(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (23 page)

'Look at my muscles then!' bragged Eric, flexing his arm to his neighbour.

'No bigger'n a sparrow's kneecap,' responded Ernest.

During playtime there was a good deal of sprinting from one end of the playground to the other, and some perilous jumping over skipping ropes obligingly held by the girls. I turned a blind eye to these activities, only warning the infants of tender years, to keep out of the way.

Miss Briggs had thrown herself whole-heartedly into preparations for the day, and had organised most of the timetable, including a mothers' race and a hideously difficult obstacle race for any fathers who were courageous enough to attempt it. As well as a pegged-down tarpaulin, kindly loaned by Mr Roberts, under which one had to wriggle, there were the usual hoops to negotiate, ropes to leap, and a stretch of grass to be covered by means of stepping on flower pots manhandled in a bent-double position. The children were tackling the course themselves, but at half the size and twice as agile they certainly had the edge on their fathers.

Several parents had been coerced into being judges, and keeping the scores of each child. I had been responsible for buying innumerable bars of chocolate, and making badges from cardboard embellished with gold stars. It made a change from making gooseberry jam on recent evenings.

The dinner lady brought us sliced cold ham, jacket potatoes and some salad, for our first course, and a sloshy dish, which she told us was trifle, for dessert. Her offerings were greeted with general approval.

'That's just right for today,' Patrick said graciously. 'Us don't want no stodge and that. Slows you down, stodge does.'

One or two hardy boys professed to despise food altogether just before racing, but I noticed that they ate as heartily as the rest when it was time to serve out.

At two o'clock we were all out in the sunshine. Chairs had been arranged for the elderly on one side of the course, but most of the mothers, and a sprinkling of fathers who were not at work, sprawled on the grass looking after the many toddlers.

Miss Briggs and I had decided that the first few races should be the straightforward hundred yards (we don't bother with metres at Fairacre) for boys and girls, divided into three age groups. Then came the girls' skipping races, and after that the infants had their turns.

Apart from one of the infants running the wrong way, and Patrick taking a tumble over a tough tussock of grass, and wrenching his ankle, all went beautifully.

Linda Moffat's mother, in charge of the score sheet, was kept busy with a stream of breathless children arriving at her table clutching red, blue or yellow cards for first, second and third places. I had the fairly easy job of being judge for first place in each race, and two brave mothers coped with being judges of second and third positions.

The obstacle race proved to be the most exciting, and the frenzied shouts of the children spurring on the contestants were deafening. Even the cows in the next field came to look over the hedge at the goings-on in their former grazing ground.

Mr Lamb's collie dog had escaped from the Post Office garden and romped energetically among spectators and competitors, licking the children's faces as they emerged from under the tarpaulin, and greeting all with great enthusiasm. It would not have done at the Olympic Games but at Fairacre it adds to the enjoyment.

In the midst of this hubbub, I was surprised to see Mrs Pringle sailing majestically across the grass, wearing her best navy-blue straw hat decorated with a white duck's wing. Obviously, this was an occasion, and I felt very flattered that she had honoured us with the hat, as well as her presence.

She took a seat on the end chair, and raised a hand in greeting to one or two neighbours. Hard on her heels came Mrs Coggs, the ancient pram making heavy weather of the uneven meadowland.

I was particularly glad that she had arrived in time to see Joseph's age group tackling the obstacle race. He gave her a dazzling smile as he lined up, and whether it was his mother's presence, or simply his own skinny agility, which turned the scale in his favour, no one could say, but he won by several yards and the spectators applauded his success.

The mothers' race was a decorous affair, a straight sprint down the hundred yards. The younger ones took off their shoes, but older ones, like Mrs Moffat, who abandoned her duties to me for this race, rattled along creditably in high heels, and she it was who came in second, yielding first place to Patrick's mother.

I went over to talk to Mrs Pringle when Mrs Moffat returned, flushed and triumphant, to her table.

'I'm glad you could come,' I said, taking the next chair.

'Well, it was a nice afternoon,' said she grudgingly. 'And I guessed I could sit down after my walk.'

'You should have entered the last race,' I told her mischievously.

'The mothers' race? I was a mother too long ago for that lark,' she replied, and who was I to gainsay it?

And now the highlight of the afternoon occurred when seven brave fathers toed the line. Privately, I backed a newcomer to the village, one George Fuller, father of a blonde daughter in Miss Briggs' care. He was slim and lively, and looked a certain winner.

Ernest's father, all of fifteen stone, I reckoned to be out of the race before the whistle blew, and the other five were fairly run-of-the-mill in weight and athleticism.

Mr Fuller justified my hopes by reaching the hoops first and sliding through them at speed. He also leapt the ropes with the aplomb of a hurdler, and was first to emerge from the confines of the tarpaulin. He was greeted rapturously by Mr Lamb's dog, and the cheers of the spectators.

Now came the flower pot problem, and to my dismay it was quite apparent that balancing with one foot on a flower pot whilst transferring the other by hand a yard or so ahead, was a skill which this young father had never attempted. If he fell off, and he did, he was in honour bound to start the flower pot bit again.

It was here that Ernest's father came into his own. His struggles under the tarpaulin had been heroic, and the spectators were convulsed with laughter, even Mrs Pringle managing a smirk. Only one father was behind him. The rest had progressed to Mr Fuller's stage of the proceedings.

But despite his girth, Ernest's father had the uncanny sense of balance which so often makes large people excellent dancers. He fairly nipped along with his two flower pots, overtaking all the others, and almost colliding with the hapless Mr Fuller who was returning, yet again, to base.

