Village Affairs

by Miss Read

  This blissful vision remains a mirage. I flounder my way through the multitudinous jobs that surround me, and can always still be far behind, particularly with the objectionable clerical work, when the end of the year looms up.

  So it was this July. The village fête in aid of Church Funds, as usual, had to have a contribution from the school, and as Mrs Rose became less and less capable as the end of her time drew nigh, and more and more morose since the tiff with Mrs Pringle, I was obliged to work out something single-handed.

  It is difficult to plan a programme which involves children from five to eleven taking part, but with all the parents present at the fête, and keen to see their own offspring in the limelight, it was necessary to evolve something.

  After contemplating dancing, a play, a gymnastic display and various other hoary old chestnuts, I decided that each of these activities needed more time and rehearsing than I could possibly manage. In the end I weakly fell back on folk songs, most of which the children knew already.

  Mrs Rose gave half-hearted support to this proposal, and the air echoed each afternoon as we practised. Meanwhile, there were the usual end of term chores to do, and the heat continued, welcome to me, but inducing increasing langour in the children.

  It was during this period that Arthur Coggs and his partners in crime appeared at Crown Court.

  As Mr Willet had forecast, all the accused were given prison sentences. The brothers Bryant were sent down for three years and Arthur Coggs for two.

  'Not that he'll be there all that time,' said Mr Willet. 'More's the pity. They takes off the time he's been in custody already, see, and if he behaves himself he'll get another few months cut off his spell inside. I reckons he's been lucky this time. We'll have him back in Fairacre before we've got time to turn round, darn it all!'

  Mrs Coggs, it was reported, had gone all to pieces on hearing the sentence. Mrs Pringle told me the details with much relish.

  'As a good neighbour,' she said, 'I lent that poor soul The Caxley Chronicle to read the result for herself, and I've never seen a body look so white and whey-faced as what she did! Nearly fell off of her chair with the shock,' said Mrs Pringle with evident satisfaction.

  'Wouldn't it have been kinder to have told her yourself, if she'd asked?'

  'I didn't trust myself not to break down,' responded the old humbug smugly. 'A woman's heart's a funny thing, you know, and she loves that man of hers despite his little failings.'

  'I should think, little failings hardly covers Arthur's criminal activities,' I said, but Mrs Pringle was in one of her maudlin moods and oblivious to my astringency.

  'I was glad to see the tears come,' went on that lady. 'I says to her: "That's right! A good cry will ease that breaking heart!"

  'Mrs Pringle,' I cried, 'for pity's sake spare me all this sentimental mush! Mrs Coggs knew quite well that Arthur would go to prison, and she knew he deserved it. If I'd been in her shoes, I'd have breathed a sigh of relief.'—Mrs Pringle, cut short in the midst of her dramatic tale, looked at me with loathing.

  'There's some,' she said, 'as has no feeling heart for the misfortunes of others. It's plain to see it would be useless to come to you in trouble, and I'm glad poor Mrs Coggs had my shoulder to weep on in her time of affliction. One of these fine days, you may be in the same boat,' she added darkly, and limped from the room.

  Heaven help me, I thought, if that day should ever come.

  As it happened, trouble did come, but I managed to cope, without weeping on Mrs Pringle's ample bosom.

  I received a letter from the office, couched in guarded terms, about the authority's long-term policy of closing small schools which were no longer economic to run. It pointed out that Fairacre's numbers had dwindled steadily over the years, that the matter had been touched on at the last managers' meeting, and that local comment would be sought. It emphasised the fact that nothing would be done without thorough consultation with all concerned, and that this was simply a preparatory exploration of local feeling. Closure, of course, might never take place should numbers increase, or other circumstances make the school vital to the surroundings. But should it be deemed necessary to close, then the children would probably attend Beech Green School, their nearest neighbour.

  A copy of the letter, it added, had been sent to all the managers.

  I felt as though I had been pole-axed, and poured out my second cup of coffee in a daze.

