(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (6 page)

In the morning it had cleared, and a bright sun was already sparking the raindrops on the edge. A spring morning in this downland country is a joy, and my garden was looking at its most hopeful. The ancient plum tree, brittle with age, was a mass of white blossom, and the grass was 'pranked with daisies', as Robert Bridges put it. I decided then and there that the children should learn his poem
Spring Goeth All in White
that very afternoon, in readiness for all the pleasures of the spring now, and those about to come.

The clematis was showing buds and, in the two tubs by my door, scarlet early tulips made a splash of colour against the faded brickwork of the house. Farther off in the border the daffodils made a brave show behind the mixed colours of velvety polyanthus. I savoured the freshness of it all before going in for my breakfast. Everything was so clean, so new, so hopeful. Before long the weeds would come, and the greenfly. The birds would peck at the polyanthus and primrose, and scatter the earth everywhere as they scratched for insects. The grass would need mowing, the paths would need weeding, the flowers would need deheading.

Never mind! That was in the future. It was bliss enough to relish this early morning vista of young life and fresh beauty, and I proposed to look no further.

On the following Sunday I went to tea at Jane Winter's new house.

I had looked forward to this for some time, for I have the usual curiosity about how others live, and we have had so few really new houses in the village that this was going to be an extra excitement.

Since my arrival in Fairacre, a number of cottages had been sold and renovated. With the decrease in the number of farm workers, many of their homes had gone on the market. Some, but not many in Fairacre, had become weekend cottages for Londoners, but more had been taken by couples working in Caxley, or retired people from the neighbourhood.

This, of course, was traditional. The young couples wanted a garden, and a pleasant place to bring up a family. The retired couples often wanted to leave their town homes which had sometimes been their business premises as well, and were looking for something peaceful and pretty, and easy to run.

The Hales were typical of such people. He had been a history master at Caxley Grammar School for most of his career, and they both enjoyed retirement now in Tyler's Row, a row of small and once shabby cottages which they had converted into one house. The Hales had proved to be a great asset to Fairacre, supporting the church and school, and well to the fore in helping with all our village activities. No doubt the Winters too would join in, although their business commitments would mean that their time was limited.

The front garden of the Winter's house was still rather raw, but the border had been planted with dwarf conifers of varying shapes and hues, and would look pleasant before long. It was obviously planted with an eye to saving labour in the future, which I thought wise. The Mr Willets of this world get scarcer weekly, more's the pity, and what one cannot do has of necessity to be left.

'Come and see the back garden,' said Jane, leading me round the house. There was a newly planted lawn, young grass already sprouting, and the whole area covered with lines of black cotton supported by a forest of sticks.

'The birds are such a pest,' said Jane, 'but I think we're winning. We're planning to have a rockery in the corner, and a long border with perennials at that side. And we're going to get a shrubbery going next autumn.'

'No vegetables?'

'Simply not worth it,' she said. 'We are surrounded with first-class market gardeners, and I can always pop into Tesco's or Sainsbury's from the office. Besides, when would we find the time to tend a vegetable garden? I know my father spends all his days planting peas and training raspberries, but then he's retired.'

It all made good sense, but again brought home to me the change in Fairacre ways. The older people in the village still maintain their vegetable plot in the back garden, and when I came here first a great many grew vegetables in their front gardens as well. The idea of spending money, and energy, in bringing stuff unnecessarily from Caxley on the bus was unthinkable. Only foreign produce such as oranges or bananas needed to be transported, the bulk of fruit and vegetables came from one's own patch and was eaten in season. All the peelings, the outer leaves of cabbages and lettuces and so on, went to the pig, for almost all cottagers had a sty, and even in my own days, most gardens had a family pig in the corner.

Needless to say, there was no pig in this garden. It was very well planned, and given a few years it was going to look lovely, as I told my hostess.

We went indoors to be greeted by Jane's husband Tom, a large and cheerful man who was engaged in bandaging young Jeremy's knee.

'Nothing serious,' he assured me. 'It isn't a hospital job, is it Jeremy?'

The child nodded agreement. There were still signs of tears, but he seemed to be over the shock.

'Our paving stones are still wobbly,' explained Tom, 'and we shall have to get them laid properly, I can see.'

The drawing-room was large and light, and the furniture new and comfortable. Jeremy was prompted into handing round sandwiches and cake, which he did nobly despite the limp, but his father was given the job of delivering teacups.

It was all very jolly, and I enjoyed meeting new people and admiring their splendid possessions. It was stimulating to see the latest bathroom equipment, the modern double-glazing, the fitted cupboards and up-to-date gadgets in the kitchen and the adjoining utility room. The washing machine and tumble drier, as well as some large objects which I could not recognize, were housed here, while the kitchen itself was reserved for the cooking arrangements and also had a large table where meals could be taken. This, I could see, was already the heart of the house, as it is in all real homes.

After tea and the inspection of the house, we returned to the sitting-room and helped Jeremy with a large jigsaw puzzle of Mrs Tiggywinkle.

'He loves Beatrix Potter,' commented Jane.

'What a right-minded child,' I said.

'But I still wish we'd chosen "Benjamin Bunny",' said his father, studying a mottled piece of jigsaw. 'These prickly bits are the devil to sort out.'

I returned home with a pot of home-made jam, a picture drawn by Jeremy, and the comfortable feeling of having made new friends.

Later that evening, as I soaked in my very ordinary white bath, I dwelt on the beauty of the Winter's new home, and particularly on the luxury of their bathroom. The walls were painted a pale green, and the bath, wash-basin, bidet and lavatory echoed the colour. Even the soap was green and the towels too. It was a most beautiful sight.

