Village Affairs (10 page)

'Poor old dear,' she said, so sympathetically, that I was glad to turn away from her and busy myself with pouring tea.

'Vanessa is staying for a whole week,' she went on, 'and I wondered if you would come over for dinner one evening?'

'You know I'd love to,' I said, carrying a cup to the recumbent figure on the sofa. Vanessa struggled to a more upright position.

'I'll just lodge it on this bulge,' she said with a dazzling smile. 'It really comes in quite useful, this extra shelf. I shall miss it. Sometimes I think I shall give birth to at least
three
babies.'

'Don't the doctors know?'

'My own, who is a sweetie, says twins. The other chap, a top-flight gynaecologist, won't commit himself, but then he's terribly cautious. Always worrying about his hypocrites' oath, I think.'

'Hippocrates,
Vanessa!' exclaimed Amy. 'Really, when I
think of the money spent on your education and see the result, I shudder!'

'I have a cosy little argument with him sometimes,' continued Vanessa unabashed, 'just to stretch his mind, you know. "If I had a tumour on the brain, which meant I was a living vegetable, don't you think you should put me gently to sleep?" I ask him. Of course, he gets in a terrible fluster, and talks about this old hypocrites' oath he took when he was a beardless boy, and we both thoroughly enjoy a little abstract thinking after all the dreadfully coarse back-and-forth about bowels and heartburn.'

Vanessa sighed, and the teacup wobbled dangerously.

'I must say it will be quite a relief to know how many. Luckily, I've been given enough baby clothes for a dozen. Tarquin's mother is a great knitter, and does everything in half-dozens. Even
binders
! I don't think babies have them now, but I haven't the heart to tell her. She's also presented me with a dozen long flannel things, all exquisitely feather-stitched, which have to be pinned up over the baby's feet to keep it warm. I can't see the monthly nurse using those.'

'You're having it at home then?' I said.

'Good heavens, yes! All the family's babies have to be born in the castle, and a piper waits outside—for days sometimes—ready to play the bagpipes to welcome the child.'

'I'd have a relapse,' I said. 'To my Sassenach ear "The Flowers of the Forest" sounds exactly like "The Keel Row".'

'Well, don't let Tarquin know,' advised Vanessa. 'The sound of the bagpipes brings tears to his eyes.'

'He's not the only one,' I told her, rescuing her empty cup.

On the Saturday following Amy's visit, I was invited to
attend a lecture by Henry Mawne. It was to be held in the Corn Exchange in Caxley, and the subject was 'European Birds of Prey', illustrated by slides taken by the speaker.

I was a little surprised by the invitation. The Mawnes are always very kind to me, but we do not meet a great deal, except by chance, in the village. The Vicar and Mrs Partridge were also going, and several other people from Fairacre.

All had been invited to lunch with the Mawnes at the Buttery, a restaurant in Caxley, conveniently placed near the hall, and offering a varied menu at modest prices. The Buttery is always busy, and many a local reputation has been shredded beneath its oak beams.

If I had been rather more alert when Mrs Mawne invited me I might have excused myself, for Saturday afternoons are usually taken up with household chores, cooking, mending, or entertaining, which get left undone during the week. But as usual, I was not prepared, and found myself at twelve o'clock on the Saturday in question, trying to decide between a long-sleeved silk frock (too dressy?) or a pink linen suit, rather too tight in the skirt, which Amy had kindly told me made me look like mutton dressed as lamb.

I decided on the latter.

There were four cars going from Fairacre, and I went with Diana and Peter Hale.

'Wonder how long this affair will last?' mused Peter Hale. 'I want to drop in at school to see some of the cricket. Diana will drive you home. I'm getting a lift with the new classics man. He passes the house.'

'I think, you know,' said Diana gently, 'that Henry Mawne is afraid that the Corn Exchange is going to be far too big for this afternoon's lecture. I hear that he suggested that a
party from Beech Green might help to swell the ranks.'

Light began to dawn.

