and generally set about preparations for the winter ahead.

  Mist veiled the downs from sight. It hung, swirling sluggishly, in the lanes, and everything outdoors was damp to touch. Flagged paths and steps glistened, little droplets hung on the hedges, and nothing stirred.

  All sound was muffled. Mr Roberts' sheep, in the field across the playground, sounded as though they bleated from as far away as Beech Green. The dinner van purred to a halt as mellifluously as a Rolls. Even the children's voices, as they played up and down the coke pile, were pleasantly muffled.

  The measles epidemic seemed to be on the wane. Children returned, a little peaky perhaps, and certainly with tiresome coughs which persisted long after they were pronounced cured, but seemingly ready for work and secretly glad, I suspected, to have something to occupy them.

  James's measles, and his general injuries, kept him resting for some time after his return home. Amy rang me one evening when I was busy with the local paper.

  'Getting on quite well,' she replied in answer to my en-quiries. 'But I really rang about something quite different. Have you seen the paper today?'

  'I'm holding it.'

  'Good. Look at page fourteen.'

  'Hang on while I turn it over.'

  I spread the paper on the hall floor and turned the pages.

  'What about it?' I asked.

  'Well, look at the photograph!'

  Amy sounded impatient. I looked obligingly at some twenty photographs of local houses. At least six pages of The Caxley Chronicle are devoted to housing advertisements.

  'Which one?'

  'What do you mean, which one? There is only one.'

  'On page fourteen? It's one of the advertisement pages. There are about two dozen photographs.'

  There was an ominous silence. When Amy spoke next it was in the quiet controlled voice of a teacher driven to desperation by some particularly obtuse pupil.

  'Which paper are you looking at?'

  'The Caxley Chronicle. You said 'The Paper'. On Thursday, naturally, 'The Paper' is the local one.'

  'I didn't mean that thing!' Amy shouted, with exasperation. 'How parochially minded can you get? Look at The Daily Telegraph.'

  'I shall have to fetch it,' I said huffily. 'I haven't had time to look at it yet.'

  I found page fourteen in the right periodical, and called excitedly down the telephone.

  'Yes! Good heavens! Gerard!'

  'As you say, "Good heavens, Gerard!" What do you think of that?'

  The photograph showed a pretty woman in a fur coat holding hands with Gerard, who was looking remarkably smug and had a wisp of hair standing up in the wind like a peewit's crest.

  Underneath it said:

  "Miss Hattie May, the well-known musical comedy actress, after her marriage to Mr Gerard Baker at Caxton Hall."

  'It's staggering, isn't it?' I said. 'And they've even got the names right!'

  'It's not the reporters I'm concerned with,' said Amy severely, 'it's poor Vanessa. What will she be feeling?'

  'I don't imagine she'll be too upset,' I said. 'I never did think she was in love with him.'

  This was plain speaking, but I was still smarting from Amy's high-handedness about parochial minds.

  'I don't expect a single woman like you to be particularly sensitive to a young girl's reaction to an attractive and mature man like Gerard,' said Amy, with hauteur. She was obviously going to return blow with blow, no doubt to the enjoyment of the telephone operator. I determined not to be drawn. In any case, I had some gingerbread in the oven and it was beginning to smell 'most sentimental', as Kipling said. This was no time for a brawl.

  'Look, Amy,' I said swiftly. I honestly think Vanessa is completely heart-whole – at least, as far as Gerard is concerned, so don't upset yourself on her behalf.'

  Amy accepted the olive branch and spoke graciously.

  'I hope you're right. You often are,' she added generously. 'I wondered if I should ring her at the hotel, but perhaps I'll wait.'

  'Good idea,' I said, trying to keep the relief from my voice.

  Amy, in meddlesome mood, is dangerous. 'No doubt, she would prefer to get in touch with you.'

  'Yes, yes, that's so!' agreed Amy. She sounded thoughtful.

  I rang off before she could start the discussion again, and made swiftly for the oven. The gingerbread could not have stood another two minutes.

