Village Centenary (11 page)

There was nothing for it but to cry off. In my present state, I could not have sat through a commercial television jingle, let alone two or three hours of Caxley culture. Amy was wholeheartedly sympathetic, and magnanimous about my defection.

'You poor old darling! Take as many painkillers as you can, and a warm bath, and crawl into bed as soon as you get back. I'll ring tomorrow to see how you are, and tell you how it went tonight. Now, tie something round your face before you venture out, or you'll have earache as well.'

'I have already. And Mrs Pringle suggests a stocking.'
'Mrs Pringle is a fool!' said Amy forcefully. 'Nylon's useless. You want a silk scarf.'

Wonderfully cheered by hearing Mrs Pringle denounced in such a forthright manner, I rang off, and went upstairs to swathe myself as directed.

I fairly galloped into Mr Bennett's presence when summoned. He looked astounded at the speed with which I clambered into the dreaded chair and displayed my raging tooth. Usually he is obliged to lead me to the seat murmuring soothing noises as grooms do to nervous horses.

'We'll soon settle that,' he said. 'Just temporarily, of course. I'll give you a shot, and a temporary filling, and we'll make an appointment to do the job properly when the inflammation has gone.'

I surrendered myself to his ministrations with only an occasional yelp and whimper, and was home again within half an hour.

I took Amy's advice and went to bed. Tibby followed me, and we snuggled down together, the cat on top, pinning the bed clothes down uncomfortably, but I was past worrying.

It was bliss to be in bed before six o'clock, and comparatively free from pain. My final thought was of Amy's concert, and all the hard work she had put into providing a successful evening. What a broken reed I was!

Nevertheless, despite my guilt, I fell asleep within minutes, and only surfaced when the alarm clock called me to face another day.

Amy was as good as her word and rang me after school the next day. After kind enquiries about my temporarily quiescent tooth, she told me that the evening had been a huge success.

'And you were
much
missed,' she added. 'Everyone enquiring after you and desolated to hear about the toothache. Do you know, we made nearly sixty pounds?'

'Marvellous,' I said, suitably impressed.

'Including the raffle, of course, and some records Jean Cole sent as she couldn't come herself. And the food seemed to suit everybody.'

'I bet it did, knowing your usual efforts.'

'Do you know, there were some veal patties left and Tim Ferdinand asked if he could have them to take home! What a strange man he is! Not that 1 minded. He's so emaciated I was glad to provide tonight's supper as well as yesterday's, but I must say I felt that I was making up a doggie bag as I packed the remnants.'

'It's probably because he's a poet. His standards of behaviour are quite different from normal, no doubt.'

'Yes, well, there it is. The veal patties have found a kind home evidently. For two pins I believe he would have taken the dregs of wine too. He was looking rather keenly at the bottles as he left.'

Amy reminded me about our holiday plans. I promised to be ready in good time, and we exchanged farewells.

The few days before that longed-for holiday were spent in reading-tests, a school medical inspection, patching up my tooth, and in writing a letter to the office pointing out that work on the skylight had still not begun, and why not?

But on Friday we broke up, and Sunday morning dawned clear and bright. Here was May at its best, and I carried my case downstairs with a glad heart.

Amy was punctual, refused coffee, complimented me upon my neat appearance, and we set off westward. After ten minutes' secret anxiety about whether I had switched off everything switchable, whether I had left out the tin-opener for Tibby's Pussi-luv which Mrs Pringle was kindly giving her, and whether I had shut the pantry window which usually gets forgotten, I gave myself up to the enjoyment of the drive. Time enough to worry if I returned to a smoking ruin, I told myself, looking resolutely through the side window.

There was comparatively little traffic, and in any case Amy is an excellent driver. The green hedges streamed past, sprinkled here and there with curds of white May blossom. Cows stood knee deep in lush meadows, the sunshine gleaming on their glossy coats. The heat shimmered on Salisbury Plain. The distant hills were smudges of blue in the clear atmosphere, and the sun grew hotter as we sped on.

