by Tomato Cain
“I simply dote on ghost stories, Miss Tandy, and I am quite hideous, so I suppose it may be. I like to go to sleep quaking with fright, so l read them whenever I can.”
Miss Tandy’s eyes glistened with pity.
“I don’t like ugly things,” said Mrs Churchman politely, “very much.”
“And that reminds me,” said Mrs Bettilee. “I have such a funny little story I must tell you.”
“Please do!” Miss Tandy licked crumbs from her mouth.
“My husband, you know, has a brother in Africa. Nairobi or Johannesburg or Freetown - some name I can’t remember, and he’s always moving about, anyway, with his work.
“Gerald - that’s his name - writes such amusing letters to my husband. He tells about the things he sees and the people in such a funny way: what they say and do and their huts and wigwams and things. They must be a scream and their sense of humour is often terribly - broad.”
“Oh!” said Miss Morgan.
“I must read you some next time if I can find them. I simply howl at them.
“And yesterday - or was it the day before? - we had another, but my husband’s got it, I think. There was a very odd story in it. Will you have some more tea, Mrs Churchman?
“It seems Gerald met a witch-doctor. I think that would be most interesting, don’t you?”
Miss Morgan nodded and Mrs Churchman’s eyes widened.
“He told us his name too. Mm - no, Nnn - bam - bambwe, or some such native expression. A very clever man, Gerald thought he was. He had been worrying at quite elaborate things - deductions and calculations - for years and years in his own way with only his own gadgets and methods. Gerald is an engineer and he thought they were quite ingenious.”
“ A sort of black Einstein,” smiled Miss Tandy.
Mrs Berrilee poised her cake. “And do you know the latest thing he had worked out?”
There was only the bubbling sip of Mrs Churchman’s tea for answer.
“That time was going to stop!”
“Poor old thing ” said Miss Tandy.
“Fancy!” said Mrs Churchman.
“I suppose the idea is quite advanced really,” said Miss Morgan, holding her brooch.
“For a coloured man,” Mrs Churchman added.
Miss Tandy drained the last of her tea “Your brother-in-law should have given him some books to read. The Dunne theory, for example.”
“And a Bible,” said Mrs Churchman.
“There is a currant in this piece of seed-cake,” Mrs Berrilee announced. “For a moment I thought it was a fly. I never know what I am doing when I bake — No, Gerald said the old man was quite sure about it. He talked to Gerald for a long time and told him exactly what - when it was going to happen.”
“When?” Mrs Churchman’s mouth stayed open.
“After the equinox, whenever that is. Seven days - or seventeen - it was one or the other, I am quite sure - after the equinox.”
Miss Tandy smiled and took an envelope and pencil from her handbag.
“You see,” said Mrs Berrilee, “it was something to do with the positions of the planets.”
“He must have known the earth is round,” said Mrs Churchman slowly.
Mrs Berrilee placed her cup on the trolly. “Gerald said he expected it to happen quite suddenly - the old man did, I mean. Just a few - vibrations, the way a ball bounces up and down when you drop it, and then stops. But he thought it would only vibrate one way - Gerald says - only forwards, because that’s the way time is. If you can see what he meant. I can’t.”
“It doesn’t sound a bit convincing,” said Miss Morgan. “Just that part of it alone. Action and reaction, you know.”
Miss Tandy lowered her pencil. “As a matter of interest,” she announced, “seven days from the equinox was a week last Sunday. So that, I think, is that.”
“Mrs Berrilee did say it might have been seventeen days,” Miss Morgan reminded.
“Yes,” said Mrs Berrilee. “If I had the letter I’d know.”
“Seventeen days, then.” The pencil jotted again. “That would be—yesterday. No, to-day!”
“How funny!” cried Mrs Berrilee. “Well, it hasn’t happened yet.”
“I don’t like that sort of thing.” Mrs Churchman blinked at the fire.
