(2/20) Village Diary (4 page)

That's the worst of being paid for December and January just before Christmas! I shall have to take my Post Office Savings Book into Caxley on Saturday morning and withdraw enough to keep me going until the end of the month. It would be more than mv reputation's worth to withdraw it here in the village. Mr Lamb, our postmaster, and brother to Mrs Willet, would fear I was either betting or keeping two homes. Meanwhile I must just embezzle the dinner money.

We have had pouring rain all day and—miraculously—the new skylight seems weatherproof.

I gave my class an arithmetic test. Linda Moffat did exceptionally well, and should go on to Caxley High School in two years' rime if she keeps on at this rate. She grows prettier daily, and will doubtless become a heart-breaker.

All goes well with Joseph, thank heaven, and the child is cleaner than I've ever seen him. He and Jimmy are great friends and I can see that Mrs Annett is going to have to squash those two young gentlemen before long.

Joe's tortoise seems to have turned round in his box. At my suggestion that perhaps somebody lifted him round, there were hot denials, and I apologized hastily. He certainly looks less dead.

Jim Bryant, our postman, brought our cheques today. He was never more welcome. I gave Mrs Pringle and Mrs Annett theirs, but could not find Mr Willet. However, he had a noisy coughing attack in the lobby this afternoon, which reminded me of his rightful dues.

'There now,' he said, when I gave the cheque to him, 'this is a real surprise!'

Bless him, if anyone ever earned his humble wage it's Mr Willet! He copes with coke, water, dead leaves, dustbins, snow, intruding animals varying from Mr Roberts' cows to black beetles—not to mention the buckets from our primitive lavatories—with unfailing cheerfulness. May he endure for ever!

FEBRUARY

T
HE
village is agog. The engagement has been announced in
The Times
and
The Daily Telegraph
of John Parr—our Miss Parr's nephew, who now owns her house here in Fairacre. His bride, unfortunately, is not to be a Fairacre girl—what a wedding that would have been at St Patrick's—but lives somewhere in Westmorland. Mrs Pringle was somewhat disapproving this morning.

'Young enough to be his daughter! Man of his age—fifty-odd—with one foot in the grave, as you might say, to enter into 'oly wedlock with a kittenish bit like that! Don't seem respectable to me. A decent body, much the same age now, why, that's quite a different kettle offish! I said as much to Mr Willet—which reminds me—that schoolmaster what lives on top of Mr Parr was in the Post Office yesterday. Looked lonely to me.'

We are all anxious to read about the engagement in 'The real paper,' the
Caxley Chronicle,
where we are bound to learn more details. For, anyone in the news, who has the remotest connection with Caxley or its environs, must expect to face a detailed account of himself in the local paper.

In John Parr's case I think there will be some shortage of material, as he has lived almost all his fifty years in Hendon, only visiting his aunt at Fairacre as a child, until he took over her property recently. Still, it's a challenge to the paper and I shall look forward to next Tuesday, when it appears, as keenly as the rest of the village.

This avid interest of the countryman in his neighbours is a most vital part of country living, and is the cause of both pleasure and annoyance. I suppose it springs from the common and pressing need for a story. Books supply the panacea to this fever for those who read; but for the people who find reading distasteful, or are too sleepy after a day's work in the open air to bother with books, then this living drama which unfolds, day by day, constitutes one long enthralling serial, with sub-plots, digressions, flash-backs and many delicious aspects of the same incident as seen through various watchers' eyes.

The countryman, too, has more rime than his town cousin, to indulge in his observations and speculations. To the lone man ploughing steadily up and down a many-acred field, the sporadic activity of the dwellers in the cottage on the hill-side acquires an enormous importance to him. He will see smoke coming from the wooden shed's chimney, and surmise that it is washing day. He will watch the old woman cutting lettuce from her garden and speculate on such things as cold meat for midday dinner—it all fits in. Later, as the garments billow on the line he will recognize the checked shirt that young Bill was wearing, American fashion, at the pub on Saturday night and wonder if his missus's first has arrived yet. And it may well be that it is he who first sees the brave white fluttering of new nappies and night-gowns which semaphore the tidings that a new soul has arrived to join in the fun and feuds of Fairacre.

Of course it is irritating at times to find that all one's personal affairs are an open book to the village, but, personally, I have two ways of mitigating the nuisance. The first is to face the fact that one has no real private life in a village and so it is absolutely necessary to comport oneself as if in the public gaze the whole time. The second is to let people know a certain amount of one's business so that their minds have a nice little quid, as it were, to chew on. There is then a sporting chance that any really private business may be overlooked. On no account, in a village, can one begin a sentence with: 'Don't let it go any further, but—' One has to face this consuming interest squarely. It doesn't worry me now, though it did in my early days here as headmistress; but I have reminded myself many times, that either—none must know, or all.

The vicar called in and said what delightful news it was about John Parr. A man needed companionship, particularly as he grew older, and would I be able to go to tea at the Vicarage one day next week (he had a note somewhere from his wife, but it seemed to have vanished—at times he half believed in poltergeists) to meet that charming fellow who lived above Parr? I said that I should look forward to it immensely.

I drove alone, for the first rime today, to Caxley to do a little shopping. As I approached the bus stop, I overtook Mrs Pringle stumping along, black shiny shopping bag on arm, and offered her a lift.

'Most likely flying in the face of Providence,' she remarked morosely, as she settled her bulk beside me. Til never forget going out with my old aunt the first time she took her car out alone. Phew! That was a nightmare, I can tell you! She started learning late in life, like you, and never had no consecration, if you follow me.'

I said I didn't, edging round a disdainful cat that was washing its legs in the road.

