(1/20) Village School (14 page)

'Ah, well!' she said, at length, giving up the struggle to straighten the tangled skein, 'I've got a real good husband to think about now!' And, shutting the memory away in the secret drawer that all pretty women have, she went to put on the potatoes for his supper.

Mrs Finch-Edwards was sitting on Mrs Moffat's couch, admiring the new rug which lay before the tiled hearth, and listening to Mrs Moffat's account of Linda's progress under Miss Read.

'She can read anything, you know. Never had any difficulty with that; but surely she ought to know all her tables by eight years old! Didn't you teach them that in your room?'

'Only a few,' said Mrs Finch-Edwards. 'These days they don't expect children to start all that stuff as young as we did.'

'Then it's time things were altered,' said Mrs Moffat decidedly. 'How's Linda going to tackle the arithmetic paper in the exam, if she's still feeling her way round stuff she should have learnt in the infants' room? What we'll do if she doesn't get through to Caxley High School, I don't know. You know my husband's not one to worry, but I know money's short. This house took more than we thought, and the shop's not doing too well.'

Mrs Finch-Edwards studied her friend's worried countenance and offered what comfort she could.

'You don't have to worry about Linda. She's got a couple of years yet, and she's bright enough. As for money, well, we all worry about that, don't we?'

'Yes, but this is worse than usual! I've promised Linda she shall have dancing lessons next term at Caxley and now—well, I really don't know how we can do it! And she's that set on it!'

And so are you, thought Mrs Finch-Edwards, torn between pity and exasperation at this exhibition of maternal ambition.

'Can't you take in a bit of dressmaking?' she asked dubiously.

Mrs Moffat looked slightly offended.

'It's not quite the thing, is it? A little shop, now—the sort of idea we've talked about—that's different! But there again, you need capital. I don't like to say too much to Len, he always takes me up so short, saying other people can do on what we get. I tell him maybe they've no desire to better themselves.'

There were footsteps outside and Linda burst in.

'Hello, auntie, hello, mum!' She stood there, panting and sniffing.

'Wipe your nose!' said her mother, rather put out at her daughter's tousled appearance before a visitor. Linda rubbed her nose along her knuckles in a perfunctory way. Mrs Moffat's voice rose to a horrified scream.

'For pity's sake, Linda! Where do you pick up such ways?

That common school——!' She turned a scandalized glance at Mrs Finch-Edwards. 'Where's your hanky?'

'Lost it!' returned her daughter.

'Then go and get one!' said her mother, 'and wash yourself and do your hair!' she called after the retreating child. 'You see what I mean?' she appealed to her friend. 'She's getting as bad as the rest of them, and what can I do about it? If only I could get her to those dancing classes—she might meet some better-class children there.'

She rose to get the tea ready. At the door she turned with a refined shudder. 'I never thought to see a daughter of mine—
COMMON
!' she said.

It was arithmetic lesson and the classroom was quiet. Both blackboards were covered with sums, and the three groups groaned over such diverse problems as '½ lb. butter at 4s. lb.' in the lowest group, to '6d. as a decimal
of £
' in the highest one.

Beside me sat Cathy who was being shown once again the mysteries of long multiplication. She had some difficulty with this type of sum, though normally intelligent enough, and with the examination so near I felt we really must master this particular problem.

We were interrupted by the clang of the paint-bucket and heavy footsteps in the lobby, Mr Roberts' large head came round the door.

'Sorry to interrupt,' he said, in what he fondly imagined was a whisper. The children looked up, delighted at this welcome interruption. Who knows, Mr Roberts might have the old blackboard down again, their eyes sparkled to each other! And what could be more delightful than that, in the middle of an arithmetic test?

'Can I have a word with you alone?' he asked. I sent Cathy back to her desk, with a long multiplication sum to attempt, and followed him into the lobby. His big face was distressed.

'Look here!' he began, 'I don't like suspecting people, as you know.' He stopped and studied his boot so long that I felt he needed some assistance.

