by Miss Read
He looked at it gloomily.
'Useless to waste time and money on it. Been like that since 204 I sat here as a boy, and will be the same when I'm dead and gone, I shouldn't wonder.'
'You're down in the dumps today,' I teased. 'Not like you.'
Mr Willet sighed.
'Had bad news. My brother's gone home.'
'I'm sorry,' I said, and was doubly so —for his unhappiness and for my own misplaced levity. The old country phrase for dying 'gone home', has a melancholy charm about it, a finality, a rounding off.
'Well, he'd been bad some time, but you know how it is, you don't ever think of anyone younger than you going home, do you?'
'It's a horrible shock,' I agreed.
'That's the third death this year,' mused Mr Willet, his eyes on the rooks wheeling against the sky. The fresh air blew through the window, stirring the scant hair on his head.
'Like a stab wound, every time,' he said. 'Leaves a hole, and a little of your life-blood drains away.'
I could say nothing. I was too moved by the spontaneous poetry. Mr Willet's utterances are usually of practical matters, a broken hinge, a tree needing pruning or a vegetable plot to be dug. To hear such rich imagery, worthy of an Elizabethan poet, fall from this old countryman's lips, was intensely touching.
Mrs Pringle's entry with a bucket of coke disturbed our reverie.
'Well,' said Mr Willet, shaking himself back to reality. 'This won't do. Life's got to go on, ain't it?'
And he stumped away to meet it.
Minnie Pringle was still about her ministrations when I returned home on Friday afternoon. She was flicking a feather brush dangerously close to some Limoges china dishes which I cherish.
'Lawks!' she cried, arrested in her toil, 'I never knew it was that late! I never heard the kids come out to play, and the oil man ain't been by yet.'
'Well, it's quarter to four by the clock,' I pointed out.
Minnie gazed blearily about the room.
'On the mantel piece,' I said. 'And there's another in the kitchen.'
'Oh, the clock!' said Minnie wonderingly. 'I never looks at the clock. I don't read the time that well. It's them two hands muddles me.'
I never cease to be amazed at the unplumbed depths of Minnie's ignorance. How she has survived so long unscathed is astounding.
'How do you know what time to set out from Springbourne to get here?' I asked.
'The bus comes,' replied Minnie simply.
I should like to have asked what happened if there were a bus strike, but there is a limit to one's time.
'I'd best be going then,' announced Minnie, collecting an array of dusters from an armchair.
'Don't bother to wash them, Minnie,' I said hastily. 'I'll do them later on. I have to wash some tea towels and odds and ends.'
It would be a treat, I thought, to see the dusters hanging on a line for a change. Their last Friday's resting place had been over a once shining copper kettle which stands in the sitting-room.
Minnie shrugged herself into a fur fabric coat which pre tended to be leopard skin, and would have deceived no one—certainly not a leopard.
'Had a bust-up down home,' said Minnie, her face radiant at the memory.
'Not Ern!'
'Ah! It was too. 'E turned up when I was abed. Gone twelve it was 'cos the telly'd finished.'
'Good heavens! I hope you didn't let him in.'
'No, I done what auntie said, and put the kitchen table up agin the door, and I 'ollered down to him from the bedroom window.'
'And he went?'
Minnie sniffed, grinning with delight.
'Well, after a bit he went. He kep' all on about 'aving no place to sleep, and I said: "What about that ol' Mrs Fowler then?" and what he says back I wouldn't repeat to a lady like you.'
'I thought he'd left her long ago.'
'He went back for the furniture, and she wouldn't let 'im in, so he chucked a milk bottle at her, and there was a real set-to until the neighbours broke it up.'
'Who told you all this?'
'Jim next door. He took Ern into Caxley when 'e went in for the night shift. Said it was either that, or 'e'd tell the police 'e was molesting me.'
'He sounds a sensible sort of neighbour.'
'Oh, Jim's all right when he's not on the beer.'
'So what happened to Ern?'
'Jim dropped 'im at the end of the town. Ern's got a sorter cousin there would give 'im a doss down probably.'