  The rooks were wheeling over the high trees, calling harshly as they banked and turned against the powder-blue morning sky. The sun glinted on their polished feathers, as they enjoyed the Fairacre air. How long should I continue to enjoy it I wondered?

  By the time I had sipped the coffee to the dregs, I was feeling calmer. In a way, it is always better to know the worst, than to await tidings in a state of dithering suspense. Well, now something had happened. The rumours were made tangible. The ostrich on the merry-go-round had come to a stop in full view of all of us. Now we must do something about it.

  I washed up the breakfast things, put down Tibby's mid-morning snack, washed my hands, and made my way across to the school.

  Now what should I choose for our morning hymn? 'Oft in danger, oft in woe' might fit the case, or 'Fight the good fight' perhaps?

  No, let's have something bold and brave that we could roar out together!

  I opened the book at:

  'Ye holy angels bright

  Who wait at God's right hand' and looked with approval at the lines.

  'Take what He gives, and praise Him still

  Through good or ill, whoever lives.'

  That was the spirit, I told myself, as the children burst in, breathless and vociferous, to start another day beneath the ancient roof which had looked down upon their parents and their grandparents at their schooling years before.

  I guessed that the Vicar would pay me a visit, and before playtime he entered, holding his letter, and looking forlorn. The children clattered to their feet, glad, as always, of a diversion.

  'Sit down, dear children,' said the Vicar, 'I mustn't disturb your work.'

  That, I thought, is just what they want disturbed, and watched them settle down again reluctantly to their ploys.

  'I take it you have had this letter too?'

  'Yes, indeed.'

  'It really is most upsetting. I know it stresses the point of there being no hurry in any of these decisions, nevertheless I feel we must call an extra-ordinary meeting of the managers, to which you, naturally, are invited, and after that I suppose we may need to have a public meeting in the village. What do you think?'

  'See what the managers decide, but I'm sure that's what they will think the right and proper thing to do. After all, it's not only the parents, though they are the most acutely involved, but everyone in Fairacre.'

  'My feelings exactly.'

  He sighed heavily, and the letter which he had put on my desk, sailed to the floor. Six children fell upon it, like starving dogs upon a crust, and it was a wonder it was not torn to shreds before the Vicar regained his property.

  After this invigorating skirmish, they returned to their desks much refreshed. The clock said almost a quarter to eleven, and I decided that early playtime was permissible under the circumstances.

  They clattered into the lobby and the clanging of milk bottles taken from the metal crate there, made a background to our conversation.

  'You see there was some foundation for those rumours,' commented Mr Partridge. 'No smoke without fire, as they say.'

  'It began to look ominous when the measuring started at Beech Green.' I responded 'And Mr Salisbury was decidedly cagey, I thought. Oh dear, I hope to goodness nothing happens! In a way, the very fact that it's going to be a long drawn-out affair makes it worse. I keep wondering if I should apply for a post elsewhere, before I'm too old to be considered.'

  The Vicar looked shocked.

  'My dear girl, you mustn't think of it! The very idea! Of course, you must stay here, and we shall all see that you d
o. That's why I propose to go back to the vicarage and fix a date for the managers' meeting as soon as possible.

  'I do appreciate your support,' I said sincerely, 'it's just this ghastly hanging about. You know.

  'The mills of God grind slowly

  But they grind exceeding small."'

  The Vicar's kind old face took on a look of reproof.

  'It isn't God's mill that's doing the grinding,' he pointed out. 'It's the education office's machinery. And that,' he added vigorously, 'we must put a spoke in.'

  If he had been a Luddite he could not have sounded more militant. I watched him cross the playground, with affection and hope renewed.

  They say that troubles never come singly, and while I was still reeling under the blow of that confounded letter, I had an unnerving encounter with Minnie Pringle.

  Usually, she had departed when I returned to my home after school on Fridays. I then removed the wet dusters from whatever crack-brained place Minnie had left them in, put any broken shards in the dustbin, and set about brewing a much-needed cup of tea, thanking my stars that my so-called help had gone home.

  But on this particular Friday she was still there when I entered the house. A high-pitched wailing greeted me, and going to investigate I found Minnie sitting on the bottom stair with a broken disinfectant bottle at her feet.

