(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (20 page)

I said my farewells to the Coggs, and hurried to see Bella.

I found the lady in her kitchen busy rolling out pastry. She looked as cheerful as ever and invited me to sit down, as she washed her floury hands.

'No, I'll call another time,' I said. 'You are too busy now.'

But I was overborne.

'Pastry does better for standing a while,' said Bella. 'Can I help?'

'I do hope so,' I said sincerely, and told her of my difficulties.

She looked thoughtful, and my hopes rose.

'Well, I don't see why not,' she said at last. 'Jack's on this new shift for six weeks, which means he leaves here at two in the afternoon and sometimes doesn't get home at night. There's a couple of runs a week to East Anglia and he stays overnight there. I could do what Minnie's doing now easily, but I wouldn't want to face the early morning cleaning.'

I hastily explained that that could be left until the permanent cleaner was appointed.

I told her about wages and invited her to call in the next day or so to have a look at the work involved. If she kept Fairacre School even half as clean as her own immaculate establishment we should be jolly lucky, I thought.

'Any chance of Mrs Pringle coming back?' she asked, as we stood looking at the rain.

'Not yet, I think. She knows the job is hers if she wants it, but I think we shall have to rely on kind folk like you in the meantime.'

'She did say to me,' said Bella diffidently, 'as though she wasn't going back to the job at all.'

'Oh, did she?'

In that case, I thought, I should have to think again about a permanency. Maybe it was just the lady's way of rubbing salt into my wounds. Time alone would tell.

I ran through the rain to my car, and left Bella to cope with her pie-making.

As the car swished through the puddles, I felt a surge of relief at the thought of Bella taking over from dear demented Minnie.

I must break the news to her now, I decided, and then have a much-needed cup of tea. That is, if Minnie had left me a tea pot intact.

I put my foot down, and splashed home.

There was a thick white mist over the countryside the next day, but by noon it had cleared, and the sun shone again.

It was a blissful Saturday, and I was at leisure to enjoy the refreshed garden. The lawn, recently so drab, had turned green overnight. Raindrops still sparkled on the roses, and the soil steamed gently.

My water butts were brimming over, and I should have pleasure in telling Mr Willet that they were as watertight as ever when he came on Monday morning.

Minnie Pringle had accepted her wages and her notice with cheerful inconsequence, and was far more moved by my parting present of a jar of instant coffee. Amazingly, nothing had been damaged during my brief absence, and she had even spread out the teacloth to dry.

I had said goodbye to her with infinite relief, and watched her pushing the broken-down pram through the puddles in the lane, until the bend of the road hid her from sight, and I had returned indoors.

Over my supper of scrambled eggs I had pored over the television programmes for the evening. I was offered a nice half-hour or so of open heart surgery, in glorious technicolour, no doubt, an interview with survivors from a pit disaster, a discussion by drug addicts about their problems, or another on the subject of abortions.

'Well, Tibby,' I had said, putting aside the paper, i think we'll play that old record of Jack Buchanan's, and get on with the P. G. Wodehouse book from the library.'

All in all, we had a splendid evening.

Miriam Quinn called one evening after school to borrow a book of knitting patterns which I had offered to lend her.

It was an ancient book of children's garments, and its value to me was that each and every pattern was absolutely simple and turned out exactly the right size—a rare virtue in patterns.

'I thought I'd start now and knit Lovell's three a good thick woolly apiece for next Christmas. You can do with all the woollies available in that Norfolk vicarage,' said Miriam.

She often spoke of Lovell, her brother, who had a living not far from Norwich. The two were very devoted, and she was an attentive and loving aunt to his three children.

While I was pointing out one or two of the patterns which I had often used and found most effective, Amy's car drew up, and she and Gerard Baker came in.

Miriam had met Amy before, and I was about to introduce Gerard when I became conscious that they were eyeing each other with somewhat perplexed interest.

'I think we know each other,' said Gerard. 'Surely I know your brother Lovell?'

'Cambridge?' hazarded Miriam.

'Yes indeed, but I have come across him several times since then. A cousin of mine lives in his parish.'

I felt it called for a celebratory drink and went to fetch the sherry while they investigated farther.

They were hard at it, recalling old memories, when I returned to the sitting room.

'I saw you first at a May Ball,' said Gerard. 'You wore a cream-coloured frock and had a camellia in your hair.'

'Good heavens!' cried Miriam. 'What an incredible memory you must have! I must confess I don't remember that occasion half as well as you do.'

'You were rather engrossed,' commented Gerard, 'with a young fellow called Martin Farrar, if I remember rightly.'

To my surprise, Miriam turned pink. I had never before seen her confused.

'Miriam is busy planning her Christmas presents already,' I said hastily, and passed the knitting book to Amy.

Outside, a blackbird scolded from a lilac bush. Tibby, no doubt, was being provocative. A light warm breeze ruffled the curtains, the air fragrant with all the scents of summer.

'Do children still wear knitted leggings?' asked Amy, studying a photograph in my ancient book. 'Or "winter bodices", as it says here?'

'Well, not in this weather,' said Gerard. 'Have you ever known a summer like it? Why, it must be warm even in Norfolk! If it stays like this we should get the outside shots of Aloysius's cottage done in two days. We start on Thursday, incidentally.'

'Come and have supper with us on Wednesday,' said Amy, 'and I hope you will come too,' she added, turning to Miriam.

'I should love to. Thank you very much.'

'Let's take our drinks into the garden,' I suggested, it's too good an evening to stay indoors.'

Amy drew me aside as Gerard and Miriam went to inspect my rose bed.

'Gerard seems remarkably animated and attentive,' she said, somewhat severely. 'I had planned to let him partner you on Wednesday, but I must see if Horace is free.'

