(9/20) Tyler's Row (6 page)

They sang grace lustily, and then tumbled out into the lobby, while I locked my desk. An ear-splitting shriek, followed by a babble of voices, took me to the lobby in record time.

Mrs Pringle, broom upheld like Britannia's trident, gazed wrathfully upon the horde milling round her.

'If I'm laid up tomorrow,' she boomed, 'lay it at the door of that boy.'

She pointed to Joseph Coggs, whose dark eyes looked piteously towards me.

'Stepped full on me bunion with his great hobnail boots! Enough to cripple me for life!'

I looked at the terrified Joseph.

'Have you said you were sorry?'

'Yes, miss,' he whispered abjectly.

Mrs Pringle snorted. For some unworthy reason my spirits rose unaccountably.

'Ah well, Mrs Pringle,' I said, with as much gravity as I could muster, 'we all have our troubles.'

5. Making a Start

TROUBLE was certainly looming for Peter Hale. The two surveys confirmed that there was dry rot in the ground floor of the cottages, and in one king beam, and that rising damp at the back of the property was causing considerable damage to the fabric of the outer walls.

'Nevertheless,' said Mr Croft, the architect, 'there is nothing to worry about. All these little matters can be put right.'

He leant back in his swivel armchair and surveyed Peter Hale benevolently. He was the senior partner in the firm of Croft and Cumberland, and something of a personage in Caxley. He was a man of unusual appearance, affecting from his youth rather long hair and a style of dress which blended the artist with the country gentleman.

His tweed suits were pale, and with them he wore a bow tie which carefully matched them in colour. His shirts were always made of white silk, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat at a jaunty angle. Someone once said that Bellamy Croft was the cleanest man in Caxley, and certainly his face shone with soap and his hair, now white, formed a fluffy halo round his gleaming pink scalp. A whiff" of eau-de-Cologne accompanied him, and was particularly evident when he shook out the large vivid silk handkerchiefs he affected.

Caxley's more sober citizens thought Bellamy Croft rather a popinjay, but as time passed he was looked upon as a distinguished member of the community, and the results of his work were much admired.

As a young man, he had spent some years in India when the British Raj held sway. Indian princes had employed him, and he had worked on some projects instigated by Sir Edwin Lutyens himself. Caxley was impressed by this exotic background, but even more impressed with the solid work he did in their own neighbourhood when he settled there.

Now, nearing seventy, he took on only those projects which he liked, and certainly only those within easy range of the Caxley Office. The conversion of old property was a speciality of his, and Tyler's Row attracted him.

Peter Hale knew he was lucky to have his services, but was a little apprehensive about the cost of the job.

'I don't want Bellamy Croft to run away with the idea that I'm one of his Indian-prince clients with strong-rooms stuffed with emeralds and rubies of pigeon-egg size, and diamonds too heavy to lift,' he said to Diana. 'Do you think he has any idea of teachers' salaries?'

'Of course he has,' replied Diana robustly. 'Anyway, ask him. If he's outrageously expensive, we'll manage without him.'

'Impossible,' said Peter. 'He knows his stuff", and will see that old Fairbrother gets on with the building properly. I don't grudge Croft's fee—it'll be an investment—but I must see that he doesn't get carried away with all kinds of schemes for improving the place.'

'What do you expect? A miniature Taj Mahal rising between Mrs Fowler's and Sergeant Burnaby's?'

'Not quite, but I intend to keep a tight rein on him. He's already contemplating shutters, and a sort of Chinese porch which would set us back a hundred or two. I can see he'll want watching.'

Now, on this bright August morning, Peter did his best to impress upon Bellamy Croft the absolute necessity of keeping costs as low as possible.

'This dry rot. What will it cost to put right?'

Bellamy told him, and Peter flinched.

'And a damp course?'

'I should prefer to tell you that after I have had a longer look at the place. But we ought to make a good job of it while we're about it. No point in cheese-paring.'