  She was rocking herself back and forth, occasionally throwing her skirt over her mop-head of red hair, and displaying deplorable underwear including a pair of tights more ladders than fabric.

  I was reminded suddenly of those Irish plays where the stage is almost too murky to see what is happening, the only light being focused dimly on a coffin with four candles, one at each corner, and a gaggle of keening women, while a harp is being plucked, in lugubrious harmony, by some unseen hand.

  'What on earth's the matter, Minnie? Don't cry about a broken bottle. We can clear that up.'

  'It ain't the bottle!' wailed Minnie, pitching herself forward with renewed energy.

  'What is it then?'

  She flung herself backward, hitting her head on the fourth stair up. I hoped it might knock some sense into her.

  'Ah-ah-ah-ah!' yelled Minnie, and flung her skirt over her head once more.

  I took hold of her skinny shoulders and shook her. The screaming stopped abruptly, and the skirt was thrown back over the dreadful tights.

  'Now stop all this hanky-panky,' I said severely, 'and tell me what's wrong.'

  Snivelling, Minnie took up the hem of her skirt once more, but this time applied it to her weeping eyes and wet nose. I averted my gaze hastily.

  'Come on, Minnie,' I said, more gently. 'Come and have a cup of tea with me. You'll feel better.'

  She sniffed, and shook her head.

  'Gotter clear up this bottle as broke,' she said dimly.

  'Well, let's find the dustpan and you do that while I make the tea.'

  She accompanied me to the kitchen, still weeping, but in a less hysterical fashion. I found the dustpan—for some reason, best known to Minnie, among the saucepans—and handed it over with a generous length of paper towel to mop up her streaming face. I then propelled her into the hall, and returned to prepare the tea tray.

  'At this rate,' I muttered to myself, 'I shall need brandy rather than tea.'

  Five minutes later, sitting at the kitchen table, the tale unfolded in spasmodic fashion.

  'It's Era,' said Minnie. 'He's comin' back.'

  Ern, I knew, was the husband who had so recently deserted her.

  'And you don't want him?'

  'Would you?'

  'No!' I said, without hesitation. 'But can't you tell him so?'

  'What, Ern? He'll hit me if I says that.'

  'Well, get the police.'

  'He'll hit me worse if I tells them.'

  I changed my tactics.

  'Are you sure he's going to come back?'

  'He wrote to Auntie—she can read, you see—and said his place was at my side.'

  'What a nerve!' I exclaimed. 'It hasn't been for the last few months has it?'

  'Well, it's different now. That Mrs Fowler don't want 'im. She's turned 'im out.'

  So Amy was right after all, I thought.

  'And when's he supposed to be coming?'

  Minnie let out another ear-splitting yell, and I feared that we were in for another period of hysteria.

  'Tonight, 'e says. And I'm too afeared to go home. And what will Bert say?'

  'Bert?' I echoed, in perplexity.

  'My boy friend what works up Springbourne Manor.' Minnie looked coy.

  I remembered the rumour about the under-gardener who had been consoling Minnie in her loneliness.

  'What about Bert?'

  'He'll hit him too,' said Minnie.

  'Your husband will?'

  'Yes. Bound to. And Bert'll 'it 'im back, and there'll be a proper set-to.'

  Minnie's fears seemed to be mingled with a certain pleasurable anticipation at the prospect, it seemed to me.

  'Well, you'd better let Bert know what's happening,' I said, 'and he can keep away. That is, if Ern comes at all. Perhaps he's only making threats.'

  Minnie's eyes began to fill again.

  'He'll come all right. He ain't got nowhere to sleep, see. And I dursn't face him. He'll knock me about terrible, and the kids. What am I to do?'

  'You say Mrs Pringle had the letter?'

  'Yes. She read it out to me.'

  'She'll be over at the school now,' I said, putting down my cup. 'I'll go and see her while you have some more tea.'

  I left her, still sniffing, and sought out her aunt, who was balanced on a desk top dusting the partition between the two classrooms.