'Oh, Amy,' I cried impatiently, 'what does it matter? It's good to see them getting on so well, and being an extra woman won't worry me, I assure you.'

'I like the table
symmetrical,
' said Amy, 'but there it is. At least, James will be with us. He tries to be home these days, particularly when I'm entertaining.'

'Good,' I said. 'I could stay away, you know,' I offered nobly, 'if you really will worry about the table plan.'

'Rubbish!' said Amy. 'Of course you must come. No doubt Gerard will be himself again by then.'

There seemed little to comment upon after this remark, and after a few turns about the garden, Amy and Gerard made their farewells.

'Well,' exclaimed Miriam, when they had gone, 'what an extraordinary encounter! You know, I do remember him now. He was terribly kind to me on that occasion. I was horribly shy, and he took the trouble to look after me beautifully in the early part of the evening. Later, Martin turned up, and I fear I paid all my attention to him for the rest of the ball. Unforgivable really.'

She looked unhappily contrite.

'All young people are a bit heartless,' I comforted her. 'Here, don't forget the knitting book. You quite inspire me to start knitting for Christmas myself.'

I awoke suddenly that night to a windowful of stars. Their brilliance was unbelievable, as bright as in a clear October sky.

There was no moon to be seen, but for the first time in my life I saw the room lit with a soft light from the stars, and recalled the old skipping rhyme which the children still use:

Moonlight, starlight,
Boney won't come out tonight.

I wonder if they know who Boney was, I thought. Tomorrow I must remember to tell them.

I climbed out of bed to survey the shadowy garden. Everything was hushed, not even a hedgehog stirred, and every leaf was motionless. I stood enchanted for several minutes, thanking the stars above me for the delight of living in Fairacre, until my feet grew chilly, I reminded myself that I must get up in time for school, and so returned to bed, and an untroubled sleep.

As is so often the case, I arrived first at Amy's, but did my best not to sniff the air like the Bisto Kid Amy said I resembled.

'I'm so glad I've got you to myself for a minute or two,' she greeted me. 'The most incredible news! I rang Horace after visiting you, and do you know what?'

'He's ill?'

'No, no! He sounded horribly robust.'

'Got a post abroad?'

'No again! Just let me tell you instead of making these wild guesses. I really am terribly upset, and on your account, I may say.'

I stayed obediently silent.

'D'you remember that secretary person, Eve Masters? He took her to that Save The Children do, I remember you telling me?'

'Of course I do.'

'Well, they are
engaged!
'

Amy suddenly became solicitous.

'Would you like to sit down? It must be a shock.'

'Not to me it isn't, Amy. But I expect it is to you. What about your table arrangements?'

'Don't give it another thought. And really you are so brave. I'm devastated. I mean, I always hoped that you and he—'

'I didn't,' I said, 'and frankly I'm delighted to hear the news. I take it they are already booked for this evening?'

'Her parents are coming down to meet him properly, and they've booked a table at The Green Man in Caxley. I only hope they don't choose duck. My helping was unalloyed rubber last time James took me there.'

She gave me a quick kiss.

'Sure you are all right? You look wonderfully calm. I would have been piping my eye in the circumstances.'

'You are not as flinty-hearted as I am, Amy,' I told her, as her other guests came to the door, inveterate match-makers are bound to get their fingers burnt,' I added primly as she went to open the door, and then had a fit of laughter as the appalling pun hit me.

'My mother,' said Amy, 'would have said you've been sleeping in the knife drawer! Too sharp by half!'

Still chuckling, she opened the door to admit the rest of her party.

15 Summer's Bounty

THE golden weather continued. For week after week the sun had gilded all with glory, and it came as quite a shock to realise that July was upon us, and still the sun shone.

Soon it would be end of term, with all that that involved for a schoolmistress, and soon our Miss Briggs would be married to Wayne, and I must look out my maps to find the best route for my ageing car to take to Leamington Spa for the happy occasion.

Already some of the cornfields looked ready for cutting, and scabious and knapweed were taking the place of the Queen Anne's lace, or cow parsley, which had frothed along the road verges. The heavy storm recently seemed to have accelerated the progress of natural growth, and I grieved to see a few early asters and dahlias in bud in some of the cottage gardens. I had no desire to end this blissful summer with an early autumn.

The children had never looked so bonny, tanned as they were with constant sunshine. This should set them up properly for next winter, I told myself. Colds and coughs should be cut to a minimum with all this intake of Vitamin D, or whatever it was, with which sunlight was stuffed. I too felt on top of the world, and relished wearing light clothing and shoes for such a length of time. Usually, one's cotton frocks see the light for a few days and are then returned to the cupboard, while warmer garments are thankfully donned again. This summer all was changed, and I almost believed Mr Willet when he told me that the summers of his boyhood were ever thus.

The first brood of swallows were already accomplished fliers, and now the parents were busy building a second nest. For some reason, the first one in the front porch was deemed unsuitable, and there was much chattering and twittering as they inspected other sites.

To my dismay, they chose to build their second nest on a horizontal bundle of draining rods, which were lodged on brackets near the roof in the back porch.

'Knock it down,' advised Mr Willet. 'You get your drains blocked, and you'll be scuppered. Shall I bash it down for you?'

'No, please! Not after all their hard work. We can't do that.'

'I could,' said Mr Willet sturdily. 'You're too soft by half. I suppose if you gets trouble with your dratted drains, I'll be the fool that pushes my rods up here on my bike to see to 'em.'

'It may not happen.'

'It'd better not! Well, if that's how you want it, let's leave the little perishers. And if I gets a hernia I hopes as how you'll visit me in hospital.'