'Naturally. The essentials must be done, and done well. But I simply haven't the money to indulge in extras such as this porch you show on the plan. Heaven knows what I'll get for my present home—a lot, I sincerely hope, but the bridging loan from the bank must be met eventually, and I'm determined to cut my coat according to the cloth. Maybe we can do all the fancy bits when the other two cottages become vacant.'

'Ah yes, indeed! Stage two,' said Bellamy, shuffling enormous sheets of crackling paper upon the desk. 'I quite appreciate your position—and frankly, I'm glad to work for a man who knows his mind. Stage one, the conversion of the middle two cottages, we can keep very simple, and by the time we've reached stage two we shall know how much more you feel able to embark upon.'

His bland pink face was creased in smiles. He looks happy enough, thought Peter, but then he doesn't have to foot the bill. Was it a hare-brained project he had started? What other snags, besides dry rot, rising damp, two awkward tenants, a jungle of a garden and an architect with alarmingly lavish plans did the future hold?

Was he going to bless or curse the day he decided to buy Tyler's Row?

Time alone would tell.

What with one thing or the other it was well on into August by the time the contract was signed and the die cast.

One sultry afternoon, Diana and Peter drove over to their new property with a formidable collection of gardening tools in the back of the car.

'Do you really think you'll need that enormous great pick axe?'

'It's a mattock,' corrected Peter. 'And the answer's "Yes". It will probably be the most useful tool of the lot. You won't need that trowel and hand fork, you've so hopefully put in, until next season.'

The gate still scraped a deepening semi-circle in the path as they pushed it open.

'I must see to that,' said Peter, shaking his head.

They carried the tools into the back garden and surveyed the jungle with mingled awe and dismay.

'Look at the height of those nettles!' said Diana.

'Take a look at the brambles! Tentacles like octopuses—or do I mean octopi? And those prickles! We really need a flamethrower before we can begin with orthodox tools.'

He picked up a bill-hook and stepped bravely into the weeds, followed by Diana carrying a pair of shears.

'We'll start at the bottom of the garden and work our way towards the house,' Peter said. 'Knock off the top stuff first, and burn it as we go.'

It was hot work. Faraway could be heard die rumblings of a storm, and dark clouds massed ominously on the horizon. Thousands of tiny black thunder-flies settled everywhere, maddening them with their tickling, and swarming into their hair, ears and eyes. Their labours were punctuated by slapping noises as they smote the unprotected parts of their bodies which were under constant attack from the tormentors.

They had been working for about an hour, and cleared a strip about two yards wide across the width of the garden, when they became conscious of Mrs Fowler watching them sharply over the hedge.

'Oh, good afternoon,' called Diana, wiping her sticky face on the back of her glove. 'As you see, we're just making a start on this terrible mess.'

'There's some good rhubarb just where you're standing,' replied Mrs Fowler austerely. 'And there used to be a row of raspberry canes. Looks as though you've cut them down now.'

Diana refused to be daunted.

'Well, there it is,' she said lightly. 'We shall have to start from scratch, it's obvious. It's impossible to tell weeds from plants now that it's got to this state.'

'Should have been seen to weeks ago,' continued Mrs Fowler. 'All them weeds have seeded and blown over into my garden. Never had so much groundsel and couch grass in my life.'

Peter straightened his back and came to his wife's support.

'And ground elder,' went on Mrs Fowler, before he could say anything, 'and them dratted buttercups. Bindweed, chickweed, docks, the lot! All come over from this patch.'

'Any poison ivy?' asked Peter mildly. 'Or scold's-tongue?'

Mrs Fowler looked suspicious.

'Don't know those, but if there's any over there it'll be in here by now.'

'I'm glad to see you, anyway,' said Peter. 'I was going to knock to tell you we're going to make a bonfire of this lot, in case you had washing hanging out, or wanted to close the windows.'

Mrs Fowler drew in her breath in a menacing manner, but said nothing. She nodded, and retired to her house. A few sharp bangs told the toilers that the windows were being slammed shut.

