Village Centenary (2 page)

I decided to ignore Mrs Pringle's interjection, and changed the subject.

'There doesn't seem to be much soap in the wash basins, Mrs Pringle.'

'And whose fault's that?' demanded the lady. 'There was four pieces put out by my own hands when school started, and if them children is allowed to leave it wasting in the water, that's not my affair.'

She picked up the wastepaper basket and made towards the door, where she turned to face me, her three chins wobbling fiercely.
'I'm not made of soap!' she declared, having the last word as usual, and vanished.

The weather continued to be abominable, with icy roads, fresh snowfalls and great difficulty in getting about.

Nevertheless, on my few visits within sliding distance in the village, I had been questioned by Mr Lamb of Fairacre Post Office, our vicar Gerald Partridge, Henry Mawne our local ornithologist, and a number of parents about the possibility of celebrating the school's centenary.

I took evasive action on all occasions. With the weather as it was, there was quite enough to do keeping warm oneself and seeing that the children, the school building and one's own house were protected as much as possible from the devastating cold. Time enough to think about the centenary when the temperature rose, I decided. However, I did consider one or two ideas as I sat close to my fire in the evenings, my feet on the fender courting chilblains.

What about a concert? With songs, or music from each of the ten decades? The fact that the Fairacre children are not particularly musical, and that 1 am the only one who can attempt to play the piano - preferably compositions cast in the key of C - and that the audience was equally limited in musical knowledge, seemed to make that idea a non-starter.

Or a pageant? It could be based on the log book, with various scenes. But then there were coStumes to devise, and we had no stage, and the thought of putting it on in the playground made me realise the many hazards to be faced. Or a display in the school of its hundred years of history? I suppose one could collect photographs, and even a few old exercise and text books, and the children could have theirs on show, as on open days at the school.

I began to think that Miss Clare's recollection of the fifty years' celebration had much to commend it. A mammoth tea party sounded much more festive than my own doubt-ridden ideas. But surely we could do better than that?

Certainly, Miss Clare had fairly sparkled with enthusiasm when she remembered the trip to Wembley and the sight of the Prince of Wales, unforgettable in butter. What about an outing? One of the historic houses within fifty miles of Fairacre, perhaps? But we could do that at any time, and outings were no great treat these days when most parents owned a car. Besides, it seemed silly to go away for a centenary celebration. The whole point of celebrating a hundred years of Fairacre School's progress was surely to have the occasion at the school, by the school, and for the pupils of that school, both past and present.

At that point in my mental meanderings I noticed that the fire needed more fuel, the coal scuttle was empty, and the log basket in the same sad condition. The clock said twenty to ten. Quite late enough for Fairacre folk to be up!

I put up the fireguard, looked out of the front door at the frosty world, and went thankfully to bed.

Miss Briggs, as Mrs Pringle had forecast, was not much help. Since Miss Clare's departure some years ago, I have had a number of infants' teachers, most of them young and very good company.

In a tiny school like ours, with only two teachers, it is essential that the staff is compatible. In most cases we have enjoyed each other's company, although a certain Miss Jackson, some years ago, was a sore trial, not only as a member of staff, but by being so silly as to fall headlong in love with the local gamekeeper, in the best tradition of D. H. Lawrence, and so worrying us all to death.

Miss Briggs had left college in the summer before, had been unable to obtain a post at the beginning of the school year in September, but arrived at Fairacre to take up her appointment in January. Her predecessor, a cheerful young married woman who had driven from Caxley each day, was starting a family, and I could only be grateful for the year of hard work and good company the school and I had enjoyed during that time.

For the first few days Miss Briggs had little to say to me but quite a lot, and in a loud hectoring tone, to her charges. The result was a noisy class, but I decided to bide my time before I interfered. The girl must find her feet, and I knew that a certain amount of noise - 'a busy hum', as college lecturers like to call it - was looked upon as downright beneficial these days. I am all for 'a busy hum' if it can be halted whenever the teacher so desires, but too often, I notice, that is not possible.

