Village Affairs (2 page)

'No indeed,' I agreed weakly.

'Take the heating,' continued Mrs Pringle, now in full spate. She held out a large hand, as though offering me the two tortoise stoves in the palm. 'Sacks of good coke them stoves need during the winter, not to mention blacklead and brushes and a cinder pail. They all takes us taxpayers' money. Then there's brooms and dusters, and bar soap and floor cloths, which costs a small fortune—'

'And all the books, of course,' I broke in.

'Well, yes,' said Mrs Pringle doubtfully, 'I suppose they needs
books.'
She spoke as though such aids to learning were wholly irrelevant in a school- very small beer compared with such things as scrubbing brushes and the other tools of her trade.

'But stands to reason,' she continued, 'that it's cheaper for all the whole boiling to go on the bus to Beech Green, though what the petrol costs these days to trundle them back and forth, I shudders to think.'

'Well, it may not happen yet,' I said, as lightly as I could. 'We've had these scaremongering tales before.'

'Maybe,' said Mrs Pringle, rising majestically, and adjusting the black oilcloth bag over her arm. 'But this time I've heard it from a good many folk, and when have our numbers at Fairacre School ever been so low? I don't like it, Miss Read. I feels in my bones a preposition. My mother, God rest her, had second sight, and I sometimes thinks I take after her.'

I devoutly hoped that Mrs Pringle's premonition meant nothing, but could not help feeling uneasy as I accompanied her to the gate.

'You wants to get rid of that bindweed,' was her parting shot, 'before it Takes Over.'

That woman, I thought savagely as I collected our cups, always has the last word!

By Monday morning my qualms had receded into the background, as they had so often before. In anv case, everyday problems of the classroom successfully ousted any future threats.

Patrick had been entrusted with a pound note for his dinner money and had lost it on the way. He was tearful, fearing awful retribution from his mother.

'It was in my pocket,' he sniffed, mopping his tears with the back of his hand. 'All scrunched up, it was, with these 'ere.'

He produced four marbles, a stub of pencil, a grey lump of bubble gum and a jagged piece of red glass.

'You'll cut yourself on that,' I said. 'Put it in the wastepaper basket.'

He looked at me in alarm. A fat tear coursed unnoticed down his cheek.

'But it's off of my brother's rear lamp,' he protested.

'Well, put it in this piece of paper to take home,' I said, giving in. 'And put all that rubbish on the side table. Now
think,
Patrick. Did you take the pound note out of your pocket on the way?'

'Yes, he did miss,' chorused the class.

'He showed it to me,' said Linda Moffat. 'He said he betted I didn't have as much money.'

'That's right' agreed Ernest. 'And it was windy. Blowing about like a flag it was. I bet it's blown over the hedge.'

'And some old cow's eaten it.'

'Or some old tramp's picked it up.'

'Or some old bird's got it in its nest.'

At these helpful surmises, Patrick's tears flowed afresh.

'You must go back over your tracks, Patrick, and search,' I told him. 'And someone had better go with him. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.'

Silence descended upon the class. Arms were folded, chests stuck out, and expressions of intense capability transformed the countenance of all present. "What could be better than escaping from the classroom into the windy lane outside?

'Ernest,' I said, at last.

There was a gust of expelled air from those waiting lungs, and a general slumping of disappointed forms.

Ernest and Patrick hastened from the room joyfully, almost knocking over Joseph Coggs who was entering with a bunch of bedraggled narcissi. He looked bemused.

'I bin and brought you some flowers,' he said, holding them up.

'My auntie brought them on Saturday, but my mum says they'll only get knocked over, so you can have them.'

'Well, thank you. Fetch a vase.'

When he returned, I added:

'You're late, you know, Joseph.'

His lower lip began to droop and I feared that we should have yet another pupil in tears.

'A policeman come,' he said.

Everyone looked up. Here was real drama!

'From Caxley,' faltered Joseph. Bright glances were exchanged. This was better still!

'He wanted to see my dad, but he was in bed. My mum give me these flowers and said to clear off while she got dad
up. The policeman's waiting in our kitchen.'

'Well, there's no point in worrying about that,' I said reassuringly. 'Your mother and father will see to it.'

