(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement (13 page)

'Mr Mawne hasn't turned up,' I heard Mrs Pringle say. 'But then I suppose he's got enough to think about.'

This was intriguing, but I was busy talking to Mr Roberts, the local farmer, and heard no more.

I had not noticed Henry's absence, but now I came to think of it, it was strange that he had not appeared. As a good friend of Fairacre school he had always been invited, and I felt sure that Jane Summers would have made a point of sending him an invitation. Perhaps he had another engagement, or was not well, or had returned again to Ireland? Who could tell? In any case, it was none of my business, I told myself.

People began to move off. The fog was thickening, and it was plain that we should have another black night.

I was sorry to leave my old haunts, and said goodbye to my successor and Mrs Richards with real regret. It was sad to leave the Christmas warmth and splendour for the cold murkiness outside, but I drove slowly home through the treacherous fog glowing with the aftermath of good food and good company.

Two days later, I set off for Dorset to spend Christmas with my cousin Ruth. I stayed with her until New Year's Day and returned wondering if I should be strong-minded enough to make the first entry in my new diary, as I had planned to do.

Years before, Amy had presented me with a large diary, and I had done my best to put a few meagre jottings into it through the months.

This time my new diary was a present from John, who was obviously going to see that I kept my nose to the grindstone.

I had every intention of doing my best. Over the years I have had so much pleasure from other people's diaries and I was interested to read recently that some psychiatrists recommend the activity. The theory, so I gathered, was that everyone needed 'a speech friend' with whom the small details of everyday living could be discussed. I promised myself that this diary would be my 'speech friend', and just as the great diarists of the past, Kilvert, Woodforde, Evelyn and Pepys, had put down their thoughts, so would I, in my small corner at Beech Green.

I recalled Virginia Woolf's comment on Parson Woodforde's diary-keeping: 'Perhaps it was the desire for intimacy. When James Woodforde opened one of his neat manuscript books he entered into conversation with a second James Woodforde. The two friends said much that all the world might hear, but they had a few secrets which they shared with each other only.'

Even in the eighteenth century, it seemed, a 'speech friend' was a comfort. I too knew what it was to guard my tongue in a small community. In my diary I could relax and chatter away without any restraint or fear of gossiping tongues.

The day after my return, I took out John's handsome present, and with some excitement, laced with some trepidation, I made my first entry.

How long, I wondered, would I keep it up? Time alone would tell.

9. Problems Old and New

O
NE BLEAK
Wednesday afternoon in January Mrs Pringle arrived with news of Henry Mawne. I confess that I was eager to hear it, for I had not seen him for weeks, and the rumours about him were many and various.

The vicar, who had called to see me soon after Christmas, was sad and bewildered by Henry's circumstances, but seemed to know nothing of his plans.

Mr Lamb at Fairacre shop, my most reliable informant, was equally reticent.

'Well, I suppose you've heard about Mr Mawne,' began Mrs Pringle, as she hung up her coat and donned a cretonne overall.

'Not a word,' I told her.

'That's a surprise. I said to Bob Willet that if you didn't know then nobody did.'

I found this assumption that Henry Mawne would confide in me distinctly annoying, but said nothing.

'My cousin in Caxley said the house was going up for sale. It'll be in the
Caxley
this week.'

'But if it hasn't been advertised yet, how does your cousin know?'

'She works at the estate agent's office,' replied Mrs Pringle. I decided not to pursue that aspect of the news.

'I'm sorry to hear it. Henry will miss the place, I'm sure, and he has done marvels with the garden.'

"Well, he'll have to try his hand at gardening in Ireland, so I hear. They say he's going to get that new wife of his to see reason.'

I was unusually disturbed by this news, but tried to hide my feelings.

'Must be upsetting for you,' observed Mrs Pringle, eyeing me shrewdly. 'You and him have been through a lot together over the years. Want the windows done upstairs? I thought they were a disgrace last week.'

I gave my assent to the cleaning of the disgraceful upstairs windows, and went into the kitchen to ponder on this news.