'He'll need several hundreds to make a good sprinkling in that barn of a place,' I said. 'Why not find something smaller?'

'Everything was booked up,' said Peter, jamming on his brakes as a pheasant strolled haughtily across the road. 'Half the jumble sales and bazaars seem to take place on Saturdays. I can't think why.'

'Most people have been paid on Friday,' I told him. 'It's as simple as that.'

We had the usual trundling round Caxley to find a place to leave the car, and were lucky enough to snap up the last place in a car park fairly near the restaurant. Secretly, I was glad. It was not the pink skirt alone that was tight. My new shoes were killing me. Could I be growing a corn on my little toe? And if so, would I need to go to a chiropodist? What a terrible thought! Hopelessly ticklish, I should be hysterical if my feet were handled, and what if she—or he, perhaps? —wanted to file my toe-nails? That could not be borne.

A prey to these fears, I hobbled in the wake of the Hales and entered the bustle and heat of the Buttery.

The Mawnes greeted us cheerfully, and we were seated at the Buttery's largest table. It was clear that we should be about a dozen in all, and the manager had done us proud with six pink carnations in a hideous glass vase with coloured knobs on it.

Margaret and Mary Waters, two spinster sisters who share a cottage in Fairacre, arrived, with the vicar and Mrs Partridge, and four more friends of the Mawnes made up the party.

Menus were handed round, and we studied them seriously.
For most of us it was a pleasure to have a choice of dishes. After all, I was usually grateful, at this time of day, for a plain school dinner. To be offered such attractions as melon, prawn cocktail, pâté or soup-for first course alone—was wholly delightful, and I began to enjoy myself enormously.

Our host did not appear to be so happy. I remembered that his wife had once told me that he dreaded any sort of public speaking, and was a prey to nerves before these events.

'What is this blanket of veal?' he was asking her crossly.

'You won't like it. It's veal in white sauce.'

'How disgusting !
Blanket's
just about the right word for it.'

He turned to the Vicar.

'Don't you hate white gravy, padre? It's like cold soup—dead against nature.'

'I must admit,' replied Gerald Partridge, 'that I rather like things in white sauce. So bland, you know. Take tripe, for instance—'

'No,
you
take tripe,' exclaimed Henry, shuddering, 'I never could face that awful rubbery flannel look, let alone put it in my mouth.'

'Done with onions,' said Margaret Waters earnestly, 'it can be quite delicious. And so nourishing. My poor father practically lived on it for the last few weeks of his life.'

Peter Hale caught my eye across the table, and I had to concentrate on the carnations to preserve my sobriety.

'I should have the lamb chops, Henry,' said Mrs Mawne decisively. 'I see there are new potatoes and peas, and you know you always enjoy them.'

Henry brightened a little.

'But what about our guests? Come now, Miss Read, what are you having?'

I said I should like melon, and then, bravely, the
blanquette de veau.

The waiter, who had been leaning against a nearby dresser looking bored to distraction, now deigned to approach and started to take down orders.

As always, the meal was good. Caxley people are fond of their food, and are quite ready to complain if it is not to their liking. The Buttery knows its customers, and does its best to give satisfaction.

By the time the cheese board was going the rounds we were all in fine spirits, except for poor Henry Mawne who was becoming more agitated as the dreaded hour drew near.

'I've forgotten my reading glasses,' he exclaimed fretfully, slapping each pocket in turn.
'Now,
what do I do?'

Mrs Mawne remained calm.

'You use your bifocals, as you always do, Henry. Really,
the fuss!'

'You know I never feel right with bifocals at a lecture,' wailed Henry, for all the world like one of my eight-year-olds. Gerald Partridge leant forward anxiously.

'Shall I get the car, and go back for them?' he offered. 'I could be back here in half an hour.'

Mrs Mawne took charge.

'Certainly not, Gerald. I won't hear of it! You are the soul of kindness, but there is absolutely
no need
for Henry to have his reading glasses. And well he knows it!'