'What an old bitch she is!' remarked Peter conversationally, slashing at a clump of nettles.

'Peter, don't!' begged Diana. 'She'll hear you.'

'Do her good,' he said, unrepentant. 'Pass the rake, and we'll get the bonfire going before it rains.'

At that moment they heard a loud cough. Sergeant Burnaby's sallow face loomed above the other hedge like a harvest moon.

'Good afternoon, sir. Just made a pot of tea, and hope you and the lady will do me the honour of takin' a cup.'

'How kind,' said Diana. 'I'd love one.'

Peter looked less pleased. He was a man who liked to finish the job in hand.

'I want to get the bonfire started before the storm breaks.'

'Let me take the green stuff over the hedge for my fowls,' urged Sergeant Burnaby eagerly. 'They dearly love a bit to pick at, and it'll help you get rid of it.'

'Fine,' said Peter, brightening. He gathered an armful of grass, docks, hogweed and sow thistle and staggered with it to the hedge.

There was a flustered squawking as Sergeant Burnaby flung it over the wire, and then a contented clucking as the hens scattered the largesse with busy legs.

'May as well let them have the lot,' observed their master, after the fourth load had been deposited.

Peter obediently scraped together the last few wisps, and as he did so, a crack of thunder, immediately above, made them jump. A spatter of raindrops fell upon them.

'Come straight in, ma'am,' called Sergeant Burnaby, retreating up the path.

'Run for it!' shouted Peter, snatching the tools together, and within two minutes they were in the old soldier's kitchen, shaking the rain from their clothes.

Everything looked remarkably clean and tidy, thought Diana, when one considered that the lone occupant was approaching eighty.

There was a kitchen range identical with their own in the next cottage, against one wall, but this one was glossy with blacklead, and on the mantelshelf above were several brass ornaments, including a large round clock, all shining.

Among them Diana saw a little embossed box, and following her gaze, the old man took it down for her to handle. It was quite heavy, and bore a medallion showing the heads of George V and Queen Mary.

'Sent to us in the Great War,' said the sergeant, with pride. 'We was in the trenches at the time. Christmas present, it was, filled with tobacco. We all thought a lot of that, I can tell you. My old pal, Jim Bennett, he treasured his too. It gets a rub-up every Saturday.'

'I should think that all your lovely things get a rub-up weekly,' said Diana, handing back the box. 'Does anyone come to help you?'

'Not a soul,' said Sergeant Burnaby proudly. 'I don't want no help. That Mrs Fowler come once, early on, but it was only to snoop round. I sent her packing.'

He stirred his cup with a large teaspoon, and looked fierce.

'I'm not one to speak ill,' he continued. Diana waited for him to do just that, and was not disappointed.

'But that old besom needs watching, sir. Tongue like a whip-lash, and not above nicking anything that's going. Why, the moment the Coggses and Waitses left, she was in them gardens diggin' up what she fancied! They come back, a week after they'd moved, to dig up a row of potatoes, but they was gone. "Next door," I told'em! "You have a look in the shed next door. You'll find 'em all right. Sacked up for the winter!"'

He sniffed at the remembrance.

'Them Waitses never done nothing about it. Too easy-going by half. Always was. But good neighbours to me. I miss 'em.'

Diana exchanged a glance with her husband. Peter's face bore the impatient look of a schoolmaster suffering taletelling, and about to take retaliatory action.

'Your flowers are so pretty,' said Diana hastily, rising to look out of the window.

The rain drummed down relentlessly, spinning silver coins on the flagstones and the seat of the wooden armchair outside the back door. The bright patch of marigolds, cornflowers and shirley poppies, was a blur through the streaming window, but Diana's comment had succeeded in stemming the old man's venom and in soothing her husband's irritation.

'I like a bit of colour,' said Sergeant Burnaby. 'I dig over a bit near the house and fling in packets of seeds—annuals, you know, all higgledy-piggledy. Don't take a minute, and there's a fine bright sight for the summer.'