(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (10 page)

He had been calling regularly on Dolly, but usually in the morning when Mrs John was around. I told him that Dolly would be glad to see him at any time, I knew.

'And you are happy together?'

'Perfectly. At least, I am, and I think Dolly is relieved to have someone in the house.'

'Good.' He surveyed my class. 'And how many on roll now?'

'Twenty-one, including the infants.'

The vicar sighed.

'Of course, there are those two new houses,' he said brightening.

'Have you heard anything?' I asked hopefully. 'The boards are still up.'

'Well, no. But we must live in hope. They are both very well suited to families. Four bedrooms, I gather. Very hopeful. Very hopeful.'

He gave me his usual sweet smile and departed, oblivious, for once, of the children.

'He never said nothing to us,' said John-the-swearer reproachfully.

'If the vicar never said nothing, he must have said something,' I pointed out, embarking yet again upon the use of the double negative. A fruitless quest, as I should know after all these years, but as the vicar had just remarked, we must live in hope.

Mrs John returned a week or so later, bringing her mother with her for a little break after the sad days following her husband's death.

She was very like her daughter, small and nimble, with the same large dark eyes. She had been a nurse in her young days at one of the foremost Welsh hospitals, and she still had the lilt of the Welsh tongue. It was plain that mother and daughter got on very well together.

Dolly Clare was as pleased as I was to have Mrs John back again. Her presence eased my anxiety, and I suspect that Dolly found her assistance in dressing and other daily activities much more deft than my own efforts.

But I was greatly moved when my old friend asked me to stay on at the cottage.

'It is such a comfort to have you here,' she said, 'particularly when I wake in the night. If it's not an imposition, I should love you to continue here.'

There was nothing I wanted more and Mrs John was pleased too, so that my new routine continued, living in two homes at the same time whilst teaching went on undisturbed.

***

On the first Friday of June, I took Dolly's tray upstairs as usual, just before eight o'clock. There was not much to carry for she only had two slices of brown bread and butter, some marmalade, and a cup of weak tea.

She seemed to be asleep, and I put down the tray quietly. She opened her eyes, and smiled at me.

'Thank you, may dear. Just off?'

'Yes. Just off.'

'Goodbye then.'

She sat up slowly, and added as she always did: 'Love to Fairacre,' as I turned to go.

It was my turn to do playground duty at mid-morning, and above the din of exuberant children I heard my telephone ringing.

Hastening into the school house I lifted the receiver. It was Mrs John on the line, and she sounded distraught.

'It's sad news, I fear. She's gone. I found her in her bed when I got here ten minutes ago.'

'I'll come over at once.' I said, and went to arrange matters with my assistant, Mrs Richards.

***

I had always imagined that the death of my dear old friend would leave me shattered, probably in tears, and certainly trembling and shocked. But to my amazement, although I felt desolate, my mind was clear and I felt capable of dealing with all the practical problems which I should have to face.

There was a kind of numbness of body and mind which, I had no doubt, would soon desert me, but for which I was grateful when I entered the cottage and found Mrs John. She had obviously been crying, and she was shaky, but she was in control of her feelings.

'She must have gone soon after you left,' she told me. 'I thought she had fallen asleep again, as the breakfast wasn't touched.'

'We'd better go up,' I said.

She led the way up the familiar stairs.

'Mother came with me this morning,' she said, 'And she's done all that was needed. She's better at these things than I am, her being a nurse.'

I could not reply. This was my first encounter with death, and I wondered how I should react.

But there was nothing at all to fear. Dolly lay in her bed as I had seen her so many times. A light breeze lifted the curtain at the open window, and ruffled Dolly's fine white hair. She was in a fresh cotton nightgown, and the gold locket was still around her neck.

'I didn't quite know what to do with that,' said Mrs John, following my gaze.

'Leave it there,' I replied. I could not have removed it. As far as I was concerned, I felt it should accompany Dolly to her grave.

Mrs John carried the tray downstairs, and a little later I followed her.

'I rang the doctor,' she said. 'He's out on his rounds, but they said they could get him on the car phone, and he'd call as soon as possible.'

'And I'll ring the undertaker,' I said.

I was still in the dream-like state which cushions one from immediate shock, and I found I could do these routine jobs without undue emotion.

'It was good of your mother to cope with things,' I said. 'It's something I've never had to face, but I think I could have done it for Dolly.'

'I was glad too,' said Mrs John. 'As soon as she'd done, she went home to get the children's dinner ready.'

How life jostles death, I thought. But rightly so, for life must go on.

There was a knock on the door and the young doctor, who had succeeded dear old Doctor Martin, came in.

'This doesn't surprise me,' he said, after the first condolences. 'She was very weak when I came two days ago. She was a grand old girl - never complained. I shall miss her.'

I took him upstairs, and waited while he examined Dolly.

'If you'd pick up the death certificate at the surgery,' he said, standing up, 'I'll do it as soon as I get back. It's a simple case of heart failure. Everything has just worn out.'

Gently he drew the sheet over Dolly's face, and I began to have my first tremors.