She looked severely at her husband, who seeing himself beaten, turned his attention to a splendid Stilton cheese clothed in a snowy napkin, and began to look less fractious.

His guests became more relaxed, and the conversation turned to Arthur Coggs and his future.

'A friend of mine,' said Mary Waters, 'was in court when they carried in that massive pièce of lead. Poor young Albert Phipps nearly had a rapture !'

'A careless one?' enquired Peter Hale.

'You mean a
rupture,
dear,' said her sister reprovingly. 'You always get that word wrong. A
rapture,
as Mr Hale has reminded us, is what dear Ivor Novello wrote about.'

'I'm sorry,' said Peter, 'I was being flippant.'

'My English teacher once said: "Flippancy gets you nowhere,"' remarked his wife. 'I'd been trying to show off, I remember, about "trembling ears" in Milton. I said that the phrase smacked of the asinine, and was ticked off, quite rightly. Schoolgirls must be very trying to teach.'

'No worse than schoolboys,' commented Henry.

'I agree with that wholeheartedly,' said Peter Hale, schoolmaster.

Someone then looked at the clock and murmured that perhaps we should be moving. Henry Mawne's agitation returned.

'The bill, waiter ! Quickly, my dear fellow. We mustn't be late.'

The waiter ambled off at a leisurely pace, while we collected bags and gloves and various other impedimenta, and Henry Mawne started his pocket-slapping again in the frenzy of finding his cheque book.

'Henry,' said his wife, with a look which could have stopped a rogue elephant in its tracks. 'Calm down! You know perfectly well that I have the cheque book in my handbag. Now, if you will make sure that you have your notes and your bifocals, I will take charge of the account and meet you outside.'

We gave our sincere thanks to the Mawnes for the delicious lunch as we made our way to the Corn Exchange. The Caxley market square was gay with stalls, and I should dearly have loved to buy some eggs and cheese from my favourite stallholder, but this was not the time, I realised, to clutch a piece of ripe gorgonzola for an hour and a half.

The hall was half full, which was a creditable number to assemble on a Saturday afternoon. As we were the speaker's party, we were shown to the front row. On the way to our august places, I was delighted to catch sight of a contingent from Beech Green. Among the party I saw George and Isabel Annett and dear Miss Clare, who taught for many years at Fairacre School, sitting with them.

I was seated by Mrs Mawne, who remained completely unmoved by the pathetic sight of her husband trying to arrange his papers with shaking hands.

The chairman was the president of Caxley's Nature Conservancy Trust and was doing his best to put Henry at his ease before starting the meeting. He might just as well have saved his breath, for Henry took not the slightest notice, and brought matters to a climax by dropping all his papers on the floor.

With startled cries, the two men bent to retrieve them, cracking their skulls together, thus occasioning further cries from the audience. The papers were collected, Henry shuffled them together with a look of utter despair, and the chairman rose to introduce him.

Once Henry was on his feet, and the clapping had died away, he became wonderfully calm and happy. He smiled at us all, as though he were truly glad to tell us about the birds which gave such zest and joy to his life. It was difficult to believe that less than half an hour ago, he had been as nervous as a fretful baby.

It was an enthralling talk, and the slides were superb. When he ended, the audience applauded enthusiastically. Clearly, here was a man who was master of his subject and able to transmit his own excitement to others.

As we drove home again, Diana Hale summed up the feelings of us all.

'He's a man who can make you forget your own world, and carry you into his.'

With a start, I realised how true this was.

For the first time for weeks, I had forgotten the shadow which hung menacingly over my future, and gratitude mingled with my admiration for our old friend Henry Mawne.

MINNIE Pringle continued to wreak havoc in my house every Friday afternoon. I did my best to forestall trouble, but was far from successful.

Now that I realised that she could not read, I tried to put out the bottles and tins she would need for any specific job. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes such bottles as that containing window-cleaning liquid would be put in the bathroom cabinet beside witch hazel or gargle. It was all a little unnerving.