by Miss Read
Hilary Norman was there in the infants' room, looking remarkably fresh and competent on her first morning, in a pale blue denim trouser suit.
The children, round-eyed, and in an unusually quiet mood, studied her with curiosity. I don't think they can ever have had quite such a young teacher before, and they were enchanted. Later I heard that one of them had told his mother that: 'We've got a little girl to teach us now.'
We pushed back the partition between the two classrooms, to the accompaniment of ear-splitting squealings from the steel runners, and embarked on a full assembly, starting with 'We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land' which seemed a little premature to me at the end of August, until I looked out of the window to see one of Mr Roberts' tractors busily turning the golden stubble into lovely long ribs of chocolate-coloured earth. Farmers, these days, certainly hurry along with their work, and the gulls were having a splendid time following close behind, mewing and squawking like a trodden cat, as they swooped upon the bounty below them.
As they sang lustily, and not very tunefully—music is not one of our stronger accomplishments -1 thought how small the school was just now. Despite the fact that two new infants had joined Hilary Norman's class, we were two down on last term's numbers, as one family had moved into Caxley, taking four children whom we could ill afford to lose at this critical stage.
What would happen to us? I was surprised that nothing further had been heard from the office, but supposed that the summer holidays had meant a postponement of any decision. No doubt we should hear in good time. It seemed that the general feeling was that closure was inevitable. Far better to know the worst than to hang on like this in horrible suspense.
The matter was further aggravated for me at playtime when, mugs of tea in hand, my assistant and I roamed the playground to keep an eye on would-be fighters and coke-pile climbers.
Things were remarkably tranquil, reflecting the golden summer day about us, and I was beginning to relax into my usual mood of vague well-being when Hilary spoke.
'I heard that the school may have to shut before long? Is there any truth in it?'
I came to earth with a jolt.
'Where did you hear of this?'
'Oh, at my digs. My landlady's old friend was visiting her yesterday evening, and she lives at Beech Green, and there seemed to be a pretty strong rumour that our children will be going there before long.'
So our affairs were already being discussed in Caxley! Not that I was surprised, having lived in a village and knowing how rapidly word is passed from one to another. Nevertheless, it was beginning to look as though something definite must be heard soon from official sources if so many people were assuming that the matter was settled.
'If it's true,' continued Hilary, 'I don't think I should have applied for this post. It's very unsettling to have a short time in one's first school and then have to find somewhere else.'
I could quite see her point of view. She was beginning to wonder if we had kept things from her, and I hastened to explain.
'Truthfully, these are only rumours, and we are no nearer a decision now than we were when you came for interview. If there had been anything known definitely, you would have been told. General policy is to close small schools, but it may be years before Fairacre's turn comes.'
I felt it right that she should know that the managers were resisting any such move, and that if need arose there might well be a village meeting to find out more about local opinion and I told her so.
'This far from happy position lasted for over ten years at Springbourne,' I told her. 'It's always a long drawn out thing. I feel sure that your post wouldn't have been advertised at all, if there had been any thought of closing in the near future, so I think you can look forward to several years here, if you want to stay.'
The girl looked much relieved.
'I think I shall want to, you know. It's a lovely place to teach, and the children seem angelic.'
At that moment, two children fell upon each other with the ferocity of starving tigers upon their prey, and a ring of interested spectators assembled to cheer them on.
'You spoke too soon,' I said, striding into the centre of things.
August slipped into September, and the signs of early autumn were all around us. Already the scarlet berries of the wild roses and crimson hawthorn beaded the hedges, and old man's beard made puffs of smoke-like grey fluff here and there.
In the cottage gardens, the dahlias made a brave show, and the last of the summer annuals, love-in-a-mist, marigolds and verbena added colour in the borders. It was a time to, enjoy the last of the summer, for already it was getting chilly in the evenings, and I had lit an occasional fire in my sitting-room, much to Mrs Pringle's disgust.
