by Miss Read
Scaffolding was beginning to shroud the stumpy spire of St Patrick's and the damaged area of the nave, and the Appeal Fund board made a new feature in the village. So far the hand of the clock on the board stood only at one hundred and twenty-three pounds, but as we all pointed out to each other, it was a wonderful beginning.
The weathervane had been removed and the cock awaited regilding. On the day that it was brought down to ground level Mr Willet put his head round the school door.
'If you've got a minute to spare,' he said deferentially, 'you might like a close look at the ol' weathercock. He's come to roost in the churchyard, afore he gets a new lick of paint.'
The children began clamouring at once, only too glad to leave their English exercises.
'We'll come straightaway,' I told Mr Willet, rising in readiness to quell the stampede to the door.
When we had attained some semblance of order we made our way decorously to the churchyard. Near the south door, propped against a convenient flat tombstone stood St Patrick's weathercock. It was surprisingly large with an expression of great ferocity.
'It's bigger'n our baby,' breathed Joseph Coggs with awe, stroking its cold head with a grimy hand.
'Weighs a fair bit, too,' said one of the workmen. 'Plenty of good metal in him.'
The children surveyed it admiringly and a few of them seated themselves on the damp tombstone beside it.
'Get up! Don't sit there!' I said a trifle sharply, more concerned with internal chills than irreverence, I must confess.
'Old Tom wouldn't mind, miss,' said Mr Willet peaceably. 'A loving sort of man by all accounts, specially to children—or so his stone do say.'
I stood rebuked in the face of such tolerance. A few yellow leaves fluttered down upon the sodden grass, and a wren skittered up and down the hawthorn hedge by the lych gate. Sunshine, so seldom seen in the last few drenching weeks, flooded the scene with amber light.
'We'll go for a walk before going back to school,' I announced, amidst general rejoicing. Thanks were given to Mr Willet and the workmen, affectionate pats to the weathercock, and then we set off to profit from sweet country air and exercise, in the forlorn hope that they would sharpen our wits for the work awaiting us in the schoolroom.
As Christmas approached, the money-raising activities increased in the village. The Fur and Feather Whist Drive was well attended, and the usual display of turkeys, ducks, hens, pheasants, and hares adorned the platform in the village hall. Almost thirty pounds was raised by this mammoth effort, and only the collapse of the trestle table bearing the coffee cups marred the success of the evening.
'And it's my belief,' Mrs Pringle told me the next morning, 'that Mrs Emery's ugly great dog pushed the legs along. No business to let an animal into the hall at all. Nothing but a bag of fleas and smelling worse nor Mr Roberts' pigs! As I told her straight.'
Mrs Pringle is a great one for 'telling people straight' and makes much trouble in doing so. Sometimes I feel like quoting to her a prayer learned in childhood which says: 'Let me not mistake bluntness for frankness,' but I doubt if such a frail dart would penetrate my school cleaner's rhinoceros' hide. And as she herself is so fond of saying: 'You can't teach an old dog new tricks.' I have learnt to leave well alone whenever possible, for Mrs Pringle makes a formidable foe, and I have to meet her daily.
We spent the latter weeks of the term preparing a school play, in which every child from the smallest five-year-old to Ernest, a hefty eleven-year-old, had a part. Miss Clare, who once taught the infants'class at Fairacre, emerged from her retirement at Beech Green to help to dress the children and to play the accompaniment to their songs. The parents packed the school to overflowing, and apart from such expected crises as a measles suspect, two sore throats, a burst knicker elastic and a hitch in the curtain-pulling equipment, it all went splendidly. Two performances of our masterpiece netted ten pounds for the fund, and we were well content.
'A Gigantic Christmas Bazaar' widely advertised by posters on barns, trees and gateposts, as well as a notice in The Caxley Chronicle, was perhaps a trifle larger than the usual Christmas Bazaar which Fairacre organises, and we all bought knitted tea-cosies and gingham aprons for each other's Christmas presents, and little boxes of home-made fudge which we fully intended to give away too, but ate ourselves as it was quite irresistible and, as we told ourselves, might not keep. The Appeal Fund was larger by twenty-six pounds at the end of the afternoon.
