(20/20)A Peaceful Retirement (2 page)

'For one thing,' she said, as we sipped tea, 'she talks funny. I don't take in one word in four.'

'I rather like that Irish brogue.'

My remark was ignored.

'And she's fair upset Bob Willet with all her fancy ideas for the garden.'

'What ideas?'

'A camomile lawn for one. Bob was fair taken aback by that. Takes years to settle he told her, and what was wrong with the grass lawn as had been there for years?'

'Will Bob do it?'

'Not likely. And she wanted Alice Willet to go up every evening and cook the evening meals. That didn't suit Bob nor Alice, as you can guess.'

I felt sorry for poor old Henry if his wife really was putting her foot in it so readily. However, one learns over the years to take Mrs Pringle's news with a pinch of salt, and I looked forward to hearing more from less rancorous sources.

'It's a great pity,' said Mrs Pringle, heaving herself upright ready for further onslaughts on my property, 'as he didn't look nearer home for a second wife. You'd have made him a good wife. Apart from the housework, of course.'

I was roused to protest.

'You know perfectly well that Mr Mawne and I had no sort of understanding. I certainly had no thoughts of entangling the man.'

The old harridan was quite unabashed.

"Which reminds me,' she said, 'how is your new friend Mr Jenkins getting on?'

I ignored the question, but she had scored a hit, and knew it.

John Jenkins was one of the problems I should have to face in my retirement. He was a most attractive middle-aged widower who had come to live in Beech Green quite close to my cottage.

We had become good friends, and shared a great many interests. We both liked walking, visiting splendid houses and gardens, attending plays and concerts, and enjoyed each other's company.

He had been lonely, I think, when he first arrived in Beech Green, and glad of my company. I was still busy at Fairacre school, and my time at home was pretty full with the usual woman's chores of cooking, laundering, writing letters and entertaining.

At times I found his presence tiresome. He was plainly at a loose end. I was not, but I tried to be a good neighbour and companion within my limits.

The awkward thing was that John soon wanted more of my time, and asked me to marry him. I refused, as kindly as I could.

However, he was not in the least dismayed, and continued to propose to me with admirable tenacity. But
I
was equally adamant, and a permanent, if uneasy, truce prevailed.

Amy, of course, was all in favour of marriage for me. Ever since her own union with James she has urged me to enter the state of matrimony, and produced a string of possible suitors over the years. I have been grateful to Amy for her well-meant endeavours on my behalf, but I have also been irritated. Time and time again, I have explained to my old friend that I am really quite happy as a spinster, but Amy simply cannot believe it.

'But you must be so lonely,' she protested one day. 'You come home from school to an empty house, so quiet you can hear the clock tick, no human voice! It must be almost frightening.'

'I don't,' I told her. 'I find it absolute bliss after the fuss and bustle of school. And I may not come back to human voices, but Tibby keeps up a pretty strong yowling until I put down her dinner plate.'

Amy was not impressed, and her attempts to provide me with a husband have continued unabated over the years.

This question of loneliness interests me. I remember when I made the move from Fairacre school house to my present home which dear Dolly Clare left me, that I had a brief moment when I wondered if I should really be at ease on my own.

At the school house I had been much nearer my neighbours, and in any case, the children and their parents were much in evidence around me. Certainly, at holiday times I had found the place much quieter, but this had pleased me.

After the move to Beech Green, and my passing doubts about loneliness, I found my new surroundings entirely satisfactory, and when I informed Amy that I was really and honestly not
lonely,
it was the plain truth.

I think perhaps those of us who have lived in a solitary state are lucky in that they have filled their time with a diversity of interests and friends. It is the married couples who suffer far more when their partner goes, for they have shared a life together, and it is shattered by the loss of half one's existence. Life for the one who is left can never be quite the same again.

I feel it would be heartless to share this thought with Amy. She is positive that she is the lucky one to be married, and I am to be pitied.

But I wonder...

I had taken very little notice of Mrs Pringle's strictures about Deirdre Mawne. I was so accustomed to her disparaging remarks about all and sundry that the Mawnes' marital affairs were dismissed from my mind.

However, when Bob Willet mentioned the matter, in his usual thoughtful and kindly manner, I began to take more notice.

He spoke about Mrs Mawne's invitation to Alice, his wife, to take a permanent job as their cook every evening at the Mawnes' house to provide dinner on a regular basis, weekends included.

'She offered to pay well,' said Bob fairly, 'but that's not the point. I'm not having Alice turning out in all weathers, and after dark too, best part of the year, to do a job as Mrs Mawne can quite well do herself. It's asking too much.'

I agreed.

'I don't know how they go on in Ireland,' continued Bob, putting four lumps of sugar in his mug and stirring briskly, 'but I should hope the folk there don't kowtow to the likes of Mrs Mawne. She won't find no slave labour in Fairacre. We ain't standing for her high and mighty ways, I can tell you.'

'She'll soon learn,' I said comfortingly.

'I'm not so sure. She's upset Mr Lamb at the village shop keeping him waiting for his money. She says she's always paid her bills monthly, but that's a long time for him to wait for the cash, and half the time he has to remind her because she's let it run on. People don't like having to do that. He's in a proper tizzy.'

Bob Willet himself was getting quite pink in the face as his account went on.

'And she's making trouble with the vicar,' he continued. 'Strode up the aisle to sit in the front pew where old Miss Parr always sat for years. She says that pew belongs to whoever has the house, which they do now, as you know, but no one ever took that pew after Miss Parr died. Mr Mawne always sat three rows back ever since he came to Fairacre.'

