(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (20 page)

I had hardly driven another quarter of a mile when I found a fully grown tree straddling the road, blocking it completely. Panic began to seize me. What now?

It was beginning to get eerily dark which added to my uneasiness. Could I get down the little road to Springbourne, I wondered, and make a detour to my cottage?

It was a narrow lane, little used except by walkers, but I knew it well from my ambles with Miss Clare in earlier days. I turned the car, and made for the lane. It came out near the village of Springbourne, and from here I could take a similar narrow lane up the side of the downs beside a spinney which I hoped would shelter me from the worst of the wind.

I was in luck, but the screaming of the wind in the little wood was unnerving, and I was horrified to see that already quite large trees had been uprooted and were lying at all angles among the others. How the damage could ever be sorted out was going to be a sore problem, and how many small animals had already lost their homes, one could only guess.

I emerged into Beech Green half a mile from my home, and was thankful to see it again. After putting the car away, I stood in the shelter of the house to see what damage had occurred in the garden.

A lilac bush was already upended, and roofing felt on the garden shed was flapping dangerously. No doubt it would be ripped off completely before long, but I was too exhausted to bother much about it.

Miss Clare's ancient fruit trees, which Bob Willet proposed to take down, were swaying so violently that I doubted if they would survive another hour of this onslaught.

I struggled indoors, and looked for Tibby. There was no sign of him, and I was beginning to fear that he was outside somewhere in the maelstrom, when he emerged from under an armchair, attempting to look at ease. It was plain to see that Tibby was just as scared as I was, and it was good to have a fellow coward to keep me company.

I rang Mrs John, one of my nearest neighbours, to see if she and the children were safe, and although she sounded as frightened as I was she assured me that all was well.

'Mr Annett's closed his school as well,' she told me. 'The school buses came early, and let's hope everyone's got home.'

It was amazing to me that the telephone was still in order, but how long, I wondered, before the power cables came down and we should be without electricity?

I switched on the kettle while the going was good, and prudently looked out my old Primus stove, a torch and some candles. I checked that I had stocks of kindling wood, coal and logs in my house, and felt that I could do no more.

It seemed worse when darkness fell, and during the night I feared that the thatch might be ripped from its rafters, and the rattling windows might be torn out.

It was the incessant noise that was hardest to bear. The wind screamed and howled. It drummed and throbbed. Every now and again there would be a strange thump as something heavy, such as the wooden bird table hit the side of the house. Or there would be a metallic clanging as some unknown object, such as a dustbin or part of a corrugated iron roof collided with another.

I cowered beneath the bed clothes, glad to have Tibby at the end of the bed. What on earth would daylight show?

It showed chaos on a scale I could never have envisaged. Five of the condemned fruit trees were completely uprooted displaying great circles of chalky roots. The sixth leant at a dangerous angle. Only the old Bramley apple tree remained, and a sycamore and two lime trees. The border which Bob and Joseph had so carefully prepared was strewn with twigs and leaves, not to mention an upturned bucket and part of the shed roof.

It was hardly surprising to find that the electricity had gone, so I soon had my Primus going.

'Cornflakes for me,' I told Tibby, 'and Pussi-luv for you.'

Thus fortified, I rang the highways department to see if there was any chance of getting to school. A harassed individual told me that all roads within six or seven miles of Caxley were impassable, and 'to stay where you are, my duck'.

I rang Mr Partridge who sounded distraught and begged me not to venture out, and then Mr Lamb.

Although the wind had somewhat abated, it was still difficult to hear clearly as the line crackled. But Mr Lamb gave me more news of Fairacre damage.

'Tiles everywhere. Dozens off the church roof and the school, and your house, Miss Read, has had the chimney through the roof. You be thankful you weren't there. One of the big trees fell clean on it. Bob Willet's been up to have a look, and he's fair shaken, I can tell you. He's rigged up a tarpaulin to keep the worst of the weather out.'

He promised to let as many people as possible know that school would be closed until further notice, and Bob Willet had offered to put a notice on the school door if anyone should have managed to fight their way there. We could do no more, but I was desperately worried.

