by Miss Read
'Why not? I think he behaved very badly towards Minnie. Dash it all, half those children he left with her are his own!'
'Maybe. But he's a man, ain't he? Men do go off now and then. It's their nature.'
'I'm sure Mr Pringle doesn't,' I dared to say, attacking a particularly grubby patch of paint by the door.
'I should think not!' boomed Mrs Pringle. 'He's nothing to go off for, living peaceable with me!'
'But is Ern behaving properly?' I said, changing the subject. We seemed to be skating near very thin ice.
'As nice as pie. He'd better too. He knows he's got a bed to sleep in at Minnie's. That cousin of his give him the push after a few days. The springs of the sofa give way, and she's trying to make Ern pay for the repairs.'
'And is he in work?'
'That's not for me to say,' said Mrs Pringle, buttoning up her mouth. 'There's a lot going on at the moment, I'm not to speak about it. No doubt you'll hear, all in good time.'
'I didn't mean to pry,' I said apologetically. 'I beg your pardon.'
'Granted, I'm sure,' said Mrs Pringle graciously. 'And if you'll give me a hand with these 'ere pelmets, I'll take them outside for a good brushing. They can do with it.'
Term began in a blaze of sunshine, and I returned reluctantly to school.
The children appeared to be in the highest spirits, and attacked their work with even more gossiping than usual. I do not expect dead silence in my classroom, when work is in progress, as did my predecessors at the school, but I object to the sort of hubbub which hinders other people and gives me a headache.
It took a week or more to settle them down again to a reasonable level of noise, and a reasonable rhythm of work, so that I did not think about Minnie's affairs until I discovered that she was in the house, when I returned one Friday afternoon. She was scouring the sink with considerable vigour when I approached.
'You're working overtime, Minnie,' I told her. 'It's nearly ten to four.'
'Don't matter. Ern don't finish till five, and we don't have our tea till then.'
I remembered Mrs Pringle's secrecy about Ern's employment. Presumably, all was now known.
'Is he working at Caxley?' I asked.
Minnie put down the dishcloth and sat herself on the kitchen chair, ready for a gossip.
'No. He don't go into Caxley no more. That Mrs Fowler and his cousin are after him. He's best off at home.'
'Where is he working then?'
'Working?' queried Minnie, looking dazed, as though the word were foreign to her. Then her faced cleared.
'Oh, working! Oh, yes, he's working! Up the manor.'
'At Springbourne manor?' I said. It seemed odd to me that Ern should go to work at the same place as his erstwhile rival Bert.
'That's right,' agreed Minnie. She found a hole in her tights at knee level, and gently eased a ladder down towards her ankle. She concentrated on its movement for some minutes, while I wondered whether to pursue the conversation or simply let it lapse.
Curiosity won.
'But doesn't it make things rather awkward.' I said, 'with Bert still there? After all, they are both—er—fond of you, Minnie.'
She smiled coyly, and removed her finger from the ladder.
'Oh, Bert's been and gone! The boss sent him packing.'
'Mr Hurley did?'
Minnie looked at me in amazement.
'There's no Hurleys now at Springbourne. Mr David was the last, and he sold up to these new people. Name of Potter.'
I remembered then that I had heard that the last of the old family had been obliged to part with the house because of death duties, and had gone abroad to live.
'Of course! And why was Bert dismissed?'
'Pinching things. He had a regular job selling the vegetables and fruit and that, to a chap in Caxley. Made quite a bit that way.'
Minnie spoke as though it were to Bert's credit to be so free with his master's property.
'I'm glad he was found out.'
'Oh, he wouldn't have been, but for Mrs Potter goin' into this 'ere greengrocer's for some lettuces, because Bert told her that morning there wasn't none ready for the table yet.'
'What happened?'
'She said what lovely lettuces, and where'd they come from and the man said he got a lot of stuff from Springbourne manor, and it was always fresh, and everyone liked it. So, of course, she come home and faced Bert with it.'
'I should think so!'
'A shame, really,' commented Minnie. 'He was doin' very nicely till then. Anyway, Mr Potter packed 'im off pronto, with a week's wages and no reference. Still, he done him a good turn really, seeing as Bert's got a job laying the gas pipes across the country, and they makes a mint of money.'
'So Ern has got Bert's job?'
'That's right! Mr Potter come down to me one evening and talked about Ern coming back and settling down to be a good husband and father, and what did I think?'
'What did you say?'
'I said I wanted him back. He never hit me nor nothing, and as long as he behaved proper to me, he was lovely.'
'So you've forgiven him?'
'Well, yes. And Mr Potter said he could have this job, and free fruit and veg. as long as he behaved hisself. And if he didn't, I was to go and tell him, and he'd speak sharp to him.'
'Well, it all seems to have turned out very satisfactorily,' I said. 'But look at the time! You must hurry back.'
Minnie began to twist her fingers together.
'I waited to tell you. Now Ern's back, I don't need to come out so much, and I wondered if you could manage without me.'
'Manage without you?' I echoed, trying to keep the jubilation from my voice. 'Why, of course, I can, Minnie! I'm just grateful to you for helping me out these last few months, but of course you need more time at home now.'
'That's good,' said Minnie, getting swiftly from the chair and collecting her dues from the mantelpiece. 'I've really enjoyed coming 'ere. You just say if you ever wants me again.'
She looked around the kitchen, her brow furrowed.
'I've never done the dusters,' she said at last.
'Don't worry about those, Minnie,' I said hastily. 'You hurry along now.'
I watched her untidy figure lope down the path, her tousled red hair gleaming in the sunshine.
