Village Affairs (15 page)

'And then this building,' continued Amy, waving a hand. 'It's really had its time, you know. The very fabric is crumbling, as Mrs Pringle points out daily. And those antiquated stoves! And that ghastly sky-light forever letting in rain and a wicked draught! It's really not good enough. I wonder the parents haven't complained before now.'

I was speechless before this onslaught. Perhaps Amy was right. She often was, as I knew to my cost.

I changed the subject.

'You were right about Mrs Fowler by the way. She's pushed
out Minnie's husband, and Minnie's afraid he'll come back to her.'

'With that row of children to look after, I should think she might welcome him.'

I told her about Minnie's fears of aggression, and how Mrs Pringle had gone into attack. Amy listened avidly.

'And did he come?'

'No, thank heaven, but they expect him daily and barricade the door with the kitchen table whenever they go out. The children think it is terrific fun.'

'Children are odd,' agreed Amy. 'I remember how Kenneth used to insist on having the more lugubrious parts of
Black Beauty
read to him, while the tears rolled down his cheeks. He was about six then.'

Kenneth was a brother of Amy's who was killed in the last war. I met him occasionally, and could never take to him, finding him boastful, selfish, and frequently untruthful. He was a confounded nuisance to his parents in his teens, as so many boys are, and they were wonderfully realistic and cheerful about it.

However, no sooner had he died than their attitude to the young man was completely transformed. To hear them talk of Kenneth, after his death, one would have imagined him to be a paragon of all the virtues, kind, noble, a loving son and devoted friend to many. So does death transfigure us. Perhaps it is as well, but personally I think one should cling to the truth—in charitable silence, of course—and not try to deceive oneself, or others, about the rights of the matter.

Even now, so long after, Amy's voice took on a reverent note when Kenneth's name was mentioned. I was glad that she remembered him with love, but wondered if such an
outstandingly honest and downright person as dear Amy really conned herself into believing Kenneth the complete hero.

'He was the handsomest of us all,' went on Amy, gazing across the fields outside the window. 'Our Aunt Rose always gave him a better birthday present than the rest of us. We used to resent it dreadfully.'

'Quite natural, I should think.'

'And it's about Aunt Rose I've come tonight,' said Amy, becoming her usual brisk self. 'She died a fortnight ago and I'm clearing out the house for her. When you break up, could you spare a couple of afternoons to help?' '

I said I would be glad to.

'It's no joke, I can tell you,' warned Amy. 'She seems to have kept every letter and photograph and Christmas card since about 1910.'

'They'd probably make a fortune at Sotheby's,' I said.

'Make a hefty bonfire,' commented Amy, picking up her handbag. 'Anyway many thanks for offering. I'll pick you up one afternoon next week, and we'll get down to it. I should bring a large overall and tie up your hair.'

'How's Vanessa?' I said, as Amy slammed the car door.

'Besotted with motherhood,' said Amy. 'I think she's going to be one of those mammas who keep a diary of daily progress. You know the sort of thing:

Thursday: Baby dribbled.
Friday: Baby squinted.
Saturday: Baby burped.

'It's because it's the first,' I said indulgently.

'Well, her only hope is to have about half a dozen. Surely she would be more reasonable then.'

She drove off, and I returned to prepare a snack for the ever-voracious Tibby.

The last day of term passed off jubilantly, its glory only partly clouded by my secret fears that this might be perhaps the last day of a school year spent under Fairacre School's dilapidated roof.

However, I put such dismal thoughts aside, and fell to tidying cupboards, dismantling the nature table, removing the children's art-work from the walls and ruining my thumb nail as a result, as I do regularly. A broken thumb nail and arthritis in the right shoulder, caused by writing on the blackboard, are just two of a teacher's occupational hazards, I have discovered. Increasing impatience, over the years, seems to be another, certainly in my case.

But today in the golden haze of breaking up, all was well. The children were noisy but busy. The sun blazed down as though it would continue to do so until Christmas. Mr Robert's combine provided a pleasant humming from some distant field, and a drowsy bumble bee droned up and down one of the school windows.

The afternoon flew by. We stood for grace in the unusually tidy and bare classroom, our voices echoing hollowly, and praised God for mercies received and blessings to come, before the tumultous rush for home.

Joseph Coggs was the last to leave.

'You want any gardening done this 'oliday?' he asked in his husky voice.

'Why, yes,' I said untruthfully.

It was plain that he needed occupation as well as a little pocket money.

'Can your mother spare you?' I asked. 'Or should you be helping with the baby?'

'The baby goes with 'er,' said Joseph, running a grubby finger along the table edge. 'Anyway the twins does that all right.'

'Well, if you're sure,' I said, making up my mind to have a word with Mrs Coggs before he came, 'then perhaps one morning next week, if it stays fine.'

'Cor!' was all he said, but he raised his dark eyes to mine, and unalloyed delight shone from them.

I patted his shoulder. I have a very soft spot for young Joseph, and life has never treated him well. Despite that, he has a sweetness of disposition which one rarely meets. Things must be pretty grim at home, and pretty tight too. I should be glad to have him to help, if only to enjoy his obvious pleasure at being of use.

'Off you go then,' I said. 'I'll call at your house soon to fix things up.'

He skipped off, and I followed him.

The sun had beaten down upon the faded paint of the school door all the afternoon, and it was almost too hot to touch. In the distance, the downs trembled through veils of heat haze, and my spirits rose at the thought of weeks of summer holiday stretching before me.

I skipped, almost as blithely as young Joseph, across the playground towards my home.

AS promised, I went to see Mrs Coggs one evening during the first week of the holidays.