  I discovered, with some surprise, that half-term occurred the next weekend. So much had happened already this term, that I had not really collected my wits sufficiently to look ahead. What with Amy's affairs, the last trivial discomforts of my own injuries, Mrs Pringle's tribulations, the measles and the ordinary run of day-to-day school events, time had whirled by.

  Miss Edwards, my infants' teacher, a pleasant girl who had been with me for two years since the departure of Mrs Bonny, brought to my notice the fact that, if we were proposing to have a Christmas concert, as usual, then we should start preparing for it.

  She was right, of course, but the thought depressed me.

  'What about a carol service with the nine lessons?' I countered weakly. 'We shall have the usual Christmas party in the school.'

  She looked disappointed.

  'Let me think about it over half-term,' I said, and we shelved the subject.

  'And another thing,' she said. 'I'm getting married next Easter, so of course I shall give in my notice, and go at the end of next term. It's early to tell you, but I thought you'd like to know in good time.'

  There was nothing to do but to congratulate her, but my heart was leaden. I broke the news to the vicar when I saw him.

  His face lit up with joy.

  'What good news! She will make an excellent wife and mother.'

  'There are too many girls rushing out of teaching to become excellent wives and mothers,' I said sourly. 'Especially infant teachers. Heaven knows when we'll get a replacement. After all, the colleges don't get the girls out until June or July. We shall have a whole term to fill in.'

  This is a situation which has faced us often enough, but every time it brings pair, and perplexity.

  Mr Partridge trotted out his usual optimistic hopes.

  'There's dear Miss Clare – ' he began.

  'Much too old, and not fair to her or the children.'

  'Well, Mrs Annett, perhaps?'

  'She's two children of her own and a husband, and an old blind aunt coming for the summer.'

  'Really? What a kind person she is! Lives for others, and an example to us all.'

  I agreed. A heavy silence fell as we wrestled with the problem.

  'Now, what about that good friend of yours who is so competent? The lady from Bent? She helped us once or twice, I believe.'

  I said that Amy might manage the odd day or two, but was far too busy a person to commit herself to a whole term's teaching.

  'Besides,' I said, 'Amy's methods are the same vintage as mine, and I think she'd find our infant room far too chaotic under today's conditions.'

  'But
I thought that was as it should be these days?' protested Mr Partridge, looking bewildered. 'That last inspector who called – the one with no collar, you remember, and long hair-he said that young children needed to make a noise to develop properly. I recall his words quite clearly: "Meaningful activity creates noise".'

  'So do other things,' I remarked tartly. 'The point is that to get a competent teacher for the infant room is going to be a headache.'

  'I shall see that the post is advertised in good time,' said the vicar. 'After all, one never knows. Providence has been good to us before, and Fairacre is doubly attractive in the summer. I will have a word with the Office at once.'

  'That might help,' I agreed.

  'I must go and see Miss Edwards,' he said, 'to congratulate her. Are you sure you can't persuade your friend to come over from Bent for that term? It's not too bad a journey.'

  'I will ask her, but I don't think there's much hope there. Her husband is recovering rather slowly from a car accident, complicated by catching measles.'

  'Poor fellow,' said Mr Partridge sincerely. 'I heard he had been injured. He's lucky to have such a good wife to nurse him back to health.'

  If he had added: 'And to his responsibilities as a married man,' I should not have been surprised. Clearly, the vicar knew exactly what had been happening at Bent.

  One morning, during half-term, I was surprised and pleased to have a visit from Amy.

  'Mrs Bennett's back,' she explained. 'Still a trifle wobbly, but it means I can get out now and again. James is in bed most of the day, so he's not in the way of Mrs Bennett's Hoover.'

  She presented me with a splendid bunch of late chrysanthemums.

  'By the way, you were right about Vanessa. She rang the very same night that we saw the photograph of Gerard and Hattie. I don't know if she was putting on a stout act, or whether she was genuinely pleased, but I must say she sounded so.'

  I could afford to be magnanimous in the face of this.

  'Well, naturally, as an aunt, you would be more anxious about Vanessa's feelings than I needed to be. But I always thought that Gerard's manner was more avuncular than amatory.'