Relief flooded me, as I gently closed the door. Long may Ern behave himself, I thought!
One morning, soon after the happy day of Minnie's departure, a letter arrived from the office in the usual buff envelope.
I put it aside in order to read more important missives such as my bank statement, as depressing as ever, a circular exhorting me to save with a local building society, pointless in the circumstances, and two letters from friends, which made ideal breakfast reading.
After washing up and dusting in a sketchy fashion, I took the letter from the office over to the school. No doubt another tiresome directive to save equipment, or else measure it, I thought, remembering George Annett's remark.
It remained unopened until after prayers and register-marking. It was almost ten o'clock, and the children were tackling some English exercises, when I slit the envelope and began to read.
It was momentous news. The gist was that because of the devastating cuts in government spending, all local authorities must make do with the present buildings, apparatus and so on. There would be cuts in staff, both teaching and domestic. Re-organisation plans were shelved until the country's finances improved.
There were two more pages after this first staggering one. This circular had obviously been sent to every head teacher. But in my envelope there was a covering letter signed by Mr Salisbury, making it clear that there was now no need to have any fears for the closure of Fairacre School, in the light of the accompanying directive, and that the status quo both at Fairacre and Beech Green would remain until such time, in the far future, when the matter of combining the two schools could be reviewed again.
I put down the letter on the desk, securing it under the
brass inkstand, and wondered why my legs were trembling. It would have been more rational, surely, to have capered up and down the aisles between the desks, but here I was feeling as though I had been hit on the head with Mr Willet's heavy wooden mallet. I began to realise just how desperately I had been worrying all these months. This, presumably, was what medical men called 'delayed shock'.
My teeth began to chatter, and I held my jaw rigid in case the children heard. Perhaps I ought to make a pot of tea, and have lots of cups with lots of sugar? Vague memories of First Aid procedure floated through my mind, but before I had time to dwell any longer on my symptoms, a diversion arose.
The door was open, letting in the scents of a June morning, and at this particular moment Tibby entered, bearing a squeaking mouse dangling from her mouth.
As one man, the class rose and rushed towards her. Tibby vanished, followed by half the class, and by the time I had restored order my weakness had passed.
Ernest was the last to return, looking triumphant.
'Got it off of 'er!' he announced. 'It run off into your shed. Old Tib's waiting for it, but I reckon it's got 'ome all right.'
'Thank you, Ernest,' I said with genuine gratitude. People I can cope with—even Minnie Pringle, in a limited way—but not mice.
'I think we'll have early playtime today. Put away your books and fetch your milk.'
When they were at last in the playground, I told Hilary the good news, and then went indoors to see if I could get George Annett on the telephone. He has an instrument in his staff room, a rather more convenient arrangement than my own.
'Isn't it splendid?' roared George, nearly deafening me in his enthusiasm. 'I bet you're pleased. And so am I. The thought of building going on in term time was beginning to get me down. Frankly, I think we're all a dam' sight better off as we are. I shall have to lose one teacher, I think—perhaps two—but the main thing is I shan't be cluttered up with your lot.'
I felt it could have been put more delicately, but was far too happy to voice objections. All my shakiness had gone, and I returned to the classroom in tearing high spirits.
It seemed a good idea, bursting as I was with unaccustomed energy, to tackle one or two untidy cupboards, and I set some of the children to work on this task.
The map cupboard is always the worst. Patrick grew grubbier and grubbier as he delved among the piles of furled maps, bundles of raffia, odd tennis shoes, a set of croquet mallets bequeathed us by the Vicar, innumerable large biscuit tins 'which might come in useful' and, right at the back, a Union Jack.
Patrick shook it out with rapture.
'Look! Can us put it up?'
It seemed to me, in my state of euphoria, to be sent straight from heaven to be put to its proper use of rejoicing.
'Why not?' I said. 'You and Joe can stick it up over the porch.'
They vanished outside, and could be heard dragging an old desk to the porch. By standing on it, I knew they could reach comfortably a metal slot which Mr Willet had devised some years ago, for holding the flag stick.
The flag met with general approval when the children had finished their tidying inside and went to admire Joe and Patrick's handiwork. I managed at last to get them in again, and we spent the rest of the morning wrestling with decimals of money.
The children worked well, glowing with the virtuous feeling of having tidied cupboards and desks.
And I glowed too, with the relief which that plain buff envelope had brought me.
That afternoon, when the children had gone home and I was alone in the quiet schoolroom, I opened the bottom drawer of my desk, and took out the weighty log book which holds the record of the school.
I heaved it up on to the desk and turned to the last entry. It had been made a few weeks earlier, and recorded the visit of the school doctor.
I took out my pen, and put the date. Then I wrote:
'Today I received official notice that Fairacre School will not be closing.'
As I gazed at that marvellous sentence, the door-scraper clanged, and Mrs Pringle appeared, oil-cloth bag on her arm, and an expression of extreme surprise on her face.
'What's Fairacre School flying the flag for?' she asked.
'For mercies received,' I told her, shutting the log book with a resounding bang.
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MISS READ is the pen name of Mrs. Dora Saint, who was born on April 17, 1913. A teacher by profession, she began writing for several journals after World War II and worked as a scriptwriter for the BBC. She is the author of many immensely popular books, but she is especially beloved for her novels of English rural life set in the fictional villages of Fairacre and Thrush Green. The first of these, Village School, was published in 1955 by Michael Joseph Ltd. in England and by Houghton Mifflin in the United States. Miss Read continued to write until her retirement in 1996. In 1998 she was made a Member of the Order of the British Empire for her services to literature. She lives in Berkshire.
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