by Miss Read
I could not have done worse.
'I've no garden at all! Just a window box in my upstairs flat. I can't tell you how much I miss everything.'
The sound of infants screaming in the playground saved me from commenting.
'I think we'd better go back,' I said, leading the way downstairs, 'or we may find spilt blood.'
But all was comparatively calm, and I led Mrs Rose inside to show her the infants' room, and to introduce her to Mrs Pringle.
That lady was leaning against the doorway, upturned broom in hand, looking rather like Britannia with her trident, but a good deal less comely. She bowed her head graciously to Mrs Rose.
'We met at Mrs Denham's auction sale,' she reminded the new teacher. 'I remember it well because you bid against me for a chest of drawers.'
Mrs Rose looked nervous.
'Not that you missed much,' continued Mrs Pringle. 'Even though it was knocked down to me at four pounds. The bottom drawer jams something cruel, and them handles pulls off in your hand. We've had to glue 'em in time and time again.'
I thought, once again, on hearing this snippet of past history, that life in a small community is considerably brightened by such memories as this one of a shared occasion. Some of these joltings of memory are caused by pure happiness—others, as in this present case, owe their sharpness to a certain tartness in the situation. Obviously, Mrs Pringle's bad bargain had caused some rankling since the day of the ladies' battle for the chest of drawers.
'Miss!' shouted Ernest, appearing on the scene. 'Can I ring the bell, miss? Can I? Can I ring the bell?'
'Yes, yes,' I replied. 'And there's no need to rush in here as though a: bull were after you.'
I ushered Mrs Rose into the infants' room as the bell clanged out its message to any tardy school children still in the fields and lanes of Fairacre.
The Caxley Chronicle carried a full report of Arthur Coggs' case that week, and eagerly devoured it was by all his neighbours in Fairacre. There is nothing so comforting as reading about others' tribulations. It reminds one of one's own good fortune.
The prosecution's most weighty piece of evidence, in more senses than one, was the entire piece of lead roofing which was carried into Court by six sweating policemen.
A plan was handed up to the Bench, and the magistrates were invited to compare the shape of the roof displayed on the paper before them, with that of the lead, now being unrolled and stamped into place beneath large feet, on the floor below.
After old Miss Dewbury's plan had been put the right way up for her by a kindly fellow-justice, the magistrates gave their attention to the matter with more than usual liveliness.
Amazing how they come to life, thought Mr Lovejoy, when a few pictures or objects to play with are handed up! Glazing eyes sparkled, sagging shoulders were braced. Could it be that addresses given by prosecution and defence sometimes bored the Bench? Not, thought Mr Lovejoy seriously, when he himself addressed them. He had a turn of phrase, he fancied, which commanded respect as well as attention to his cause, but possibly some of his learned colleagues were less fortunate in their powers. (Mr Lovejoy, it will be noted, was without humour.)
Certainly, there was a surprising likeness between the plan and the cumbersome evidence on the floor. The lead undoubtedly came from a small building with an octagonal roof like Mr Mawne's. It had been found, the magistrates were told, hidden under a pile of sacks in the Bryant brothers' outhouse. They looked suitably impressed.
Mr Lovejoy, on the other hand, looked calm and faintly disdainful. His eye fixed on the pitch-pine ceiling of the Victorian court house, he was clearly rehearsing his speech which would show that a person or persons unknown had humped the lead, from a source equally unknown, and dumped it upon the Bryants' premises with the intention of getting them into their present unfortunate position.
The case ground on for the rest of the morning, and continued after the lunch break. Witnesses were called, by the indefatigable Mr Lovejoy, who testified to the fact that the accused had been in their company, regularly each evening, whilst imbibing, in a modest fashion, as befitted their unemployed state, at local hostelries.
At four o'clock Miss Dewbury was nudged into wakefulness, the accused men were told that the charge against them had been proved, and the prosecutor handed up long lists of previous convictions for the Bench to study.
The Chairman, Colonel Austin, after a brief word with his colleagues, then committed them in custody to the Crown Court for sentence, just as Mr Willet had prophesied, and they left the Court escorted by two policemen.
