(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (5 page)

He settled in for another half-hour, but stirred himself when the clock struck nine.

'I'd better be going. Nice to have your company.'

'Well, I'm sure Elizabeth will be home again soon.'

'It's rather doubtful. That's why it would be particularly pleasant if you could attend my lectures. I get in rather a bother about them. Lose my spectacles, or muddle up the pages of my talk. Elizabeth looks after me very well on these occasions.'

I accompanied him to the door and waved him goodbye.

In my early days at Fairacre, Henry Mawne had been thought a bachelor on his arrival in the village. Elizabeth had then been on one of her protracted visits to relations in Ireland, and the local inhabitants, including Mrs Partridge, I recalled, had done their level best 'to bring us together', envisaging an elderly bridal couple tottering from St Patrick's between a guard of honour formed by my pupils and, possibly, some of Henry's bird-lovers' club.

It had been a most embarrassing situation, and I was quite determined not to get embroiled with Henry Mawne while his wife was away. As for accepting his invitation to the bird lectures, that was now completely out. I should just have to find a water-tight excuse for both occasions, or I could imagine the tongues wagging all the way from Fairacre to Caxley.

The Mawnes and I have grown quite close over the years. His great-nephew, Simon, attended my school for a short time, and incurred the wrath of the whole village by slaying an albino robin which we all adored.

He was still seen here in the school holidays, as his father David had remarried after the tragic death of Simon's mother, and he had bought a house in the village. David was away quite a lot, but his wife Irene did a certain amount of entertaining at Holly Lodge, and I was often lucky enough to be invited to family occasions. Nevertheless, I did not want Henry Mawne's attentions in his present circumstances. I did not flatter myself that my
beaux yeux
were the attraction, but knew quite well that he was lonely at the moment, and simply wanted some company.

Unfortunately, one's affairs are under constant scrutiny in a village, and as a headmistress I must appear to be above reproach. I alone know how many and varied are my failings, but I hope that flirting is not among them, particularly with an elderly and happily married man like silly old Henry.

Before school the next morning Mrs Pringle greeted me with an unaccustomed smile.

'A little bird told me you had a visitor last night. And a nice bunch of daffs,' she added archly.

I forbore to reply.

For a blissful few days in early April we had warm and sunny weather, and the children and I took full advantage of it.

We even had one or two lessons outside, sitting in the playground in the shelter of the old school walls. The elder bushes were sprouting young leaves, and a few celandines turned shiny, yellow faces to the sun at the edge of Mr Roberts' field.

Already some of his lambs frisked in the field near his farmhouse, and their bleating carried to us on the warm spring breeze.

A pair of blackbirds was hard at work gathering nesting material, and as far as I could see the nest was being built low down in an ancient lauristinus bush in my garden. This shrub, much loved by the Victorians, is rather scorned by Fairacre gardeners today, but I treasure it because of its glossy evergreen leaves and its heartening way of producing pink and white blossom all through the darkest days of winter.

'Scatter-brained animals, them blackbirds,' is Mr Willet's dictum, and he does not waste any pity on them, as I do, when Tibby or any other marauder attacks the young ones. Rarely a spring passes without my trying to screen an obvious blackbird's nest from Tibby's view. It is impossible to keep an eye on the cat while I am at school, and what horrors go on in my absence I shudder to think.

'Well, it's only nature,' says Mr Willet. 'Them blackbirds gobble up worms but you don't wipe your eye about that, now do you? So what's wrong with your Tibby helping himself to a snack now and again?'

The copse at the foot of the downs was also busy with birds, as we discovered on one of our numerous nature walks during the fine spell.

A few early primroses were opening, and the wild honeysuckle had put forth small strong leaves. It was all heady stuff after a long and miserable winter. The wood smelt of moss and damp earth. Every aspect of spring assailed our senses, the warmth, the fragrance, the welcome flowers and leaves. Even the first, bright, fringed leaves of the stinging nettles received our blessing.

Easter Day was only a week or so away. Soon Fairacre school would be on holiday. What better way to spend the last few days of term than relishing this forerunner of joys to come?