I spent the rest of the day trying to get some order out of the chaos outside, as the wind gradually died down.

Luckily the thatch had weathered the storm, and the house had stood up sturdily to the battering. The garden was such a shambles that I could do little there but rescue buckets, flower pots and even a water-butt which had all been shifted from their rightful homes.

It was not cold, but I lit a fire for comfort. Tibby and I both needed it.

As soon as possible, I intended to get over to Fairacre to see my school and the school house. I was very much worried by Mr Lamb's message. But at least the children should be safe. I dreaded to think what could have befallen them if the hurricane had arrived earlier.

Meanwhile, I rang friends and neighbours who all had hair-raising tales to tell, and then finally, Amy, at Bent.

To my surprise it was James who answered, and he sounded breathless.

'I thought it was the hospital,' he said.

'The hospital?'

'Amy's there. I thought there might be news of her.'

My heart sank. The sight of that battered car and the stretcher being put into the ambulance came back to me with devastating clarity.

'Tell me what's happened?' I quavered. I sat down. Somehow my legs had suddenly ceased to support me.

'She went into Caxley just before things really got too fierce, to take a load of clothes to the Red Cross shop. She packed the car in that side road, and struggled round with her parcel, but by that time things were getting pretty hairy.'

'So she wasn't in the car when whatever it is happened?'

The memory of yesterday's smashed car began to fade slightly, but what horrors would take its place?

'Tiles were sliding off roofs, and poor dear Amy caught one on the side of the head. Laid her out, of course, but the Red Cross ladies saw it happen and carried her into the shop, and did some much needed first-aid. They managed to get her to hospital, still unconscious, and bleeding like a stuck pig.'

'And how serious is it?'

'Not sure yet. They've stitched her ear on again.'

My inside, never really up to this sort of thing as a squeamish woman, gave a disconcerting somersault.

'But you haven't seen her yet?'

'I'm just off now, as a matter of fact. She came round last night, but our lane's blocked and we've a couple of trees down in front of the garage. I'm going to walk across the fields to the main road, and a friend there says he'll take me into Caxley. They've managed to clear the main road evidently, which is a stout effort, but I can't see how we're going to get Amy home until things are easier for travelling.'

'Well, I won't hold you up,' I said. 'My love as always to poor Amy, and I'll see her as soon as possible.'

'I'll keep you posted,' promised James. 'Now I must get into my Wellingtons.'

This news, of course, haunted me for the rest of the day. Would pretty Amy be scarred? That she would face any affliction with enormous courage, I was well aware, but I hoped that nothing permanent would remain. A head wound, I gathered, could have some nasty consequences.

The wind had now died down, and across the south of England the gigantic task of clearing up was beginning. The highways' staff had worked heroically, and a great many of the main roads were clear enough to allow at least one-line traffic to proceed. There was still no electricity in our immediate area, but mercifully the telephones still seemed to be in order. I did my best to pull the worst of the debris in my garden to one side, and also walked among the rubble to see how the village of Beech Green had fared.

It was a sorry sight. Mr Annett's school roof had a dozen or so tiles gone, and someone's chicken house had been blown into the playground. The churchyard, where dear Dolly was buried, was almost covered with two fallen trees and scattered leaves and branches. The church itself, apart from a smashed window, appeared unscathed.

People were in a state of shock, scarcely able to believe what had happened in the space of twenty-four hours. But luckily there seemed to have been no casualties. George Annett had sent his pupils home early, as I had done, and the damage to his school had occurred during the night.

Tibby and I relied on the Primus stove for our cooking, and the open fire for warmth and comfort. But reading was impossible, I found, and I wondered yet again how people managed to read and write by candlelight years ago. Even my ancient Aladdin lamp scarcely threw enough light for reading, and I found myself listening to my battery-run radio for hours on end, before going early to bed. It was clear that our part of the country had suffered severely.

I rang the hospital the next morning to be told that Amy was 'as well as could be expected and quite comfortable'. (With an ear newly sewn on?) She was due to go home during the day, so obviously their lane at Bent was now passable.

