(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (15 page)

'I know I should never be homeless,' I told him. 'You've reassured me about that on several occasions, and I'm eternally grateful. But I really do want to live in Dolly's cottage. It was what she wanted too, and I think I can safely say that I hope to move sometime before the winter - possibly before the beginning of term, if the alterations are done by then.'

Mr Partridge rose, looking mightily relieved, and - much to my surprise - gave me a vicarish kiss on the cheek.

'And now Honey and I must be on our way,' he said, making for the door. 'Thank you for that excellent coffee, and for being so understanding. I really have been so worried about broaching the subject.'

'Well, there's no need to worry any more,' I told him, making my way with him to the useful gap in the hedge. 'I'm glad we've spoken about it.'

'I shall sleep more easily tonight,' said he soberly.

'And so shall I,' I assured him.

PART TWO

BEECH GREEN

11 A Family Survivor

THE last day of term, and of the school year, was its usual muddle of clearing up and general euphoria.

Only one child was leaving to go to Beech Green school under George Annett's care. He had a sister there already and was happy about his future. To my delight there would be one new admission to the infants' class in the next term, so our numbers would remain unchanged. Mr Roberts's new farm worker had a son of five years old. He would be warmly welcomed by all those at Fairacre School.

As usual, the vicar called to wish everyone a happy holiday, exhorting them to help their mothers and fathers and to remember the date on which the new term began.

He turned anxiously to me. 'Could you remind me again?'

'September the fifth.'

'Ah yes! Of course!'

He picked up the chalk and wrote the date on the blackboard, looking triumphant as he dusted his hands afterwards.

'Just read it out,' he urged the children.

They chanted it obediently. Was there a touch of indulging-an-old-man, I wondered? But there were no smiles, and they stood politely, without my prompting, as Gerald Partridge departed.

I was particularly glad to start the summer holidays. Wayne Richards, husband of my assistant teacher and owner of a local building firm, had asked 'if I minded' his men making an early start in Dolly's house.

So dumbfounded was I by this unusual request that I simply gazed at him speechless.

'You see,' he explained, 'what with things being so bad in the trade, I'd be glad to see the two chaps I had in mind for your little problem, getting some work. I don't want to stand anyone off, though I reckon it'll come to it before long.'

'Is it really as bad as that?' I managed to say, when I had got over the initial shock of a real live builder wanting to come
earlier
than arranged.

'Things are tight. Even the big firms are feeling the pinch. People can't afford to move. Can't afford to have repairs done, for that matter.' He looked at me speculatively.

'You won't have to wait for your money on my little job,' I promised him. 'I've put aside the amount in your estimate.'

He hastened to assure me that he had never had any doubts on that score, but I thought that he looked relieved, as well he might if more prosperous firms than his were already suffering.

'The company that built these new places in Fairacre is going bust, so I heard last night. Nobody's buying, see, with mortgage rates as they are. They'll have to bring the price down to get rid of those two that are left.'

'They have already reduced the price,' I said. 'So the Winters told me.'

'I bet they're cursing they bought when they did,' he replied. There was a touch of contentment in his expression. How often other people's misfortune gives gratification, I thought!

'Well, do start as soon as you like,' I told him. 'I shall be glad to move in during these holidays.'

Heaven alone knows, I thought after his departure, it will take weeks to sort out my present abode, even the goods and chattels in the rooms themselves. What the cupboards, the loft, the garage and the glory-hole under the stairs would bring forth, I shuddered to think.

Time, and back-breaking work, would tell.

A day or two after this, Amy called in unexpectedly, accompanied, to my surprise, by Brian Horner.

After our greetings, we sat in the garden and I told Amy about my move, possibly in a few weeks' time.

'Splendid!' said Amy. 'Once you've made up your mind it's best to get cracking. No point in drifting along as you so often do.'

'Oh, come!' I protested. 'I'm not quite as bad as that. I'm always telling myself that "procrastination is the thief of time". What a marvellous phrase, incidentally.'

'Not quite as reverberating as that one in our
Handbook for Teachers,
' Amy reminisced. 'Something about teachers in dreary city schools "directing the children's attention to the ever changing panorama of the heavens".'

'I can go one better than that,' I told her, still smarting from her remarks about
drifting
. 'In some scriptural commentary or other, I read once that "Job had often to suffer the opprobrium of anti-patriotism." What about that?'

'I think I can top both those reverberating phrases,' broke in Brian. 'It was said by Dr Thompson, Master of Trinity College, Cambridge from 1866 to 1886, about Richard Jebb: "The time that Mr Jebb can spare from the adornment of his person, he devotes to the neglect of his duties." How's that?'

'Perfect,' we agreed. Brian's final two words emboldened me to ask if he was called 'Basher' because of his cricketing ability.

'Only partly. My full name, I'm sorry to say, is Brian Arthur Seymour Horner, and naturally boys soon called me 'Basher'. What a lot parents have to answer for when they name their children.'

'Excuse me,' I said. 'I must look at my oven. I'm cooking a chicken.'

Amy followed me into the house while Brian meandered about the garden admiring, I hoped, my flower borders.

'I thought he was safely in Bristol,' I said to Amy, in the privacy of the kitchen.

'So did I,' she responded, 'but he has to go to headquarters with James tomorrow, and so he's spending this weekend with us. I'm quite sorry for him. He misses his wife and home so much. He fairly jumped at the chance of coming to see you.'

'Well, I'm not particularly sorry for him,' I said, slamming the oven door, 'and I've got quite enough to think about without taking on an estranged husband.'

