Village Affairs (18 page)

The swallows had already gone. For weeks past, they had perched upon telegraph wires in the village, preening themselves and twittering noisily, preparing for their flight of thousands of miles to warmer sunshine than Fairacre could provide.

In village gardens, the first bonfires of Winter were appearing, and wreaths of blue smoke scented the air with the true essence of Autumn. Mr Willet was already planning where to plant his broad beans: 'You can't beat Aqua-Dulce Long-pod for planting in November,' he assured me. 'A good sturdy grower, and it beats that blighted black fly if it gets a fair start.'

The holidaymakers were back from exotic climes, and comparing notes on the beauties of Spain and Italy, and the price of a cup of coffee in Paris and St Mark's Square, Venice. These people, of course, were the more leisured among us. Most of us had taken our breaks, if any, in July or August, ready for the new school year.

I was invited to a cheese and wine party at the Mawnes. Proceeds were to go to the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, of which both Mawnes were strong supporters. As the house is a lovely Queen Anne specimen, and the furniture is a joy to behold, I walked along the village that evening with more than usual pleasure. The older I get the less I want to leave my own home in the evenings, particularly bleak Winter ones, but it was pleasant to stroll through the gentle darkness, catching sight of the various village cats setting off on their hunting expeditions, and savouring the whiff of bonfires still hanging upon the quiet air.

The house was ablaze with lights, and more than a dozen cars were lined up in the drive. I was glad I had not brought mine to add to the congestion. Far too often I have been the poor wretch penned in behind some glossy monster whose owner always seems to be the last to leave.

The village seemed to have turned out in force, and I was soon going the rounds, glass in hand, meeting Mary and Margaret Waters, two elderly spinsters of whom I am very fond, the Lambs from the Post Office, with Mr Lamb's brother from America and his wife, the Hales from Tyler's Row, a comparative newcomer, Miss Quinn, with her landlady Joan Benson, and a host of other friends.

Mrs Mawne, resplendent in black and gold, introduced me to a middle-aged man called Cecil Richards.

'A fellow ornithologist of Henry's' explained Mrs Mawne. 'Well more than that really. Sissle here has just had a book published. About fishing, isn't it?'

'Yes, indeed.
With Rod in Rutland
is the title.'

I said I must look out for it.

'And Sissle has had others published,' said Mrs Mawne proudly. 'Wasn't
Beagling in Bucks
the last one?'

'No.
Hunting in Hereford,'
replied Cecil reprovingly.

I felt tempted to ask when
Winkling in Wilts
was coming out, but restrained my flippancy. Obviously, this particular writer took his work seriously, unlike Basil Bradley, our local novelist, who turns out a well-written book a year with a Regency buck as hero and a score of gorgeous girls with ringlets and fans. He aims to entertain, and makes no secret of it.

'You must find writing very hard work,' I said politely.

'Not at all. I find it pleasantly relaxing.'

I remembered reading that: 'Anyone who claims to write easily must be either a terrible writer or a terrible liar,' but naturally did not quote this to Cecil Richards.

'Ah,' said Mrs Mawne, 'here comes Diana Hale. I know she wants to meet Sissle.'

I bowed away gratefully, only to find that I was in the midst of a three-cornered discussion on holidays.

'You really need a couple of years in Florence to see it properly,' Henry Mawne was saying to Mrs Partridge. 'Did you see Michelangelo's house?'

'We saw his "David",' replied Mrs Partridge.

'Well, naturally,' said Henry. 'But
everyone
sees his "David". The house brings it all to life. You went to Siena, of course?'

'Well, no. We didn't have time.'

'Siena is a
must,'
said Joan Benson. 'I think I really enjoyed Siena more than Florence itself. Those beautiful Duccios in the museum by the Duomo! You really should have gone to Siena.'

'I found the leather school at the Santa Croce one of the most interesting things,' continued Henry. 'I bought this wallet there.' He fished in a back pocket, juggling dangerously with his wine glass, and produced a wallet worn with age.