Then she was unduly anxious to leave school at three-thirty, when the infants were sent home. Those with older brothers and sisters usually waited the extra fifteen minutes until my class was free, and in the normal way, the infants' teacher was clearing up her classroom, or buttoning children into garments, in that quarter of an hour.

On several occasions I had seen her car drive away smartly at 3.31, and found a little knot of restless infants at large in their classroom awaiting the release of their kinsfolk in my room. Twice, parents had risked the icy roads to speak to her about some particular problem after school, but the lady had vanished, and I had to pass on their messages.

Clearly, I should have to speak to the girl before many days passed, and I did not relish it. I was fast coming to the conclusion that she was quite without humour, taciturn - perhaps a sulker when crossed - and decidedly lazy. On the whole, I like young people, and had been lucky with many vivacious and enthusiastic teachers in their first job with me. It seemed sad that I could strike no answering spark from Miss Briggs. 'A fair old lump of a girl,' Mr Willet had opined, three days after her arrival.

I was beginning to think that it just about summed her up.

Towards the end of the month, I began to wonder if a new skylight might be the best way of celebrating Fairacre School's hundredth birthday. For all that time, it seems, the skylight, strategically placed over the obvious site for the headteacher's desk, has let in rain, snow, wind, and the rays of the sun.

Throughout the pages of the log books mention of the skylight crops up:

'A torrential storm this afternoon delayed the pupils' departure from school, and precipitated a deluge through the skylight, damaging some of the children's copybooks and the Holy Bible.' So runs one entry in 1894.

Four years later we read the following somewhat querulous entry:

'Was obliged to shift my desk, as a severe draught from the skylight has resulted in a stiff neck and earache, both occasioning great pain.'

Hardly a year goes by without reference to new glazing or new woodwork needed by this wretched window. Nothing seems to improve it, and I can vouch for the beastly draught which had dogged all the headteachers, and the diabolical way it lets in water.

Mr Willet takes it all very philosophically and quotes irritatingly 'that what can't be cured must be endured'. The wind had been in the north-east, and I was in a more militant mood. If I have complained once about the skylight, during my term of office, I must have complained twenty times. The result has been some sympathy, a little tinkering, and not a jot of difference in improvement.

After three days of howling draught and wearing a silk scarf round my neck, I sat down to write to the office even more forthrightly than usual about my afflictions. On reading it through I was quite impressed with my firmness of tone, which was tempered with a little pathetic martyrdom, and which surely should bring results. I added a postscript about our hundred years at the mercy of this malevolence overhead, and hoped that something could be done permanently. Cunningly, I pointed out what a drain on the county's economy this must have been over the past century. Every little helps when pleading one's cause.

I posted my letter, wondering if it was a waste of a stamp. Time would tell. On the way back, picking my steps through the slushy snow which was taking its time to disappear, I met Henry Mawne, our eminent ornithologist, who has been a good friend to all in the village.

'How's Simon?' was my first question. His young godson had attended my school for a short time, but his brief stay was ended when a rare albino robin, the pride of the village, came to a sudden death at the boy's hands.

'Settling down well at his $$$ school,' said Henry, 'and I may as well tell you now, before you hear it on the grapevine, that his father and Irene Umbleditch are getting married.'

'I am delighted to hear it,' I said warmly. 'He's had so much unhappiness, and he couldn't have anyone nicer than Irene. What's more, Simon is so fond of her too.'

'Well, we're all mightily pleased about it,' said Henry. 'No doubt they'll be visiting us before long, and I hope you will come and see them. They've never forgotten how much you did for Simon. And for us,' he added.

We parted, and I returned home much cheered by this good news. David's first wife had been afflicted by mental illness and eventually had taken her own life. It was time that he and poor young Simon had some sunshine, after the shades of misery which they had suffered.

When I entered my house I found a fat mouse corpse on the hearth rug, and Tibby sitting beside it looking particularly smug. Far from being praised, she was roundly cursed as I put on my Wellingtons again, collected the corpse by the tail, and ploughed my way, shuddering, to the boundary hedge and flung the poor thing into Mr Roberts's field.

