(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (6 page)

I had a brief mental picture of a brunette attempting to sit on her hair when it was pinned up. Mrs Pringle continued unabated.

'All dressed in white she was. It was her old confirmation dress, I recall, and very nice too with a crochet collar. Ethel and Arthur's old ma was a great one for crochet. Yards of it she did. Bedspreads, table clorths, nothing was too much for her, and Ethel's drawers, if you will pardon the word, was always edged with crochet work.'

'Mrs Pringle,' I began, glancing at the clock, but one might just as well try to stop the Niagara Falls as our cleaner in full spate.

'She went into the Caxley Co-op when she left school. The bacon counter. She married Charlie Tibbie whose uncle used to sweep the High Street, if you remember, a funny old party with a waxed moustache like the Kaiser.'

'No, I don't think I ever saw him. And now, Mrs Pringle—'

'I was always fond of Ethel,' she continued. 'Never deserved to have a rapscallion like that Arthur for a brother. Mind you, she's not the good looker she was. Got rather fat, but she'd had two boys and they was both nine-pounders which don't do a woman much good, especially is she's narrow in the hips. They've been in trouble too, so I hear.'

'What sort of trouble?'

'Fighting, and that, in pubs.'

'So they didn't take after Ethel?'

'Doesn't look like it. Both on probation, I was told.'

She gave a massive sigh, and picked up the dustpan.

'Ah well! Bad blood will out, I always say, and I can't stand here gossiping with you all day.'

There was general sympathy in the village for Arthur's wife, although it was agreed that by this time she must be inured to any discomfort caused by her husband's absences from home.

Mr Willet was more forthright.

'She's far better off without that good-for-nothing round the house. He's not above giving her a walloping when he's the worse for drink, and I reckon it's a dog's life when he's about.'

'I suppose she'll be worse off financially though,' I suggested.

Mr Willet snorted.

'She gets the same hand-out as anyone else, plus the children's allowances which ain't to be sneezed at in that Coggs family. And she's got a little cleaning at the vicarage, and I know for a fact she brings home some pretty tasty bits of left-overs what the Partridges give her. She had a basin of beef drippin' last Thursday as fair made my mouth water. Lovely that'd be on toast with a sprinkle of salt. I told her so, and she said she'd try it on the kids. Now, wouldn't you have thought she'd 'ave known that anyway? A poor feckless body, she is! My Alice tries to give her a few tips like getting bones and simmering them with a few root veg, but she still goes on buying them great packets of cornflakes for three times the price.'

I sympathised with good kind-hearted Mrs Willet. I too am constantly casting my pearls before swine. How many of the poems I offer my children carry any weight beside the comics they devour? I like to think that an occasional felicitous phrase will stick, and one day give them pleasure to recall. One must live in hope, as a teacher, or go under for ever.

Although Mrs Coggs' plight was a familiar one, I somehow could not put the little family out of my mind after these two conversations.

Joseph and his younger twin sisters seemed unmoved by this latest disaster, and as they were the only children of school age I had little idea of how the younger ones were faring. There were two toddlers, and a weakly-looking baby which seemed to spend its time in a battered pram which smelled overpoweringly of ammonia and disintegrating plastic fabric.

In many ways, poor, apathetic Mrs Coggs had much in common with Mrs Pringle's crazy niece Minnie. Both had a tribe of neglected children. Both lived in a state of dirt and muddle. Both had trouble with their menfolk, and neither seemed to have any idea of managing money, as Mrs Willet had discovered.

If anything, Minnie was less to be pitied. Despite her turbulent domestic life, she seemed to enjoy the excitement of two men competing for her favours at the same time. Her bevy of noisy wet-nosed children did not seem to ruffle her. The wide mad grin stayed permanently on her freckled face. She could not read, nor tell the time, relying on the chimes of St Patrick's church to give her a rough idea of the passage of the hours or the arrival of the Caxley bus, when the village was fortunate enough to have such a service. But she always seemed to find life utterly absorbing and pleasurable, living as she did in the present. With her limited intelligence, the past was soon forgotten, and what lay in the future was beyond her comprehension. In some ways, one could almost envy Minnie's dotty euphoria. She seemed immune to remorse or apprehension.