It was maddening, of course, to have Mrs Pringle pitying me for what she enjoyed thinking of as my broken heart. My chief feeling towards Henry was irritation, and always had been. Nevertheless, he had many good points, and was an old friend. I was going to miss him.

But my chief concern was for Henry himself. His house and garden had always been dear to him, and to part with it now would be a terrible blow. Was it wise to throw away the pleasant life he had made for himself in Fairacre, to pursue an unpredictable future and a stormy marriage overseas?

I hoped he had found someone to advise him. No doubt his solicitor would have pointed out the pros and cons, and he must have many old friends with whom he could discuss his problems. I sincerely hoped that these troubles would soon be resolved for him, and that whatever the future held it would be happy.

Poor old Henry, I thought sadly! Well, at least he was worrying this out on his own, as far as one could see. In the old days he had often brought his troubles to me, and I could not help feeling relieved that it seemed I was to be spared from any involvement in his present worries.

I should have known better.

Over our cups of tea, Mrs Pringle broached the subject of my work on old memories.

'I hear as you're having Alice Willet recorded,' she said, with some hauteur. 'Is it for the BBC?'

'Good lord, no!' I began to explain my modest aims, but she still looked offended. Could she be jealous of a tape recorder?

'I hoped you might tell me about some of your early memories too,' I said, doing my best to placate the lady. 'It needn't be recorded, of course. I could just make a few notes if you'd prefer it.'

'If Alice Willet's going to speak into one of those contraptions then I will too,' she said. 'I reckon my memory's as good as hers any day.'

'That would be fine by me,' I said hastily. 'I'd better see Alice first as I've mentioned it to her, and then I should love to hear your reminiscences.'

She looked somewhat mollified, accepted a piece of shortbread graciously, and things were back to normal.

As I drove her back to Fairacre, Mrs Pringle dropped her second bombshell.

'It's about Minnie,' she began, as the village came in sight.

'You know I don't want her to work for me,' I said firmly.

'I know that. And I don't want her messing up the work I do for you, I can assure you. It's quite bad enough getting your place clean without Minnie under my feet.'

My relief was short-lived.

'No, it was about something quite different.'

'What?'

'Bert.'

'Bert?' I squeaked in horror. "What on earth is Bert to me?'

Bert is the most persistent of Minnie's admirers and the subject of many domestic rows in Minnie's home. Ern, her husband, is understandably jealous of Bert, and the police have often been called to break up a fight between the two men.

'Minnie wondered,' said Mrs Pringle, as I stopped at her gate, 'if you'd have a word with Bert and tell him to stop worrying her.'

'But, Mrs Pringle,' I expostulated, 'why me? I am certainly not going to do anything of the sort. Minnie's affairs are her own, and if she can't choke off Bert, with Ern's help, then she must call the police.'

'Ah well!' sighed Mrs Pringle, collecting her belongings. 'I told Minnie you'd say no, but she's got such an opinion of you. She says you could frighten Bert off with just one of your looks, but I told her how it would be. Still, I kept my word. I did mention it, didn't I, like I promised Minnie?'

'You did indeed,' I said, still seething. 'And now you must tell her that I absolutely refuse to have anything to do with the matter.'

Driving back I pondered on Minnie's touching faith in my disciplinary powers. Did I really have such a basilisk glare? It would have been nice to think I had, but it had certainly never worked on Mrs Pringle herself.

Galvanized into action by Mrs Pringle's remarks about Alice Willet's recorded efforts, I got in touch with my first contributor and arranged to bring to bring my tape recorder to her home one afternoon in the next week.

Making a date to suit us both was far from easy. Alice said that Monday afternoon was devoted to ironing, Tuesday was her Bright Hour afternoon, Wednesday she had to go to Springbourne manor house to shorten some curtains, Thursday, of course, was always out as it is Caxley market day, and would Friday be any good?

As Friday afternoon was the only day of that week when I too was engaged, we embarked on a long and complicated discussion about my calling on her after depositing Mrs Pringle on the Wednesday.

'Well, I think it could be done,' she said doubtfully. 'I'll be back from Springbourne by four, and Bob can have cold pilchards for his tea when he gets in.'