'Lovely,' agreed Mrs Partridge. 'I bought a handbag on the Ponte Vecchio.'

'On the Ponte Vecchio?' echoed Henry, with horror. 'My dear lady, you must have been mad to buy anything there! You can get the same thing much cheaper in those nice shops near the Bargello!'

I was beginning to feel very sorry for poor Mrs Partridge being batted between the two Florence-snobs.

Henry suddenly became conscious of my presence.

'And where did you go this year?' he asked.

'Clacton,' I said, and was rewarded with Mrs Partridge's smile.

Half-term came and went, and a long spell of dark weather, with pouring rain and high winds, set in.

School playtimes became an endurance test for all. Deprived of their usual exercise in the playground, the children became cross at their enforced incarceration. The tattered comics re-appeared, the jigsaw puzzles, the second-best sets of crayons, and the balls of plasticine, multi-hued by careless hands which had rolled various colours together, were brought out of the cupboard to try to assuage their frustration.

It was uphill work to keep them happily occupied. The first colds of winter swept the classroom, and sneezes, sniffs and coughs rent the air. A large box of tissues seemed to be exhausted in two days, and my pleas for them to bring their own, or to bring a handkerchief, fell on deaf ears. The tortoise stoves took to smoking, as they do when the wind gets into a certain quarter, and the skylight, as always, dripped steadily, as the rain swept viciously across the playground.

It was during this bleak period that I received another missive from die office. It informed me that due note had been taken of the findings at the managers' meeting held some time earlier, and that my own comments were being considered. It was only right to point out, it went on to say, that reorganisation of schools in the area was now advancing steadily, and that the possible closure of Fairacre School could not be ruled out.

'Back to square one,' I observed to Tibby, who was trifling with a portion of expensive cat food, much appreciated by the cat in the television advertisement, but not by my fastidious friend.

'Now what?' I wondered.

My problems were further complicated on the next Friday by Minnie Pringle's.

My heart sank when I opened the door and heard the crash of die handbrush against the sitting-room skirting board. Since Minnie's advent all the skirting boards have been severely dented, and now resemble hammered pewter. I think she feels that the edge of the carpet has not been properly cleaned without a hefty swipe at the skirting board with each movement. My remonstrances have made not the slightest impression, and I doubt if Minnie realises the damage she is doing. At one stage, I forbade her to touch the hand brush, but that too was ignored.

'You're working overtime, Minnie,' I said.

She looked up from her demolition work, with a mad grin.

'It don't matter. I ain't got nowhere to go.'

I took the brush from her hand and put it on the table.

'You'd better sit down and tell me,' I said resignedly. At least the skirting board was spared for a time, but I had no doubt that my nerves would take a similar pounding.

Minnie sat on the extreme edge of a Victorian buttoned armchair, which, I knew from experience, was liable to tip forward abruptly if so used.

'Sit back, Minnie,' I advised her.

She wriggled forward another two inches, and I gave up. With any luck, her light weight would not affect the chair's balance.

'What's the matter now?'

'It's Bert. Him and Ern has been fighting.'

'Can't you tell them to go? I gather it's your house now, or so your aunt says.'

Minnie's eyes grew round with horror.

'Tell 'em to go?' she echoed. 'They don't take no notice of what I says. Anyway, Ern's gone.'

'Then what's the trouble? I thought Bert was a lodger-paying guest, I mean—so surely you can give him notice, if you want to?'

'He don't pay.'

'All the more reason for pushing him out!'

Minnie twisted her dirty fingers together unhappily.

'It's not that. It's 'is 'itting me I don't like.'

'I thought you said it was Ern and Bert that were fighting.'

'Well, it was, first off. Then when Ern went back to Caxley to give old Mrs Fowler a piece of 'is mind, Bert turned sort of nasty and took a strap to me.'

I thought that 'turned sort of nasty' was the under statement of the year if it involved attacking the minute Minnie with a strap.

'Look here,' I said, 'I think you had better have a word with Bert's employers at Springbourne Manor. Let them speak to him.'