Mrs Coggs was only marginally more intelligent, but was much more pathetic. She certainly remembered the past, and lived in fear of her husband's violence, knowing only too well, from experience, what terror and damage he could cause when drunk. Lack of money, and utter hopelessness, contributed to her neglect of the children, and any attempts to help her met with overpowering apathy, as the local probation officer could testify. Mrs Coggs had once been discovered shoplifting, and the time she had spent under supervision from the probation service had certainly given some help and direction to the family. But once that had gone, the same slip-shod ways returned. Perhaps, as Mr Willet had said, the departure of Arthur to the care of Her Majesty's prison might give his pathetic wife some relief. Time alone would tell.

***

Elizabeth Mawne was still away from home, and no one seemed to have any news of her.

Henry spoke of her quite cheerfully, and with no hint of there being anything untoward in the circumstances. Perhaps he was accustomed to his wife's absences, as Miriam had told me.

He had called again, so Mr Willet informed me, but luckily I had gone to see Amy who lives some miles south of Caxley in the village of Bent, so that I missed him.

'He'd got a great roll of books with him,' Mr Willet informed me. 'Books', I took it, meant magazines. It is the common term here for anything printed. I was just congratulating myself on my timely absence from home on that particular evening when my caretaker sent my hopes plummeting.

'I was oiling that dratted lock on the lobby door, and I says should I take the books for you, but Mr Mawne said he'd come again another time.'

'He could have left them in the porch.'

'Well, he never, did 'e? Strikes me he wanted an excuse to pay you another visit. Seems he's a bit lost without his missus.'

Confound the fellow, I thought! However, no point in making a fuss about it, and certainly no need to let Mr Willet see how annoyed I was. It would be all over the village in no time.

I gave Mr Willet what I imagined was a carefree smile.

'Nice to see the hedges beginning to show green,' I observed, casually changing the subject.

'I wouldn't encourage him, if I was you,' said Mr Willet.

He was gone before I could reply. Perhaps it was as well.

But the slight irritation caused by Henry Mawne was overwhelmed in the bliss of breaking up.

All teachers are glad to welcome the end of term, and particularly the end of the winter term when the weather is at its most bitter, playtimes have to be spent indoors, pupils and staff are suffering from coughs, colds and worse afflictions, and tempers are short.

To add to our general happiness, the sun shone warmly, the little birds fluttered about their nest-building and egg-hatching, and a few early tulips ventured into flower. What could be more hopeful?

We set about tidying up the classroom in the afternoon. Desks were relieved of mountains of used paper, the flower vases were emptied and washed, pencils and pens collected, text books and exercise books stacked in the cupboards, so that the time soon came when the children had nothing to occupy them, and we were back to simple games such as I Spy and Left and Right. This invaluable aid to teachers consists of hiding a piece of chalk in one or the other hand, then holding out the two fists, naming a child and then displaying one's open palms. If the child chosen has guessed correctly it is his turn to come to the front and continue. That such an unsophisticated game should give so much pleasure does one's heart good these days.

At half past three we heard the scraping of chairs as the babies, beyond the partition between our two rooms, prepared to depart. Excited voices were upraised in grace, Miss Briggs' stentorian tones preceded a general exodus towards their lobby, and silence fell.

The massive wall clock ticked ponderously. Outside, a robin chattered, scolding the infants no doubt. Patrick stood, fists outstretched trying to decide who should have the honour of guessing 'left or right'.

'Eileen,' he said at last, breaking the spell.

'Right,' she said, and it was.

'Last turn,' I said, one eye on the clock.

The usual groans of dismay assailed me.

'But, miss, I ain't 'ad no turn yet!'

'Eileen Burton's bin twice!'

'It's not fair! The girls have had more'n us boys.'

'Does anyone want to stay in after school?' I enquired politely.

Silence fell. Eileen fiddled with the chalk behind her back. After a lengthy pause, she held out her two fists.

'Joseph,' she said.

'Left,' croaked Joseph in his hoarse little voice.

'Well done,' I said. 'Now you remember, Joseph, next time we play that it's your turn to start.'