I often wonder if he notices a particularly fertile patch within a stone's throw of the schoolhouse garden. It is nourished by a steady flow of Tibby's victims, and must have made a substantial difference to his crops over the years.

Like most people in Fairacre, my pupils enjoyed feeding the birds during the winter, and our school bird-table was always well supplied with bread, peanuts and fat.

As well as these more usual offerings, Mrs Pringle supplied mealworms which the robins adored. She had first undertaken this chore when our famous albino robin appeared on the scene. After his death, in the grievous state of mourning which followed, the supply of mealworms ceased, but to our delight a second albino, probably a grandchild of the first, was seen, and the mealworms were hastily added to the menu.

Not that we saw a great deal of the second white robin. It was obviously less bold than its predecessor, and more cautious in its approach to the food we put out. As Henry Mawne had warned us, the robins and other birds of normal colouring would tend to harass the albino. It certainly seemed timid, but was all the more adored by the children on that account. The first robin had frequently come to the jar of mealworms during the day. The second one only came occasionally, and there were days when it did not appear at all.

One afternoon the children were busy making what they term 'bird pudden', which consists of melted dripping mixed with porridge oats, chopped peanuts and some currants. We had melted the fat in an old saucepan on the tortoise stove, and I kept a weather eye on the door in case Mrs Pringle should walk in unexpectedly and catch us violating her beloved stove.

There was a comfortable smell of cooking in the classroom as Patrick stirred the ingredients with my wooden jam-making spoon. The saucepan by now was on the floor. Nevertheless, when the door opened, I nearly jumped out of my skin with guilt.

Luckily it was only the vicar.

'I seem to have startled you,' said the Reverend Gerald Partridge. 'I suppose I should have knocked.'

'Not at all. I just thought you were Mrs Pringle.'

'Mrs Pringle?'
echoed the vicar. A look of the utmost perplexity distorted his chubby face. 'Now why on earth should you think that?'

'I'll tell you later,' I said hastily. 'Can I help you?'

The vicar put the plastic bag he had been carrying on my desk.

'A friend of mine who is in the publishing business has most kindly given me some children's books. I think he said he was
remaindering
them - a term I had not heard before, I must confess. Anyway, I thought they might go on the library shelf here.'

'Oh, splendid! We can always do with more books.'

He began to haul them out of the bag which bore the interesting slogan:
Come to Clarissa's For Countless Cosmetics.
It seemed an odd receptacle for a vicar to have acquired.

'I have looked them through,' he said earnestly, 'and they seem quite suitable. Really, these days, one can find the most unnecessarily explicit descriptions of deeds of violence, or of biological matters too advanced for our young children here.'

'I am sure your friend wouldn't give you anything like that,' I said reassuringly, 'but I will read them first if you like.'

'It might be as well,' said the vicar. He suddenly became aware of Patrick's activities.

'Whatever is the boy making?'

I explained, the children joining in with considerable gusto.

'Well, I heartily approve,' he said, when he could make himself heard. 'We must do all we can to keep the birds healthy and strong during this bitter weather.'

He began to walk to the door and I accompanied him. He spoke in a low voice.

'Are you sure that mixture is all right? It looks most indigestible to me.'

'The birds lap it up,' 1 told him. 'They've been doing so for months now so don't worry.'

He smiled and departed. 1 had barely returned to the stove preparatory to clearing away any mess before Mrs Pringle caught us, when the vicar reappeared again.

'I forgot to give you a message from my wife. Could you come to the vicarage for a drink on Friday at six-thirty? A few people are coming to discuss the arrangements for the Caxley Spring Festival.'

'Thank you. Yes, please, I should love to come,' I said.

He said goodbye tor the second time and we set about the stove with guilty speed. Mrs Pringle's name had not been mentioned by anyone in the classroom, but we all knew what lent energy to our efforts.