'Well, couldn't never do two things together like. Come she put one pedal down, she hadn't got consecration enough to put the other.'

'Is she all right now?' I asked—foolishly enough.

'Oh no!' said Mrs Pringle, with the greatest satisfaction, 'she lost the use of her right arm as a result of the accident. Not that the doctors didn't try, mark you. Speak as you find, I says, and it was months afore they really give her up. Pulleys, massage, deep-ray, X-ray, sun-ray—'

'Hooray,' I said absently, but lucidly Mrs Pringle was well launched.

'Why, she was in that hospital for nigh on three months, and the doctors said theirselves that they'd never come across a woman what bore pain so brave before. Of course, she was only driving very slow at the time. Say she'd been driving this pace, now, she'd very like have lolled herself outright. Having no consecration, you see, she couldn't stop quick.'

I was glad to reach Caxley and drop the old misery outside the Post Office.

I bought a very dashing pair of tan shoes, which cost far more than I can really afford, but I consoled myself with the thought that February is a short month—a specious piece of reasoning, which I shall not delve into. Also managed to get a new book from the library, much praised by the critics.

I felt rather wobbly on the drive home—probably lack of consecration—and so horribly tired this evening that I went to bed early with hot milk and the book.

I spent most of Sunday in bed, with what I can only think is a particularly unpleasant "flu germ. My only nourishment was four oranges and about a gallon of lemon water, the thought of anything else anathema.

The book, of which I had read such glowing reports, I hurled from my bed of pain about 11 a.m., when the heroine—as unpleasant a nymphomaniac as it has been my misfortune to come across—hopped into the seventh man's bed, under the delusion that this would finally make her (a) happy, (b) noble, and altruistic, and (c) interesting to her readers. Could have told the wretched creature by page 6, that, spinster though I am, this is not the recipe for contentment.

I am heartily sick of books from Caxley library—all termed powerful' by their reviewers, (and in future I shall steer clear of any with this label) which give the suffering reader a detailed account of the bodily functions of their main characters. If the author has such a paucity of ideas that he must pad out his 300 pages with reiterated comments on his hero's digestive, alimentary and productive systems, I am sorry for him; but I don't see why he should be encouraged.

To have a heroine who does nothing but climb, regularly every thirty pages, from one bed into another, is, to my mind, not only inartistic. It is worse. It is tedious.

I spent the evening huddled over the fire, refreshing myself mentally with
The Diary of a Country Parson,
and physically with sips of lemon water. On opening the larder door, I nearly had a relapse, by being faced with a leering joint of fatty beef, some cold cooked sausages embedded in grease, and a pot of cod liver oil and malt.

Retired early to bed, and felt the greatest sympathy for James Woodforde who found 'Mince Pye rose oft' sometime in the 1790s. I lay awake for several hours and noticed, not for the first time, how peculiarly significant inanimate objects, such as chairs and tables, become when one's energy is low. It is almost as though they have some life of their own, a silent, immobile, waiting one, rather sinister—as though they were saying: 'Yes, we were here before you came. And we'll still be here, standing and watching when you—poor ephemeral creature—have gone.'

I suppose the logical reason is that all these things are used and taken for granted, and hardly noticed, as one bustles about with all sorts of plans to occupy one's mind. But when illness comes, then one becomes conscious of their presence, and imbues them with more power than is really theirs. I had worked out this interesting theory at about 2 a.m., and was toying with the idea of writing a letter to the
Caxley Chronicle
about it—with a rather well-turned aside, about the Romans' Lares et Penates—when I must have dropped off.

This has been Black Monday. The telephone rang at 8 a.m. and Mr Annett, who sounded quite beside himself with worry told me that Mrs Annett had a high temperature and was too ill to come to school.

'I'm so sorry,' I said, 'it's probably this ghastly 'flu.'

'Don't expect her this week at all,' said the harassed husband, 'I am insisting on her staying in bed for at least three days. She can't be too careful at a time like this.'

I should have liked to ask Mr Annett to explain this last remark. Did he mean, I wondered, that Mrs Annett was expecting a child? Or did he mean, simply, that at this time of year one must take reasonable precautions? I forbore, as a respectable maiden lady, to cross-question the poor fellow, contenting myself with sending my love to the patient and a message to the effect that we should manage very well.

The distance from my house to the school is about fifty yards, but it seemed like half a mile to my shaky legs.

Mrs Pringle was nowhere to be seen and the stoves were unlit. Lucidly they were laid and soon burnt up well, but the school was terribly cold.

Jim Bryant brought a note from her which read:

I am laid by with gastrick, and a flare-up of my leg. The doctor is comeing today and will let you know what he say.

Matches is hid behind bar soap on top shelf. Mr Willet makes free otherwise. Hope you can manige.

Mrs Pringle.

Only ten of Mrs Annett's children arrived, so that with my own I had a class of twenty-nine—not too bad. Evidendy this germ is fairly widespread in the village.

I felt too wobbly to do much active teaching, and the children worked cheerfully enough, from books, and the infants brought in their own number apparatus and reading books and got on very well.

Dinner turned out to be neck of mutton stew and mashed potatoes, which I served out with much nausea and as little lingering as possible. Figs and custard completed this—to me—revolting meal, but the children returned again and again for helpings, with true Fairacre appetites.

Mr Willet brought a message from Mrs Pringle during the afternoon, to the effect that Doctor Martin recommended a week off, maybe more, and that her niece over to Springbourne' would oblige while she was 'laid by." Mr Willet, after looking sadly at me for a long time, said that I looked a bit peaky to him, and suggested that I had a 'glass of stout and something substantial, like a good thick wedge of pork pie' for my supper. It was only the comforting support of the school fire-guard at my back that kept me from collapsing at the dear soul's feet.