I rose to put my mug in the sink, hoping to bring this unhappy recital to a close. I had never seen the usually imperturbable Bob Willet so incensed.

'I'm sure it will all blow over,' I said hopefully. 'Henry Mawne knows all about village ways. He'll explain things to her.'

'If you ask me,' he said, putting his mug beside mine in the sink, and preparing to return to the garden, 'he's scared stiff of her.'

I heard him trundling out the lawn mower. He was singing
Onward Christian Soldiers,
which seemed, I thought, to suit his present martial mood.

I rinsed the mugs, feeling relieved that I no longer lived close to the Mawnes and their troubles. With any luck, I told myself, I should hear no more of the subject.

I should have known better.

The weather continued to be calm and sunny, and I pottered about my garden and the lanes of Beech Green in a state of blissful enjoyment. The thought that I need never go to school again filled me with satisfaction which, in a way, rather surprised me for I had never disliked my job, and had certainly wondered if I should miss the hurly-burly of school life after so many years.

However, this halcyon period suited me admirably and I seemed to notice things which had escaped me before. I took to picking a few wild flowers from the banks and hedgerows on my daily strolls. I marvelled at the exquisite symmetry of the pale mauve scabious flowers and the darker knapweed that grow so prolifically in these parts.

There was a patch of toadflax just outside the wall of Beech Green's churchyard, and I enjoyed these miniature snapdragons with their orange and yellow flowers, and the spiky leaves which set off their beauty so vividly.

It was one of these mornings, when I was mooning happily with a nosegay of wild flowers in my hand, that John Jenkins drew up alongside in his car and invited me to coffee. I accepted willingly and climbed in.

'You realize you are breaking the law, madam,' he said with mock severity, nodding at my flowers.

'It's all in the cause of botanical knowledge,' I told him. 'Have you been to Caxley?'

Our local market town on the river Cax serves many villages around, and there are still many people who go every market day for their shopping, despite one or two out-of-town supermarkets.

'Yes, I had to see my solicitor. Luckily he has a car park for clients at the rear of his office, otherwise I'd still be driving round and round the town looking for a parking place.'

'People shouldn't have cars,' I said.

'You mean
other people
shouldn't have cars,' he countered, turning into his drive.

Ten minutes later we were drinking proper coffee, expertly made, which put me to shame as I usually gave him instant.

'This luscious brew makes me feel guilty and weak,' I told him.

'Good,' he replied briskly. 'This might be a propitious time to suggest that you marry me. I promise to make the coffee in the years ahead.'

'No go,' I told him, 'but the coffee offer might have done the trick this time. By the way, I've been asked to take charge of the Sunday School here.'

'Oh dear, has George started already? I told him not to bother you.'

I felt slightly piqued by this. That John should institute himself as my protector was really a bit much. Anyone would think we were already married, and that I was incapable of looking after my own affairs.

'Well, George is not the only one, of course, to rush to enlist my invaluable services. But never fear! I realized that I should be pestered to join all sorts of things when I retired and I am determined to be firm.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Let me know if anyone starts to bully you, and I'll see them off.'

I put down my cup carefully. Mellowed though I was by his excellent coffee, I was not going to stand for this knight-to-the-rescue attitude.

'John,' I began, 'I'm not ungrateful, and you are one of the first people I should turn to in trouble, but I must point out that I have managed my own affairs—not very competently perhaps, but I've got by - for a good many years, and I am not going to start asking for help now. Unless, of course,' I added hastily, 'I am absolutely desperate.'

'What a prickly old besom you are,' commented John pleasantly, refilling my cup with a steady hand. 'You remind me of a hedgehog.'

I laughed.

'I like hedgehogs,' I told him.

'I like this one,' he assured me.

We drank from our replenished cups in relaxed and companionable silence.

2. Ponderings

T
HE EXPECTED
rush of invitations to join this and that quickened its pace during early September, and I was asked to bestow my time and ability upon diverse activities, from arranging the flowers in Beech Green church to judging the entries of those local Brownies who were aspiring to a literary badge to wear on their sleeves.

The first invitation I turned down as politely as I could. I am one of the grasp-and-drop-in brigade of flower arrangers, and anything on a large pedestal involving great lumps of Oasis and hidden strings would be beyond me.

The Brownies could be undertaken in my own home and in my own time, and as hardly any of the little girls seemed to have literary aspirations, preferring very sensibly to opt for cooking or knitting, my judicial skills would not be overworked. I took on this little chore with great pleasure.

I had the chance to be a secretary, a treasurer, a general adviser, a part-time librarian, a prison visitor, a baby-minder and a regular contributor to our local radio station.

'I can't think how they all got on without me,' I confessed to Amy one sunny September afternoon, as we sat in my garden.

'They must be jolly hard up,' said Amy. I thought this rather hurtful, but said nothing. 'I mean, your flower arrangements are pathetic, and I can't see you bringing any comfort to prisoners. You'd probably frighten the life out of them.'

'Well, I've turned those down anyway. I have put my services at the disposal of the hospital drivers.'

Amy looked alarmed.

'Not
ambulance
work surely? You know how you hate blood.'

'No, no. Of course not. I'm not qualified for anything like that. I've just offered to run people to hospital for treatment. George Annett asked me, and I'd turned down so many of his pleas to help at the church here, that I felt I had to say "Yes" to something.'

'It's always so difficult to refuse friends,' agreed Amy. 'My father always said: "Never do business with family or friends," and it was good advice.'

"Well, this isn't exactly
business,'
I began, but Amy interrupted me, with a wave of her long ivory cigarette-holder.