'Well, come on! Out with it!' I said peremptorily, 'they'll be copying wholesale in there if I don't get back quickly.' Mr Roberts shifted uncomfortably, took a deep breath and rattled it all out. It appeared that he had been missing eggs from the hen-house and had marked some very early that morning and put them back in the nest. He went to collect them at half-past nine and they had vanished. Would I mind … (here he peered earnestly at me and turned a deep red) if he looked through the children's pockets?

I said I thought we should ask the children first if they knew anything about the missing eggs; then they would have the chance to own up.

An unhappy silence greeted my inquiries. No, no one knew anything about the eggs. Blue eyes, brown eyes, hazel eyes, met mine in turn as I looked at their upturned faces. I nodded to Mr Roberts who returned miserably to the lobby. This was obviously hurting him as much as it hurt us, I thought with some amusement.

'Get on with your work again,' I said, and pens were resumed abstractedly, tongues twirled from the corners of mouths, and superficially, at least, all seemed normal; but there was a tension in the air. The door opened again and Mr Roberts beckoned me out with an enormous forefinger.

'Oh, miss!' came a choked cry as I went towards the door. It was Eric who had called out—his normally pale face suffused with a pink flush. Tears stood in his eyes.

'What is it, Eric?'

'Nothing, miss, nothing!' he said with a sob. And putting his head down in his arms his shoulders began to shake. His neighbours looked at him in astonishment and pity.

Out in the lobby Mr Roberts held open the pocket of Eric's raincoat. There, carefully wrapped in dock-leaves were three eggs. Each had a tiny cross on its side from Mr Roberts' pencil.

'Will you deal directly with this?' I asked, 'or shall I make it a caning job?'

Mr Roberts' unhappy face became aghast. 'Oh, by no means! Not caning! Such little children——' he began incoherently.

'They're quite big enough to know the difference between right and wrong,' I said firmly, 'but if you feel that way about it I shall hand him over to you and content myself with a short lecture about this.'

Mr Roberts twisted his great hands together and I felt a twinge of compunction for his soft heart as I opened the classroom door.

'Eric,' I called, 'come here a moment!'

With a dreadful shuddering sigh Eric lifted his mottled face. Slowly he came towards the lobby where Mr Roberts awaited him with quite as much agitation of spirit. I looked at them both as the distance between them dwindled, and then returned to the classroom, leaving the coats and hats to witness the meeting between accuser and accused.

'And I give a few to little Joe Coggs,' Eric had sniffed to me later, ''cos he saw me taking 'em and I never wanted him to say nothing.'

History lesson, about a little Roman boy, to whom the children were becoming much attached, was sacrificed to a lecture on respect for other people's property, common honesty, the power of example and the evil of leading others into bad ways. It was a much-chastened class that settled down to its nature lesson about the common newt, several of which disported themselves in a glass tank at the side of the room. I left them drawing sharply-spiked backs and starfish feet, and went into the next room to bring home to Joseph Coggs the wickedness of his crime.

'And another two?' Miss Gray was asking, stacking milk bottles in pairs into the crate.

'Four!' chorused the group clustered round her.

'And another two?'

'Six!'

'And two more?' The milk bottles clinked again.

'Eight!' This rather more doubtfully. Miss Gray left them to count again, and straightened her back to greet me. I told her the story and asked if I might take Joseph out into her lobby.

'I wanted to see you about my digs,' said Miss Gray.

'Us makes it seven!' shouted one of the mathematicians by the milk crate.

'Count again,' advised Miss Gray. 'We're getting ready for the two times table tomorrow, but heavens, what murder it is!'

'What is the matter at Mrs Pratt's?' I asked.

'Well, you know how it is——' she began uncomfortably.

'Nine!' interrupted another child.

'Tell me later,' I said taking Joseph's sticky hand and leading him from the class to the quiet order of the lobby.