I knew better, as a country dweller, than to knock at the front door. In most cases, the knocker is securely fastened by layers of paint and the grime of years, except in the case of those once termed gentry, who still have polished knockers on their front doors, and use them.

The concrete path leading to Mrs Coggs's back door was so narrow and flush with the wall that it was quite a balancing feat to remain on it. The surface was badly cracked, and here and there an iron manhole cover added to the hazards. Fairacre 'went on the mains' a few years ago and we seem to have sprouted more covers than taps in the village.

At the back door three scraggy chickens pecked idly at the concrete, scattering with a squawk when they saw me, and fleeing to cover among some gooseberry bushes almost hidden in long grass. It was apparent that no gardener's hand had been at work here for many a long year, and I wondered if the Council had issued any reprimand about the state of its property.

Mrs Coggs appeared at the door looking like a startled hare. Her eyes bulged and her nose was atwitch.

'I didn't mean to frighten you,' I began.

She wiped her wet hands on the sacking apron which girt
her skinny form, and pushed wisps of dank hair from her face.

'You best come in,' she said resignedly, and stepped over the threshold into the kitchen. I followed her.

I nearly stepped straight back again, stunned by the appalling smell. Mrs Coggs was busy wiping the seat of a wooden chair with the useful sacking apron and had her back to me, so that I hoped she had not seen my dismay.

The twins, runny-nosed despite the hot day, now came to the door which led into the remaining room where most of the living was done. They looked as startled as their mother, and put grimy thumbs into their mouths for comfort.

'Clear off!' said Mrs Coggs. 'Miss Read don't want you lot 'anging around, and no more don't I!'

While I was engaged mentally in correcting the grammar of this last phrase, the two little girls sidled past me nervously, and bolted into the garden. The toddler, who had been hiding behind the back of the sacking apron, now set up a terrible hullabaloo. Mrs Coggs sat down at the kitchen table and hoisted him on to it among towers of dirty saucepans, plates, old newspapers, and a broken colander which seemed to contain a multitude offish heads. It was this last, I guessed, which contributed the largest and most potent part of the general stench.

'It's gone your bed-time, ain't it, lovey,' she crooned, her face as suffused with tenderness, as she surveyed her youngest, as it had been with exasperation at the sight of the twins only a minute before. I was reminded of mother cats who adore their tiny babies, and cuff them unmercifully as soon as they think they should be off their hands.

'It was about Joe that I've come,' I said. 'I wondered if he
could help me in the garden now and again during the holidays.'

She continued to stroke the baby's hair and did not answer. I began to wonder if she were becoming deaf, or if she were still too bemused by her change of fortune to take in anything she was asked. She certainly looked white and pinched, and I wondered if she were getting enough to eat.

'Perhaps one morning a week?' I said. 'He could stop and have his midday dinner with me, if that fits in with your plans.'

The mention of food seemed to rouse her.

'He'd like that. Always likes 'is school dinners, that one. More'n the twins does. They eats next to nothing.'

'What do they like?' I enquired.

'Bread and sauce,' she replied. 'They has that most days. Saves cooking.'

I pointed to the nauseating collection of fish heads.

'Are you going to cook those?' I enquired tentatively.

She surveyed them with some surprise, as though she had only just noticed their presence, although heaven above knew, they made themselves felt quite enough.

'Fishmonger give 'em to me yesterday, and said to boil 'em for soup or summat. But we'd never eat that stuff. I likes tomato out of a tin.'

I could not probe too deeply into Mrs Coggs' culinary arrangements though I was dying to know how she fed the family. Surely they didn't live on bread and sauce exclusively? I returned to Joe's arrangements.

'What about Tuesday mornings?' I suggested.

'Yeh, that's fine. I goes out all day Tuesday charing. I takes the baby, and the twins can come too in the holidays, but I usually leaves 'em 'ere, out of the way.'

'That's settled then,' I said, making my way to the door, and anxious to get a breath of fresh air after the foetid atmosphere inside. Spread over the hedge, I saw some shrunken and torn garments, fit only for polishing rags. Their washing had been sketchy, and they were still stained in many places. The overpowering smell of poverty and neglect saddened me.

'Mrs Coggs,' I said, able to bear it no longer, 'are you being looked after by the Social Security people? I mean, you are getting money regularly?'

Her face lit up.

'I gets over a pound for each kid now and Joe gets a pound too. And there's me own supplementary. I've never 'ad so much in me life. We gotter telly now.'

'But what about food?'

She looked bewildered.

'They has what they likes best. I told you, bread and sauce, and now I buys a few cakes and sweets. We ain't hard up Miss, if that's what's worrying you. And I've got me work.'

I turned away, sighing. It was quite apparent that Mrs Coggs' home conditions were the result of lack of management rather than lack of money. I guessed that she was brought up in a home as feckless as her own, and marriage to Arthur could not have helped her, but how sad it all seemed! Sad and wasteful!

'Then I'll look forward to seeing Joe next Tuesday,' I said retracing my steps over the manhole covers. 'About ten, shall we say? And I'll send him home about one, after he's had lunch with me.'

She nodded vaguely, and lifted the child from her hip to the ground, where he sat in the dust. His bottom, I noticed, was completely bare. His hand was already reaching for a dollop of dried chicken's mess.

I escaped into the lane, and picked the first sprig of honeysuckle I could find. It mitigated the reek of fish only a little, but it helped.

Amy came to lunch before we both drove over to her late aunt's house, some miles beyond Springbourne, to sort out the old lady's things.

Still worried about the Coggs' family, I poured out an account of my visit. Amy remained unperturbed.

I can't think why you worry yourself so much about other people's affairs,' she said. 'I imagine Mrs Coggs muddles along quite satisfactorily. After all, she's still alive and kicking, and the children too, despite her appalling housekeeping.'