Village Centenary (10 page)

'My life will tick over quite well without it for a day or two,' I assured her. 'What's the news?'

'Not very good, I'm afraid. James has muddled his dates, and now finds it is impossible for him to come to the Scillies at the end of the month. He has some engagement in Canada then, and we both wondered if you would like to come with me instead. What do you think? We were to go on the Sunday, stay overnight at Penzance, then fly across on the Monday morning. Do say you can come!' it sounds blissful! How long for?'

'We had planned to come back on the Thursday or Friday, so you'd have time to do any chores before school started again, if that's in your mind.'

I thought rapidly. I could not think of any particularly pressing engagement during that week, but without my diary it was difficult to be sure. I said as much to Amy, thanked her sincerely for an exciting invitation and promised to set about searching for my missing diary immediately.

'I'll ring you the minute it's found,' I assured her.

'And make the answer Yes,' said Amy, and rang off.

The first two or three days of May had been deliciously balmy, and we all told each other how lovely it would be if it lasted over the weekend.

Visions of suntanned visitors in summer frocks sauntering about the newly spruced Fairacre gardens kept most of us happy, but one or two pessimists shook their heads sadly. To my alarm, Mr Willet was one of them. He is such an accurate weather prophet that I viewed his forebodings seriously. The sky was cloudless on Friday afternoon and I only hoped that this time he might be wrong in his weather forecast.

But, sure enough, when I watched the weather man on television that evening, some ominous whirligigs, like well-spun spiders' webs, hovered unpleasantly near the west coast, and would bring rain and strong winds to the entire country. It was small comfort to learn that the weather would be more severe in the north than the south. The hardy types up there can take it, I thought callously, turning to our own dispiriting outlook which affected my feelings much more sharply.

I woke very early on Saturday morning. It was about five o'clock, and sure enough, a steady rain splashed along the gutters, and dripped from the trees. From the look of the garden, it had been pouring for several hours. Haifa dozen sparrows splashed energetically in a large puddle by the box edging. The bird bath was full to the brim, though not being used for its right purpose by any of my bird friends.

The trees glistened, the roof tiles dropped miniature cascades on to those below, and some of the roses already drooped their heads, heavy with moisture. I decided to make myself a cup of tea and take it back to bed. Delicious Saturday morning, despite the rain, when I could call my time my own!

Tibby burst through the cat flap on the kitchen door, as I poured my tea, and rubbed her sopping-wet bedraggled body round my bare legs, ignoring my vituperation in an ecstasy of love. To salve my conscience, and to give myself time to get safely upstairs with my precious cup, I hastily put down some Pussi-luv, and hoped that she might mistake it for liver.

Hunched comfortably against the pillows I surveyed the streaming window over my cup. Would this rain stop? If not, would it be possible to postpone the opening of the gardens? And if so, how could it be advertised? I knew that a lot of people had planned to come from some distance to support the project. It was too bad.

I remembered that Irene Umbleditch and David Mawne were to be among our visitors, and looked forward to hearing their news. My mind went back to the time when David's unhappy little boy, Simon, spent a short time at Fairacre School. He would be away at boarding school now, and I wondered if we should ever meet again.

The rain continued all the morning, and by noon a nasty little wind had got up and was blowing the rain diagonally across the countryside. The sky was of uniform greyness. It was like being in a canvas tent, and the chances of a break in the clouds seemed non-existent.

The gardens were to be open from two o'clock until eight on both Saturday and Sunday, and I knew that several coachloads of people were expected from Caxley. At two o'clock, I donned Wellingtons, my stoutest mackintosh and a rain hat which made me look like a witch, and set off bravely to do the rounds, or until exposure sent me home again.

It was heartening to see how many other people were doing the same. We met under umbrellas, in porches, under trees, anywhere to escape the relentless rain, and admired the dripping and battered beauty before us. A wonderful sense of camaraderie united us, as we sloshed our way around, and I was delighted to meet the Mawnes, their nephew and his bride-to-be, Irene, acting as hosts to the brave visitors in their garden.

They gave me good news of Simon.

'He's settled down very well now, and may move up next term. He's made friends with a pair of twins, two solid matter-of-fact youngsters who are marvellous ballast for our volatile Simon,' said David. 'We hope to take all three away in the summer, if their parents agree.'

Henry Mawne espied Miriam Quinn alone in the distance, and hurried to bring her over to meet his nephew. Once they were in conversation over a rare shrub of Henry's, I excused myself and splashed my way homeward.

To my surprise, the clock said four-thirty. It was no wonder I was wet. My expensive mackintosh had let water through the shoulders. My hair was plastered to my head by pressure from the ugly rain hat. My feet were soaked, as the rain had run down my legs into my Wellingtons, but I was aglow with a sense of duty well done.

In this complacent and self-congratulatory state I decided to treat myself to a small fire on such a cheerless day. Whether the chimney was damp, which was understandable, or whether the wind was in the wrong direction, no one could say, but the result was unpleasant.

Clouds of acrid smoke blew into the room. My vision of

'the small but bright wood fire' beloved by novelists vanished in three minutes flat, as I set about opening windows, holding up newspapers over the fireplace to assist in the right sort of draught, and cursing generally whilst my smug feeling of virtue rapidly evaporated.

Trust Fate to deflate one's ego!

The rain continued throughout the night. By morning, sheets of water covered the roads and some of Mr Roberts's fields. But slowly it improved, and by early afternoon a watery sun was visible fleetingly between the scudding clouds. It looked more hopeful for visitors to Fairacre's gardens, I thought.

Having done my duty the day before, I decided to do my ironing, polish my few pieces of silver, write some letters, and generally catch up with some long-neglected household jobs. But as I was about to switch on the iron, I saw that a bird was fluttering madly at one of the schoolroom windows.