The class looked disappointed at the dismissal of such an enthralling subject. What spoilsports teachers are, to be sure!

By the time prayers had been said, a hymn sung and the rest of the pupils' dinner money safely gathered into my Oxo tin, the hands of the great wall clock stood at a quarter to ten. Patrick and Ernest were still at large in the village, and no doubt enjoying every minute of it.

'We're having a mental arithmetic test this morning,' I announced, amidst a few stifled groans, 'and I shall want someone to give out the paper.'

At that moment, there was a cry from the back of the room, and Eileen Burton stumbled down the aisle with a bloodied handkerchief clapped to her streaming nose.

This is a frequent occurrence and we all know what to do.

'Lay down, girl!' shouted one. I should like to have given—not for the first time-a short lecture on the use of verbs 'to lie' and 'to lay', but circumstances were against me. As it was, I fetched the box of paper handkerchiefs and assisted the child to a prone position by the stove.

'Shall I get the cold water?'

'Do she need a cushion, miss?'

'She wants a bit of metal down her neck, miss.'

I fetched the cutting-out scissors, a hefty chunk of cold steel, and put them at the back of her neck, substituting, at the same time, a wad of paper tissues for the deplorable handkerchief. Eileen remained calm throughout, accustomed to the routine.

We left her there, and set about the test.

'Number down to twenty', I told them. Would we never get started?

There was a clanging noise as feet trampled over the iron scraper in the lobby. Ernest and Patrick entered, wind-blown ' and triumphant, Patrick holding aloft a very dirty pound note.

'We found it, miss!' they cried. 'Guess where?'

'In the hedge?'

'No.'

'In the duck pond?' shouted someone, putting down his pen.

'No.'

'In your pocket after all?'

'No.'

By now, pens were abandoned, and it was plain that the mental arithmetic test would be indefinitely postponed unless I took a firm hand.

'That's enough. Tell us where.'

'In a cow pat. So stuck up it was, it couldn't blow away. Weren't it
lucky?

They thrust the noisome object under my nose.

'Wipe it,' I said faintly, 'with a damp cloth in the lobby, then
bring it back.
Don't let go of it for one second. Understand?'

By now it was a quarter past ten and no work done.

'First question,' I said briskly. Pens were picked up, amidst sighing.

'If a man has twelve chickens,' I began, when the door opened.

'And about time too,' I said wrathfully, expecting Ernest and Patrick to appear. 'Get into your desks, and let's get some work done!'

The mild face of the Vicar appeared, and we all rose in some confusion.

THE Reverend Gerald Partridge has been Vicar of this parish for many years. I have yet to hear anyone, even the most censorious chapel-goer, speak ill of him. He goes about his parish duties conscientiously, vague in his manner, but wonderfully alert to those who have need of his sympathy and wisdom.

In winter, he is a striking figure, tramping the lanes in an ancient cape of dramatic cut, and sporting a pair of leopard skin gloves, so old, that he is accompanied by little clouds of moulting fur whenever he uses his hands. It is commonly believed that they must have been a gift from some loving, and possibly beloved, churchgoer, in the living before he came to Fairacre. Why otherwise would he cling to such dilapidated articles?

Fairacre School is a Church of England School, standing close to St Patrick's and the vicarage. The Vicar is a frequent visitor, and although I have heard the ruder boys mimicking him behind his back, the children are extremely fond of him, and I have witnessed them attacking a stranger who once dared to criticize him.

'I'm sorry to interrupt,' he said, 'but I was just passing and thought I would have a word with you.'

'Of course.'

I turned to the class.

'Turn over your test papers and write out the twelve times table,' I directed. Long-suffering glances were exchanged. Trust her to want the twelve times! One of the nastiest that was! Their looks spoke volumes.

'What on earth is the matter with that child?' asked the Vicar, in a shocked tone, his horrified gaze upon the prone and bloodied figure of Eileen Burton.

'Just a nose-bleed,' I said soothingly. 'She often has them.'

'But you should have a key,' cried Mr Partridge, much agitated, 'a
large
key, to put at the nape of the neck—'

'She's got the cutting out scissors—' I began, but he was now too worried to heed such interruptions.