And yet, not all that long ago, as I well remembered, almost all the water in our village was that which fell from the skies, and ended up in water butts and tanks. It is true that there were several deep wells, and my school house possessed one in which the water was pure and ice-cold. But bathrooms were few and far between, and in my early years at Fairacre I took my bath in front of the kitchen fire enjoying silky rain water in a galvanized iron tub.

Very few houses now were without a bathroom. My own had been adapted from a tiny box room between the two bedrooms, and very well it suited me.

I remember how excited I was when main water was laid through the village, and I turned on my new bath taps. Here indeed was luxury!

There was no doubt about it, I thought as I towelled myself dry, Fairacre folk were a great deal better off these days. Gone were the buckets of hot and cold water to be carried into the house. Better still, gone were the earth privies at the end of the garden which, no matter how well embowered in lilac and elder bushes, were not a pleasure to visit at any time, and at their very worst on a dark wet night.

I would not wish to go back to those days, and yet I wondered if my delight in hearing rain splashing against my windows and gurgling into my water butts did not stem from that long ago time when rain water was welcome and held so dear.

Amy called in one evening, soon after the Sunday tea party, and I told her all about the new house.

'I wish you had somewhere like that to live,' she said somewhat wistfully.

I looked at her in surprise. 'But I've got this - and I love it! You know that.'

'Yes, of course I know it,' said Amy, sounding more like her brisk self, 'but what about the future? What happens if the school closes?
When
it closes, one might say, from all I hear.'

Again, I had to make a decision. Should I keep my secret, as I had done for some years now? Or was it a secret after all? The vicar seemed to know all about Dolly Clare's generosity, and I had no doubt that most of Fairacre knew too.

I resolved to tell Amy that after one or two bequests, I would inherit Dolly's house and its contents. And having told her it was gratifying to see that she really had had no idea of my good fortune, and she was greatly stirred. Amy has a warm and quite emotional nature hidden under the sophisticated veneer, and she rose to give me a hug.

'Gosh, what a relief! I am so
very
pleased for you. Dear old Dolly, she is as far-sighted as she is generous. It is the perfect answer to your problems, isn't it?'

I told her how I felt about it.

'It solves our problems too,' she went on. 'James and I have often thought about what might happen to you when you retired, and he had plans for some kind of trust fund.'

'Good heavens!' I exclaimed. 'It's uncommonly kind of you both, but I shall have a pension, you know, and probably find digs somewhere, or a flat to rent.'

'Well, that doesn't arise now, does it?' said Amy.

'You are a good pair,' I replied. 'Always helping lame dogs over stiles - though I can't ever remember seeing a lame dog being helped over a stile, come to think of it. No doubt it would resent the attention, and bite the helping hand ungratefully. Anyway, how's your latest? Brian, I mean?'

'Still with us, although his daughter took him off our hands for three days last week.'

'So the Bristol job didn't materialize?'

'We don't know yet. The fellow who was at school with James and Brian is in Australia on some high-powered business lark, and then he will want to consult the other directors, so it looks as though we shall have our Brian for some time.'

'Well, I reckon you are both noble. I often think of that somewhat outspoken Spanish saying: "After three days fish, and visitors, stink!"'

Amy laughed. 'Well, at least Brian doesn't do that! He's the
most
frequently-bathed man I've come across.'

She rose to look out at the garden. 'I can see why you're so fond of this place. It is a little gem.'

'I know.'

'Does it run to a cup of coffee, by the way?'

I burst into apologies.

'Anything will do, my dear, as long as it isn't "This-week's-offer" from the village shop.'

'You shall have the very best,' I assured her, hastening to the kitchen.

5 Easter Holidays

WITH the end of the Spring term in sight, I began to busy myself with innumerable forms and returns which had to go to the local education authority.

More pleasurably, I began to plan some modest entertaining at the school house. During term time my evenings and weekends seem to be filled with such domestic activities as washing and ironing, answering personal letters, attacking anything particularly urgent in the home such as a leaking tap, a spent light bulb, or some feline disorder of Tibby's.

There are also school duties which have to be done in the peace of my sitting-room, such as the ever-present marking, planning of lessons and occasionally the highly necessary job of sorting out a large cardboard carton known euphoniously as 'The Bits Box'.

This useful aid to education contains such objects as cotton reels, buttons, kitchen paper towels, plastic boxes which once held margarine, Gentleman's Relish and other choice comestibles, lengths of elastic, string, raffia, lace, mysterious pieces of metal from old corsets, broken clocks, kitchen gadgets, and heaven knows what beside.

This jumble of rubbish is a constant source of delight to my children whose powers of invention are sparked off by blissful trawling in this rich sea. From the detritus they fabricate windmills, ships, cars, furniture for their dolls' houses or a host of ingenious objects. The Bits Box is much prized, but needs attention now and again. An insufficiently cleaned cereal carton, for instance, soon gets the attention of the school mice who bustle out at night when all is quiet. Sometimes the box itself, redolent of its varied cargo, has to be replaced with a fresh one.

This holiday, however, I intended to invite the Winters and Miriam and Gerard Baker to lunch with me. I should like to have invited Amy and James too, for they are generous in their hospitality to me, but they were going to be away and, in any case, seven people in my small dining-room was rather a squash. They would come on another occasion.

The invitations were accepted to lunch on a Saturday, and I began to ponder on the meal. I enjoy cooking, but it is not much fun providing for one person. It was going to be much more exciting planning an elegant spring luncheon for five.