He won by yards, and Ernest rushed to greet him by throwing his arms round his father's impressive waist, and jumping all over the poor man's feet.

He received the loudest clap of all when he came to receive his chocolate bar.

'He deserved that,' said Mrs Pringle.

And we all agreed.

By the time we had returned the chairs to the school, cleared away the remains of the biscuits and lemonade kindly provided by the Parent-Teacher Association, and carried the ropes, hoops, balls and so on to their rightful places, we were all pretty tired. The bigger boys folded Mr Roberts' tarpaulin with much shouting and falling over, but at length it was done, and dragged into the shelter of the school lobby.

'What about them posts?' enquired one.

'Leave them for Mr Willet,' I replied. 'He will see to them tomorrow.'

The parents drifted away, children darting around them, still glorying in their recent triumphs.

Miss Briggs refused a cup of tea in the schoolhouse, saying that she was meeting Wayne to choose the bedroom carpet.

And so I had my own cup with only Tibby for company, and very peaceful it was after the clamour of the afternoon.

Later that night, I was awoken by the pattering of rain. Mr Willet had been right as usual, and we had got through Sports Day by the skin of our teeth.

17 Off to the Wedding

IT was still raining when I dressed the next morning. It was not the violent torrential downpour which the earlier thunderstorm had brought, but a gentle steady pattering on dry earth and thirsty plants.

The air was mild. It was the sort of day the Irish call 'soft', and it described it well. The downs were veiled in mist, and no doubt the valley of the river Cax, not far from Fairacre, would be just as misty.

It seemed strange to see the children arriving in mackintoshes or carrying umbrellas. For weeks the lobby pegs had held only a cardigan or two, or a floppy sun hat. Now raindrops spattered the floor from the dripping mackintoshes and, true to form, the skylight, so recently renovated, let through an occasional spot of rain near my desk top.

This change in the weather seemed to affect the children in a rather peculiar way. I should have thought that cooler conditions would have enlivened them after the oppressive heat, but the reverse happened. Possibly they were physically tired after yesterday's efforts on the sports' field. There was a good deal of yawning, and a number of children complained of feeling cold. Those that had woolly jackets in the lobby were sent to get them, and to warm and wake the rest we did a few brisk exercises. I cannot pretend that these efforts wrought much change, but at least they were galvanised into taking out their arithmetic books and attempting some work in a desultory fashion.

At playtime I compared notes with Miss Briggs as we sipped our coffee. Heir class too was remarkably soporific and three of the infants had actually fallen asleep.

'I think this place is damp,' opined Miss Briggs.

'It's been that way for over a hundred years,' I told her, 'and unless the stoves are alight, or there is a nice long spell of heat, such as we've been enjoying, the school never really dries out.'

'Time we had a new one,' said Miss Briggs. 'Wayne says this one ought to be pulled down. I'm sure he could build a much better one—and with a proper damp course too.'

'I'm sure he could,' I agreed. 'But with the nation's economy as it is, I can't see our local authority giving him the chance.'

As well as finding the cash, there is another difficulty which is ever present in my mind at Fairacre School. Our numbers have been perilously low for years, and I cannot help thinking that, before long, our little school will go the way of so many more in the country.

It has always been a worry to me. I hate to see these rural schools closing, and yet what is the practical decision?

Parents do not want to see their five-year-olds carted off by bus for a long day some distance from home. Those who attended the school in their own youth are often fiercely loyal, and want it to stay open.

On the other hand, when numbers get into the twenties, or even lower, are the children getting the competition and stimulus they need? The battle continues.

For my own part, the obvious difficulty, in my first few years at the school, was the fact that my school house would be taken from me when the whole property was put on the market. I had no doubt that I should be leniently dealt with, and probably would be offered first refusal, but it was a problem nevertheless. Now, thanks to Dolly Clare's overwhelming generosity, I need not fear the future, but not many school teachers, in the same position, have such comfort.

'Ah well!' said Miss Briggs collecting our coffee cups. 'Only one more week, and it's end of term.'

It was a cheerful thought.

One evening, during the last week of term, Bella George came over to my house after finishing her stint in the school.

The air was still cool. The really hot sunshine seemed to have deserted us, but I hoped that it was only for a few days. We sat indoors, and Tibby, unusually demonstrative, climbed on her lap and settled down, purring loudly.

'You're honoured,' I told her.

'Well, I'm not all that fond of cats actually, and I think they know, so they come and try their luck. Contrary animals, aren't they?'

I agreed.

'The thing is,' went on Bella, stroking the cat, 'Jack's shift's changing again next month, and I can't see how I can keep on with the cleaning indefinitely.'

'We've been lucky to have you for so long,' I replied. 'You've been a tower of strength. How long can you stay?'

'Oh, I'll certainly put the place tidy at the end of term, and if need be, I could come in the day before term starts in September, just to see things are all ship-shape, but I can't do more than that. I'm sorry. I've really enjoyed the work.'

'You've saved our bacon, Bella,' I told her. 'We were really in a desperate plight. I can see I shall have to get in touch with Mrs Pringle and let her know how things stand.'

Bella looked embarrassed.

'I don't know if I should say anything, but she still says she's not going to come back at all. Do you think she's just stringing you along?'

'I wouldn't put it past her. The last she told me was that she intended to come back eventually. When, I don't know, which is why I shall have to advertise the post in order to have someone here regularly for next term.'

'Shall I let her know you are going to do that?'

I thought for a minute. Mrs Pringle had certainly got us over a barrel, and knew it too. On the other hand, I genuinely hoped that she might return. Better the knave you know, than the devil you don't.