Mrs Pringle's copper was humming merrily as I drew from Joseph the sorry tale of his part in the egg crime. Fat tears coursed down his face and splashed on to his dirty jersey.

'And my mum put 'em in the cupboard and we had one each for breakfast when our dad 'ad gone to work.' His tears flowed afresh as he burst out, 'Nothing ain't nice today! My little house, what I took home … my dad used it to light his pipe this morning … he never cared, he never cared!'

Truly Joseph Coggs suffered much. When the storm had spent itself I gave what tardy consolation I could by telling him that it was treacle tart for dinner and he might make another little house. The tears dried miraculously.

'But mind,' I added, in a firm school-marm voice, 'there's to be no more stealing. You understand?'

'Yes, miss,' answered Joseph with a repentant sniff; but I noticed that his eyes were on the school oven.

14. The Jumble Sale

F
OR
the past week, posters announcing the jumble sale to be held in the schoolroom in aid of the Church Roof Fund had fluttered from the wall by the bus stop, the grocer's window, and from a hook in the butcher's shop.

At the end of afternoon school, Miss Gray and I pushed back the creaking partition between our rooms, and trundled the heavy desks into a long L-shaped counter, in readiness for the people who were coming to price the jumble before the public were admitted at seven o'clock.

'I wish I could help you with the pricing,' Miss Gray said, puffing slightly with her exertions, 'but I do so want to go to the orchestra practice and it begins at 6.30.'

'How are you getting into Caxley?'

'Mr Annett said he would fetch me and bring me back. I know him a little through the people I used to stay with in Caxley. They play in the orchestra too.'

We sat down on the desks to get our breath and surveyed our filthy hands.

'Miss Clare's coming to tea,' I said, 'she's helping with the jumble sale. Can you stop for tea with us?'

'I'd rather not, many thanks. I must collect my violin and music; and I shall need to change. Which reminds me … It looks as though I shall have to leave Mrs Pratt's, I'm afraid.'

'Isn't it working out well? I know it's not ideal, but digs are hopeless in a village.'

'It's partly that; although I hadn't thought of complaining.' She gave me a sidelong smile, 'I hang a towel over the nymph in the river each night, and my petticoat over the dying dog—I really haven't the heart to say anything to Mrs Pratt about removing them.'

'Is it the food?'

'Lord, no! I get more than I want. No … Mrs Pratt's mother has just died over at Springbourne and they'll want my room for her father. He's evidently going to make his home with them. In a way, it solves my problem—but what on earth shall I do about other digs? I feel I can't live too far away. I can't afford a car and the buses from Caxley just don't fit in with school hours.'

'You can have my spare bedroom until you find somewhere that you really like. I'll make more inquiries, but don't worry unduly. If Mrs Pratt wants you out quickly, come to me for a time.'

Her thanks were cut short by the arrival of Miss Clare who was propping up her venerable bicycle in its old accustomed spot by the stone sink in the lobby. She looked well and rested and greeted us in her gentle voice.

'We don't begin pricing until five o'clock,' I told her, 'so we've plenty of time to go and build our strength up with tea!'

Miss Gray made her farewells and hastened off to Mrs Pratt's to get ready for Mr Annett, and Miss Clare and I dawdled, arm in arm, in the playground to watch the rooks as they wheeled about the elms, sticks in beaks, busily furbishing up their nests for the arrival of the new young occupants.

Mrs Pringle and the vicar's wife, Mrs Partridge, were already shaking out vests and sorting out shoes when Miss Clare and I went over to the school. We each carried a blue marking-pencil, shamelessly purloined from the school stock cupboard, paper, scissors and pins.

'Good evening, good evening!' Mrs Partridge greeted us, bustling along the line of desks with a pair of antique dancing shoes in her hand. They were pale grey in colour, with a strap and two buttons. The toes were sharply pointed with heels of the Louis type, and they looked about size two. It would be interesting to see who bought them.