Village Centenary (18 page)

There is so little water in Fairacre, and I do not realise how much I miss it until I come across a river, or a lake, or even a modest garden fountain, and experience that surge of joy for this most beautiful of the elements.

But, as always, it was good to get back to my own home. Tibby greeted me with some hauteur. She looked upon my absence as dereliction of duty, and was not going to put herself out with a lot of fulsome welcoming. Later, if I did the right thing with offerings of rabbit or finely chopped pig's liver, she might condescend to accept me again.

Mrs Pringle had obviously been bottoming me in my absence, and the house shone. She had even put some sweet peas in a vase on the mantelpiece, a gesture which, from one of her morose mood, I much appreciated.

Later, I wrote to my Norfolk friend and decided that it would do me good to walk to the post office. The evening was overcast, and it was sad to see how much shorter the days were growing. Already there were yellow leaves fluttering down from the old plum tree in the garden, and dahlias and Michaelmas daisies were opening in the border. Far too soon, autumn would be upon us and lovely though it always was at Fairacre, with its flaming beech trees and bronzed hedges, yet there was sadness too at the passing of summer and all its outdoor pleasures.

Letter in hand, I opened the front door to find Joan Benson about to thread the Parish Magazine through the letter box.

'Come in,' I cried.

'But you're just going out.'

'Not really. The post's gone anyway, and this will keep till tomorrow.'

'Then I will. I've a stone or something in my shoe, and perhaps I can sit down and investigate.'

It turned out to be a nail, and we had a few minutes of amateurish hammering to try and remedy the matter. We found the activity extremely frustrating, as there was not room enough inside the shoe to manoeuvre the hammer. However, by dint of banging energetically we effected a partial cure.

'We ought to have one of those little anvil things,' said Joan 'with three feet on them. Is it called a cobbler's last?'

I confessed ignorance. 'All I know about a cobbler's last is that he should stick to it,' I said, 'but I never really knew what it meant.'

'Like so many sayings,' agreed Joan, standing up to test her shoe. 'All my eye and Betty Martin, for instance.'

'Or right as a trivet.'

'Or being on tenterhooks. This shoe's fine now, thank you. You could set up as a cobbler, as a side line to teaching, you know.'

'I'll consider it. I might need something to do when I retire.'

'You're not thinking of that yet, surely? Incidentally, will you stay here?'

'I doubt it. By that time I rather think this house and school will be on the market. Any sensible woman would have bought a little place of her own before now, but I'm afraid I've left it a bit late.'

Joan Benson nodded understanding^. 'Well, I can sympathise. This house hunting is so
wearing.
I've had another week with my daughter searching for a suitable home, but the more I look the less I like.'

'What exactly are you looking for?'

'You may well ask! Something with no stairs - a ground floor flat or a bungalow. But 1
must
have a little bit of garden, and ideally it should have some trees, and be the sort of private place where one can sit and ruminate without too many people around. The snag is, of course, that it's virtually impossible to find such a place. Barbara is very anxious for me to have an apartment in an old people's home near her, and lovely though it is - it's an old vicarage with a cedar tree on the lawn and even an old nuttery with Kentish cob nuts - one would be among a score or so of other old people, all individually quite charming I have no doubt, but never
alone.
'

'I can understand how you feel.'

'Do you like your solitude too?'

'It's the breath of life to me,' I confessed. 'Perhaps it's because I am with a crowd all day. All I know is, that to come into this little house and to hear the clock ticking and the cat purring, is sheer bliss to me. I can truthfully say I've never felt lonely in my life.'

'Well, I can't say that,' admitted Joan. 'When you've had a husband and children, and latterly my darling mother, always about the place, then to be alone is - not exactly
frightening
, but definitely
disconcerting.
I suppose the ideal thing would be to find a flat near Barbara so that she could see me frequently, but not have me under her feet. She presses me sometimes to make my home with them, and sometimes when I get back exhausted from house hunting I almost give in. But it would never do. It wouldn't be fair to her, or to the children, or to me, to be honest.
Grandchildren are adorable for a time, but it's asking too much to have them with you constantly when you are getting on, and I'm quite sure the same thing applies in reverse.'

She picked up the basket containing the few remaining copies of the parish magazine, i must finish my little job. Mrs Partridge usually does it, noble soul, but she's away for a few days. You've heard, I expect, about Holly Lodge?'

'No indeed. I only came back from Norfolk a couple of hours ago, so I haven't caught up with the Fairacre news.'

'I think I've sold it. Henry Mawne asked me if his nephew David and his wife could come and have a look at it. A very nice couple. Do you know them?'

I told her the little about them that I knew.

'Well, they are now trying to sell their own place, which shouldn't be too difficult. Miriam knows them rather better than I do, arid the marvellous thing is that they hope Miriam will continue to live in the annexe.'

'She must be very pleased.'

A little frown of worry puckered Joan's brow.

'It is
exactly
what I'd hoped for, and I'm sure it will work out beautifully, but at the moment Miriam is now wondering if they are only being kind, and would really want the annexe for themselves. We've all done our best to persuade her that she need not have such qualms, and as she's such a sensible person I'm sure she will realise that is the truth very soon.'