We stopped for lunch, and again later in the afternoon to have a walk. The lane where we drew off ran deep between steep banks. Primroses were still out on the shady side, and young bracken and hart's tongue fern delighted us both. Through a gateway we saw a little stream far below us, and on a tree stump a humped bird.

'Look!' whispered Amy, and even as she grabbed my arm, the bird spread its wings and dived towards the water—a vivid flash of pink and blue.

'A kingfisher!' we cried together.

'That means good luck,' Amy told me, as we set off to the car to resume our trip.

We reached Penzance soon after tea, wandered round the town, ate an admirable dinner, and slept like tops.

The helicopter journey across to St. Mary's the next morning was exciting. Below us the farms and trees looked like the models which my children so enjoy setting out, and between the islands the sea glinted in the sunshine, green and blue, with creamy surf lashing the rocks. I wished the journey could have lasted longer. One saw so much, at just the right height it seemed to me, and I looked forward to the return journey.

We took a boat from St. Mary's to Tresco, and were soon settled in our hotel. Hanging out of the bedroom window, I surveyed the scene.

The light was wonderful, pellucid and luminous. It reminded me of the light Amy and I had rejoiced in when we spent a holiday in Crete together some years earlier. Perhaps all islands have this peculiar quality, a reflection, maybe, of the water around them.

The sea was as vivid a blue as the kingfisher's flashing wings, and toppled lazily upon white sandy beaches which I had only seen before in holiday brochures. Gorse blazed yellow nearby, and the accumulation of dazzling colours was heady stuff indeed.

Amy entered the room as I gazed, entranced.

'I think I could settle here for ever,' I told her.

'It can be pretty windy,' she warned me. 'You've only seen its fair-weather face.'

'It can be pretty windy at Fairacre,' I retorted, 'and not half as beautiful.'

'Wait until you've seen the rest,' said Amy. 'There's plenty to fall in love with.'

As usual, she was right. Everyone told us how lucky we were with the weather, for the sun shone for every day of our short stay, and we were able to quarter the island of Tresco on foot and visit the miraculous Abbey Gardens.

Sometimes we took a boat to one of the neighbouring islands, and Amy, who is almost as knowledgeable about birds as Henry Mawne, was thrilled to study all sorts of rare varieties at St. Agnes through her field glasses.

I was far less energetic, being quite content to soak up the wonderful sunshine and sea air, and to give admiring grunts when Amy told me about such wonders as rock thrushes and buntings and kittiwakes and divers she was observing with rapture.

The days passed all too swiftly. As our boat chugged away from Tresco and its white sands, I promised myself another visit before I was too old and decrepit to enjoy tramping round its beautiful bays.

On our long drive back I tried to tell Amy how much I had appreciated the holiday, and how perfect she was as a companion and guide.

She patted my knee.

'You do me good,' she said, and then went on to say the most surprising things.

'I envy you, you know, teaching away at Fairacre, always busy, knowing where you are going, seeing progress with those lucky children of yours. I seem to lead such a
useless
sort of life.'

'I've never heard such rubbish,' I protested 'Why, you run that house perfectly, and look after James, and still find time for all sorts of good works, like that poetry evening, for instance. What's more, you look a dream always and are a delight to everyone's eye.'

'Well, thank you, my dear. I'm grateful, but the truth is, it's not enough. I can do all those things quite easily, I suppose, and so do thousands of other ordinary women like me, but I should like to do something which is especially
me\
I used to paint passably, but I know I shall never be much good at it. I wondered - don't laugh at me - but do you think I could
possibly
write my autobiography?'

'I know you could. And very well too. When are you starting?'

Amy laughed, and the tension was broken. 'Lord knows! I expect I shall be one of those people who is constantly saying she is going to write a book "when she can find the time". Lucy Clayton is one of them.'

Lucy Clayton was at college when we were, and I found her insufferable. Amy sees her occasionally, while I try to avoid her.

'Lucy Clayton,' I said, 'is incapable of
speaking
the Queen's English let alone
writing
it. But you carry on, Amy. I'll see you keep at it, and I promise to buy the first copy.'

'You are very encouraging,' said Amy. 'As good as a tonic.'

