(1/20) Village School (8 page)

In the midst of the hubbub a visitor arrived. A tall cadaverous woman, dressed in a fawn overcoat and fawn hat, came round the door and stood gazing down upon the squatting children with an expression of strong distaste.

I hastened to welcome her, noticing that her complexion was as fawn as her attire and wondering, not for the first time, why sallow people are so magnetically drawn to this colour. Even her teeth were a subdued shade of yellow, and had I been capable of seeing her aura I have no doubt that that too would have been in the beige range.

'I am Miss Pitt, the new needlework inspector,' she said, revealing the teeth a little more. 'This doesn't appear to be a very convenient time to call.'

I explained that we were about to go over to the church, but that it was no bother to show her our work.

Ankle deep in straw, I pushed across to the needlework cupboard and returned with girls' bags.

'The bigger ones are making aprons with cross-over straps. That brings in buttonholes,' I enlarged, pulling one or two specimens into view, 'and the small girls are making bibs or hankies.'

I left her to look at them while I broke up a quiet but vicious fight which had started in a corner. Someone's special pile of extra-large-eared corn was being purloined and there were stealthy recriminations going on.

'Oh, dear!' said Miss Pitt, scrutinizing an apron, 'oh, dear! I'm afraid this is very out-of-date.'

'Out-of-date?' I repeated, bewildered. 'But children can always do with pinafores!'

Miss Pitt passed a fawn hand across her brow, as one suffering fools, but not gladly.

'We just don't,' she began wearily, as though addressing a very backward child, 'we just don't expect young children like this to do such fine, close work. Pure Victoriana, this!' she went on, tossing Anne's apron dangerously near an inkwell. 'All this
HEMMING
and
OVERSEWING
and
BUTTONHOLING
—it just isn't done these days. Plenty of thick bright wool, crewel needles, not too small, and coarse crash, or better still, hessian to work on, and
THE VERY SIMPLEST
a stitches! As for these poor babies with their hankies——!' She gave a high affected laugh, 'Canvas mats, or a simple pochette is the sort of thing that they should be attempting. Eyestrain, you know!'

'But not one of them wears glasses,' I protested, 'and they've always been perfectly happy making these things for themselves or their families. And surely they should learn the elementary stitches!'

'No; I'm not criticizing——' I felt I should like to know just what she was doing then, but restrained myself, 'it's all a matter of
APPROACH
! Have you any hessian in the school?'

'Only a very small amount for the babies,' I replied firmly, 'and as I've used up all our money on this cotton material I'm afraid the aprons and so on will have to go forward.'

'A pity,' said Miss Pitt, sadly. She sighed bravely. 'Ah well! I will call in again some time next term and see if I can give you some more help. We do so want to bring Colour and Life into these rather drab surroundings, don't we?'

I could have suggested that a more colourful wardrobe might help towards this end, but common courtesy forbade it.

'One meets such hardworking people in this job,' she continued smiling graciously at me—she might have been slumming—'such really worthy fellow-creatures. It's a great privilege to be able to guide them, I find.'

She gave a last look round the room, averting her eves quickly from the outcast aprons. 'Good-bye, Miss Annett,' she said, consulting a list. 'This is Beech Green School, isn't it?'

'This is Fairacre School,' I pointed out. 'Mr Annett is headmaster at Beech Green School.'

'Then he's next on my list,' replied the imperturbable Miss Pitt, her self-esteem not a bit ruffled. She stepped out into the sunshine.

'Turn right, here,' I told her, 'and it's about two or three miles along the Caxley road.' I watched her turn her car and drive off. 'And what Mr Annett will have to say to that fawn fiend I should dearly love to know!' I thought.

The church seemed very tranquil after the bustle of the schoolroom. The children tiptoed in with their treasures and set to work lashing the bunches of corn to the pew heads with strands of raffia. The four biggest children, John, Sylvia, Cathy and Anne were in charge of the altar rail, and, full of importance, they arranged beetroots, marrows and apples in magnificent pyramids, standing back with their heads on one side, every now and again, to admire the effect.

Sir Charles Dagbury looked down as disdainfully as ever, upon them, as they enlivened his cold home, while, in the body of the church, more sightless eyes gazed down upon the young children from the church walls.

The troubles and vexations of the last twenty-four hours suddenly seemed less oppressive. It is difficult, I reflected, to take an exaggerated view of any personal upheaval when standing in a building that has witnessed the joys, the hopes, the griefs and all the spiritual tremors of mortal men for centuries.

These walls had watched the parishioners of Fairacre revealing the secrets of their hearts from the time when those kneeling men had worn doublets and hose. Some of the effigies had been here when Cromwell's men had burst in, as the mutilated marble bodies on two magnificent tombs testified. Bewigged papas, and later, crinolined mammas had sat in these pews with rows of nicely-graded children beside them, and these had been followed, in their turn, by their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, some of whom now chattered and scurried up and down the aisle.

In the presence of this ancient, silent witness, it was right that personal cares should assume their own insignificant proportions. They were, after all, as ephemeral as the butterflies that hovered over the Michaelmas daisies on the graves outside. And, hurt as they might be at the moment, they could not endure.

Dr Martin had prescribed at least three weeks' rest for Miss Clare.

'But she's so anxious to clear up her affairs properly at school that I see no reason why she shouldn't have the last two weeks of term here, if she makes the progress I think she will,' he added. 'It will be a wrench for her after all these years—perhaps this break may help the parting a little.'