“He was probably trying to stir up trouble,” said Miss Tandy. “Using it to frighten other natives and dancing around in necklaces of bones the rest of the time - that’s what they do. And they could be so well occupied with irrigation or something.”
Miss Morgan handed her cup across. “Anyway, Mrs Berrilee, it was quite interesting and quaint.”
The hostess smiled. “Could any one drink some more of this awful tea? Nobody?”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Tandy. “But I admire your silver teapot very much. The ornament is beautiful.”
“It was a wedding present. I wonder the thing has survived,” said Mrs Berrilee, “the way I treat them.”
“Let's talk about something nice now,” suggested Mrs Churchman, with eyes on the glowing coal.
“To round off the meeting.” Miss Morgan fingered the back of her head.
“I have something very special that I was keeping as a surprise,” said Mrs Betrilee.
She opened a cupboard and took out a small box. “Chocolates! You can have one each for being good.”
“How delicious!” said Miss Morgan.
“Thank you very much,” said Mrs Churchman.
“These are quite a subject for discussion,” said Miss Tandy.
Mrs Berrilee beamed and bit into a large flat one. “I could eat them like a pig.”
They smiled politely as she put away the half-empty box. “Till next week.”
Their mouths moved together. Chewing.
“How delicious !” said Miss Morgan.
“Thank you very much,” said Mrs Churchman.
“These are quite a subject for discussion,” said Miss Tandy.
Mrs Berrilee beamed and bit into a large flat one. “I could eat them like a pig.”
They smiled politely as she put away the half-empty box. “Till next week.”
Their mouths moved together. Chewing.
They smiled politely as she put away the half-empty box. “Till next week.”
Their mouths moved together. Chewing.
Chewing.
Chewing.
END
Chapter 28
Nature Study
“This afternoon,” Miss Bunnary announced, “we shall all go out to gather leaves.”
She looked around the class and her lip slid up from her two crossed teeth in the front: that showed she was prepared to be angry.
“Has every one brought a paper bag to put them in?”
There was no movement.
She stood with her eyes on Albert Johnson in the third row. “Albert!” said Miss Bunnary loudly. He rose: clothing quite good but untidy. “Show me your paper bag!”
He reddened and after a moment began to fumble in his pockets.
“It’s no use pretending!” cried Miss Bunnary. “I overheard you say you weren’t going to bring one for ‘her’! I suppose you meant your teacher!”
She strode up the aisle and pushed him from his place with a hand behind his head. Her thin fingers rasped in his hair.
“You are six whole years old and you do nothing you are told! Turn around and face the class! What do you expect to do when you are sixteen? Or sixty?”
She took his right hand in hers, turned it over and smacked the knuckles three times with a flat ruler. “The next time you refuse to do as I say, you shall go straight to the headmaster!”
Albert Johnson licked his hand. The others sat still. The headmaster was terrible.
“The oldest boy in the class and you set such a terrible example! Go to your place! If any one behaves like that again,” said Miss Bunnary in a cold, quiet voice, “we shall not have any more outings. And we shall keep no tadpoles in a bowl next spring, as all my o
ther classes have done!”
She went slowly back to her desk and moved the globe to its place in the exact centre. There was a snivel somewhere.
“Imogen!” She glared across the room. “Stop crying like a baby!”
The snivel ceased.
“Now,” said Miss Bunnary with a note of pleasure, “that everything is quiet at last, we can go. But Albert has kept us in by the way he behaved. Probably we have missed the best of the day, and I certainly doubt whether we shall have time to find the prettiest leaves. I trust Albert is satisfied!”
Guided by Miss Bunnary, they rose, turned right and marched out through the dark cloakroom, where they collected coats and hats.
“Keep in to the side!” she called. “Stop talking! Halt! Now be quiet and still while I get my coat!”
Presently they were moving off through the gate, down the hill towards the last houses; a double column of small figures.
“Look sharp, everybody!” said Miss Bunnary. “Heads up and eyes wide open! Autumn is one of the most beautiful times of the year, you know, and you must watch for interesting things! Albert, do I see hands in pockets?”
