(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement (16 page)

Well, good luck with it all, Henry,' I said, rather anxious to end the conversation, as Tibby had just walked in holding a writhing mouse.

'I'll be in touch from Ireland,' he assured me.

I put down the receiver to attend to more immediate problems. Tibby was not amused.

I had not seen John Jenkins since our little tiff about Henry's affairs, but he had rung once or twice, and I knew he was busy with something to do with Uncle Sam's affairs.

As a young man Uncle Sam had put money into some farming project in South America. It had not proved very lucrative, but now that he was dead there was a certain amount of clearing up to do, and the authorities over there were remarkably difficult to pin down, according to Uncle Sam's solicitor.

'As far as I can see,'John had told me, 'there will be nothing coming in from all these tedious negotiations but a hefty bill from the legal eagles on both sides of the Adantic. I'm just letting them get on with it.'

He ended the conversation in the routine way by asking me to marry him. I expressed my usual appreciation of the honour he had done me and refused yet again.

Sometimes I wondered what he would do if I said 'Yes'.

But I did not intend to try it.

The wind got up on the night that Henry had rung me. The windows shuddered in the onslaught, and clouds scudded across the face of the full moon.

The winter-bare branches of the copper beech tree waved wildly this way and that, and the roaring of the gale made sleep impossible.

I went downstairs to make a cup of tea. It was the sort of night when roof tiles slid off, and chimney pots hurtled to the ground. I hoped that Henry's roof would stand up to the rigours of the wind, and was glad that I had a snug thatch to protect me.

It was quieter in the kitchen at the back of the house, and I sat at the table with my tea and hoped that the gale would blow itself out before poor old Henry set off.

At least he would be flying, and not have to face hours on that notoriously choppy crossing from England to Ireland.

But I was apprehensive for Henry's future, although it was really none of my business. My opinion of him had risen considerably since our talk about his problems. I thought that he was tackling them with wisdom, patience and courage. I only hoped that Deidre would continue to co-operate as she seemed to have done when Henry had at last tracked her down.

Although I liked Deidre, I suspected that her feelings and her loyalties were nowhere near as firmly rooted as Henry's. She was a light-weight. She was wayward and spoilt. Would she lead Henry a dance when she had him back, or would they be able to settle down, I wondered? Well, no good speculating, I told myself, draining my cup.

I went to bed again, and slept like the dead, oblivious of the raging storm around me.

The rough weather continued for several days, and when Mrs Pringle arrived the next Wednesday 'to bottom me', she was wind-blown and breathless.

'I was nearly flung to the ground waiting for the Caxley,' she told me. 'Tossed about like a leaf.'

I tried to envisage Mrs Pringle as a twelve-stone leaf, but failed.

'Plays my leg up real cruel,' she went on, 'and Fred's got his chest again.'

I bit back the query as to where Fred's chest had been, and helped her off with her coat.

'You'd better sit down,' I said, 'before making a start.'

She lowered herself heavily into a chair, and sighed.

'I told you about Em, didn't I?'

I said that yes, indeed she had, and was everything settled now?

A look of intense satisfaction spread across her face.

'Thanks to Ern's mum, everything's fine.'

'Good,' I said, waiting expectantly.

'It's like this. As you know, Ern's mum has got a nice little corner shop in Caxley, and a flat above it. Savings too, she's got, so Ern thinks, and as he's the only child he reckons he'll come into it all.'

'And will he? I had an idea she had threatened to cut him out of her will some time ago because of his behaviour.'

'That's right. She did
threaten,
but never actually done it. But this time she took a stronger line. No sooner had he turned up, when she told him that he was to take her to Springbourne and she'd sort things out.'

'But Bert was there surely? Wasn't that rather rash?'

'You don't know Ern's mother. If ever there was a Christian soldier it was her. Right's right and wrong's wrong to her, and she told Ern he had duties as a husband and father, and he was just to get back home and do them.'

I began to feel the greatest respect for Ern's mother. If ever she decided to stand for Parliament, she would have my vote.

'Go on, what happened?'

'Well, knowing as that will of hers was going to be altered the very next morning, of course Ern had to take her back in the van. She took her husband's old gun with her too. Not loaded, of course, but she wasn't above giving Bert—or Ern, for that matter—a clump on the head with it.'

The kitchen clock ticked on as Mrs Pringle's narrative continued, but I decided the housework took second place this afternoon.

It appeared that as soon as the van pulled up and Ern's redoubtable mother emerged with the gun, Minnie Pringle set up the sort of hysterical screaming that engages the attention of all within earshot.

Consequently, interested neighbours appeared in their front gardens, or at open windows, the better to take part in the drama.

It was a swift victory. As the raiding party, Ern and his mother, stormed up the front path, Bert ignominiously burst from the back door, leapt the privet hedge and ran across the field of turnips to take cover in a nearby wood.

Minnie, still yelling, opened the front door, two toddlers clinging to her skirt, to let in her husband and mother-in-law, who carried the gun pointing before her.

The onlookers had the exquisite pleasure of seeing Ern's mother prop the weapon by the umbrella stand with one hand and administer a sharp slap to Minnie's face with the other, before the front door was slammed shut, and the noise of the battle ceased.

'She told me,' said Mrs Pringle, 'that this was the last straw, and she told Minnie and Ern that if she heard another squeak out of them or out of Bert, her shop and the flat and her savings in the Caxley Building Society was all going to the Salvation Army. She's always been a great supporter of that, and Ern knows it.'