Minnie looked more horrified than ever.

'They'd give 'im the sack, most like, and then 'e'd take it out on me. He's 'orrible strong, is Bert. I'd almost sooner have Ern. 'E never used the strap.'

'Well, you seem in a pretty pickle, I must say,' I said severely. 'Why has Ern gone back to Caxley? I thought he had left Mrs Fowler.'

'She give him the push, and now he's hollering for the furniture what he pinched from our house. 'E reckons Mrs Fowler's flogged it.'

Despair began to overtake me. Heaven knows, I do my best to simplify my own life, and even so I am beset by irksome complications. To confront someone like Minnie, whose relationships with others are a hopeless tangle, makes my rational mind boggle. Where can one begin to help?

'Well, Minnie, what do you propose to do? I take it Mrs Pringle can't put you up, and you certainly can't stay here. You really must try and get Bert to go away if he's becoming violent.'

Minnie looked vaguely surprised, and wriggled nearer the edge of the chair. As expected, it tipped forward and pitched her on to the carpet, where she remained seated, looking perfectly at ease.

'Oh, I don't want Bert to go.' 'E's a good chap apart from the strap. I daresay 'e'll be all right if I gets 'im a good bit of steak for his tea.'

I began to feel somewhat dizzy. This frequently happens during a conversation with Minnie. She veers from one point to another like a storm-battered weathercock.

'Surely, that will cost a mint of money? I shouldn't feel inclined to cook an expensive steak for someone who hit me.'

'Only with a strap' said Minnie earnestly. 'Could have been 'is belt. Buckle end.'

I gave up, and rose to end the interview.

'Your money's on the mantel shelf,' I said wearily.

She gave me a radiant smile.

'Do just right for Bert's steak,' she said, reaching for the handbrush.

But I got there first.

Not long after this encounter, the village was staggered to hear that Mrs Coggs had been caught shop-lifting in Caxley, and was due to appear in Court.

I could not believe it when Mrs Pringle informed me of the fact.

'But it seems so absurd,' I protested, 'when she's better off now than ever she was! She told me herself that she had never had so much money to manage on.'

'That's why she went to Caxley,' said Mrs Pringle, with a trace of smugness which riled me. 'When she didn't have no money to spend she stayed home. Come she got to the shops in Caxley she was Tempted and Fell.'

It all seemed very odd, and very sad, to me. What had she bought, I asked?

Mrs Pringle bridled.

'She never
bought.
That was the trouble. She
thieved.
As far
as I can gather, it was things like rashers and sausages and a great bag of them frozen chips.'

At least a change from bread and sauce, I thought, though no doubt the poor children were still having that ghastly fare.

'Perhaps she just forgot to pay,' I said 'it happens.'

Mrs Pringle snorted.

'Likely, ain't it! Anyways, she said straight out she'd nicked 'em.'

Her dour countenance showed a rare streak of pleasure.

'D'you reckon she'll get put inside? Fancy them both being in prison, at the same time!'

'I shouldn't think so for a moment,' I said shortly. 'And isn't it about time the stoves were Med?'

If looks could have killed, I should have been a writhing corpse by the fireguard, but I was only vouchsafed the back view of my cleaner retreating from the fray with a heavy limp.

Most people, it transpired, felt as bewildered as I did at Mrs Coggs's behaviour, and the general feeling in the village was one of sympathy. The Vicar had promised to appear in Court to speak on her behalf, and one of Mr Lovejoy's juniors was to appear for her. Mrs Coggs herself, I heard, hardly seemed to realise what was happening. She made no attempt to excuse her actions, not in any mood of defiance, but simply in her usual mood of apathy. It was all very puzzling.

Our butcher's comments seemed to echo Mrs Pringle's way of thinking.

'She's a poor tool as we all know, Miss Read. Let's face it, she wasn't born over-bright, and any wits she had have been knocked out of her by Arthur. I reckon she got carried away when she saw all the things in Caxley.'