I put down the iron, took the school key from its hook, and went to the rescue. As anyone who has been engaged on such an errand of mercy will know, the fact that every available window and door is open seems to make no difference to the demented captive, which dashes itself wildly against all the closed apertures. After ten minutes' pandemonium the wretched sparrow darted out of the door, and I sank thankfully into my chair.

It was suddenly and blissfully peaceful. A shaft of watery sunshine illumined the classroom, a few dusty motes disturbed by the bird's and my agitation floating in its beam of light. A little breeze stirred one of the children's pictures pinned to the partition, but otherwise nothing ruffled the tranquillity of this ancient room.

It must be full of ghosts, I thought, or at least of memories. I found the idea comforting. How many children had sat in this place, imbibing knowledge both good and bad, observing the quirks of their neighbours, forming their own judgements, growing into the adult people they would be in a few years?

These same walls had seen the gamut of emotions from hilarity to despair. I remembered Miss Clare's remark about the celebratory tea party in the thirties, and the grief of children left fatherless in the First World War. This building had weathered sunshine and storm, peace and war. It had sheltered many who grew to be good men and women, and a few felons too. How far, I wondered, did the influence of this ancient school spread? All over the world there must be men and women who remembered something of the things taught them here, or were told of them by their forebears who knew the old school.

It came to me, with a poignancy I had not felt before, that I was an insignificant part of a worthy and long heritage. It was a humbling thought. Here was the heart of the matter, the spirit of the place, the unifying thread which ran through a hundred years. If only something of that spirit could be transmitted during our centenary celebrations!

I rose to return to my neglected kitchen tasks. As I locked the school door, holding that same ancient key which had chilled the palms of so many of my predecessors, I thought with keener appreciation of the centenary story which was to be told. Would it be possible, I wondered, to express that feeling of continuity which had enveloped me in my silent schoolroom?

I had been busy with thoughts of Amy's kind invitation. and decided that I should love to go with her to Tresco in the week's holiday ahead. My diary turned up within ten minutes of our earlier conversation, but I had been unable to reach her on the telephone.

'I can only have been in the garden,' she assured me, when at last we made contact, 'and I can't tell you how glad I am you can come.'

'Not as glad as 1 am to have been invited. I've always wanted to see the Scillies, and never got round to it.'

'You won't be disappointed. Now, I think our best plan is for me to pick you up about eleven on the Sunday. We'll stop for a pub lunch, and then take our time getting to Penzance. We should be there in good time for a nice dinner. We're booked in at the Queen's, and the food is always good.'

'Perfect,' I said.

'Have you found that diary?'

'Of course I have!'

'No "of course!" about it,' said Amy severely. 'But put down these arrangements while you remember them.'

'I'm not
quite
senile,' I protested.

'And don't forget my poetry reading on Wednesday. I'm counting on you to lead the clapping.'

'I'll be there,' I promised her, and we rang off.

But Fate decreed otherwise.

A week or so earlier, a sizeable chunk of stopping had dropped out of a back tooth. As it had not hurt, and I already had an appointment with the dentist within a month, I had ignored the gaping hole, except for wiggling at it with my tongue now and again.

Wednesday's school dinner consisted of rissoles, mashed potato and peas, followed by a sticky treacle tart which was welcomed rapturously by the children. Without thinking, I tackled my slice, only to be smitten with the most piercing pain in my damaged tooth.

I was obliged to leave the children to Miss Briggs's care and rush to the schoolhouse for first aid. The oil of cloves bottle, well hidden behind cough mixture, alka seltzer, aspirin tablets, and a particularly sinister bottle labelled 'The Mixture' - for what malady I had completely forgotten - was found to have about two drops of thickened syrup at the bottom which I did my best to apply with a wooden cherry stick wrapped in cotton wool.

If anything, this treatment seemed to aggravate the pain, and I hastily mixed a solution of my old friend TCP with warm water and tried again. But this time the pain was throbbing in my ear as well. By dint of holding warm TCP solution in my mouth, a slight diminution of pain resulted, but it was obvious that I could not take a class with my mouth bulging with water.

I tottered back just in time to see Mrs Pringle arriving for the washing up.

'Why, you do look bad!' she greeted me, with much satisfaction. 'You mark my words, that face'll be up like a plum pudden in an hour or two. You wants to tie a stocking round your jaw, and my auntie in Caxley always swore by some mustard in the tooth to keep it warm.'

I felt unequal to replying, and watched Mrs Pringle make for the lobby with a heavy limp. This was a sure sign that she was affronted, had taken umbrage, and was in her martyred mood. By this time, my tooth hurt so much that I was beyond caring if Mrs Pringle slit her throat with one of the school knives, although she would have had to be pretty determined in the face of such uncooperative bluntness.

I stuck it out until playtime when I confessed my plight to Miss Briggs, who proved sympathetic and willing to cope with the school for the rest of the afternoon, while I returned to the schoolhouse and rang the dentist.

'Aren't you lucky?' said his receptionist, and while I was recovering from this remark, she added, 'We've just had a cancellation. If you can get here by a quarter to five, Mr Bennett will see you then.'

Kind Mr Bennett! Dear Mr Bennett, I thought gratefully! I was positively longing to see him. Usually the thought of going to the dentist - even one as humane as Mr Bennett - casts a gloom over my life for days ahead. Now, crazed with pain, even with a mouthful of hot TCP, I viewed my trip to Caxley as a drowning man must view a lifeboat.

I went across the playground to apprise Miss Briggs of events and to lock up my cupboards and desk. The children were blissfully quiet, as they usually are in a crisis. The dividing door was propped open, so that the infants' teacher could keep an eye on them, and I returned to get wrapped up when I remembered Amy's party.