(16/20)Summer at Fairacre (9 page)

Joseph Coggs was standing by the bran tub, watching several of his schoolfellows diving for treasure. He looked wistful.

'Here on your own?' I asked him.

'Mum's gettin' shoes,' he answered, nodding towards Mrs Pringle, and sure enough, there was Mrs Coggs trying to fit the twins' feet into some of the shoes which, I suspected, had just been delivered by Miriam's tormentor. I only hoped Mrs Coggs would be successful, and I knew that Mrs Pringle would be sympathetic beneath her grim exterior.

I fished in my purse and gave a tenpenny piece to Joseph.

'Have a go, Joseph,' I said.

'But they's only threepence a go,' said he.

'Well then, have three goes.'

'But then there's a penny I owes you.'

'Keep it for luck,' I said.

'Thanks, miss,' he replied, and the smile he gave me was reward enough.

'Time I was off,' I told him making for the door.

I was pleased to have given him pleasure. I was even more pleased to think how well his arithmetic was coming on. Once a schoolteacher, always a schoolteacher, I told myself, on the way home.

The first day of term dawned hazily, foretelling a fine day to come.

Although, as usual, half my plans for the holidays had not materialised, I felt a certain sense of accomplishment. At least part of the house had been bottomed by Mrs Pringle. I had written to a number of neglected correspondents. The cupboards were tidy. I had worked hard in the garden, and done my duty at the jumble sale.

Now these activities would have to take second place to my teaching duties, and I prepared to go across the playground to start the day.

With Amy's warning in mind, I carefully closed the downstairs windows of the school house and locked back and front doors. Of course, it was doubtful if the sort of mentally-disturbed fellow whom Amy had described would be interested in entering my house to steal any valuables. Come to think of it, what would he find? A small silver sauce boat and a couple of silver napkin rings comprised my silver collection. Aunt Clara's seed pearl necklace was hidden in a handkerchief sachet in the drawer of my dressing table, and the only other object of value was a nice Chippendale carver chair which I had fallen for at a local auction some years earlier.

Hardly the sort of piece to be secreted by an opportunist sneak-thief, particularly one who evidently wore nothing but a raincoat.

However, the police had begged us to secure our property as best we could, and I felt a most virtuous glow as I walked across to school with the door key in my pocket.

Mrs Pringle, dustpan in hand, greeted me dourly.

'You promised to let me have that pudding basin back as I lent you last week with the bird food in it. I needs it for dinner today.'

'Damn!' I said, loudly enough to give joy to a knot of attentive children who nudged each other, happy at my lapse.

I turned to retrace my footsteps, unlocked the front door, retrieved the pudding basin, and returned to school.

'There you are,' I said to Mrs Pringle, who accepted it graciously. 'And many thanks for the bits and pieces.'

My cleaner leant towards me, her voice unusually low and confidential.

'There wasn't no call to swear in front of the children. They gets quite enough of that from the telly.'

I took the rebuke with good grace. It was deserved.

Halfway through prayers I remembered that I had omitted to lock the front door.

Ah well!

The swallows were hard at work putting the finishing touches to their nest. I watched them tugging at moss on the gravel path, fluttering clumsily at their task. It was strange to see how awkward they were. In the air, their natural element, they were such miracles of aerobatic movement that it made the contrast even more remarkable.

Within a day or two, the nest was as they wanted it, and the female settled to her egg-laying. She took no notice of the comings and goings at the front door below her. The male was attentive, swooping in and out with food for her, and ignoring any human activity. I wondered how many babies we should have this year. Last year there had been five, and a good squash there had been in the nest, not to mention the mess on the tiles of the floor below.

One year Mr Willet, scandalised at the state of my porch, had hung a plywood tray of his own making just below the nest. The swallows were furious, and chattered away on a nearby wire, refusing to have anything to do with the nest. Meekly, I took it down.

'They'd soon find some other daft body as'd let 'em nest in their place,' said Mr Willet flatly, 'if you was to stand your ground and leave that there board in place.'

'But I want the swallows!' I protested.

'Then you has to have the mess as well,' Mr Willet told me.

'I really don't mind. Visitors must just go to the back door. Most of them do anyway.'

'Well, don't let Ma Pringle see this porch,' he warned me, and made off before I could reply.

The dreaded evening in aid of the Save The Children Fund came round all too soon.

Alas! My usual hopes that an infectious illness would incapacitate me, that an unsuspected volcano had erupted in Caxley, or that Judgement Day had happily intervened, were dashed yet again, and I found myself dressing for the occasion in deepest gloom.

Should I wear my new patent leather court shoes that hurt, or my scuffed grey suede ones with the scratched left heel—a legacy from letting in the clutch—which were comfortable?

The choice of dress was simpler, either my patterned navy-blue silk, or a white lace blouse with a black velvet skirt. I had spent several evenings studying the ladies' attire in television panel games but with little satisfaction. For one thing, I did not own an off-the-shoulder creation in satin trimmed with either sequins or marabou feathers. Neither did I have anything with a neckline which plunged to the nether regions. Nor did I favour the other extreme of fashion which made use of a crumpled blouse of grubby cheesecloth and a medallion swinging on a long chain.

I had felt that perhaps I should rush into Caxley and buy an entirely new outfit for the occasion, but natural lethargy, combined with my usual shortage of funds, soon persuaded me that my present wardrobe would supply something suitable.

In the end, I set off in the navy-blue silk, the painful shoes, and Aunt Clara's seed pearls. I could do no more. My best patent leather handbag contained my few pathetic notes on children's books, a subject about which I thought I knew a little, but now felt positive that I knew nothing at all.

The meeting was held in a Caxley hall some distance from the market square. This meant that the car had to be parked at some way away from the building, and I limped through the streets to my doom.