  'My, what a start you gave me!' she gasped, one hand on her heart.

  'Can you come down for a minute?' I said, holding out my hand for support. 'It's about Minnie.'

  Mrs Pringle, twisting my hand painfully, descended in a crab-wise fashion, and sat herself on the front desk. I faced her, propped on my table.

  'She's in tears about that husband of hers, and seems afraid to go home.'

  'I knows that. She's been no better than she should be while he's been away. He's promised her a thundering good 'iding.'

  'But he's threatening her just because he wants somewhere to sleep. It all seems most unfair to me. After all, he left her.'

  'Maybe. But his place is in his own home, with Minnie.'

  'But, he's intimidating her!'

  'Natural, ain't it? How else did she get her last baby?'

  I felt unequal to explaining the intricacies of the English language to Mrs Pringle, and let it pass.

  'The point is, Mrs Pringle, that it really wouldn't be safe to let her go home if he intends to come and knock her about. Should we tell the police?'

  Mrs Pringle bridled.

  'What, and let the neighbours have a free show? Not likely.'

  'But the children—'

  Mrs Pringle's face became crimson with wrath. She thrust her head forward until our noses were almost touching.

  'Are you trying to tell me what to do with Minnie's children? I'll tell you straight, I'm not having that tribe settling on me with all I've got to do. I'm sick and tired of Minnie and her lot, and the sooner she pushes off and faces up to the trouble she's made the better.'

  'So you won't help?'

  'I've done nothing but help that silly girl, and I'm wore out with it.'

  'I can understand that, and I think you've been remarkably patient. But now what's to be done? I really think the police should be warned that there might be trouble.'

  Mrs Pringle's breathing became heavy and menacing.

  'You just try it! You dare! I've been thinking about the best way to tackle this ever since I got that Ern's letter. He can talk—going off with that old trollop who's old enough to be his mother!'

  I began to feel dizzy. Whose side was Mrs Pringle on?

  'What I'm going to do,' said my cleaner, 'is to go back with Minnie and the kids
tonight, and to sleep the night at her place, with the rolling pin on one side of me and the poker on the other. I'll soon settle that Ern's hash if he dares put a foot inside the place. We don't need no police, Miss Read, that I can tell you!'

  'Splendid!' I cried. 'Can I go and tell Minnie?'

  'Yes. And I'll be ready to set off in half an hour sharp, tell her, just as soon as I've got the cobwebs off of this partition.'

  She heaved herself up on to the desk again, duster in hand, and I returned home, thinking what a wonderfully militant band we were in Fairacre, from the Vicar to Mrs Pringle.

  12 Militant Managers

  THE extra-ordinary managers' meeting was called during the last week of term, and great difficulty the Vicar had encountered before gathering them all together.

  The long hot spell had advanced harvest, and Mr Roberts was already in that annual fever which afflicts farmers at this time of year, when the Vicar rang. However, he nobly put aside his panic and agreed to spend an hour away from his combine harvester, as the matter seemed urgent.

  Mrs Lamb was supposed to be at a flower arranging meeting at Caxley where someone, of whom Mrs Lamb spoke with awe in her voice, was going to show her respectful audience how to make Large Displays for Public Places from no more than five bought flowers and the bounty culled from the hedgerows. Mrs Lamb, whose purse was limited but who enjoyed constructing enormous decorations of bullrushes, reeds, branches, honesty and even beetroot and rhubarb leaves, was looking forward to learning more, but gave up the pleasure to do her duty.

  Mrs Mawne had a bridge party arranged at her house, but was obliged to do a great deal of telephoning to get it transferred to another player's. As all the ladies vied with each other in preparing exotic snippets of food to have with their tea, this meant even further domestic complications. However, it was done.

  Mrs Moffat was busy putting the final touches to a magnificent ball dress which was destined to go to a Masonic Ladies' Night, but set aside her needle to be present, while Peter Hale, recently retired from the local grammar-now comprehensive—school, cursed roundly at ever being fool enough to agree to being a manager when the grass wanted cutting so urgently.