She began to make her way towards the door.

'Do you sometimes find even the most straightforward people horribly
complicated?
' she asked.

'Frequently,' I replied. 'Perhaps that's why we relish our solitude.'

Reg Thorn and his two young men were now back on the school roof. The dormer window was now recognisable, but still seemed to be giving the three of them a certain amount of trouble. In my innocence, I had imagined that the job might take about three weeks, with perhaps a few more days allowed for bad weather, or difficulty in obtaining parts for it, and so on. But here we were, months later, and still no sign of completion.

I never seemed to be able to catch Reg himself. I would see him in the distance from my kitchen window, but by the time I had walked across to speak to him he had leapt into his van and driven off in a cloud of dust. Dodging irate employers, I guessed, was second nature to him by now.

The young men were fast becoming as evasive, at least in making excuses. One was fair, with fast-receding hair; this seemed sad, as he could not have been much more than twenty-five. The other seemed to be covered in thick black hair: head, beard and chest were one luxuriant growth. Only his dark eyes seemed to be visible among this lushness, and it was he who usually answered my questions. His name was Wayne.

'Well, it's like this, miss. The timber merchant's been closed for the holidays, and when he opened last week he couldn't let us have what we wanted because he'd had a sudden order in from that new estate.'

It all sounded pretty weak to me, but there were any number of excuses, equally futile, that were trotted out in answer to my queries, and I began to give up.

Wayne was a nice young man, anyway, and I half
respected his loyalty to Reg Thorn. He told me that he had been with him for four years, and had learnt a lot.

'My dad's in the same trade,' he told me, 'and when he gives up I'll probably take over there.'

'Didn't he want you to work with him?'

'Not my dad! Said he didn't want me under his feet while he could still do a day's work, and got me fixed up with Reg. Better for us both, he said. And anyway, I've promised to carry on when he retires.'

'And will he?'

'Not before he's ninety, I don't suppose. I'll be drawing me pension, I reckon, before he gives up.'

Wayne's father, I thought, seemed worthy of respect.

Term began again in the last week of the month. The children, as always, appeared to have forgotten in six weeks everything they had ever learnt under my tuition, but looked brown and cheerful and ready for the new school year.

Miss Briggs looked equally healthy and almost vivacious. She gave me a large smile when I met her in the playground, and included the two young men on the roof in her affability. The infants welcomed her with affection when we went into school, and one of the smallest presented her with a stick of peppermint rock.

'I got it at Berrisford,' he told her. 'My dad took us there on his day off, and we've kep' it safe on the dresser ever since.'

Miss Briggs thanked him with such obvious gratitude that I thought it would be churlish to point out that it had obviously been sucked at one end.

After all, I told myself, it was the thought that counted, and what were a few germs between friends?

I always enjoy the early part of the autumn term. The new entrants soon settle down, and it is good to have fresh faces in the infants' room. This year there were four new babies and luckily all were good-natured youngsters who refrained from bawling when their mothers left them, but looked about them, bright-eyed and as inquisitive as squirrels at all these fresh interests.

For the last few years we have tried to let the newcomers visit us for a half-day a week in the preceding term, so that they become familiar with their surroundings.

This has helped enormously when they finally make a start at the beginning of the school year. It is a great strain on a young child to be thrust, not only among large numbers of bigger children, but also into a strange building where each has to find his own clothes peg, his desk, the wash basins and, most important of all, the lavatory.

Miss Briggs seemed much more settled, I thought, and certainly better tempered. No one could call her enthusiastic or charming, but her general demeanour was much more cheerful. This had a good effect on her class, and I supposed that the change in attitude resulted from the mellowing influence of the unknown young man, and also the fact that she now felt more confident in her work after two terms of teaching. She was far readier too, I was relieved to see, to remain after school when needed. Quite often she did not

go until Reg Thorn's workmen finished at four-thirty, and seemed glad to take on extra little jobs connected with the coming celebrations.

Things were going well in that direction. Mrs Moffat invited me to see Linda's Victorian dress, and 1 accompanied her from the butcher's where we had met one Saturday morning.

In the room set aside for her sewing, there hung her latest masterpiece. It was a perfect replica of Miss Richards's frock of the early 1880s, as dimly seen in a faded photograph I had found among the school records.

It was made of black woollen crêpe, complete with bustle, and draped over a pleated underskirt of black satin. At the neck was a ruffle of white lace, and embedded in the snowy froth was a beautiful jet brooch.

I exclaimed with admiration.

'Well, it's mostly bits and pieces,' she said modestly, though obviously pleased at my reaction.

'The black material is from an evening frock of mine. The satin was a skirt lining, and the lace I had by me. The bustle is made of foam rubber - much more comfortable than the original horse hair, I should think. '

'And that lovely brooch?'

'My grandmother's. It was the mourning brooch she bought when her father died. She also had a pretty little mourning ring made from his signet ring, but it was lost not long afterwards.'