'It'll be next term, miss,' he pointed out. It was a joyous thought.

'All stand. Hands together, eyes closed.'

We sang grace, somewhat discordantly, and rather faster than usual.

But we were truly thankful, every one of us.

Later that evening I pottered about happily in my house and garden, savouring the joy of the first few hours of the Easter holidays.

Now I need not watch the clock. I could have my breakfast later than usual. I could dally in the bath. Who knows? I might even get round to washing the curtains.

Mrs Pringle, no doubt, would soon be badgering me about spring cleaning on her weekly visit to the schoolhouse. The fever hits her early. I am fast becoming immune to it as the years pass, and have pointed out frequently to my tyrant that if the house is cleaned regularly, and occasionally 'bottomed', as she puts it, which means a ghastly upheaval, then surely spring cleaning is not necessary.

I lose this battle every time, of course, as I know I shall from the outset. The day will come when I return from school to find the shabbily comfortable chairs stripped of their chintz covers, and Mrs Pringle confronting me with handfuls of debris she has collected from the cracks, such as peanuts, pencils, knitting needles, and once a lipstick of Amy's, which thankfully had not shed its lid.

But so far nothing had been said about our annual upheaval, and in my present buoyant mood I was hopeful. Perhaps she had forgotten? Perhaps the renowned bad leg was in one of its combustible moods, and when this afflicted limb 'flares up', as its owner puts it, any activity is severely restricted. It can work to my advantage occasionally, as in this case.

I woke the next morning to blue skies and a wonderful sense of freedom. Lying back on my pillows watching the unfurling pink tiny leaves of the copper beech fluttering in the morning breeze, I made plans for my first day of the holidays. I should cook myself bacon as well as an egg. Usually, a boiled egg is the standard schoolday breakfast. While it boils, I can rush about watering pot plants, emptying the tidy bin, putting tea towels to soak and generally getting ahead with essential daily chores.

Today I should stand at my ease turning bacon in a leisurely fashion and enjoying its aroma. Tibby should have bacon rinds—a particular treat—and we would both celebrate.

Then I should settle down with the crossword puzzle. It is surely the height of luxury to do the crossword puzzle early in the day. It seems so delightfully decadent when normally one is at work.

I should take my time over a little flower arranging. I might clean the upstairs windows. I might ring Amy and invite her to tea. In fact, the day spread before me full of enchanting small ploys which I might or might not do. No timetable threatened me. No inspectors would call. No children would disturb me. Oh, thrice-blessed holidays!

As might be expected, I was not allowed to live on these dizzy heights for long. Life always manages to pull the rug from under one's feet and bring one to earth with a bump.

I certainly enjoyed my bacon and egg, and I was happily settled with the crossword at nine-fifteen, when the postman delivered an electricity bill of horrifying size, a pamphlet from an animal rescue society with a distressing photograph of an emaciated dog which I knew would haunt me for nights to come, and a postcard from Henry Mawne requesting the pleasure of my company at a sherry party. He had added: 'Do come. Love, Henry' which I thought quite unnecessary and particularly thoughtless, for he must have known, as well as I did, that Mr Lamb at the Post Office, as well as the postman, would have read it with extreme delight. What an irritating fellow he was! I should certainly decline, and without love.

But these were minor pin pricks. Worse was to come. I was enjoying a rest in the garden. There is a sheltered spot at the back of the house where the sun warms one comfortably and there is no wind. My peace was disturbed by the arrival of Mrs Pringle and her niece Minnie, with a retinue of grubby children.

For one awful minute I envisaged the dreaded spring cleaning, but Mrs Pringle soon put me right.

'Minnie's Basil's got to go up to the hospital in May.' She indicated a minute boy with his mother's tousled red hair, freckles, and a much-bandaged hand.

'She was wondering if the school ones could come for the day, as I've offered to look after the lot while she's up there. Never know what time you'll get back from those places, do you? I mean everyone's appointment turns out to be for ten o'clock, so you might be hanging about till midnight.'

I agreed hastily. May seemed a long way off, and in any case if Mrs Pringle was being so noble as to have that little tribe for the day, it was very small beer on my part to accommodate the older children in school.