To my relief, I found out too that it was now possible to get along our own road from Beech Green to Fairacre, but beyond that it was still blocked.

I got out the car and set off. The devastation on each side of the road was shocking. Fully-grown trees, mainly the beeches, had been plucked from the ground and lay with their roots, in great circles of chalk, pointing upward and outward. Where they had fallen they had brought other trees crashing down, and the work of restoring these woods to normality could not be imagined. Most of the fallen timber would have to remain where it was.

The thatch had been badly ripped away on a pair of cottages, and a corn stack had collapsed and the bales scattered for yards around. Garden fences seemed to have suffered most, for almost all lay flat on the ground. The insurance firms would be busy, I reflected. Thank goodness my new home was covered.

I drove into my old driveway, stopped the car and sat for a moment surveying the wreckage. One of the tall fir trees behind the house had fallen right across the roof and there was no sign of the substantial chimney. A gaping hole midway across the ridge of the roof, however, gave evidence that the missing chimney was somewhere inside the house.

The school building appeared to be only slightly damaged. Again, as in Beech Green school's case, a few tiles lay shattered in the playground, and I could see that the glass of the skylight was broken. But the lavatories across the playground were in a bad way. The doors had been ripped off and one or two of the china lavatory bowls were smashed.

I got out of the car to examine things more closely, and was surprised to see Bob Willet and two other young men emerge from the back door of the school house.

'Ah, I reckoned you'd be along soon,' said Bob. 'Fair old bluster, weren't it? You want to see inside? I've got the key here, but you'll have to watch your step. One of the stairs is busted.'

I followed him inside, and up the old familiar staircase. There was a large puddle on the landing, and my bedroom door leant at a drunken angle.

I stopped in the doorway and surveyed the chaos. The chimney, which indoors looked enormous, had crashed on to my bed, splintering it and the chair by it into matchwood. Soot had tumbled and blown everywhere, and the new paintwork was ruined. Rain had added to the damage, and my heart sank at the sight.

It was only when Bob Willet spoke again, that I realized how lucky I was to be alive.

'Good thing you moved to Beech Green,' he said. He nodded towards the crushed bed and its rags of filthy bedclothes. 'You wouldn't have stood much chance under that lot.'

I agreed, much shaken.

Bob studied me closely.

'We was just going back home for a cup of coffee. Alice has kept the Rayburn in all this time. Come and join us.'

I accompanied him thankfully.

15 Harvest and Havoc

I WENT to see how Mrs Pringle had fared, and found that lady had taken the onslaught of the elements as a personal affront.

'Washing blown clean off the line,' she told me. 'Mrs-Next-Door picked up some of it, but I'm still missing two pillow slips.'

She paused, and dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. 'But the worst of it is I've lost a pair of bloomers. Good winter ones, too, and I don't care to think of 'em being picked up by
some man
.'

'I don't suppose it would worry him,' I said cheerfully.

Mrs Pringle bridled. 'It's not his feelings I'm bothered about, it's mine. What do I say to him if a
man
brings them back?'

'Just thank him and leave it at that,' I said, rising to go.

Something looked different about her garden, I thought, looking through the kitchen window.

'Fred's workshop's gorn,' she said, following my gaze. 'Proper fussed he is. We found some bits of it round the back of Mr Roberts's barn. It was insured, but all his craftwork's gorn.'

I felt very sorry for Fred Pringle. The little shed at the end of the garden was really his haven from his wife. In it he found pleasure in constructing models made with matchsticks. The smell of glue, cardboard and thick paper always clung about Fred Pringle. His thick fingers had made hundreds of objects over the years, ranging from a model of St Patrick's church to innumerable calendars which always hung fire at the local bazaars, as not everyone wants a Swiss chalet, rather askew, or a rustic bridge, slightly uphill, adorning their walls for a whole year. Nevertheless, Fred continued to turn out dozens of articles, which might appear useless to others, but which provided hen-pecked Fred with pleasure and privacy. Now all that had gone, blown away by that mighty rushing wind which had shattered so many homes as well as hopes.