A kind middle-aged lady was fluttering about the entrance lobby, and came towards me.

'Miss Crabbe?' she asked.

'No!' I replied, rather more forcefully than the query needed. 'No, my name is Read. I'm from Fairacre. Are you Mrs Smith?'

'Oh no!' she said, sounding shocked. 'Mrs Smith is terribly busy inside with the platform arrangements. I've just been told to greet the panel people and take them into the side room for sherry.'

I followed her down the side of the hall, which was already alarmingly full of people, and into a little room which seemed even fuller.

Mrs Partridge's friend, Hazel Smith, hurried towards me with outstretched hands.

'Now let me introduce you,' she said, leading me around the room. 'You are the first to arrive. Dr Biddle has just telephoned to say he will be a trifle late, and Mr Ellis has only just left court, but I'm sure he won't be long. Miss Crabbe has some distance to come, of course.'

I met some three dozen people whose names I did not catch, and whose faces I should not remember, and expressed my delight at meeting them, and accepted a sherry dry enough to wither the tongue. I should really have liked a long drink of water, but realised that this would have looked eccentric, so twiddled my glass and listened to the rising crescendo of noise about me.

At long last my three companions arrived. Dr Biddle I knew slightly. He was a heavily-built man, with dark hair and a careworn expression which was hardly surprising, I thought, if he dealt daily with children in poor health. I was careworn enough, in all conscience, dealing daily with children in good health. He had my sympathy.

James Ellis, a Caxley councillor and chairman of thejuvenile bench at the local court, was also known to me through his spate of letters to
The Caxley Chronicle.
The subject was usually child behaviour, and as he was a bachelor he naturally had very strong views about the way in which one should deal with the young, particularly those who appeared before him at court.

Most of the readers of that eminent weekly, including myself, thought that Mr Ellis's attitude to young offenders was gentle to the point of being deferential. Whilst not actually congratulating young thugs on their success in robbing old ladies of their possessions, his sympathy with their reasons for doing so—broken homes, lack of love, low intelligence, uncaring parents and all the usual stuff—was so eloquently expressed and quoted at such length in the paper that some susceptible readers' withers were wrung.

The majority, however, with their feet still firmly on the ground, found their spokesman in Mr Willet.

'My old dad,' said he, 'would have dealt with 'em in half the time, and with no expense. I bet he'd have stopped their capers!'

Mr Ellis greeted me kindly, and wore a beautiful dove-grey suit which I much admired.

He was followed by Miss Crabbe who held my hand and said what a pleasure it was to find that I was still at my old post and doing such sterling work, she had no doubt, which made me feel lazy, unambitious and a failure, which I am sure was intended.

She herself, I thought cattily, had not improved with the years. Her scanty hair was drawn back to a bun, and her face was much lined. She wore a tight frock of an unbecoming burgundy colour, and one of the buttons on the front of the bodice was missing. I felt smugly well-dressed after noticing this.

She was passed into Mr Ellis's care, and I could see that their minds were as one from their earnest expressions and wise noddings of heads. I was happily embroiled with a young reporter from
The Caxley Chronicle
who made notes with an indelible pencil, which one rarely sees these days. Between jottings he sucked the pencil, and I was fascinated to watch his tongue turn from lilac to a rich purple. It would have done credit to a prize chow.

All too soon we were summoned to the door by Mrs Smith. Dr Biddle was to speak first, then it was my turn, then Mr Ellis's, and finally Miss Crabbe would conclude the proceedings, rather on the lines of keeping the best wine until last, I supposed.

The sea of faces was decidely disconcerting, but at least I would have time to compose myself, and have a quick glance at my poor notes, as Dr Biddle did his stint.

He was greeted with warm applause. He is popular in the area, and the fact that he once appeared on our television screens has added greatly to the awed esteem in which he is held.

He gave a brisk little talk about children's ailments, the importance of inculcating sensible dietary habits, and spoke reassuringly about infectious diseases, everyday accidents and the inestimable worth of our local casualty department. All in all, it was just what the audience needed, and the questions came thick and fast.

The good doctor coped brilliantly, even fielding some awkward ones from a dedicated herbalist in the front row who asked his opinion of woundwort for open sores, and the advantages of sage leaves in cleaning teeth.

All too soon he sat down, and I rose, trembling, to my feet. My feeble talk came to life when I gave a few suggestions for general reading, when there was a great scuffling in handbags for pencils and paper, and people scribbled busily. It was just like being in school again.

'Do you think children should read anything they like?'

'Aren't they better off watching telly?'

'Is my five-year-old too young for a dictionary?'

'How can I wean my son from horror comics?'

These were a few of the questions hurled at me, which I did my best to answer truthfully, but with nothing like the dexterity of my predecessor.

Luckily, I was saved by the chairman's bell, and settled back thankfully to listen to Mr Ellis. His discourse was, predictably, on the vulnerability and sensitivity of young things, and the absolute necessity of letting them find themselves in their own way and time.

Think of a tender young plant,' he exhorted us. 'It grows by throwing out delicate tendrils to climb upward to the sky. If we try to bend those tendrils, if we handle them too harshly, the plant is damaged beyond repair. All we can do, as parents, as teachers or as any one with the care of young people, is to provide a warm and loving atmosphere, and to encourage the upward trend towards light and knowledge.'

There was a good deal more in the same vein, and a certain amount of muttering when he sat down.

A few questions, which might well have been formed by Mr Willet, were asked about discipline, learning right from wrong, parental responsibility, and plain old-fashioned respect for authority, and these drew forth some kindly generalisations from Mr Ellis which made nobody any the wiser. The applause was luke-warm.