I had purposely refrained from asking about Minnie's affairs. The lady still flapped about my premises on Friday afternoons, like a demented hen, and wet dusters appeared in the unlikeliest places. By now I was resigned to my lot and had given up hope of ever being free of her attentions.
But one afternoon, Mrs Pringle accosted me when she appeared to wash-up the crockery after school dinner. Her mouth was turned down ominously, and her limp seemed more pronounced to me.
'Got trouble at 'ome,' she said, 'I'll be off as soon as I've done the pots.'
'What is it? Not Minnie again?'
She nodded portentiously, like a Chinese mandarin at his most impressive.
'Ah! Minnie it is! That girl and them kids of hers come up my place just now, because Ern's arrived.'
'Where? At Springbourne?'
'That's right. She left him cooking sausages and chips. I must say he'd had the decency to bring the sausages with 'im. Probably knew our Minnie wouldn't 'ave nothing worth eating in the house. Strikes me they lives on cornflakes.'
'Is she staying with you?'
'She'd better not. She knows my feelings on the matter. I've told her to clear off home, but she won't take a hint, that girl.'
Some hint, I thought, but Mrs Pringle was in full spate and I was obliged to listen to the unedifying tale.
'She seems scared stiff of that fellow, and I reckons when Bert turns up after work, there'll be a proper set-to atween 'em. Well, I told her straight: "The house is in your name now. You pays the rent to the Council, so your place is inside it." After all, that Ern—or Bert, for that matter—is no more than paying guests, only they don't pay, and if Minnie would only stand her ground, she could get rid of both of them.'
'But will she?' I managed to slip in, as Mrs Pringle drew breath.
'You may well ask,' said Mrs Pringle, unrolling a flowered overall and donning it ready for her session at the sink.
'Sometimes I wonders,' she went on, 'if our Minnie is quite right in the head, I really do.'
I could have told her, but common civility kept me silent.
Part Three
Fate Lends a Hand
15 Two Ladies in Trouble
AUTUMN is one of the loveliest times at Fairacre. We are not as wooded as Beech Green, but small copses at the foot of the downs turn to bronze and gold as soon as the first frosts come, and the tall elm trees near the school send their lemon-yellow leaves fluttering down. A few sturdy oak trees rise from the neighbouring hedges, and these are the last to turn, but when they do, usually sometime in November, their colour is superb.
Now the children arrive with poisonous-looking toadstools for the nature table, and sprays of blackberries, mostly hard and red fruits remaining, as the juicy black ones have vanished down young throats on the way.
We do well for nuts too, in this area, and walnuts from cottage gardens, sweet chestnuts and beech nuts from the woods, and hazel nuts from the hedgerows also find their way to school. Horse chestnuts, of course, are put to more vigorous use, and the strings of conkers He coiled on the long desk at the side of the classroom, awaiting their owners at playtime.
This year we were lucky enough to have a sunny October, with those peculiarly clear skies of Autumn which sh
ow up the glory of blazing leaves. We took a great many nature walks, watching the flocks of rooks stabbing the newly ploughed furrows for worms and leatherjackets, and noting the starlings, excited and chattering as they wheeled around the sky, the flock getting larger and larger until the great day came to set off together.
The swallows had already gone. For weeks past, they had perched upon telegraph wires in the village, preening themselves and twittering noisily, preparing for their flight of thousands of miles to warmer sunshine than Fairacre could provide.
In village gardens, the first bonfires of Winter were appearing, and wreaths of blue smoke scented the air with the true essence of Autumn. Mr Willet was already planning where to plant his broad beans: 'You can't beat Aqua-Dulce Long-pod for planting in November,' he assured me. 'A good sturdy grower, and it beats that blighted black fly if it gets a fair start.'
The holidaymakers were back from exotic climes, and comparing notes on the beauties of Spain and Italy, and the price of a cup of coffee in Paris and St Mark's Square, Venice. These people, of course, were the more leisured among us. Most of us had taken our breaks, if any, in July or August, ready for the new school year.