'My mother always kept a large key hanging in the kitchen for this sort of thing. We had a parlour maid once, just so afflicted. What about the key of the school door? Or shall I run back to the vicarage for the vestry key? It must weigh quite two pounds, and would be ideal for the purpose.'

His face was puckered with concern, his voice sharp with anxiety.

At that moment, Eileen stood up, dropped the paper handkerchief in the waste paper basket, and smiled broadly.

'Over,' she announced, and put the scissors on my desk.

'Take care, dear child, take care!' cried the Vicar, but he sounded greatly relieved at this recovery.

He picked up the cutting out scissors.

'A worthy substitute,' he conceded, 'but it would be as well to get Willet to screw a hook into the side of one of the cupboards for a key. I can provide you with one quite as massive as this, I can assure you, and I really should feel happier if you had one on the premises.'

I thanked him, and asked what it was he wanted to tell me.

'Simply a rumour about the school closing. I wanted you to know that I have had no official message about such a possibility. I pray that I may
never
have one, but should it be so, please rest assured that I should let you know at once.'

'Thank you. I know you would.'

'You have heard nothing?'

'Only rumours. They fly around so often, I don't let them bother me unduly.'

'Quite, quite. Well, I must be off. Mrs Partridge asked me to pick up something at the Post Office, but for the life of me I can't remember what it is. I wonder if I should go back and ask?'

'No doubt Mr Lamb will know and have it waiting for you,' I suggested.

Mr Partridge smiled with relief.

'I'm sure you're right. I will call there first. No point in worrying my wife unnecessarily.'

He waved to the children, and made for the door.

'I won't forget to look out a suitable key,' he promised. 'My mother would have approved of having one handy at all times. First aid, you know.'

The door closed behind him.

'First question,' I said. 'If a man had twelve chickens—'.

Although I had told the Vicar that I was not unduly bothered by the rumours, it was not strictly true. Somehow, this time, as the merry-go-round twirled, the ostrich had a menacing expression as it appeared among the galloping horses. Perhaps, I told myself, everything seemed worse because I had heard the news from several sources in a very short space of time.

After school, I pottered about in the kitchen preparing a salad, which Amy, my old college friend, was going to share that evening. She had promised to deliver a pile of garments for a future jumble sale, and as James, her husband, was away from home, we were free to enjoy each other's company.

Apart from a deplorable desire to reform my slack ways, Amy is the perfect friend. True, she also attempts to marry me off, now and again, to some poor unsuspecting male, but this uphill job has proved in vain, so far, and I think she knows, in her heart, that she will never be successful.

It was while I was washing lettuce, that Mr Willet arrived with some broad bean plants.

'I saw you'd got some terrible gaps in your row, miss. Bit late perhaps to put 'em in, but we'll risk it, shall us?'

I agreed whole-heartedly.

He departed along the garden path, and I returned to the sink.

'No rose in all the world
' warbled Mr Willet,
'Until you came.'

Mr Willet has a large repertoire of songs which were popular at the beginning of the century. They take me back, in a flash, to the musical evenings beloved of my parents. Mercifully, I can only remember snippets of these sentimental ballads, most of which had a lot of 'ah-ah-ah'-ing between verses, although a line or two, here and there, still stick in my memory.

'Dearest, the night is over
(or was it 'lonely'?)

'Waneth the trembling moon'
and another about living in a land of roses but dreaming of a land of snow. Or maybe the other way round? It was the sort of question to put to Mr Willet, I decided, when Amy arrived, and Mr Willet and the ballads, were temporarily forgotten.

***

'Lovely to be here,' sighed Amy, after we had eaten our meal.

She leant back in the arm chair and sipped her coffee.

'You really do make excellent coffee,' she said approvingly. 'Despite the haphazard way you measure the beans.'

'Thank you,' I said humbly. I rarely get praise from Amy, so that it is all the more flattering when I do.

She surveyed one elegant hand with a frown.

'My nails grow at such a rate. I always remember a horrifying tale I read when I was about ten. A body was exhumed, and the poor woman's coffin was full of her own hair and immensely long finger nails.'