'Or a holiday in the Scillies, maybe? Do you know, Amy, we shall be home in less than an hour, and for once in my life I shall have mixed feelings about being in Fairacre again.'

Of course, when it came to it, I slipped back into my usual routine within hours, and the glories of the Scillies seemed just a happy dream. A surprising number of people commented on my improved appearance.

'You was looking a bit peaky,' Mr Willet told me. 'I said to the missus a way back, "Miss Read looks proper poorly," but now, well, you looks as hearty as my old porker in his sty!'

Mrs Pringle's description was even more impressive.

'They've fattened you up a treat. You looked like a ghost before you had that holiday - real white and spiteful, if you know what I mean.'

I replied civilly that I was glad to know that I looked better. Privately I wondered what on earth I must have looked like to have been described as 'proper poorly', 'white and spiteful' and even now - after my metamorphosis - as 'a porker'. Ah well! At least vanity would not be added to my array of sins.

'See
The Caxley
since you've been back?' asked Mrs Pringle. I translated this as meaning
The Caxley Chronicle.
The phrase
The Caxley
can cover one or two objects, such as the local bus to the market town. I have heard people say, 'You'll have to catch
The Caxley
and then change.'

I admitted that I had not yet looked at the paper.

'It's got Mrs Benson's house in it this week. Nice place it looks - bigger than it is really. Something to do with the way they tilts the camera no doubt.'

'We shall all miss her,' I said.

'The worst of it is, it don't give no price,' said Mrs Pringle gloomily. 'I do like to see how much people has the nerve to ask these days. Looks as though it's going to be auctioned. I suppose these 'ere estate agents hopes people will be carried away and offer more than it's worth. I remember my brother-in-law going crazy at one sale and buying a piece of stair carpet for three pounds.'

'That sounds quite a bargain to me.'

'Not when you had to lug away a broken fireguard, one of them exercising bicycles, a zinc bath and four chamber pots, if you'll excuse my mentioning them.'

'Not at all,' I said graciously.

'My sister fairly gave him a taste of her tongue, for all she belongs to the Plymouth Brethren. They had to pay Percy Potter another pound for bringing the stuff home on his carrier's van, and of course all the neighbours fell about laughing and making coarse remarks when the stuff came up the front path. No, my brother-in-law never heard the last of that, I can tell you!'

Mrs Pringle heaved herself from the front desk where she had been resting, and made for the stove. A dead leaf was sullying its summer perfection, and Mrs Pringle removed it with as much venom as she would have displayed if it had been a tarantula spider.

Later that day I looked up the advertisement. Holly Lodge certainly made an attractive picture, and the accommodation sounded ideal.

'Too big for us,' I told Tibby, 'and too expensive. But I hope some nice family comes to enjoy it.'

'The property includes a self-contained flat comprising a large sitting room, bedroom, bath and kitchen, on the ground floor, all in immaculate condition.'

Poor Miss Quinn, I thought! How she will hate leaving her flat, all in immaculate condition! I knew how happy she had been in Joan Benson's company. As Fairacre folk had said truly, it would not be easy for her to find such a home elsewhere.

And although I only knew Miriam Quinn slightly, I should be sorry to see her go from Fairacre. I liked her quiet contentment, the tranquil exterior which hid, I suspected, a power house of energy.

She obviously loved Fairacre, her solitude and her uninterrupted thoughts.

We had a lot in common.

During our stay in Tresco I had tried to tell Amy something of the feelings which had stirred me that afternoon alone in the schoolroom. Was it possible, I asked her, to put across such a theme in our centenary celebrations?

Amy was thoughtful for a time, and then said that she doubted if it would be possible.

'It's something purely evocative,' she said. 'I'm quite sure that lots of people in Fairacre feel the same way about their old school, but to express it, especially through the children who are the agents in this case, is well-nigh impossible, I think.

'You'll have to be content with coming down to a more earthy approach. Your idea of various happenings during the hundred years seems far more practical, and incidentally will show the continuity you are aiming at. Play for simplicity, is my advice.'

I was sure Amy was right, the more I thought about it. Anything verging on the high faluting could prove boring or sentimental.