(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (16 page)

Her face was transfixed with pleasure and wonder as she stood inside the sitting-room: 'It still smells the same. Isn't it strange how strongly smells evoke memories? Far more so than sight.'

She crossed to the window and looked across the little garden, now in sore need of attention I noticed guiltily, to the sweep of the downs beyond.

'And the view's exactly the same. What a relief!'

She sat down Suddenly, as though everything was too much for her.

'You know,' she said after a while, 'my friends in Caxley dissuaded me from going to visit a place near the town where we used to picnic as children. There seemed to be every wild flower imaginable there - cowslips, scabious, bee orchids and early purple orchids, and lots of that yellow ladies' slipper. They told me it has all gone. A new estate has been built there, and all the trees cut down "Cherish your memories," they said to me, and I'm sure they are right.'

She looked about the room.

'But this has changed so little, and I'm glad you've brought me. Can we see the rest?'

We wandered into the kitchen, and Mary ran her fingers over the old scrubbed kitchen table, ridged with years of service. She peered excitedly into the larder with its slate shelves, and the massive pottery bread crock on the brick floor.

'It's all as I remember it,' she said delightedly. 'Will you keep things as they are?'

'I shall do my best,' I assured her, as we mounted the stairs.

It was plain that work was in progress here, though not at the moment. Dust sheets draped the beds and the rest of the furniture which had been put into the middle of the rooms. Paint pots and brushes stood on newspaper on the window sills, and there was a smell of fresh paint.

Mary gazed out of the window. It did me good to see how much she relished her visit here after so many years, and I was glad that so little had changed for her. It was right, as her friends had said, 'to cherish her memories'. But how much better to find that some of those memories, at least, were still reality.

She was very quiet as we drove back from Beech Green to Fairacre and, I guessed, much moved by all she had seen. I was careful not to break the silence until we had stopped the car outside my home, when Mary seemed to return to this world with a cry of delight.

'But this is a lovely house!' She turned to me, looking perplexed. 'It is so much better than Aunt Dolly's! Can you bear to move away?'

I laughed, and led her into the house.

As we sipped our glasses of sherry, I explained that the school house was virtually a tied cottage, something that went with the job, and when I retired I should have had to have found another abode. That was why Dolly's wonderful legacy to me had been so deeply appreciated. Her house would be my haven in the future.

'But won't you mind what happens to this place when you go?'

'Of course, I shall. I've always loved it, and I think the school authorities would let me buy it if the school were closed down. But that's out of the question. The property will be sold, I've no doubt, and if the school closes, then that will be sold too. It could make a splendid house with care and money spent on it.'

'I hope that never happens,' said my guest.

'So do I,' I assured her, 'but things don't look very promising at the moment. Now, come and have some lunch.'

Afterwards, I broached the subject of a memento and told her about Dolly's valuables which I had stored upstairs.

We went up to inspect them, and I spread out Dolly's things on the bed for Mary's inspection. She fingered the beautiful old linen, and picked up the pieces of ancient china with great care.

'It's all so lovely, and so difficult to choose. I love this little china cream jug, but I think I'll settle for one of Dolly's tablecloths, if that suits you?'

'Take both,' I said. 'I know Dolly would love to have seen them in family hands.'

She made her selection from the pile of linen. The chosen cloth had a deep edging of hand-made crochet, done years ago, I felt sure, by Dolly's mother Mary, after whom the present Mary had been named.

'I shall use it on very special days, like Christmas,' Mary said.

Later I drove my new friend to Caxley. Only three days remained before she and her husband returned to America, and I was much touched when she invited me to go and stay with them, and have a holiday there.

'Perhaps next summer?' she pressed, as I stopped outside at her friends' home.

'There's nothing I should like more,' I told her, 'but I shall have to think about it.'

We parted with a kiss, and I drove back thinking how good it had been to have contact with this last link with Dolly's family.

Should I ever go to the United States, I wondered? A lot would depend on the future of Fairacre School. Would it still be there? For that matter, would I still be there?

I had plenty to think about in the time ahead, but I was enormously glad to have met Mary and to have been able to give her the mementoes she liked. And at least she had not put me in the position of poor Wilhelm's widow when those Austrian dining-room chairs had been appropriated.

***

At the Post office the next day, I was surprised to see Mrs Lamb standing behind the grille in place of her husband.

'He's down at the surgery,' she said, in reply to my enquiry. 'Got a bad back, picking gooseberries yesterday, and anyone would think he was at death's door. You know what men are.'

'Well, I hope it soon gets better. Backs are so painful. Just six air letters, please, and a book of stamps.'

She busied herself in a drawer. 'Have you heard any more about the school closing?' she asked.

Mrs Lamb has been a manager, or
governor,
as I have to remember to call them now, for several years, in company with other good villagers such as Mr Roberts and Mrs Mawne, wife of our local ornithologist, Henry.

'Nothing definite,' I said. 'As you know, we are now down to about twenty on roll, but I have had no word from the office about closure so I'm keeping my fingers crossed.'

'Well, we've trounced the idea before, and we'll do it again,' said Mrs Lamb, slapping down my purchases in a militant manner. 'There's not a soul in Fairacre who wants the school to close. That must count for something.'

I said that I hoped so.