'Well, I only hope he doesn't come again,' I said. 'You seem to have managed very well.'
'It's auntie really,' said Minnie. 'She told me what to do, and I done it. Auntie nearly always wins when she has an up-and-a-downer with anybody.'
I could endorse that, I thought, seeing Minnie to the door.
I heard more about Ern's belligerence from Mrs Pringle, and later from Amy, whose window cleaner had the misfortune to live next door to Mrs Fowler in Caxley.
Town dwellers who complain of loneliness and having no one to talk to, should perhaps be thankful that they do not live in a village. Here we go to the other extreme. I never cease to be astonished at the speed with which news gets about. In this instance I heard from the three sources, Minnie, Mrs Pringle and Amy, of the Caxley and Springbourne rows, and all within three or four days. It is hopeless to try to keep anything secret in a small community, and long ago I gave up trying.
'Heard about that Ern,?' asked Mrs Pringle.
I said I had.
'I must say our Minnie settled him nicely.'
'Thanks to you, I gather.'
Mrs Pringle permitted herself a gratified smirk.
'Well, you knows Min. She's no idea how to tackle anyone, and that Ern's been a sore trial to us all. She gets in a panic for nothing.'
'I don't call midnight yelling "for nothing",' I objected.
'Well, they're married, aren't they?' said Mrs Pringle, as though that explained matters.
'Mind you,' she went on, lodging a full dust-pan on one hip, 'we ain't heard the last of him. Now Mrs Fowler's done with him, I reckon he'll badger Min to take him back.'
'Where is he now?'
'Staying with that cousin of his, but she don't want him. He's got the sofa of nights, and the springs won't stand 'is weight. She told me herself when I saw her at the bus stop market day.'
'Is he working?'
Mrs Pringle snorted in reply.
'He don't know the meaning of the word! Gets the dole, I suppose. I told our Minnie: "Don't you have him back on no account, and certainly if he's out of a job! You'll be keeping 'im all 'is days, if you don't watch out." But there, I doubt if she really took it in. She's a funny girl.'
Amy's account, at second or third hand, covered the Caxley incident. According to her window cleaner, the rumpus started sometime after nine, when Ern, a little the worse for drink, arrived at Mrs Fowler's front door and demanded admittance.
Mrs Fowler's reply was to shoot the bolts on front and back door, and to go upstairs to continue the argument from a bedroom window.
Ern called her many things, among them a 'a vinegar-faced besom' 'a common thief and 'a right swindling skinflint'. He accused her of trapping him into living there, and then of taking possession of his rightful property, to wit, chairs, a table, pots and pans and a brass bird-cage of his Aunt Florence's.
Mrs Fowler, giving as good as she got, refuted the charges. He had given her the chattels of his own free will, and a poor lot they were anyway, not worth house room, and if he continued to molest a defenceless and respectable widow, whose husband had always been a paid-up member of the BufFalos she would have him know, she would call for help.
After a few further exchanges, Ern, incensed, picked up the first handy missile, which happened to be an empty milk bottle standing in the porch, and flung it at his adversary's head. Mrs Fowler's screams of abuse, and the crash of glass, roused her neighbours, who until then had been hidden but fascinated observers of the scene, to open protest.
&
nbsp; The window cleaner threatened to send for the police if they didn't pipe down and let honest people sleep and, amazingly enough, he was obeyed.
Ern, still muttering threats, slouched off, and presumably walked out to Springbourne in the darkness, and Mrs Fowler slammed the window and presumably went to bed.
'Obviously,' commented Amy, 'neither wanted the police brought in. I suspect that Mrs Fowler knows jolly well that she's hanging on to property that isn't hers, and Ern doesn't want to be run in for causing an affray, or whatever the legal term is.'
'I thought it was something to do with "behaviour occasing a breach of the peace!"'
'Comes to the same thing,' said Amy carelessly. 'I feel very sorry for our window cleaner.'