When they reached the place where trees darkened the road, she called a halt. “You may gather round now, and together we shall search for leaves,” said Miss Bunnary. “Doreen, leave your nose alone!”
A little farther along they came to a stile. “This will take us into the wood. The only leaves on the road seem to be dirty and trodden, so we shall go over one by one. Be careful with the planks: they are not our property.”
The line struggled over the wooden bar and squelched into the soft mould beyond.
“Come, come, keep together now! Eyes this way, Bernard! Those are only sheep: surely you have seen sheep before?”
Miss Bunnary stopped and cleared her throat. “Before we go further, I have something to say. I must find nobody picking up horse-chestnuts! I believe that some silly children, particularly the big boys, collect them to play with in the school yard, very roughly. You must all remember that this is lesson time, and it is not to be wasted. We are here to learn!”
Miss Bunnary turned to lead her class upwards and deeper into the woods.
At the top of the rise she paused, panting slightly, and waited for them to catch up. Her heart was pounding. She rooted with her fingers in the crisp, brown vegetation at her feet; they grazed something hard. “What I said about horse-chestnuts also applies to fir-cones!” she called. “Now we shall scatter and try to find as many interesting leaves as we can. Do not pick up dirty or torn ones; only those that are brightly coloured. Put them in your bags, and I shall come round and see what you have.
“Start - now!”
The children deployed through the wood, eyes to the earth. Pale October sunlight filtered down through the branches on to their heads.
“Now, Freda, let me see what you have found!” A small hand submitted a specimen for her approval. “That is an oak leaf,” Miss Bunnary frowned upwards. “If you look at the trees,” she said clearly, “you will find that most of them are oaks and birches. But there are also beeches, elms and firs. The oak leaves are a red-brown colour.” She handed the leaf back. “You may put that in your bag, Freda.”
Deeper in the wood birds were singing. A haze hung over the darkening undergrowth like rising dust. Everywhere was the sweet decay smell.
“Look, all of you! Pauline has discovered a leaf of the hornbeam tree!” Miss Bunnary waved a red flake high in the air. “You can tell hornbeam leaves because they are hairy underneath!”
A momentary breeze stirred through the wood, and at once tiny winged things were fluttering downwards in swaying, undulating clouds.
“Flying angels!”
“That is what ignorant people call them,” Miss Bunnary corrected. “They are sycamore seeds, and they have just been broken off the trees by the wind.”
She stooped, and rose again. “Now here in my hand are some beech leaves, which are the most interesting red and orange: your new reading books tell about them. No, no, you must find some for yourselves! Go along!” She passed from one to another, examining the collections, discarding the ill-looking discoveries and reproving the finders.
“Only clean ones, I said. It does not matter if that leaf is unusual: it is very wet and grimy! We are not here to make ourselves unpresentable.
“Hurry now, look sharp! I do not want to spend ail afternoon in this damp place and —”
Miss Bunnary’s voice faded, and she began to count her charges. “— Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. Stand still, all of you! Marjorie - still! Twenty-two. Turn this way and let me see your faces!”
Her lips twitched as she checked names over to herself.
“Albert Johnson. Imogen Crabtree. And - who is it? - Geoffrey. Where are those three ?”
There was a terrible silence. A leaf fluttered down towards her. A beech leaf.
Miss Bunnary rustled back along what must have been the path. “Albert! Albert!” Her cry rang among the bare trunks.
There was no reply. She turned again to the silently standing infants. “Go on looking for leaves, all of you!”
She came to where the ground was cut away in a steep bank, thickly overgrown with dying bracken, and called “Are you there, Albert?” Tucking in her skirt, she clambered awkwardly down the bank, clutching at exposed roots for support when her heels slipped. She landed at the bottom in a flurry of dead plants.
“He’s running away!” said a voice.