Nevertheless, the hand moved very slowly towards the target of two thousand pounds. After morning service on Christmas Day a little knot of us stood outside the church, in the bleak east wind, exchanging Christmas greetings and discussing the progress of the Appeal. The hand pointed to a little under four hundred pounds, and with the best will in the world it was hard to be very optimistic.
'I suppose it's not too bad for a beginning,' said Miss Margaret Waters to her sister Mary. 'After all, it's only a few weeks since it happened.'
'I'd like to see it nearer the thousand,' said Mr Willet, standing next to her. 'We've had in the best part of the donations, from all accounts. Once we gets into the New Year, somehow it won't seem so urgent. People soon forgets, you know.'
Mrs Pringle, emerging after her stentorian boomings in the choir, heard the last part of Mr Willet's remarks.
'"Forgets" is the word, Mr Willet. Why, in the old days, this money would've been found in next to no time. The gentry—who was gentry then, let me say—would have put their hands in their pockets and settled it at once.'
'There ain't the money about,' agreed Mr Willet. 'At least, not to the same extent. It's spread over a few more, that's all, and them as earns it sticks to it. You can't blame the gentry. The tax man gets it off of them, and there's nothing left for things like the church spire.'
We gazed dolefully aloft at the roof, now bristling with scaffolding. No bells had rung a Christmas peal this year, because of the damage in the belfry. St Patrick's wore a forlorn and battered air. Without its golden weathercock the little spire looked unusually truncated.
'Ah well!' said Mr Willet, turning up his coat collar against the wind, 'mustn't lose heart, you know, specially on Christmas Day! Maybe, the New Year will bring us all a bit of luck. And there's always the Festival to look forward to!'
'Yes, indeed,' said Mary Waters, snatching at this comfort. 'There's always the Festival!'
We set off on our several ways determined to be of good cheer, despite the nagging little doubts which pierced our defences as keenly as the bleak east wind about us.
The Christmas holidays slipped away with their usual speed and the spring term began in a flurry of snow. The children, of course, greeted it with rapture. Mrs Pringle looked upon it as yet another cross to bear. She went about her duties tight-lipped and with the limp which becomes more marked when she feels more than usually 'put upon'.
Luckily, the snow was light, nothing more than a shower here and there, powdering the black branches of the elms and the roofs in the village. But the weather was bitterly cold and even I, a poor weather prophet, knew that we should get more snow before long.
On one freezing evening the Festival Committee met in my sitting-room. Thanks to Mrs Pringle's administrations, it presented an unusually tidy appearance. Piles of exercise books, test papers, infant apparatus and the general flotsam and jetsam found in a schoolmistress's room had been carted up to the spare bedroom, and although I despaired of ever finding any of it in order again, it was wonderful to entertain my guests in such immaculate splendour.
The Committee was formed by most of the Parochial Church Council and one or two other energetic people who had some organising ability and bright ideas. I must confess that I had envisaged an evening making a list of the usual entertainments known only too well to Fairacre, and possibly deciding on the days on which to present them. It was exciting therefore to have Basil Bradley's bombshell exploded at the outset.
'This is really Major Gunning's idea,' he began, glancing across at tha
t upright figure. 'You remember that he suggested that we might have Son et Lumière with St Patrick's as the background. Well, I've been talking to a friend of mine who has helped to produce this sort of thing, and he's willing to stage it and produce it for us.'
Congratulatory murmurs broke out on all sides.
'And if you would allow me,' went on Basil Bradley, looking modestly at his fingers, 'I should really love to write the story and—er—record it for you.'
'That is indeed most generous,' said the vicar. 'Most generous.'
We all agreed warmly. It was Mrs Mawne who rushed in where angels feared to tread, and said:
'But all that wiring and amplifiers, and setting up seats and things in the churchyard—surely that's going to be horribly expensive?'