Mr Lovejoy shuffled his papers together, bowed politely, and hurried after his clients.
'That is the business of the Court,' announced the clerk, 'and the business of the day is over.'
'And only just in time,' observed old Miss Dewbury as she departed. 'I put a beef casserole in the oven at lunch time, and it must be nearly dry by now.'
'Never like sending chaps to prison,' grunted Colonel Austin to his male colleague, as they reached for their hats. 'But what can you do with four like that? How many times have we seen 'em, John?'
'Too many,' replied his friend, 'and we'll see them again the minute they're out!'
In Fairacre, reaction to the Court's decision was mixed. Most agreed that Arthur Coggs was only getting his just deserts, and speculated upon how long the Judge would give all four when the time came. But more were concerned about the effect of Arthur's absence on his wife and family.
'She'll be a dam' sight better off without him around,' said Mr Willet. 'What good's he to her, poor soul? She'll get the social security money to herself now, instead of watching Arthur swilling it down his throat at The Beetle. Besides, she won't get knocked about. Make a nice change for her, I'd say, to have a peaceful house for a time.'
To my surprise, Mrs Pringle took another view.
'She'll miss him, I'll be bound, bad lot though he is. A woman needs a man's company about the house.'
'I can't say I've missed it,' I observed. 'And I could well do without Arthur Coggs' company, at any time.'
'Yes, well,' admitted Mrs Pringle, 'there's some as lead an unnatural life, so their opinions don't altogether matter.'
'Thank you,' I said. My sarcasm was ignored, as Mrs Pringle followed her train of thought.
'I knows he keeps her short of money. I knows he raises his hand to her—'
'And his boot,' put in Mr Willet.
'And I knows his language is plain 'orrible when he's in liquor, but then she's used to it, and used to having him around the place. She'll be terrible lonely with him gone.'
Several other people echoed Mrs Pringle's comments, but the general feeling was that Mrs Coggs must be relieved she was safe from physical assault, at least for a year or more. A number of inhabitants went even further in their concern, among them Gerald Partridge the Vicar, who spoke about the family to me.
'I am right in thinking that the Coggs children get free dinners?'
I reassured him on this point.
'And their clothing? Shoes and so on. Are they adequately provided for? I should be only too happy to give something, you know, if it could be done without causing distress to poor Mrs Coggs. She has enough to bear as it is.'
I said that I tried to keep an eye on that side of things, and had been lucky enough to get Mrs Moffat and other generous parents to hand down garments that were little worn directly to Mrs Coggs, instead of sending them, in the usual way, to our local jumble sales.
'She won't be too badly off,' I promised him. I could not bear to see his gentle face puckered with anxiety. 'And now Arthur is out of the way, I believe she will take on more work.'
'Yes, indeed. Mrs Mawne is having her there for a morning. I gather that Minnie Pringle insisted on dusting some very precious glass cases housing some of Mr Mawne's rarer birds, and two were broken, most unfortunately. Mr Mawne was a little put out about it, and fired the girl on the spot.'
Later I was to hear from Minnie's own l
ips, the exact words used by her irate employer—short, brutal, words of Anglo-Saxon origin—which, I felt, had been put to their proper use under the circumstances.
'Well, I'm glad to know Mrs Coggs has got the job,' I said. 'It will give her an added interest as well as more money. But don't worry too much about her. The social security office will see she is looked after, and really she's so much better off without that ghastly husband.'
The Vicar looked shocked.
'Strong words, Miss Read, strong words! He is one of my flock, remember, even if he has strayed, and I can only hope that his present afflictions will make him change his ways.'
'That'll be the day,' I said.
But I said it when the Vicar had departed.
Part Two
Fairacre Hears the News
8 A Welcome Diversion
ONE summer afternoon, soon after the Vicar's visit, I had a surprise call from Amy and Vanessa.
The children had just run home, glad to be out in the sunshine, and I was just about to make tea.
