(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (29 page)

'I shall have to think about your offer,' I said formally.

'Think what you like,' said she, 'but I'll be coming to work next Monday, and if Bella or anyone else is mucking about in my school, they'll get thrown out.'

'How do I know,' I countered, 'that you really will turn up? We've had quite enough shilly-shallying, and in any case what, does the doctor say?'

'It's up to me, he said. Work if I want to, and now I do. I'll be along first thing Monday.'

She began to struggle from the chair, but I waved her down. This was as near as I should ever get to an apology, I could see. The only thing to do was to accept the situation. In any case, it was what I really wanted.

'Very well. I'll expect you then.'

A crash of thunder nearly split our ear drums, and the rain began to fall in torrents.

'I'll run you home,' I said.

'There's no call to put yourself out,' said the lady, but she sounded mollified.

'We'd better wait a few minutes,' I added, as lightning rent the sky. 'Have a glass of sherry now we've settled things.'

She raised a massive hand in refusal.

'You should know I don't drink.'

'I'm sorry. I forgot. A cup of coffee?'

'No, thank you.'

She sat four-square and studied the room about her with an eagle eye. An ancient beam runs across my ceiling, and this she scrutinised for some time.

'I suppose no one's touched that rafter?' she said.

'No,' I replied, mystified.

'I thought as much. I give it a good rub down each week with a nice soft cloth wrung out in vinegar and linseed oil. And your copper and brass is a disgrace. I'll come as usual and do you now that Mrs John has given up.'

'Thank you,' I said meekly.

'And anyway, we never got down to any proper spring-cleaning this year, as I recall. I reckon the whole house could do with bottoming.'

As soon as the rain abated a little, we drove down through the wet village street to her house. Little was said on the brief journey, but when the car stopped, she thanked me as she struggled to get out.

'I'll see you on Monday then,' I said.

'Be quite like old times,' replied the lady, nodding the hat graciously, as she opened her gate.

As I drove back I faced the fact that Mrs Pringle had easily won this last skirmish. As usual.

But, on the other hand, I was quite content with the outcome.

To my surprise, I had a letter from Miriam Quinn in the next morning's post. It was written from her brother's vicarage, and ran to three pages.

She was obviously very happy, and had postponed her return to the office, with Barney's blessing, as Gerard was busy with a project in Norfolk and they were both enjoying their holiday together.

'We hope to marry early in the New Year, at St Patrick's of course. It will be a quiet wedding, as befits two sober and elderly people, but we want close friends, such as yourself, to join our families on the day. You shall have a proper invitation when I get back.

'We hope to find a house near Caxley, as we've both made so many friends in the neighbourhood, so look out for one.'

There followed a eulogy of Gerard, which I am sure Amy would not have endorsed, and she ended with loving messages to her Fairacre friends.

'I wonder if my new hat will look suitable for a winter wedding?' I pondered aloud.

Tibby gave a prolonged and painful cry, but I refused to acknowledge it as a derogatory comment.

'So we've got Madam Sunshine coming back!' said Mr Willet. 'You'll never see the last of her now.'

'It was the thought of you coping with the stoves that really settled it,' I told him.

'I'd have done 'em all right,' he said sturdily. 'The fact is the old girl was jealous of anyone getting in here, and when she heard there might be a rush for the job, she knew it was time to stop malarking about and come up here pronto.'

'Well, there it is. Better the rogue you know, than the knave you don't. I'm not sorry she's coming back, to tell the truth.'

'You're too soft by half. She'll be bossing us all about worse than ever after this.'

'We're used to it, aren't we? In any case, I'm not grieving about it with this sunshine all round us.'

'You're right.' He sniffed the air appreciatively. 'That rain done a power of good. Shan't need to look out for Ted Bates now. Won't want my sprinkler for a week or two.'

We parted company. I was off to take assembly, and he to sweep up some of the coke he would not be allowed to scrunch into Mrs Pringle's floors in the future.

***

It was good to be back to normal, with Mrs Pringle crashing about in the lobby before and after school, and booming awful threats to children who got in her way.

It was even comforting, in a queer sort of way, to have my house turned inside out on Wednesday afternoons, and to be told of the strange articles she had found in the sides of the armchairs, and the deplorable condition of my kitchen equipment.

'Ah well!' pronounced my old tormenter. 'There's some as have their heads stuffed with book-learning, and don't know one end of a duster from another. But I suppose we was all sent here with a purpose. Mine seems to be looking after Fairacre School, not to mention its teachers.'

The golden days passed, and it began to grow chilly. The hedges were dew-spangled each morning, and the berries were glowing red. Before long the Battle of the Stoves would begin, as it had done for so many years.

'I don't like this nip in the air,' I said to Mr Willet early one morning in the playground. 'I can't bear to think of this blissful summer coming to an end.'

'You take a look at the calendar,' advised my old friend, it's September the twenty-ninth, Michaelmas Day. The end of summer that is, and we'll just have to face it.'

'Well, we made the most of summer this year, didn't we? A proper celebration. I'll always remember it.'

'Ah! We celebrated all right! Even though it did start with snow on Lady Day. Remember? We've had something to celebrate too, when you think us had weeks without old Sour-face bossing us about.'

At that moment Mrs Pringle appeared in the lobby doorway.

'I want a word with you, Bob Willet,' she said ominously.

'Here we go!' he said, with a wink.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Miss Read is actually Mrs. Dora Saint, whose novels draw on her own memories of living and teaching in a small English village. She first began writing after the Second World War, mainly light essays about school and country matters, for several journals. Her first book,
Village School,
was published in England by Michael Joseph and then in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Company in 1955. She has since delighted millions of readers with both the Fairacre series and her equally well loved series about the Cotswold village of Thrush Green. Miss Read and her husband, a retired schoolmaster, have one daughter and enjoy a quiet life near Newbury, Berkshire.