Her sister came to fetch her after tea. Miss Clare had agreed to stay with her for a week, although it was quite obvious that her independent spirit rebelled against submitting to a younger sister's ministrations.

My problem now was to find a substitute for Miss Clare for the next few weeks, and I rang up the local education office at Caxley to see if there was a supply teacher available.

Supply teachers are a rarity in country districts, but I was in luck.

'Have you come across Mrs Finch-Edwards?' asked Mr Taylor, officially the Divisional Organizer, at the other end of the line.

'No, does she live near here?'

'They live in Springbourne.' This is a hamlet two miles away from Fairacre, further from Caxley. 'Only been there two or three months. She's had experience with infants in London. I'll see if she can be with you on Monday.'

'That's wonderful!' I said thankfully, putting down the receiver.

Mrs Finch-Edwards turned out to be a large, boisterous young woman, with a high colour, a high voice and a high coiffure done in masses of helped-auburn curls. Her hearty efficiency and superb self-confidence made me feel quite timid and anaemic by contrast. All through the few weeks of her sojourn at Fairacre School the partition rattled with the vibrations of her cheerful voice and the innumerable nursery rhymes and jingles, all, it seemed, incorporating deafening hand-clapping at frequent intervals, which the infants learnt eagerly. They all adored her, for she had an energy that matched their own, and her extensive wardrobe, of many colours, intrigued them.

The girls in my class were full of admiration for Mrs Finch-Edwards.

'She's real pretty,' said Anne to Linda as they hung over the fireguard that surrounded the roaring stove. 'Even if she is a bit fat.'

'Didn't ought to wear mauve, though,' said Linda judicially, smoothing her new grey skirt. 'It's too old for her. You have to be very fair or very dark for mauve, my mum says.'

We worked well together, although I missed Miss Clare's tranquil presence sorely. Mrs Finch-Edwards could not resist pointing out the deficiencies of Fairacre School as compared with the palatial palaces she had known, strewn, it would appear, with such luxurious equipment as individual beds for afternoon rest, sliding-chutes, dolls' houses, sand pits, paddling pools and—the acme of civilization—several drinking fountains. She was appalled by the jug-mug-and-drinking-pail apparatus in her outside lobby.

'I should never have
dreamt
——!' she told me, 'when I think of Hazel Avenue Infants' or Upper Eggleton's Nursery School with their own towels, each one appliquéd with each child's motif, you know, a toy soldier, say, or an apple—and when I think of the stock they had—well, it does just
show,
doesn't it? How you struggle on here, year after year, dear, I don't know. It must be truly frustrating for you. Tells on your looks in the end, too,' she added, taking a quick look at herself in the murky background of 'The Angelus' behind my desk. She pinned up a fat curl thoughtfully.

'I thought at one time I might fancy a country headship; that was before I met my hubby, of course. He wouldn't let me do that now.'

She always spoke of 'hubby' as though he were a hulking caveman and she a clinging little wisp dependent on him for everything. This 'trembling-with-fear-at-his-frown' attitude was all the more absurd when one had seen 'hubby,' who stood five-foot-six in his dove-grey socks, had next to no chin and a pronounced lisp. His wife's magnificent physique completely overshadowed his own modest appearance and it was obvious that in any action she dashingly led the way. I bore her comments on the poverty of equipment at Fairacre School and the poverty of looks of its headmistress with all the humility I could muster.

'We usually give a concert at Christmas,' I told her, 'and I think we could manage one this year. Could you teach the infants two or three songs with actions or perhaps a very short play? Miss Clare could cope with the carols when she comes back, and my class are going to do "Cinderella." What do you think about it?'

Mrs Finch-Edwards was most enthusiastic and bubbled over with suggestions for costumes which she offered to make, with some help. An idea struck me, as I saw Linda Moffat twirling round and round in the playground showing off the two and a half yards of flannel in her new skirt.

'I'll call on Linda's mother. I know she's clever with clothes, and has a machine. She may help too.' I was glad that I had thought of this opportunity of seeing Mrs Moffat again, for I suspected that she was not very happy in the village yet, and despite the beauties of her bungalow, a lonely woman.

'Come with me,' I urged Mrs Finch-Edwards, 'we'll go one evening next week and see what happens.'

I little realized that that evening was going to begin a strong friendship between the two women that would flourish for the rest of their lives.

9. Getting Ready for Christmas

W
INTER
had really come. The milk saucepans, which lived under my kitchen sink for the warm months of the year, were now at school and put on the hot stoves, one in my room and the other in the infants'.

Woolly scarves, thick coats and Wellingtons decked the lobby. Gloves were constantly getting lost; children vanished, in the wrong Wellingtons, on foggy afternoons, and others had to hobble home in those that were left, or pick their way through the puddles, to their mothers' wrath, in inadequate plimsolls. The classroom resounded to coughs, sniffs and shattering sneezes, and toes were rubbed up and down legs to ease chilblains.

The vicar, on his weekly visits, wore his winter cloak, green with age but dramatic in cut, and a pair of very old leopard-skin gloves, to which he was much attached. They had been left him, 'more years ago than he cared to remember,' by an old lady who had embroidered no less than seven altar-fronts for him. His voice became so soft, and his eye so liquid, when he spoke of his departed friend, that it was impossible not to suspect a romantic attachment; and, in fact, this can have been the only reason for clinging, year after year, to a pair of gloves that had become so very odorous, moth-eaten and generally nasty. Altogether, during the winter months, the cloak, the gloves, and a biretta worn at a rakish angle, combined to give the vicar of St Patrick's somewhat bizarre, but dashing appearance.