(11/20) Farther Afield (19 page)

I sat at my desk and watched their intent faces. Certainly, Miss Clare had lost none of her old magic in holding children's interest.

The contents of the basket emerged one by one. The first object to be held up was a small china mug with a picture of Queen Victoria on the side.

'We all had one of these given to us,' she told the children, 'when the good Queen had reigned for sixty years. It was called her Diamond Jubilee, and you can see it written here.'

'Were you in this school then?' asked Linda Moffat.

'No, my dear, I was at Beech Green School then.' She went on to describe the junketings of that far-distant day when she was a young child, joining with her sister Ada, in the sports arranged in a nearby field.

She told them how she came to Fairacre School a year or two later, carefully omitting the reason, which I knew, for the move. A weak headmaster, with views too advanced for his time, had caused so much concern among the parents that several of them had transferred their children to other local schools, despite the long walks, in every kind of weather, which this involved.

Miss Clare described those daily walks. It was almost three miles from her cottage to the school, and she told the wondering class where she found a robin's nest one spring, and where a tiny river once overflowed one February, and she and Emily Davis, her friend, took off their boots and stockings to paddle through the flood to get to school.

She showed them more treasures from her basket. A starched white pinafore, 'kept for Sundays', intrigued the girls who admired the insertion down the front as it was passed round the class for them to examine.

Her first copybook from Beech Green School with rows and rows of pot-hooks and hangers on the first few pages, and maxims of a strong moral flavour on the rest, was a source of wonder, but the object which gave them most excitement was the photograph of the whole of Fairacre School taken outside in our playground with Mr Wardle, the then headmaster, his wife, the infants' teacher Miss Taylor, and Dolly herself and Emily Davis as pupil teachers, standing meekly at one side of the rows of children. The clothes of the latter caused hilarity and a certain amount of sympathy.

'What's he doin' with that great
ol
' thing round his neck?' asked Patrick, gazing with bewilderment at one boy sporting an Eton collar. And the fact that nearly all the children wore lace-up boots, despite the brilliant sunshine which had caused most of them to screw up their eyes against the dazzle, puzzled my class considerably.

She described the village as she remembered it so long ago, telling of houses and barns now vanished, of splendid trees, which had towered over the roofs, felled years before, of a disused chapel, now turned into a house, and a host of other changes in their environment. The questions came thick and fast, and she answered all with care and composure.

The last thing to be brought from the basket, for the children's delectation, was a fine Bible.

'I was lucky enough to win the Bishop's Bible,' she told them. 'I sat just there, where Ernest is sitting, and it rained so hard that we could hardly hear the questions, I remember.'

The Bishop's Bible is still presented annually to the child who seems best grounded in religious knowledge, so that many a child in the class had just such a Bible at home, presented to a parent or relative years before. It seemed to bring home to them the continuity of tradition in this old school, and the bond between the Victorian child and those of the present day was forged even more firmly in Miss Clare's last few minutes with the class.

Patrick, primed and rehearsed beforehand, thanked her beautifully, and the children were sent to play.

I feared that she might be tired by her efforts, but she seemed stimulated, and insisted on calling on the infants after play where she spent the rest of the school afternoon.

'D'you reckon,' said Ernest, 'that you'll live as long as Miss Clare?'

I said I doubted it.

'Why not?' chorused the class.

'Children nowadays,' I told them, with as much solemnity as I could muster, 'are not as well-behaved as those Miss Clare taught. Teachers today get worn out before their time.'

They smiled indulgently at me, and at one another.

I would have my little joke!

***

Miss Clare came over to the school house for tea when school was over. One last object, not shown to the children, was produced. It was a pot of her own plum jam which made a most welcome addition to my larder.

The fire crackled merrily for I had slipped across during playtime to put a match to it. Outside, the shadows were already beginning to lengthen, and the chill of autumn became apparent as evening fell.

'It's a time of year I love,' said Miss Clare, stirring her tea. 'I love to see the barns full of straw bales, and to know the grain is safely stored, and to watch them ploughing Hundred Acre Field ready for another crop. I always feel when the harvest's home, that that's the true end of one year and the beginning of the next.'

'I must admit,' I agreed, 'that there's something very satisfying in pulling up all the tatty annuals and having a gorgeous bonfire in the garden. I like to think it's simply an appreciation of good husbandry, but I know that it's partly the thought of being relieved of gardening for a few months. And it's a positive pleasure to see the lawn mower go for its annual overhaul at the end of the summer. The older I get the less I enjoy pushing a mower. Mr Willet does it quite often, but he has so much to do in the village I don't rely on him.'

Miss Clare sighed.

'A man is
useful
! I suppose, if we're honest, we miss having husbands.'

'Like most things, there are points for and against husbands.' I told her about Mrs Coggs.

'I hope she's an exception, poor woman. It isn't only as a husband that Arthur Coggs fails. He's a complete failure at everything else. He won't work, he drinks, he lies and he sponges on the rest of us. But, after all, he's not typical of most men, and personally I very much regret that I did not marry.'

'You surprise me. I've always thought of you as one of the happiest, most serene people I know, with a perfectly full and satisfying life.'

Miss Clare smiled.

'I
am
happy. And, of course, one fills one's life whether single or married. I don't say that I sit and mope about being a spinster. I'm much too aware of my good fortune in having a home of my own, in a place I love, among a host of friends. But it's natural, I think, to wish to have someone of the next generation to carry on one's traditions and work. No, I think if I had been able to marry Arnold, I should truthfully have been happier still.'