We left it at that, and I wondered how high-powered business men worked out their arrangements with clients abroad and their overseas flights, when Mrs Willet and I had such difficulty in finding an hour together in our comparatively tranquil lives.

But was it tranquil? I still wondered about that peaceful retirement I was supposed to be enjoying. Honesty pointed out that I really was having an easier time, but it was far more hazardous than I had envisaged.

There was the problem of dear old John Jenkins, for instance. There was this business of Henry Mawne, whose troubles, I felt in my bones, would one day be brought to my door.

Mrs Pringle was always with me as an irritant, rather like 'the running sore of Europe' one used to hear about in history lessons long ago. Turkey, was it, or France? No, if I remembered rightly 'France's bugbear was a strong and united Germany', so it must have been Turkey that was the 'running sore'.

And then, of course, there was Minnie Pringle, I thought, returning to my list of problems after my historical diversion. It was bad enough having to be on guard against giving her a job in the house in a weak moment, with the train of domestic catastrophes that would entail. Worse still was this new complication of being expected to mediate between Ern and Bert.

'Never come between husband and wife,' had been one of my mother's maxims, along with 'Lazy people take the most pains,' and 'Least said soonest mended.'

I certainly did not intend to become involved in Minnie's matrimonial affairs. Or her extra-marital affairs for that matter.

On the following Wednesday afternoon I duly arrived at Mrs Willet's with my borrowed tape recorder.

Mrs Pringle had eyed it somewhat scornfully as I put it on the back seat, and given a dismissive snort, which I ignored.

Alice Willet had prepared a tray with two teacups and an iced sponge cake large enough to feed a family.

I put the recorder on the table as we refreshed ourselves and assured Alice that I should not switch it on until she gave me permission.

Following Bob's mention of laundry work in her youth I started by asking her to tell me what she remembered. I was surprised at her fluency and memory for detail, and after two minutes switched on with her permission.

From descriptions of the sorting of linen, cotton and similar materials from the woollen ones (no man-made fibres in Mrs Willet's youth), she went on to starching, the use of the blue-bag, turning the heavy mangle by hand, and all the processes that followed.

Within ten minutes I had a wonderful amount of material on laundry work, and she went on, without prompting, to the mending of the freshly ironed clothes and household linen that needed repair.

'Would you like a rest now?' I enquired, but Alice then embarked on the preparations needed in the kitchen before preparing a meal for 'upstairs'. This involved so many technical terms connected with the coal-fired stove, such as 'dampers', that I feared I should have to get expert advice before translating Alice's account for modern readers, and we decided to end our session.

I played it back when I got home, and congratulated myself - and Alice, of course - on having such a wonderful start.

I was still in a state of excitement when Amy called on her way home from Oxford.

'A very good thing that you've found an interest,' she said approvingly, 'but rather a
solitary
occupation, this writing business. I should feel much happier if you
joined things'

'But I do,' I protested. 'I belong to Fairacre and Beech Green WIs, and am always buzzing about going to concerts and lectures. And things,' I added rather lamely.

'But it seems so
aimless
,' said my old friend. 'I feel you need to use your mind more. What about politics?'

What about it?'

Wouldn't you like to take an active part in helping your local candidate?'

'Frankly, no. And I've had quite enough of meetings and committees and all the rest of 'em while I was teaching. Now I'm enjoying retirement, don't forget, and even so, I get called upon to do jobs I really don't want to do.'

'You did a very good one on updating the pamphlet about the church here,' said Amy generously. 'Isobel Annett told me at the last Choral Society practice.'

'It's with the printers now, I believe,' I said, rather mollified. 'I quite enjoyed that little exercise.'

'Well, you were always good at English at college, so perhaps this little dabbling in old memories will be fulfilling for you.'

'You sound like my doctor,' I observed. 'He doesn't think I'm fulfilled because I haven't had children.'

'You don't want to take any notice of doctors,' said Amy sturdily. They get such silly ideas of their importance always being kowtowed to by adoring nurses. It gives them ideas above their station.'