During the last week of term, two things happened which gave me much food for thought.

In the first place, I had a very kind letter from Mrs Partridge's old friend giving me details of the dreaded evening when I had rashly offered my services on the panel.

After profuse thanks, the letter continued:

'The other members of the panel include Doctor Eric Biddle who specialises in children's complaints and has very advanced ideas on children's diet. I expect you have met him, as his practice is just south of Caxley. He once appeared in a television programme, so of course we are extremely lucky to get such a notable figure for our little evening.

'The other man is Councillor James Ellis who is a magistrate on the Caxley bench and chairman of the juvenile Court panel. He is a charming man, and has taken a degree in Child Psychology in the Open University. He has a very sympathetic way with young offenders, as you may have noticed from reports in our local paper.

'The lady who will keep you company is an outstanding educationalist who has set up her own school near the teachers' training college where she is a much respected lecturer. We are very fortunate to get her to come on the panel, as she is in great demand as a speaker, and has an international reputation. Her name is Miss Crabbe.'

Good grief! That wicked old hag? I put the letter down, and took a large gulp of my breakfast coffee to get over the shock.

So our paths were destined to cross again! Miss Crabbe had taught one of my assistants, by name Hilary Jackson, some years ago.

Miss Jackson was an opinionated young woman who had imbibed her lecturer's psychology theories hook, line and sinker. She also had, what was termed in my schooldays, 'a crush' on the redoubtable Miss Crabbe, and everything that the older woman did or said was considered absolutely perfect.

One dreadful weekend I had been obliged to put up this paragon, and to endure the most awful pseudo-psychological jargon whilst Hilary hung on her every word.

At that time, the girl was going through a highly emotional phase. She had become infatuated with a local gamekeeper who was old enough to know better than to encourage the foolish girl. I was at my wits' end to know how to cope with this crisis, and agitated calls to her parents, and from them to me, aged me considerably.

Miss Crabbe's visit proved in fact to be a heavily disguised blessing, for she soon got wind of the affair, and flung off in a fit of jealous pique.

Things had been most uncomfortable at Fairacre School, and I had privately thought, and not for the first time, what a confounded nuisance love could be. How right of E. M. Delafield to put it far below good teeth and a sound bank balance, in order of merit!

After a few months, Miss Crabbe offered the olive branch and, as the gamekeeper had found another love, Hilary Jackson accepted with alacrity, and the last I heard of the pair was that they were both interested in the progressive school mentioned in Hazel Smith's letter.

Well, well! It would be fun to see if Miss Crabbe was still as formidable as when we last met. Then, I recalled, she had told me she was not a flesh-eater, and a hard time I had had of it trying to find enough non-meat sustenance that weekend. I only hoped that there would be plenty of cheese offered after our ordeal.

The second surprise came one balmy evening when I was dawdling through the village on my way to post a letter.

Hurrying in the opposite direction was Miriam Quinn. She seemed to be in some agitation.

'You're in a hurry,' I quipped.

'I'm a fugitive,' she explained, with a smile.

'From what?'

'From whom, is the right question. As a matter of fact, Henry Mawne.'

Miriam lives in the attractive annexe to Holly Lodge where now David and Irene Mawne live. It is some little way from the centre of Fairacre, a charming house tucked away behind a high holly hedge which gives the place its name.

'He's been coming down some evenings to have a meal with David and Irene while Elizabeth is away. That suits everyone, of course, but once he's had it he will gravitate to my end of the establishment, and I'm really getting rather cheesed off.'

'I can sympathise.'

'So tonight I told a white lie and said I was paying a visit to someone in the village, and here I am on the run.'

'Pay a visit to me,' I said, 'I'd love it.'

'Truly?'

'Truly,' I assured her.

We posted the letter, and wandered back to the school house.

'He's paid me two surprise visits,' I told her when we were comfortably settled in our armchairs. 'He seems to need company pretty badly.'

'Between ourselves,' said Miriam, 'I'm inclined to think that Elizabeth is to blame. Irene was telling me that there have been several periods in her married life when she has just pushed off. Sometimes for months.'