Vanessa, a niece of James, Amy's husband, was always attractive, but now, in pregnancy, had that added lustre of skin and hair which so often goes with the condition. I said, truthfully, how radiant she looked.
'But enormous!' protested Vanessa, holding out her arms sideways, the better to display her bulging form. 'I'd no idea one could stretch to this size. All those women's magazines chat away about letting out skirts a few inches, as time goes by! My dear, look at me! This is a shirt which was too big for Tarquin, who stands six feet four as you know, and even this is getting tight. I'm thinking of hiring a bell tent.'
'A dirndl skirt's the answer,' said Amy, 'with a huge smock over it. Or a kaftan, perhaps.' She gazed at Vanessa with a thoughtful smile. 'There's no denying that one really does need a waist for most clothes.'
'Well, I hope to have one again in a few weeks' time,' replied Vanessa, settling her bulk on the sofa.
'Put your feet up,' I urged.
'Too much effort, darling. I really don't recommend this baby business. Don't attempt it.'
'I should get the sack if I did,' I told her.
'Which reminds me,' said Amy, 'what news of Fairacre School closing?'
I felt Amy could have been a little more tactful, but forbore to comment upon it.
'Not much, but something's in the wind. George Annett has been asked to send in lists of equipment he would need if another class were added to his school—or possibly two classes.'
'It does sound ominous.'
'It does indeed. But there's mighty little one can do until I hear something more definite. It seems silly to try for another post when I'm so settled here, and in any case, all this may come to nothing.'
Amy fixed a steady gaze upon me.
'Poor old dear,' she said, so sympathetically, that I was glad to turn away from her and busy myself with pouring tea.
'Vanessa is staying for a whole week,' she went on, 'and I wondered if you would come over for dinner one evening?'
'You know I'd love to,' I said, carrying a cup to the recumbent figure on the sofa. Vanessa struggled to a more upright position.
'I'll just lodge it on this bulge,' she said with a dazzling smile. 'It really comes in quite useful, this extra shelf. I shall miss it. Sometimes I think I shall give birth to at least three babies.'
'Don't the doctors know?'
'My own, who is a sweetie, says twins. The other chap, a top-flight gynaecologist, won't commit himself, but then he's terribly cautious. Always worrying about his hypocrites' oath, I think.'
'Hippocrates, Vanessa!' exclaimed Amy. 'Really, when I think of the money spent on your education and see the result, I shudder!'
'I have a cosy little argument with him sometimes,' continued Vanessa unabashed, 'just to stretch his mind, you know. "If I had a tumour on the brain, which meant I was a living vegetable, don't you think you should put me gently to sleep?" I ask him. Of course, he gets in a terrible fluster, and talks about this old hypocrites' oath he took when he was a beardless boy, and we both thoroughly enjoy a little abstract thinking after all the dreadfully coarse back-and-forth about bowels and heartburn.'
Vanessa sighed, and the teacup wobbled dangerously.
'I must say it will be quite a relief to know how many. Luckily, I've been given enough baby clothes for a dozen. Tarquin's mother is a great knitter, and does everything in half-dozens. Even binders! I don't think babies have them now, but I haven't the heart to tell her. She's also presented me with a dozen long flannel things, all exquisitely feather-stitched, which have to be pinned up over the baby's feet to keep it warm. I can't see the monthly nurse using those.'
'You're having it at home then?' I said.
'Good heavens, yes! All the family's babies have to be born in the castle, and a piper waits outside—for days sometimes—ready to play the bagpipes to welcome the child.'
'I'd have a relapse,' I said. 'To my Sassenach ear "The Flowers of the Forest" sounds exactly like "The Keel Row".'
'Well, don't let Tarquin know,' advised Vanessa. 'The sound of the bagpipes brings tears to his eyes.'
'He's not the only one,' I told her, rescuing her empty cup.
On the Saturday following Amy's visit, I was invited to attend a lecture by Henry Mawne. It was to be held in the Corn Exchange in Caxley, and the subject was 'European Birds of Prey', illustrated by slides taken by the speaker.