It seemed right to me that such a militant Christian should leave her resources to such a good cause, and said so.

'She will too,' said Mrs Pringle, struggling to her feet. 'I think she's settled their hash properly this time. Gave them a good fright.'

'What about Bert?'

'If my Minnie's got any sense, and mind you, she hasn't got much, as we well know, she'll keep Bert at bay, if he's silly enough to worry her again.'

She looked at the clock.

'Is that the time? Well, if you will keep me gossiping here, I shall just have to leave the brights till next Wednesday, and do the usual and leave it at that.'

I felt that the postponement of attention to the copper and brass objects in my establishment was a small price to pay for being brought up to date in the stormy history of Minnie's matrimonial affairs.

As we drove home after her labours, Mrs Pringle asked how my work on old memories was progressing, and I was obliged to tell her that I was not getting on very fast.

The project, I had to admit to myself, for some time now, was not very satisfactory.

Apart from Mrs Pringle's contribution and that of Mrs Willet, there were very few sources, I discovered.

I had jotted down those memories of Dolly Clare's which I could recall, but she would have supplied a wealth of material.

Dear old Doctor Martin who had been in practice when I first came to Fairacre, and Miss Parr who had lived at Henry Mawne's house in my early days, were dead.

The vicar had said that he would do his best to recall anything that might be of interest, but frankly, I did not think the material he could offer would be particularly interesting.

I discussed my problem with John, who had read all my efforts and given me much encouragement. He was also somewhat critical, so that I was alternately flattered and dismayed.

'I think this trivial sort of thing is getting you nowhere,' he announced. 'You say yourself that you'll never get enough useful material together to make a book. What else can you do with it?'

I told him that I had broached the possibility of an article or two in the
Caxley Chronicle
with the editor.

'And what did he say?'

'He was diplomatic, but decidedly daunting. He said they had masses of similar material, and suggested I might like to use some of my stuff for 'corner-fillers' on their 'Local Memories' page. You know, 'How Grandmother Cured her Chilblains' in two hundred and fifty words. I don't want that.'

'I should hope not.'

John looked at me steadily.

'You know you write extremely well. Forget this fiddling about and start a proper book.'

I looked at him in horror.

'A book? A novel, do you mean? I haven't a clue about thinking up a plot, to begin with!'

'You could do it,' he said decisively. 'That is if you really do want to carry on with this writing idea. What made you start anyway?'

I tried to explain about my restlessness after that week of teaching again at Fairacre school, and he listened patiently.

'I think that simply brought things to a head,' he said at last. 'You were full of euphoria when you first started retirement, revelling in having time to yourself and so on, and then this spell of teaching just made you realize that you needed something more from life than just mooning about in the fields and woods.'

'I don't care for that expression "mooning about"', I told him. 'You make me sound like some loony old witch.'

He ignored my interruption and continued.

'And you're right, of course. You're much too bright to find complete satisfaction in domestic matters.'

'Thank you,' I said, somewhat mollified.

'On the other hand,' he went on, now well away in analysing my problems, much to my amusement and some surprise, 'you're not the sort of person who wants to play bridge or golf, or join a lot of clubs where you meet hordes of people. That I can well understand.'

'So what do you suggest, dear Agony Uncle?'

Well, you could marry me, and find enormous satisfaction in looking after me. It would be a very noble aim, and much appreciated.'

'Nothing doing, John.'

'So I feared. But that aside, I do think something like writing, which you could do in the solitude you like so much, might be just the thing for you.'

He looked so earnest that I got up and kissed the top of his head. He really had the most attractive silvery hair I had ever seen on a man.

What's that for?' he asked, looking up.

'To thank you for all your kind concern, and as I was passing to put on the kettle, I gave you a friendly kiss.'

'You couldn't make it more passionate?'

'Not until we've had our coffee,' I told him, going into the kitchen.

After John had gone, I thought about his ideas for my future. I was much touched by his concern for my happiness, and wished I loved him enough to marry him. What a simple solution that would be!

His final words about my proposed literary career had been spoken as we walked down the path to his car.

'You know, I couldn't possibly write a novel,' I protested.

'No one asked you to. It was your crazy idea to write a novel. All I think is that you should write about something you know.'

'But I don't know anything.'

He stopped to unlock the car door, and then straightened up.

'You know all about being a village schoolmistress for years. You could start on that.'

He waved to George Annett who was wobbling by on his bicycle, and then got into the driving seat.

'I'll give you a word-processor for your birthday,' he promised, and drove away, leaving me to mull over all his plans for my future employment.

It was good of him to take so much interest, I thought, as I went about my affairs during the next few days, and I was intrigued by his insight into my character.

He was quite right about my dislike of joining things that would mean meeting lots of people. Amy was not nearly so perceptive, although she had known me far longer.

I remembered her horror when I had told her that I had been alone all day. To Amy solitude was anathema. To me it was vital, at least for part of my day. John had recognized that. He had also realized that domestic duties would not satisfy me. Of course, it might have been a polite way of excusing my house-keeping shortcomings. Perhaps he thought me a proper slut? Compared with his own immaculate house I supposed mine might look rather a mess, despite Mrs Pringle's weekly attentions. It was a chastening thought.

I decided to put aside all these problems. After all, I had come to terms now with my retirement. Despite John's assessment of my needs, I was slightly less restless than I had been after my unsettling week at Fairacre school, but maybe I did need some central interest which I could pursue at my own pace and in the quietness I preferred.