'You're a hard woman,' said Amy, giving me a loving pat, and we returned to the garden.

I was pottering about that evening wondering if Amy would ever be free of Brian Horner. Would James's hero worship survive all the strain that was being put upon it? To my mind, Brian was a mediocre little man, full of self-pity, and I should like to have heard his wife's side of the tale. Still, I told myself more charitably, both James and Amy came very well out of the present situation: generous, and good-hearted. I only hoped that their faith in their friend would remain unclouded.

The telephone bell aroused me from my conjectures, and I was surprised to hear a strange woman's voice announcing herself as 'Dolly Clare's niece, Mary.'

'Well,' I said, 'I
am
delighted to hear from you. Where are you?'

'In Caxley for a few days. My husband - my
second
husband, that is - is over from the States on business, so I came with him to visit some old friends here. They told me about Aunt Dolly.'

'Would you like to come and see the cottage?'

'Indeed I should.'

I went on to tell her about Dolly Clare's legacy to me, but naturally she knew about that from her Caxley friends. I arranged to pick her up two days ahead, and to take her to Beech Green.

'I didn't see as much of Aunt Dolly as I should have liked,' she told me. 'She and mother became somewhat estranged in later life. To be truthful, I think my mother was jealous of Dolly's friend, Emily Davis.'

'What a pity!'

'It certainly was. Anyway, I should like to see the little house again, and perhaps you could spare something of hers as a little keepsake?'

'Of course, I'm sure we can find something,' I told her, and we went on to arrange the time of our meeting.

Later, I began to wonder what could be offered to Dolly's niece. As she had stated in her will, all her trinkets, as she called them, were to go to Isobel Annett who had been such a staunch friend, and this request had been met.

There were several nice pieces of china, and some silver spoons; also a pretty little clock which had graced Dolly's bedroom mantelpiece. Perhaps Mary would prefer some of her aunt's linen, embellished with hand-made crochetwork? In any case, I thought, I was glad to be able to offer a selection of mementoes. She seemed to be the only living tie with Dolly.

I had given several things to people who had been close to my old friend, such as Mrs John, Alice and Bob Willet and various neighbours who had looked after her during her long life. I only hoped that there would be something suitable for Mary to take back.

I suddenly remembered an occasion many years ago when I met an elderly Austrian man and admired a magnificent set of eight mahogany dining-room chairs in his home. His eyes had filled with tears as he said: 'Ah, my dear friend Wilhelm! When he died his good wife asked me to choose a little keepsake. So I chose these chairs.' I had often wondered what that poor widow thought.

I only hoped that Mary would not take a fancy to the cottage staircase or Dolly's kitchen dresser. It was some comfort to remember that she had to transport her choice to the United States eventually, and weight would have to be considered.

Mary Linkenhorn turned out to be a middle-aged, cheerful woman with absolutely nothing in her appearance to connect her with Dolly Clare.

She was beautifully dressed with many fine rings and a three-row string of pearls. Her expensive crocodile shoes had high heels and matched an enormous handbag. I felt that she was perhaps a little too exquisitely turned out for a morning visit to a cottage where possibly Wayne Richards's employees were messing about with plaster and emulsion paint. However, I liked her at once. She was friendly and unaffected, and obviously delighted to be going to see Dolly's house. She chattered about her early memories of the place, and of her affection for her Aunt Dolly.

'My mother, I'm sorry to say, rather looked down on her, you know. She was a bit of a social climber, my mother, I mean, and she felt that she couldn't invite Dolly to meet some of her affluent Caxley friends.'

'Dolly Clare,' I said, 'would have been welcomed in any society.'

'I agree, but mother didn't think so. To tell the truth, my brother and I fell out with her when we were old enough to leave home. We visited her, of course, and always kept in touch by letters when we left England, but there wasn't much love lost. She was a headstrong woman, and we were better apart.'

'What happened to your brother?'

'He went sheep farming in New Zealand, and did very well, but he contracted cancer some three years ago, and died last Christmas.'

We drew in to the side of the lane outside Dolly's cottage, and I switched off the engine.

Mary sat, silently gazing at the little thatched house. I was rather relieved to see that no builders were at work this morning. We should have the house to ourselves.

It was very quiet in the lane, and we were both content to sit there in silence. A lark was singing overhead, high above the great whale-back of the downs behind the village. A young pheasant crossed the road a few yards from the car, stepping haughtily from one grass verge to the other, and ignoring a small animal, shrew or vole, which streaked across the road within yards of the bird. There was a fragrance in the air compounded of cut grass, wild flowers and, above all, the pungent scent of a nearby elder bush heavy with creamy flowers.

Mary broke the silence first.

'It's so small,' she said.

'Actually,' I told her, 'it has been enlarged since your time. Dolly had the sitting-room made wider, and the kitchen too. But I agree, it is a little house. I think that's why I like it so much.'

We climbed out of the car, and I unlocked the front door. The familiar smell greeted me of ancient wood, slight dampness, and the faint smell of dried lavender which Dolly had never failed to keep in china bowls in each room.

The furniture remained much as Dolly had left it. Some if it would have to go later to the Caxley auctioneers; I had removed anything portable of value to my school house for safety. Beech Green may look idyllic to the passing stranger, but it has its share of villains, as well as a few marauders from elsewhere who take advantage of the nearby motorway to steal anything which will bring them a few pounds, and then make a hasty getaway. It was this hoard which I proposed to display to Mary when we returned to my house for lunch, so that she could choose her keepsake; and this I told her.