I was a little surprised by the invitation. The Mawnes are always very kind to me, but we do not meet a great deal, except by chance, in the village. The Vicar and Mrs Partridge were also going, and several other people from Fairacre.
All had been invited to lunch with the Mawnes at the Buttery, a restaurant in Caxley, conveniently placed near the hall, and offering a varied menu at modest prices. The Buttery is always busy, and many a local reputation has been shredded beneath its oak beams.
If I had been rather more alert when Mrs Mawne invited me I might have excused myself, for Saturday afternoons are usually taken up with household chores, cooking, mending, or entertaining, which get left undone during the week. But as usual, I was not prepared, and found myself at twelve o'clock on the Saturday in question, trying to decide between a long-sleeved silk frock (too dressy?) or a pink linen suit, rather too tight in the skirt, which Amy had kindly told me made me look like mutton dressed as lamb.
I decided on the latter.
There were four cars going from Fairacre, and I went with Diana and Peter Hale.
'Wonder how long this affair will last?' mused Peter Hale. 'I want to drop in at school to see some of the cricket. Diana will drive you home. I'm getting a lift with the new classics man. He passes the house.'
'I think, you know,' said Diana gently, 'that Henry Mawne is afraid that the Corn Exchange is going to be far too big for this afternoon's lecture. I hear that he suggested that a party from Beech Green might help to swell the ranks.'
Light began to dawn.
'He'll need several hundreds to make a good sprinkling in that barn of a place,' I said. 'Why not find something smaller?'
'Everything was booked up,' said Peter, jamming on his brakes as a pheasant strolled haughtily across the road. 'Half the jumble sales and bazaars seem to take place on Saturdays. I can't think why.'
'Most people have been paid on Friday,' I told him. 'It's as simple as that.'
We had the usual trundling round Caxley to find a place to leave the car, and were lucky enough to snap up the last place in a car park fairly near the restaurant. Secretly, I was glad. It was not the pink skirt alone that was tight. My new shoes were killing me. Could I be growing a corn on my little toe? And if so, would I need to go to a chiropodist? What a terrible thought! Hopelessly ticklish, I should be hysterical if my feet were handled, and what if she—or he, perhaps? —wanted to file my toe-nails? That could not be borne.
A prey to these fears, I hobbled in the wake of the Hales and entered the bustle and heat of the Buttery.
The Maw
nes greeted us cheerfully, and we were seated at the Buttery's largest table. It was clear that we should be about a dozen in all, and the manager had done us proud with six pink carnations in a hideous glass vase with coloured knobs on it.
Margaret and Mary Waters, two spinster sisters who share a cottage in Fairacre, arrived, with the vicar and Mrs Partridge, and four more friends of the Mawnes made up the party.
Menus were handed round, and we studied them seriously. For most of us it was a pleasure to have a choice of dishes. After all, I was usually grateful, at this time of day, for a plain school dinner. To be offered such attractions as melon, prawn cocktail, pâté or soup-for first course alone—was wholly delightful, and I began to enjoy myself enormously.
Our host did not appear to be so happy. I remembered that his wife had once told me that he dreaded any sort of public speaking, and was a prey to nerves before these events.
'What is this blanket of veal?' he was asking her crossly.
'You won't like it. It's veal in white sauce.'
'How disgusting ! Blanket's just about the right word for it.'
He turned to the Vicar.
'Don't you hate white gravy, padre? It's like cold soup—dead against nature.'
'I must admit,' replied Gerald Partridge, 'that I rather like things in white sauce. So bland, you know. Take tripe, for instance—'
'No, you take tripe,' exclaimed Henry, shuddering, 'I never could face that awful rubbery flannel look, let alone put it in my mouth.'
'Done with onions,' said Margaret Waters earnestly, 'it can be quite delicious. And so nourishing. My poor father practically lived on it for the last few weeks of his life.'
Peter Hale caught my eye across the table, and I had to concentrate on the carnations to preserve my sobriety.
'I should have the lamb chops, Henry,' said Mrs Mawne decisively. 'I see there are new potatoes and peas, and you know you always enjoy them.'