'I reckon Ern is going to have a job to get his stuff back,' I said. 'Mrs Fowler was always avaricious. The Hales had trouble with her when she was their neighbour at Tyler's Row.'
'The best thing he can do,' replied Amy, 'is to cut his losses, find a job, and get Minnie to take him back.'
'Some hope,' I said. 'I can't see Mrs Pringle allowing that, even if Minnie would.'
'We must wait and see,' said Amy, quoting Mr Asquith.
***
The first day of March arrived, and came in like a lamb rather than the proverbial lion. Balmy winds had blown gently now for a week or more, a bunch of early primroses adorned my desk, and the blackbirds chattered and scolded as they trailed lengths of dried grass to their chosen nesting places.
With all these signs of Spring to cheer one, it was impossible to worry about such things as schools closing, and I made my way to the village hall that evening in a mood of fatalistic calm. What would be, would be! I had got past caring one way or the other, after all the weeks of suspense.
There were a surprising number of villagers present, and all the managers, with the Vicar in the chair. Mr Salisbury had been invited and sat in the front, with an underling from the office holding a pad for taking notes.
The meeting was scheduled to start at seven-thirty, but it was a quarter to eight by the time the last stragglers arrived, puffing and blowing and excusing their lateness with such remarks as: 'Clock must've been slow' or 'Caxley bus was late again.'
'Well, dear people,' said the Vicar at last, 'I think we must make a start. You know why this meeting has been called. So many people have been concerned about the possible closure of our school that it seemed right and proper for us to hear what is really happening, and to put our own views forward.
'We are lucky to have Mr Win—Mr Salisbury, I should say—here with us, to give us the official position, and I know you will all speak frankly about our feelings. He will, of course, answer any questions.'
He smiled at Mr Salisbury, who looked solemnly back at him.
'Perhaps you would care to outline official educational policy before we go further?' suggested the Vicar.
Mr Salisbury rose, looking rather unhappy, and cleared his throat.
I am very pleased to have been invited to meet you all this evening but I must confess that I am not at all sure that I can help a great deal.'
'Must know if the school's closing or not, surely to goodness,' grumbled old Mr Potts, who is somewhat deaf, and speaks as though everyone else is too.
'Our general policy,' continued Mr Salisbury, ignoring the interruption, 'is to provide the best service possible with the money available. Now you don't need me to tell you that times are hard, and we are all looking for the best way to stretch our money.'
'But what about the children?' called someone at the back of the hall.
'Exactly. As I was saying, we want to do our best for the children, and we have been looking very carefully at ways and means.
A small school, say under thirty pupils, still needs two teachers and sometimes perhaps a third, for extra work. It needs cleaning, heating and supplying with all the hundred and one pieces of equipment found in a school.
'Now, it does seem sensible to put some of these smaller schools together, to make a more workable unit.'
'When's he coming to the point?' asked old Mr Potts of his neighbour.
'And so, for some time past, we have been going into this question very carefully. There are several small schools, such as Fairacre, in the area, and we think the children would benefit from being in larger ones.
'Let me add, that nothing definite has been decided about closing this particular school. There would be consultations all the time with the managers, and parents too. That is why I am so glad to be here tonight, to answer your questions.'
'I've got one,' said Patrick's mother, leaping to her feet and addressing Mr Salisbury directly. The Vicar, as chairman, made an ineffectual attempt to regularise the situation, but is so used to having the chair ignored that he becomes philosophical on these occasions, and really only intervenes when matters become heated.
'Do you think it's right that little children should have to get carted off in a bus, ever so early, and back again, ever so late—in the dark come winter-time, when they've always been used to walking round the corner to school?'
'I "think "walking round the corner to school", as you put it, is the ideal way. But we don't live in an ideal world, I fear, and we have to make changes.'
'Then if it's ideal,' said Patrick's mother, 'why change it?'
She sat down, pink with triumph. Mr Salisbury looked a little weary.
'As I have explained, we have to do the best with the money available. Now, if we can put these small schools together to make one of viable size—'
'Now there's a word I loathe!' commented Mrs Mawne, in what she fondly imagine was a discreet whisper.
