(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (7 page)

'Ain't you lucky?' cried Minnie to her offspring, who simply nodded owlishly without speaking.

'And how is Basil's hand?' I was foolish enough to ask.

Minnie grabbed it, and was about to unwrap the grubby bandage.

'Like to see it? Coming on nice it is!'

'No, no!' I squeaked. I have no stomach for such horrors, and people like nurses who have to cope daily with such matters have my sincere respect.

Minnie looked disappointed. Obviously, she considered it was a privilege to be shown Basil's mutilated fingers.

'I'm sure it's best to keep the wounds covered,' I said weakly. 'Germs and things, you know.'

'Quite right,' said Mrs Pringle with approval. 'Well, that's all right then, Minnie. We'll be getting back for our tea, now you've got things fixed up.'

I accompanied them to the gate.

'By the way,' said my cleaner, 'about time we did a bit of spring cleaning.'

5 Easter Holidays

EARLY in the holidays Amy spent an evening with me. She arrived bearing a beautiful monogrammed suitcase containing contributions to our W.I. Jumble Sale.

Only Amy, I thought, would pack jumble with so much tissue paper and in such an elegant container. Most of the stuff in the hall had been thrust into carrier bags, or was wrapped in all-embracing old tablecloths or motheaten blankets tied up by the corners. A few choice specimens were on wire hangers, and dangled from the curtain rods over the windows. Sorting out was to take place the next afternoon and Amy's things would certainly be quickly snapped up, I could foresee, by the helpers, if Mrs Partridge did not keep a sharp eye on things.

I suppose this craving to have first pick is universal, and it certainly is at its strongest during preparations for bazaars, jumble sales and the like. I often think it is a marvel that anything gets left to put out on the stalls, and I frequently see a handbag of mine in the village, that went directly from my house to a helper in the hall by-passing the jumble sale altogether.

Mrs Partridge, as a vicar's wife, is quite aware of human frailty and has made a sensible and practical rule. Helpers are allowed to buy one article—and one only—before the sale. That is their reward for the time and energy they put into the job. After that they must muck in with the rest of us, milling about from stall to stall. I must say, Mrs Partridge's rule works well. Perhaps my handbag was the sole choice of its present owner as a helper's bonus—a charitable thought.

'We'd better transfer it all to another case,' I said, 'then you can take yours home with you.'

'Oh, don't bother, my dear. Leave it as it is and I'll collect the case another time.'

'But supposing it gets nicked?' I protested. 'The vicar's coat was sold once, and Mrs Lamb's shopping basket. I couldn't bear to see this beauty rattling off in someone's van.'

'Don't be so pessimistic. Of course, nothing will happen to it. You should have more trust in your fellows.'

'Well, if I have to tell you that it vanished when my back was turned, I hope you won't forget the gipsy's warning.'

'I promise not to blame you. There's quite enough to worry about, I find, without fussing about a suitcase.'

For one moment, I feared that Amy was about to unburden her problems concerning James's absences from home, and my heart sank. I very much dislike being the recipient of secrets, particularly marital ones, but I need not have worried.

'Do you find,' asked Amy, settling back on the sofa, 'that things prey on your mind more heavily as you grow older? I always imagined that it was only the young that suffered agonies, over spots on the face, or unrequited love, but really I seem to do nothing but plan against all sorts of horrors that may never occur.'

'How d'you mean? Illness, or accidents?'

'Partly. I mean that I never take the car out without wondering if it will break down in some lonely spot. Then I rehearse what I should do if a convict on the run came up and threatened me. Should I give him my handbag without a struggle? Should I attempt to take the axe away from him? That sort of thing.'

'If he had an axe, I should give him anything he required,' I answered.

'More likely, of course,' went on Amy, fitting a cigarette into a long elegant holder, 'is the business of finding oneself in a strange town with the car locked, and one's keys and handbag still inside. Not to mention one's mac, and it's pouring cats and dogs. I often think of that one.'

'What a masochist you are! I had no idea you led such a lurid mental life.'

'I don't enjoy it,' confessed Amy, 'but I can't seem to control all this planning for trouble. Take this awful man, for instance.'

'Which awful man?'

'The one
The Caxley Chronicle
is full of these last few weeks. He's a positive nut-case. One of these wretched fellows who rings door bells, and then throws open his raincoat to the person who opens the door. Of course, he has nothing on, and very annoying it must be to be confronted like that when you are expecting the fish man.'

'Well, you would shut the door and ring the police, surely?'

'My dear girl, that's been done dozens of times, but they simply can't catch him. Actually, I've thought of an excellent plan if he comes to Bent. I'd better tell you, as this is just the sort of house he'd visit, and one really should be prepared.'

'Thanks,' I said. 'Very reassuring, I must say.'

'I propose to keep a smalljar of dye on the window sill by the front door, and if there's any nonsense like that I shall throw it all over him.'

'How will that help?'

'At least the police will be able to recognise him. I should only use
vegetable
dye—in fact I've a little pot of green which will do beautifully. Nothing to harm the poor fellow, as he's obviously
non compos mentis,
and will probably go straight from the magistrates' court to a looney bin. But I do advise you to do the same. Two lots of dye are better than one, and we should really be doing a public service.'

She took a long pull at her beautiful cigarette holder, and blew two perfect smoke rings. Then she looked at me sharply.

'Are you laughing?'

A great painful gale, which I had been trying to suppress, broke forth, and Amy joined me in a prolonged bout of refreshing giggles.

'Amy,' I said, wiping my eyes, 'you'll be the death of me.'

'More likely the awful man will be. I wonder what sets them off on this sort of caper?'