A few minutes after his departure, a van drew up. Two kindly men from the Caxley undertaker's went aloft with a stretcher, and very soon they descended slowly bearing Dolly, still shrouded in her white sheet.

'She'll go straight to our Chapel of Rest,' said the older man, 'should you want to visit her.'

He dropped something on a side table as he resumed his task, and I watched Dolly go through the cottage door and down the garden path for the last time.

When the van had gone I saw that Dolly's locket lay on the side table. Somehow it seemed cruel to have parted her from it.

I drove back to school, still numbed, told Mrs Richards the news, read one of the Greek legends to the children, heard them recite one of Walter de la Mare's poems and saw them off home. Then I went back to the school house, fed Tibby, made a cup of tea and rang the vicar.

He was greatly concerned, more, it seemed, on my account than Dolly's, but I assured him that I was perfectly calm and that I intended to go to the cottage the next day to write to any relatives I could find, and to tidy up Dolly's things. He suggested that either he or Mrs Partridge would accompany me, but I refused as politely as I could.

I sat down in my quiet sitting-room and drank my tea. It was only then that I remembered that I had had nothing to eat since my breakfast at Dolly's, some eight or nine hours earlier.

It reminded me of that untouched breakfast tray.

I must have been the last person to whom Dolly spoke, and I recalled those last three words:

'
Love to Fairacre
'

It was now that grief engulfed me. My whole body shook as I returned the cup, clattering, to its saucer, and the tears began.

I seemed to spend all the evening crying, powerless to control my emotions. I did not cry for Dolly, now freed from pain and the indignities of old age. I cried for myself. I should never see or talk to Dolly again, and that, truthfully, was the cause of my tears and my desolation.

For now I knew. I was bereft.

8 Making Plans

NEWS of Dolly Clare's death was common knowledge within twenty-four hours and there were tributes to her from everyone. During her long life she had touched so many other lives as teacher and friend, that it was plain that her influence would linger for many years in Fairacre, Beech Green, and many places farther afield where old pupils had settled.

The funeral had been arranged for a date some ten days distant at Beech Green church, and she was to be buried in the churchyard there, beside her parents Francis and Mary.

In the meantime, I was doing my best to track down any living relatives. I put an obituary notice in
The Caxley Chronicle
and hoped that I might hear of some descendants of her sister Ada.

The son, John Francis, had gone overseas after his mother's death, but somewhere there must be descendants of Mary, the daughter. No one seemed to know what had happened to her.

Dolly Clare had lived so long that almost all her contemporaries had gone, but one elderly lady living in a retirement home in Caxley, wrote to the vicar telling him a little about Dolly and the family, and from this it appeared that Mary had married twice, but no names could be discovered.

I very much doubted if we would hear any more about Dolly's family.

***

The funeral took place on a beautiful June morning.

The vicar took the service, a simple one with three of Dolly's favourite hymns. The church was full of roses and sunshine, a fitting setting for the small plain coffin at the chancel steps, whose occupant had always loved flowers and the joys of summer.

There was a large congregation, but most of the people slipped away as just a few of her closest friends accompanied the vicar to the graveside. It was a peaceful spot, shaded by a lime tree already showing flowers. Francis and Mary's gravestone was patterned with moss and lichen, but I saw that there was room below the inscription for Dolly's name and dates, and this I proposed to have done as soon as possible.

Some friends took advantage of the general invitation to come to the cottage for refreshments after the service, and when they had gone, I locked up the house, and drove back to my duties at Fairacre in time to serve out school dinners.

I thought of Mrs John's remark as I cut toad-in-the-hole into squares: 'Mother went back to get dinner for the children.'

So had it always been. My bedtime reading at the moment was Virginia Woolf's essay about my favourite clergyman, eighteenth century Parson Woodforde. I had come across her remarks on the entry: 'Found the old gentleman at his last gasp. Totally senseless with rattlings in the Throat. Dinner today boiled beef and Rabbit rosted.'

'All is as it should be; life is like that,' she comments.

Everyday life for me was certainly bearing this out.

After my night of weeping, some peace had returned. Although, from now until the end of my own days, I knew that there would always be this poignant sense of loss, yet there was no need for prolonged grief. A long and lovely life had ended, but Dolly would be remembered by many, for years to come. There had been no children of her own as immediate heirs, but all those who had passed through her hands had come under her wise and gentle influence, and this must shape their views and outlook for the rest of their lives.

It was with gratitude, not grief that Dolly would be remembered.

Amy came over to see me one evening soon after the funeral and said that I was looking distinctly peaky.

'Well, if you must know,' I responded, 'it's exactly how I feel.'

She had been in touch by telephone during my stay with Dolly Clare, but this was the first occasion that we had seen each other face to face for some considerable time.

She looked deeply concerned, and I began to feel guilty.

'No, I'm really all right. There was quite a bit to do tidying up Dolly's affairs as executor, and of course I was horribly shocked when it actually happened, but I am over that now.'

'Well, you don't look it. I think you want a tonic, plenty of good food and sleep, and a few days' holiday. Come and stay with us next weekend as a start.'