I was invited to a cheese and wine party at the Mawnes. Proceeds were to go to the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, of which both Mawnes were strong supporters. As the house is a lovely Queen Anne specimen, and the furniture is a joy to behold, I walked along the village that evening with more than usual pleasure. The older I get the less I want to leave my own home in the evenings, particularly bleak Winter ones, but it was pleasant to stroll through the gentle darkness, catching sight of the various village cats setting off on their hunting expeditions, and savouring the whiff of bonfires still hanging upon the quiet air.
The house was ablaze with lights, and more than a dozen cars were lined up in the drive. I was glad I had not brought mine to add to the congestion. Far too often I have been the poor wretch penned in behind some glossy monster whose owner always seems to be the last to leave.
The village seemed to have turned out in force, and I was soon going the rounds, glass in hand, meeting Mary and Margaret Waters, two elderly spinsters of whom I am very fond, the Lambs from the Post Office, with Mr Lamb's brother from America and his wife, the Hales from Tyler's Row, a comparative newcomer, Miss Quinn, with her landlady Joan Benson, and a host of other friends.
Mrs Mawne, resplendent in black and gold, introduced me to a middle-aged man called Cecil Richards.
'A fellow ornithologist of Henry's' explained Mrs Mawne. 'Well more than that really. Sissle here has just had a book published. About fishing, isn't it?'
'Yes, indeed. With Rod in Rutland is the title.'
I said I must look out for it.
'And Sissle has had others published,' said Mrs Mawne proudly. 'Wasn't Beagling in Bucks the last one?'
'No. Hunting in Hereford,' replied Cecil reprovingly.
I felt tempted to ask when Winkling in Wilts was coming out, but restrained my flippancy. Obviously, this particular writer took his work seriously, unlike Basil Bradley, our local novelist, who turns out a well-written book a year with a Regency buck as hero and a score of gorgeous girls with ringlets and fans. He aims to entertain, and makes no secret of it.
'You must find writing very hard work,' I said politely.
'Not at all. I find it pleasantly relaxing.'
I remembered reading that: 'Anyone who claims to write easily must be either a terrible writer or a terrible liar,' but naturally did not quote this to Cecil Richards.
'Ah,' said Mrs Mawne, 'here comes Diana Hale. I know she wants to meet Sissle.'
I bowed away gratefully, only to find that I was in the midst of a three-cornered discussion on holidays.
'You really need a couple of years in Florence to see it properly,' Henry Mawne was saying to Mrs Partridge. 'Did you see Michelangelo's house?'
'We saw his "David",' replied Mrs Partridge.
'Well, naturally,' said Henry. 'But everyone sees his "David". The house brings it all to life. You went to Siena, of course?'
'Well, no. We didn't have time.'
'Siena is a must,' said Joan Benson. 'I think I really enjoyed Siena more than Florence itself. Those beautiful Duccios in the museum by the Duomo! You really should have gone to Siena.'
'I found the leather school at the Santa Croce one of the most interesting things,' continued Henry. 'I bought this wallet there.' He fished in a back pocket, juggling dangerously with his wine glass, and produced a wallet worn with age.
'Lovely,' agreed Mrs Partridge. 'I bought a handbag on the Ponte Vecchio.'
'On the Ponte Vecchio?' echoed Henry, with horror. 'My dear lady, you must have been mad to buy anything there! You can get the same thing much cheaper in those nice shops near the Bargello!'
I was beginning to feel very sorry for poor Mrs Partridge being batted between the two Florence-snobs.
Henry suddenly became conscious of my presence.
'And where did you go this year?' he asked.
'Clacton,' I said, and was rewarded with Mrs Partridge's smile.
Half-term came and went, and a long spell of dark weather, with pouring rain and high winds, set in.
School playtimes became an endurance test for all. Deprived of their usual exercise in the playground, the children became cross at their enforced incarceration. The tattered comics re-appeared, the jigsaw puzzles, the second-best sets of crayons, and the balls of plasticine, multi-hued by careless hands which had rolled various colours together, were brought out of the cupboard to try to assuage their frustration.