'I thought, if the vicar agreed, it would be much more practical to have it inside the church, with the lights changing on the chancel and altar. Then, of course, we should be independent of the weather.'
'And have seats,' cried Mrs Mawne, seeing the light.
'And have seats,' agreed Basil Bradley gravely.
'I can see no objection to having the performances inside,' said the vicar. 'After all, the churches were always used for the early miracle plays, and it seems fitting that the story of our parish should be told in the building which has seen almost all its history. I think it is a splendid idea.'
'The only thing is,' said Basil Bradley, warming to his theme in the midst of such general approval, 'it is hardly worth setting up all the paraphernalia for less than a week. Do you think we can expect enough support?'
'Why not?' asked Mr Mawne. 'We'll advertise it well. People can bring parties from miles away. They're much more likely to come if they know it will be inside the building.'
'Oh, I do agree,' said his wife firmly. 'What with gnats, and the wind, not to mention the odd thunderstorm, outdoor evenings are more of a penance than a pleasure.'
It was at last agreed that the Son et Lumière arrangements would be for every evening of the Festival Week, and would, in fact, be the major part of the whole project which would take place in July.
'And do you really think we shall cover our expenses?' persisted Mrs Mawne.
'There will be no expenses,' said Basil Bradley. 'My friend John is giving his services, and the electrician's bills and so on will be my own contribution to the Fund.'
'It is uncommonly generous,' repeated the vicar. 'A really wonderful gesture. I am sure we are most deeply grateful.' And with this we all concurred.
Major Gunning cleared his throat so martially that we all jumped to attention, or as nearly as we could in a sitting posture.
'I've taken the liberty of speaking to a young cousin of mine ... by way of being a singer. You may have heard of her. Jean Cole.'
'Jean Cole!' exclaimed Mrs Mawne, looking at Major Gunning with new respect.
'Jean Cole!' echoed Basil Bradley, turning pink with excitement. 'I'd no idea she was related to you. The most beautiful contralto voice in existence today! She was superb in Aida at Covent Garden last year.'
'I have all her records,' said the vicar. 'The Bach arias are my particular favourites.'
Major Gunning bowed his head politely in acknowledgement of the adulation, but his tobacco-stained fingers, drumming on the edge of the table, showed his impatience.
'Yes, well ... top and bottom of it is that she would be willing to give us a tune...'
Basil Bradley winced.
'To come here? To Fairacre?' breathed Mrs Mawne incredulously.
'As I was saying,' continued Major Gunning with a touch of asperity, 'Jean said that she could come and sing in the church during, or after, the Son et Lumière performance, if it would help. Not the Monday, though. She's flying back from Berlin that day, after a tour.'
There were delighted cries from the company. The vicar broached the delicate subject which was in all our minds.
'It is indeed the most generous offer. It would mean a great deal to our efforts. But your cousin is—er—much in demand. We must offer her some—er—recompense for the honour she is doing us. Can we...?,
'She'll come,' said the major briefly, 'for nothing. I'll see to that.'
If this sounded a trifle ominous, it was soon forgotten in the general delight.
'It's too good to be true,' cried Mrs Mawne. 'The most encouraging news of the evening!'
And with that we all agreed.
The rest of the programme was settled provisionally. The Son et Lumière would take place after dark each evening, beginning about nine. The Festival would begin with a splendid service in the church on the Sunday, at which the Bishop had promised to come and bless our endeavours.
'And all denominations in the area will be invited,' said the vicar.
'Bet they don't all come!' whispered Mr Roberts to me in a horribly penetrating whisper.
'They will be invited,' repeated the vicar reprovingly.
Various functions would take place during the week, a mammoth jumble sale, a gargantuan whist drive and so on, organised by various bodies in the village, and the week would culminate with a magnificent fête in the vicarage garden on Saturday afternoon, to be opened by someone who would be 'a real draw', as Mr Willet said, followed by a dance in the evening.
'Shall we have enough going on to warrant a whole week?' asked Mr Willet doubtfully.