'Frustrated passion perhaps?'

'But there are far more obvious ways of expressing frustrated passion. Suicide, for instance, or poetry. After all, some of the most telling poems have dealt with unrequited love. Do you remember those two rather nice young men we met at Cambridge years ago?'

'Which ones? And did they suffer from frustrated passion? Over us, I hope.'

'No, no, no! They just discussed poems about it. We all got rather cross, I remember. We were picnicking at Grantchester, and they were both at Trinity. Can't recall their names now, but there were in the Madrigal Society. Spotty, rather, but nice boys.'

'They've completely vanished in the mists of time for me,' I confessed. 'But which poems did they recommend for sheer desperate longing of the beloved?'

'One plumped for that little sixteenth-century verse:

Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

It is harrowing, isn't it?'

'Hits the nail on the head,' I agreed. 'But what did the other one suggest?'

'He was all for "Night and Day" by Cole Porter, and after we'd played it on their portable gramophone about ten times that afternoon we were inclined to agree.'

She tapped ash from her cigarette and rose.

'Well, I must be off. Don't forget about the dye, darling, and good luck with the jumble sale. I must say, a few hours with you does me a world of good. I haven't giggled till my ribs ached since before I was married.'

'I expect marriage brought you to your senses,' I said lightly, and then wished that I had not spoken.

'I'm afraid it didn't do that,' said Amy soberly.

At the front door she kissed me, a rare occurrence between us, and I felt overcome with pity for her as I waved her farewell.

Damn James! He must give her even more trouble than the awful man, poor Amy!

Early April was at its best that year, with far more sunshine than showers.

I spent happy hours in the garden. The hawthorn hedge had put forth small leaves, on crimson stalks, and the polyanthus plants glowed red and yellow in the border. Arabis and aubretia added mats of white and purple, and already the air was beginning to grow heady with the scent of flowers and new grass.

What can beat a warm English spring? Perhaps we cherish it more because it is so rare these days, I thought, picking a minute white violet from under the hedge, and inhaling its fragrance. I remembered Mr Willet's theory that the earth had tilted, which resulted in the chilly weather we had been enduring. When the sun shone so tenderly upon us it was hard to remember those bitter days of only a week or two earlier. I lived blissfully in the present, and drove over to visit Miss Clare at Beech Green.

Dolly Clare must be the best loved person for miles around. For years she taught at Fairacre School, and I was fortunate enough to find her in serene charge of the infants' class when I became headmistress of the school. Ill health forced her to retire to the little thatched cottage at Beech Green, some two or three miles away. She had been a young child of six when she first went to live there with her parents and sister Ada. Always the little house seems welcoming. The furniture gleams, in winter a bright fire cheers the room and always, whatever the season, there are flowers. In the darkest days of January Dolly Clare still manages to find some sprigs of yellow winter jasmine or a bowl of indoor bulbs to delight herself and her visitors.

I have always loved the cottage, and not so long ago Dolly staggered me by telling me that she had left it to me in her will. What such generosity means to me, I cannot express adequately. All I know is, that I was moved to tears—a rare occurrence for me—and I am still overwhelmed by my undeserved good fortune.

On this fine spring afternoon, I took with me a posy of polyanthus and a pot of freshly-made lemon curd. There was a scent of spring in the air, and the lane between Fairacre and Beech Green wound between hedges hazy with young leaf. With still over a week of holiday before me, I sang as blithely as the lark above me, if not quite as tunefully.

Miss Clare looked as pretty as ever. Despite her great age, her eyes were bright and her skin clear. To my delight, I found a fine black cat sitting in an armchair.

'And who is this?'

'Well, my dear, he's been living rough around here for some months, and during the winter I put out a little straw bed in a wooden box the greengrocer gave me. I put it in the woodshed and left the window open, and he used it every night, you know.'

'I bet he did. And I suppose he found a good supper there too?'

Dolly Clare laughed.

'Of course he did! And top and bottom of it is, he moved in here a week or two ago, and he's such a dear, I really must take him on.'

He certainly was a handsome animal, and graciously allowed me to stroke him.

'He's found a good spot,' I observed. 'What will you do if you go away?'

'I'm not likely to go far at my age,' said Dolly. 'And I've some kind neighbours. Luckily, he eats anything.'

'More than I can say for my pernickety Tibby.'

'Now sit down, and tell me all the Fairacre news.'

I embarked on the ever-enthralling village concerns, such as Mrs Partridge's plot to get me on the panel game, Mr Willet's garden, Mrs Mawne's continued absence in Ireland, a jumble sale threatened for next week, Mr Annett, the choirmaster's, tribulations with the Easter anthem, Miss Briggs' approaching marriage and, finally, poor Mrs Coggs' trials with Arthur in prison.

'Best place for him,' said Dolly calmly. 'But I don't know that she'll be any better off without him, except that she should be less afraid. That poor soul will never be able to cope with life.'

'Bob Willet seemed to think she'd be better off financially, anyway, without Arthur taking his earnings, such as they are, to the pub nightly.'

Dolly shook her head.

'I doubt it. She has no idea of management. Years ago, when the family was arriving thick and fast, Alice Willet and I had a talk with her about cheap nourishing food to buy, and how best to manage the little bit of money she had weekly. We even offered to mind some of it for her to keep it out of Arthur's clutches, but it was quite hopeless. We used to give her clothes too—things she could cut down for the children. Dear Alice even taught her to knit and gave her wool and needles to make simple things like mittens for the children and scarves, but it was all beyond her. In the end, we faced the fact that nothing practical could be done to help her. We just gave a hand when a crisis occurred. But those pathetic children! They're the ones I grieve for.'