She fingered the gold locket, which she always wears, containing the photograph of her fiance so tragically killed in the First World War.

'After Arnold, there was nobody whom I could care for enough to marry. In any case, there was a dearth of young men after those terrible four years of war, and here in Fairacre and Beech Green, of course, men were few and far between anyway, and we hardly ever went further afield than Caxley, to meet others.'

This was true. When one came to think of it, those couples of Miss Clare's generation were probably born and brought up within a very few miles of each other. More probably still, they were related, which accounted for the few names in those old registers shared by a large number of children.

'No cars, no holidays abroad,' I said, thinking aloud. 'It certainly restricted one's choice.'

'Not only that. There were so few openings for girls and boys. I could either go into domestic service, or a shop, or nursing or teaching. Really there was nothing else open to a girl from a poor home. Nowadays, the young things go all over the world, or get a grant for further education somewhere miles from their own area, where they meet scores of other young people from all walks of life. No wonder they seem so sophisticated compared with ourselves at that age!'

'But are they happier?'

'When it comes to marriage, I have my doubts. In our day, we took our marriage vows pretty seriously and divorce was difficult and expensive. You knew you must make a go of the affair. Maybe there was a lot of unhappiness which was kept hidden, but on the whole I think the young people did better when they waited for each other and got to know themselves more thoroughly.'

Tibby arrived on the window sill, mouthing her complaints. I hurried to let her in. Her fur was fresh and cold, smelling of dry grass, bruised leaves and all outdoors.

'You would make a very good wife yourself,' said Miss Clare, watching me pour some milk into a saucer for my domestic tyrant.

'The chance would be a fine thing,' I replied. 'No, I haven't the pluck to risk it, even if I did have the chance. The single state suits me very well.'

'Tell me more about Crete,' said Miss Clare, and in that moment I knew that Amy's troubles were known to her and, no doubt, to most other people in the neighbourhood. Nothing had been said, and certainly not by me, but here it was again -that extraordinary awareness by country people of what is going on about them.

I launched enthusiastically into an account of all the wonders I had seen, and out came the photographs and maps and guide books.

It was past seven o'clock when I finally drove her home, and never once was Amy's name spoken between us.

Nevertheless, I knew Amy's affairs were now common knowledge, and I was not surprised.

Mrs Pringle's return to her duties I greeted with mingled relief and apprehension. We had done our best, in the last few weeks, to keep things clean and tidy, but I doubted if our standards would please Mrs Pringle.

I did not doubt for long.

"Ere,' said the lady, issuing from the back lobby where the washing up is done. 'What's become of my mop? Alice Willet thrown it out?'

I said I did not know.

'Hardly worn, that mop. A favourite of mine. Hope nothing's become of it.'

I thought of the character in
Cold Comfort Farm
who had the same affection for his little twig mop.

'Perhaps it's been put somewhere different,' I suggested weakly.

'
Everything,
as far as I can see,' boomed Mrs Pringle, 'has been put somewhere different. And the bar soap's almost gone, and them matches is standing for all to see and help themselves to.'

This was a side-swipe at Mr Willet, luckily not present, or battle would have been joined without hesitation.

'And where's the little slatted mat I stands on at the sink?' demanded the lady.

'I think it got broken.'

'Then the office should send out another. If I have to stand on damp concrete, in my state of health, I'll be back in Caxley Hospital before you can say "knife".'

I said that I would indent for another mat without delay.

Mrs Pringle prowled around my classroom, sniffing suspiciously.

'Funny smell this place has got. You been letting the mice in?'

'Is it likely?' I responded coldly. 'Do you imagine I spread a mouse banquet of cheese crumbs and bacon rinds and then open the door and invite them in?'

'There's no saying,' was Mrs Pringle's rejoinder. She ran a fat finger along the top of a door and surveyed the resulting grime.

'And not much dustin' done neither,' she commented.

'The children can't reach the tops of the doors.'

'There's others who can,' she answered.

As usual, I could see that I should lose this battle. Luckily, at this juncture, the new boy Derek appeared on the scene with a cut finger, and I was obliged to break off our exchanges and attend to him.

As I wrapped up his finger, I noticed his eyes were fixed on Mrs Pringle who still roamed the room, sniffing and making small noises of disapproval as she examined cupboard tops, window sills, and even the inside of the piano.

'Off you go,' I said, when I had completed my first aid. 'Try and keep it clean.'

Mrs Pringle made her way into the infants' room. No doubt she would find plenty there to gloat over, I thought.

Through the open window I became conscious of two voices. One belonged to Derek.

'Who's that lady in there?'

'Ma Pringle.'

'What does she do? Is she a teacher?'

'Nah! Old Ma Pringle? She's the one what keeps the school clean.'

'But I thought we did that?'

'You thought wrong then, mate. We done a bit while she was ill, but I bet Ma Pringle don't reckon we've kept it clean!'

Too true, I thought, too true!

18 Autumn Pleasures

S
ATURDAY
mornings are busy times for schoolteachers. It is then that they usually tackle the week's washing, any outstanding household jobs and, of course, the week-end shopping.

The latter can usually be done in Fairacre, but this Saturday in question I found that I needed such haberdashery items as elastic and pearl buttons. As there were one or two garments to be collected from the cleaners as well, I faced the fact that I must get out the car and make a sortie into Caxley.

While I was choosing a piece of rock salmon for Tibby and two fillets of plaice for myself, Amy smote me on the back.