Miss Bunnary peered over a dense bramble bush. The missing children were crouching there as if watching something. A few feet beyond them, what looked like a ball of dried leaves and prickles was clumsily making its way through the yellow grass.
“Gone now,” said the girl. “That noise frightened him. What was it?”
Miss Bunnary advanced through the undergrowth. She felt a briar ladder her stocking.
“So this is where you are! Hiding in dirty bushes! What do you think you are up to?”
Albert’s face was guilty. “We found a hedgehog,” he said. “He was fast asleep.”
“A real live one!” Imogen said. She was clearly excited. “He twitched his nose and then he woke up!” The third child said nothing: he stared at the ground.
Miss Bunnary sniffed and her crossed teeth showed. “Go up there!” she ordered, “and go quickly!”
“There is an easy way round,” Albert said.
Miss Bunnary clamped her mouth and reached for a root. “Don’t answer me back! Now, straight up!” she demanded.
Little showers of earth and stones fell while they climbed. Imogen’s knee bled and she sniffed as they crawled over the edge. The rest of the class stood watching, bags in hand.
“Go forward!” gasped Miss Bunnary. They ploughed knee-deep through the leaves. “Stand there!”
“Now!” she cried. “Attend to me, every one! Here are three wicked children! Quite deliberately, they left us to go wilfully walking on their own! And they have just caused their teacher great discomfort and effort to find them. They would not answer her calls!"
“And do you know why they would not answer?” Her eyes flickered from face to face. “Do you know?”
“Because they were watching an animal sleeping under a bush! A dirty hedgehog!” She was quivering with rage.
“All of you know how bad Albert Johnson was this afternoon. Now he shall certainly go to the headmaster; and I shall deal with the other two myself when we return! Time-wasters! Our outing has been totally spoiled!”
The watchers shuffled their feet. Some had screwed up the mouths of their paper bags, ready to leave.
Suddenly every one was looking at Miss Bunnary.
There was a little moan from her, and the crossed teeth showed; but this time it was not in anger, and her eyes were shut. Stiffly her arm went round a lichenous trunk; tiny beads appeared on her pale forehead; her lips were blue; her knees bent. They watched her slide limply down beside the tree, and the grey hair
rest against it.
“My heart!” whispered Miss Bunnary.
Nobody moved.
Her head turned weakly; the bone of her nose showed white through the stretched skin. “Albert,” said a voice so tiny that it did not seem to belong to her, “I want to speak to you. Albert - dear. Please come here.”
A long silence was broken by rustling, and she closed her eyes more tightly as she waited for him to come and take her message.
But the noise became louder and louder, as of many feet; then gradually it died away. When she opened her eyes she could not see a single child.
The pressure in her chest was terrible. “Albert!” she whimpered.
Far down the glade a voice shouted loudly: “That’s not a beech tree, naughty boy! Smack, smack, smack!” There was a burst of laughter.
A breeze stirred again through the trees that the sun had left. As she pressed her face into a patch of moss, she felt that the pain was easing.
Shadows flickered across the patches of sky: knobbed shadows that turned over and over as they fell.
“Oak leaves,” murmured Miss Bunnary.
END
Chapter 29
Charlie Peace and the King
Oglethorpe is so small that people have been known to insult it by calling it a village. It looks as if it was lost at sometime in that remote corner of the North, and dug itself in and covered itself entirely with grey stone, prepared for the worst.
I was there looking for someone who turned out to have gone away. Rain came on - as it did most nights, they said - and I went to the cinema because in Oglethorpe, though nobody would admit it, there is nothing else to do.
This cinema is not ordinary. It has a special antiquity, for it has scarcely altered since the days when it used to be the big cart and carriage shed for the richest man in town. The front, of course, is called “Cinema House” now, on a board above the entrance, and there is a ticket office inside. But the old walls are as they have always been, and should you not feel like paying, you can stand outside and listen to the sound track; people do. The single show starts at seven o’clock, to give every one proper time for tea and a clean-up after working in the pickle factory.