'You don't think,' she went on, a note of doubt now in her voice, 'that you leaving for Dolly Clare's place might make them think of shutting the school?'

The thought had never occurred to me, and although I did not think that my removal a few miles distant would affect the authority's decision, I was somewhat taken aback.

'I don't imagine it will make the slightest difference,' I said, trying to sound reassuring. 'After all, I spent several weeks commuting from Dolly's house to school during her last illness.'

'That's what I said to Maud Pringle when she came in yesterday. There's a fair amount of gossip about the school at the moment.'

This I could well believe, and I made my way homeward with all the old familiar worries buzzing in my head like a swarm of bees.

It really looked as though the school might close. It would not be just yet, as we should have had fair warning if such a step were imminent. I remembered the vicar's blackboard message about the dates of the coming term, and felt a faint comfort.

But I really ought to give some serious thought to my own future. My departure from the school house would probably mean that it would be put on the market. That I had already faced. But what should I do if the school closed? I felt sure that I would be offered another post in the area, possibly at Beech Green School if there were a suitable vacancy. There were a dozen or so schools in Caxley and nearby which might employ me. But did I want to go elsewhere? I certainly did not.

I could, I supposed, take early retirement, but could I afford to? And wasn't I still an active person, wanting to work and, though I said it myself, able, healthy and experienced? I should soon be bored, kicking around at home, and I remembered Miriam Baker's remark about 'being geared to work'. Like most people when working, I professed to loathing it, but deprived of it I should probably be far less content.

As I came towards the church, I saw that Bob Willet was busy digging a grave, and I went across to speak to him. He looked hot with his labours, and pushed his cap to the back of his head.

'Fair bit of clay over the chalk in this 'ere graveyard,' he said, clambering out and taking a seat on a conveniently placed horizontal grave stone over the tomb of Josiah Drummond Gent. He nodded towards his work. 'Poor old Bert Tanner. Went last week.'

I made to sit beside him, and he dusted a place with his rough old hand.

'Bit damp, you know. Don't want to get piles. Nasty things, piles.'

'I shan't hurt,' I said. 'I'm pretty tough.'

'You needs to be these days,' he observed, and a companionable silence fell between us as we let the peace of the place envelop us. A country churchyard is a very soothing spot among all our 'rude forefathers', including Josiah Drummond Gent, whose last resting place was providing us with a comfortable, if chilly, seat.

'Heard any more about our school shutting?' he said at last, breaking the silence.

'Not a thing. I don't think there's any cause to worry just yet.'

'Looks as though it's bound to come, though. I hates all this 'ere change. New houses, new people, that dratted motorway, you moving out before long. It's
unsettling,
that's what it is.'

'I shan't be going far,' I pointed out. 'In a way I shall only be carrying on where dear old Dolly left off. So there's a nice comforting piece of continuity for you.'

Mr Willet sighed.

'I s'pose you could look at it like that. There's still plenty that stays the same. Digging graves, for instance, and them downs up there. They won't change, thank God.'

The stone was beginning to strike some chill through my summer skirt, and I rose to go. Mr Willet heaved himself to his feet, and grasped his spade again.

'Ah well! My old ma used to say: "Do what's to hand and the Lord will look after the rest." I'd best get on digging.'

He jumped neatly into the mottled clay and chalk hole of his making, and I went to embark on what my own hand should be doing.

12 Relief by Telephone

I WENT to Beech Green on most days during the summer holidays, to see how the refurbishing was getting on, and to take over a few pieces of furniture, china and so on from the school house.

Wayne Richards was doing me proud, I felt, and the basic decorating was done within two weeks, and rejuvenated the whole place. I felt immensely pleased with my new home.

I had got our local electrician to inspect all the wiring, and the plumber to check his work in the cottage. To my relief all was in good repair. It looked as though I should be able to move in before term started, unless any unforeseen problems cropped up.

The biggest headache was the state of the garden, and I took Bob Willet with me one hot day, to get his advice on it. He mooched about it in a thoughtful mood, taking particular note of the ancient fruit trees.

'Almost all have had their day,' he told me. He stood by an ancient plum tree. Brown beads of resin decorated the trunk, and some of the topmost branches were already dead.

Bob's brown hand slapped the wrinkled bark.

'You thinkin' of replacing any of 'em?'

'Is it so bad?'

'In my opinion, yes. The only tree here as is worth its salt is that old Bramley and the yew tree. They'll be good for another fifty years, but these 'ere fruit trees should be out before they falls down.'

I nodded my agreement.

'I think I'd like a new plum tree - one of the gage type, if possible - and perhaps a couple of new apple trees. But I agree there's no need for more.'

'Come early autumn I'll bring a lad up with me and we'll get this lot down.'

He moved on to a James Grieve apple tree which was already leaning over at an alarming angle.

'Tell you what, Miss Read, these 'ere trees'll give you a nice lot of firewood for the winter.'

He turned his attention to the neglected border, and shook his head.

'Hopeless?' I hazarded.

'Best to dig up the lot and start afresh,' was his verdict. 'It's that full of twitch and ground elder nothing won't grow well there.'

And so it went on as we did our tour of inspection. Only the soft fruit bushes, black and redcurrant and gooseberry bushes passed his ruthless inspection. Even they, it seemed, could do with 'a good old spray against the bugs'.