'It would seem the best solution,' continued Mr Salisbury, diplomatically deaf.
'Mr Chairman,' said Mr Roberts, who tries to keep to the rules at our meetings, 'I should like to ask Mr Salisbury about something different from the financial side. What about losing a valuable part of our village life?'
'Hear, hear!' came a general murmur.
'We've lost enough as it is. Lost our dear old bobby, lost half our parson, in a manner of speaking, lost our own bakery, and now it looks as though we might lose our school.'
'He's right, you know,' said old Mr Potts. 'And I mind other things we've lost. We used to have two lovely duck ponds in Fairacre. Dozens of ducks used 'em, and the horses drank from 'em too. And where are they now? Gorn! Both gorn! And the smithy. We used to have a fine smithy. Where's that? Gorn! I tell you, it's proper upsetting.'
There were murmurs of agreement, and the Vicar broke in to suggest that perhaps questions could now be directed to the chair, and had anyone anything else to add?
'Yes,' said someone at the side of the hall. 'What happens to Miss Read?'
'I understand,' said the Vicar 'that Miss Read would be well looked after. Am I right?' he added, turning to Mr Salisbury.
He struggled to his feet again and assured the assembly that I should suffer no loss of salary, and that a post would most certainly be found for me in the area.
'But suppose she don't want to go?' said Ernest's father. 'What about her house and that? Besides, we want her to go on teaching our children.'
I was feeling slightly embarrassed by all this publicity, but was also very touched by their obvious concern.
Mr Salisbury elaborated on the theme of my being looked after, but it was plain that few were satisfied.
There was a return to the subject of doing away with a school which practically all those present had attended in their youth, and their fathers before them.
I felt very sorry for Mr Salisbury, who was really fighting a losing battle very gallantly and politely. His assistant was busy scribbling down notes, and there certainly seemed an amazing amount to be recorded.
Countrymen do not talk much, but when their hearts are touched they can become as voluble as their town cousins. The meeting went on for over two hours, and Mr Salisbury, at the end of that time, remained as calm, if not quite as collected, as when he arrived.
His final words were to assure all present that no definite plan had been made to close Fairacre School, that should that situation arise there would be consultation at every step, there would be nothing done in secrecy, and that all the arguments put forward so lucidly tonight would be considered most carefully.
The Vicar thanked everyone for attending, and brought the meeting to a close.
'Wonder if it did any good?' I overheard someone say, as we stepped outside into the gentle Spring night.
'Of course it did,' replied his neighbour stoutly. 'Showed that chap you can't push Fairacre folk around. That's something, surely!'
19 Doctor Martin Meets his Match
WHATEVER the long-term results of the village meeting might be, the immediate effect was of general relief.
We had made our protest, aired our feelings, and those in authority had been told clearly that Fairacre wished to keep its village school, and why. We could do no more at the moment.
We all relaxed a little. The weather continued to be seductively mild, and all the gardeners were busy making seed beds and sorting through their packets of vegetable and flower seeds, with hope in their hearts.
I was busy at the farthest point of my own plot when the telephone bell began to ring one sunny evening. My hands and feet were plastered with farmyard manure, but I raced the length of the garden to get to the instrument before my caller rang off. Too rushed to bother to take off my shoes, I grabbed the receiver, dropped breathless upon the hall chair, and gazed with dismay upon the new hall carpet.
'What a long time you've been answering,' said Amy's voice. 'Were you in the bath, or something?'
I told her I had been in the garden.
'Picking flowers?'
'Spreading muck.'
'Muck?'
'Manure to you townees. Muck to us.'
'Lucky you! Where did you get it?'
I told her that Mr Roberts usually dumped a load once a year.
'I suppose you couldn't spare a bucketful for my rhubarb?' said Amy wistfully.
'Of course I can. I'll shove some in a plastic sack, but I warn you, it'll make a devil of a mess in the boot of your car. You should see my hall carpet at the moment.'