I remembered Henry's first year at Fairacre, with no wife in evidence.

'You don't think this is another protracted absence?' I asked, with some alarm. The thought of choking off Henry's attentions with tact, kindness and firmness, was a daunting one.

'Who knows? The snag is that we're all fond of the dear old boy, but this popping in to see us maiden ladies certainly sets the village tongues wagging, and I don't want Elizabeth to be upset when she does return.'

I told her about Mrs Pringle's coy remark about my bouquet of daffodils.

'I'm going to see how things go for a few days,' said Miriam. 'With any luck we'll hear that she is on her way home, and our troubles will be at an end.'

'But if nothing happens?'

'I've decided to tell Irene how I feel—'

'Me too,' I begged. 'Put in a word for a beleaguered schoolmarm.'

'And ask her to speak to him about it. It's just thoughtlessness on his part, I'm sure. He's too nice a fellow to want to embarrass us. Leave it to me.'

'I shall be only too delighted,' I assured her. 'And now, as you are paying me an official visit, what about scrambled eggs on toast? You can always upgrade them to an omelette if you are questioned about the meal you had.'

'An excellent idea,' agreed Miriam, following me into the kitchen.

4 The Coggs Are in Distress

OUR local paper,
The Caxley Chronicle,
is much esteemed in Fairacre. I suppose that the headlines on the front page are the first to be read, closely followed by Births, Marriages and Deaths, and accounts of cases dealt with by the Caxley magistrates coming in third.

Among the latter, during the last week of term, the name Coggs caught my eye. Arthur Coggs, father of Joseph, girl twins and one or two other offspring, is an incorrigible rogue, and Fairacre has no time for him.

He is out of work more often than in, which is hardly surprising. Any money which he does earn goes mainly on drink, and his poor wife sees very little of it.

He is a very weak character, and easily led by his drinking companions, many of whom are habitual offenders and well known to the local magistrates. Arthur is the fellow that they get to keep a look-out while they are engaged in such pastimes as breaking into shops and offices at night, or stripping lead from the roofs of ancient buildings.

It is Arthur who is persuaded to drive a van to a hide-out in the country, or to deliver stolen goods from one malefactor to another in the chain. Left alone, I think that Arthur might be quite content to do a little poaching, or local petty thieving, but he is helpless to withstand the pressure put upon him by his wilier companions who use him without a qualm.

Of course, he gets payment, but a very small share of the total sum, I imagine, and it is a befuddled mixture of feelings which keeps him on the fringe of this collection of petty criminals. He is proud to belong to these desperadoes, and flattered by their attention. If he is called 'chicken', he will bluster, and then do anything required of him. There is a certain amount of fear mixed up in his general reaction. One or two of his companions are not above menacing him, and there have been occasional injuries, such as a suspicious cut at the throat and a broken finger, which were never satisfactorily explained, although Doctor Martin, who has known the family for years, guesses the cause and has no hesitation in giving Arthur some trenchant advice which, of course, is not taken. Poor old Arthur, we all agree, is past redemption.

This week's
Caxley Chronicle
gave a short account of the proceedings of the case in which Arthur was involved. It ended with the chairman's comment that in view of the seriousness of the crime, and his deplorable record, he would be sentenced to six months' imprisonment.

'Seen the Caxley?' asked Mrs Pringle the next morning. 'The Caxley' can refer to the local paper or to the bus which very infrequently used to serve the village. This time I knew Mrs Pringle referred to the paper, and to Arthur Coggs' tribulations in particular.

'What's six months?' she demanded. 'That means four, I suppose. They takes off a bit for good conduct, though why they should, you may well ask.'

'It will keep him out of the way for the summer in any case,' I pointed out.

'He'll start all over again when he does get out,' said Mrs Pringle, with some truth. 'When I think that Arthur Coggs signed the pledge the same year as I did, it fair makes me grieve! He didn't keep that vow long did he? I mind his sister Ethel took the pledge the same day. As nice a girl as you could wish to meet, with long black hair as she could sit on. When it was down, I mean.'