'The Son et Lumière will be the main thread,' explained the vicar, 'and our other festivities will be hung like jewels, as it were, upon this chain.'
'Very nicely put,' commented Mr Mawne, a trifle drily.
'Yes, it turned out rather more poetically than I intended,' replied the vicar, rather surprised and pleased with his flight of fancy. 'I really should make a note of it for a future sermon.'
By this time the hands of the clock stood at ten o'clock. I went into the kitchen to prepare coffee, and the meeting ended with much animation and hope, on the part of the Fairacre Festival Committee, before they set off to face the wintry night.
Chapter 4
'NO, I never!'
'Yes, you did then!'
'I never, I tell you! I never done it!'
'We knows you done it all right, don't us?'
A chorus of self-righteous voices greeted this ungrammatical exchange which floated through the schoolroom window one bright morning. Sometimes I wonder why I trouble to correct the children in the classroom, knowing full well that they will relapse into their mother tongue as soon as they escape from my clutches.
The accused appeared to be Joseph Coggs. I could recognise his hoarse, husky croak easily above the manifold sounds from the playground. He is fairly popular with the other children who do not seem to be bothered by his poor clothes and his gipsy background. What he had done to deserve their united attack I was soon to know.
"Twas there all right yesterday,' said one, belligerently.
'Funny thing you havin' a wooden dagger the same evenin',' shouted another mockingly.
'My cousin from Caxley give it to me,' growled Joseph. 'He got it off of some kid up the street.'
'Likely, ennit?'
'What, same colour an' all?'
The voices grew shriller, and I was half a mind to leave my marking to investigate when I heard Mr Willet's hearty voice.
'What's going on then?'
A dozen voices clamoured together, and the gist of the story was that the hand of the clock had vanished from the Appeal Fund and Joseph Coggs 'had bin and pinched it'.
'You want to watch your tongues,' announced Mr Willet sternly. 'And stop picking on Joe. I took the hand away, if you must know, to put another coat o' paint on it. Put that in your pipes and smoke it, you young know-alls.'
His heavy footsteps passed on, leaving an uneasy silence.
'See?' cried Joseph triumphantly.
'Well, how was we to know?' muttered one of the crowd. 'Your dagger was the spittin' image of that hand.'
'Always on at us to look out for folks breakin' the law,' grumbled another, 'an
d what thanks do us get for trying?'
'Come on up the coke-heap,' shouted someone cheerfully. 'The bell'll be going before we've had a game.'
And the drama ended in a wild confusion of yells and scrunching coke, enjoyed by accusers and accused alike.
The hand of the clock which had been the cause of this fracas was moving far too slowly towards the target for Fairacre's peace of mind.
The most dramatic leap forward, in these last months, had been caused by an anonymous gift of one hundred pounds. Naturally, rumours as to the identity of this generous benefactor were legion.
'I wouldn't put it past the vicar himself,' said one.
'Or Mr Mawne?' queried another.
'That'll be the day,' said Mrs Pringle sourly, when she neard this suggestion. 'Them Mawnes don't part with money that easy. Best end of neck served up as chops in their house, so my niece Minnie tells me.'
One of the infants thought it might be 'a fairy'. This pretty fancy was soon dispelled by the realists who were slightly older.
'Don't talk soft!' implored her brother Ernest, shamed before his fellows in the playground.
'No such thing as fairies,' added Patrick scornfully. 'And if there was, how d'you think they'd lug a hundred pounds up to the vicar's? They ain't no bigger'n my thumb.'
This irrefutable argument settled the matter, in this instance, but the anonymous donor still remained a fascinating mystery. It was one which was never solved.
Even more exciting than the anonymous gift was that Peter Martin, the pop star and idol of the young, had agreed to open the fête on the Saturday and to sing at the dance in the evening, accompanying himself on the famous guitar. He was going to prove a tremendous draw.
'The weather really won't matter,' said the vicar, beaming. 'People will come from miles around just to see him. A very personable young fellow, I believe.'
Mrs Pringle's niece Minnie expressed the general reaction to the news.