It was uphill work to keep them happily occupied. The first colds of winter swept the classroom, and sneezes, sniffs and coughs rent the air. A large box of tissues seemed to be exhausted in two days, and my pleas for them to bring their own, or to bring a handkerchief, fell on deaf ears. The tortoise stoves took to smoking, as they do when the wind gets into a certain quarter, and the skylight, as always, dripped steadily, as the rain swept viciously across the playground.
It was during this bleak period that I received another missive from die office. It informed me that due note had been taken of the findings at the managers' meeting held some time earlier, and that my own comments were being considered. It was only right to point out, it went on to say, that reorganisation of schools in the area was now advancing steadily, and that the possible closure of Fairacre School could not be ruled out.
'Back to square one,' I observed to Tibby, who was trifling with a portion of expensive cat food, much appreciated by the cat in the television advertisement, but not by my fastidious friend.
'Now what?' I wondered.
My problems were further complicated on the next Friday by Minnie Pringle's.
My heart sank when I opened the door and heard the crash of die handbrush against the sitting-room skirting board. Since Minnie's advent all the skirting boards have been severely dented, and now resemble hammered pewter. I think she feels that the edge of the carpet has not been properly cleaned without a hefty swipe at the skirting board with each movement. My remonstrances have made not the slightest impression, and I doubt if Minnie realises the damage she is doing. At one stage, I forbade her to touch the hand brush, but that too was ignored.
'You're working overtime, Minnie,' I said.
She looked up from her demolition work, with a mad grin.
'It don't matter. I ain't got nowhere to go.'
I took the brush from her hand and put it on the table.
'You'd better sit down and tell me,' I said resignedly. At least the skirting board was spared for a time, but I had no doubt that my nerves would take a similar pounding.
Minnie sat on the extreme edge of a Victorian buttoned armchair, which, I knew from experience, was liable to tip forward abruptly if so used.
'Sit back, Minnie,' I advised her.
She wriggled forward another two inches, and I gave up. With any luck, her light weight would not affect the chair's b
alance.
'What's the matter now?'
'It's Bert. Him and Ern has been fighting.'
'Can't you tell them to go? I gather it's your house now, or so your aunt says.'
Minnie's eyes grew round with horror.
'Tell 'em to go?' she echoed. 'They don't take no notice of what I says. Anyway, Ern's gone.'
'Then what's the trouble? I thought Bert was a lodger-paying guest, I mean—so surely you can give him notice, if you want to?'
'He don't pay.'
'All the more reason for pushing him out!'
Minnie twisted her dirty fingers together unhappily.
'It's not that. It's 'is 'itting me I don't like.'
'I thought you said it was Ern and Bert that were fighting.'
'Well, it was, first off. Then when Ern went back to Caxley to give old Mrs Fowler a piece of 'is mind, Bert turned sort of nasty and took a strap to me.'
I thought that 'turned sort of nasty' was the under statement of the year if it involved attacking the minute Minnie with a strap.
'Look here,' I said, 'I think you had better have a word with Bert's employers at Springbourne Manor. Let them speak to him.'
Minnie looked more horrified than ever.
'They'd give 'im the sack, most like, and then 'e'd take it out on me. He's 'orrible strong, is Bert. I'd almost sooner have Ern. 'E never used the strap.'
'Well, you seem in a pretty pickle, I must say,' I said severely. 'Why has Ern gone back to Caxley? I thought he had left Mrs Fowler.'
'She give him the push, and now he's hollering for the furniture what he pinched from our house. 'E reckons Mrs Fowler's flogged it.'
Despair began to overtake me. Heaven knows, I do my best to simplify my own life, and even so I am beset by irksome complications. To confront someone like Minnie, whose relationships with others are a hopeless tangle, makes my rational mind boggle. Where can one begin to help?