(3/20) Storm in the Village (17 page)

I felt as though I had been hit. Could that foolish young woman really be in the neighbourhood? Was she really so infatuated with Franklyn that she could deceive Miss Clare and her parents and also hope to evade the all-seeing eye of Fairacre and its environs? Or could Amy have been mistaken? I clung, for one endless second, to this forlorn hope, but in my heart I knew immediately that Amy was far too sharp-eyed to be deceived. And I knew too, with a sudden sickness, that Hilary Jackson was quite silly enough to imperil her good name, the happiness of her friends and her teaching career, at the promptings of this ill-fated infatuation.

In a flash I decided that Amy must not know of my doubts. There was still a chance that I might be able to get in touch with the girl and get her to see sense before the tongues started wagging in the neighbourhood.

'She must have gone off this morning then,' I said, trying to sound casual.

Lucidly, Tibby created a most welcome diversion by bringing in a squeaking shrew. In the following few frantic minutes, whilst Amy and I tried to rescue it from the outraged cat, Miss Jackson and her affairs were shelved.

At two o'clock Amy drove off. I had found the time from her disclosure until her departure agonisingly long, and could only hope that my anxiety was not too apparent.

I waved goodbye with relief, and before the car was round the bend of the lane I had fled up the stairs, two at a time, to get myself ready for my visit to the cottage in the woods, where I hoped to find Miss Jackson.

It seemed best to go on my bicycle, for the steep track would tax my ancient car's asthmatic powers, and would be more readily noticed. A bicycle, leaning against John Franklyn's fence, could be anybody's, but the car could belong to me alone.

The day was close and sticky. Clouds of minute thunder-flies wafted about in the warm air, tormenting and tickling sensitive places like one's neck and eyes. I was seriously perturbed, as I pushed along, about the best way to handle this uncomfortable interview. It might be easier, though perhaps more painful for Hilary Jackson, if Franklyn were there, for I had no doubt that the craven fellow would be only too pleased to back out of an awkward situation, and would side with me in persuading the girl to return. No gallant hero this Franklyn I suspected but the sort of man who would let a girl break her heart rather than endanger his own skin.

Hilary alone might be a different proposition, full of fervid and misplaced loyalties and seeing herself as the Passionate Woman Who Dared All for Love. A middle-aged headmistress, plain, and untouched by romance, stood a small chance of succeeding against such formidable odds, I told myself.

The track grew steeper and dustier and I dismounted. So far I had not met a soul. I stood on the slope of the downs and looked back to the peaceful valley. The still heat was all-enveloping and shimmered on the road so far below. In the dry fine grass, which whispered at my bicycle wheel, a cricket chirruped tirelessly, and away above, a speck against the dark clouds which gathered ominously above the wood, a lark trickled out his clear song, like sparkling drops from a fountain. With that awareness which comes from a state of heightened emotion I could hear each separate liquid note, and smell the aromatic tang of the small thyme bruised under my feet. From a tall dock plant nearby hung a dying scarlet leaf, a neat and elegant triangle, fluttering like a pennant from a mast. It was as though these small lovely things held out their beauty for the comfort of my sad heart. How easy to succumb, to sit upon this thymy bank and to lose oneself in the company of these old and ever-faithful friends! What business was it of mine to meddle with Hilary Jackson's affairs, whispered a small siren's voice;

Sighing, I resumed my uphill pushing, and with a throbbing head and heavy heart approached the cottage in the woods.

Hilary Jackson was alone. She had answered my knock at the kitchen door, her face flushed and her eyes bright but wary. She had invited me into the dim interior, cool after the heat of the climb, and we sat now, one each side of the grubby kitchen table and surveyed each other.

John,' said the girl, throwing the Christian name across at me like a challenge, John has gone to Caxley and should be back for tea. Perhaps you'll stop?' Her air was studiedly insolent and she was more nervous than she cared to admit. I decided that a plain approach would be best.

'Miss Clare is under die impression that you returned home yesterday. Only by chance I heard that you had been seen in Caxley yesterday evening.'

'And what have my affairs to do with Miss Clare? Or anyone else, for that matter?' demanded the girl, tossing her head.

'Only this—that the way you behave is noticed by everybody in a small community. By consorting with John Franklyn, whose affairs have been watched for many years, I may say, you are giving yourself a bad name. As a teacher you should be doubly careful of the example you set and by flaunting the conventions—which are, after aU, only the commonly accepted modes of decent living—you are not only making a fool of yourself but jeopardising your whole career. One silly slip now may mean much future unhappiness.'

Hilary's face had darkened as my homily unwound.

'I don't care a row of pins for what people think of me—back-biting, narrow-minded, evil-thinking country bumpkins, as stodgy as you are yourself! John Franklyn is a fine man and I'm proud to be seen with him. I suppose a withered old spinster like you thinks that love doesn't matter! Well, it does—and for me everything else must take second place!'

Her eyes flashed behind her thick spectacles and she thumped vehemently upon the kitchen table. I answered her quietly.

'The world is never "wed lost for love" in my opinion. And this is not even love, I'm afraid, but a foolish infatuation on your part which I am positive John Franklyn does not share.'

'You'd never dare to say that to his face!' she flared.

'Indeed I would, and I hoped that he would be here when I called. I think that you might have seen him in his true colours.'

There was a pause in the heat of the battle. Through the open door came soft woodland scents that cooled my warm blood. I tried again.

'Look, Hilary. Please come back to the school-house with me for the night. I'll take you to the station early tomorrow and you can get home with no one knowing any more about this business. I shall say nothing to Miss Clare, or anyone else, and we can scotch any rumours started by people yesterday.'

The girl rounded on me furiously.

'Do you think I'm ashamed to be seen with him? Why, I'm
glad
that people saw us together yesterday! I suppose your beastly mind thinks that we spent the night here. Well, it's wrong! I stayed at John's sister's in Caxley, and she thinks I've gone home today!' Her voice was strident and triumphant, and her eyes glittered with dangerous excitement. She thrust her face close to mine. 'And where I spend tonight is my own business! I'm old enough to look after myself!'

'Old enough,' I said sadly, rising to my feet, 'but not wise enough. I can see you're in no mood to see reason. Someone will have to make you—but I can't obviously.'

I drew the door further back and made my way unhappily into the green and gold glory of the wooded garden.

Hilary Jackson stood in the doorway, pink and panting from the tussle, and exalted with her own fine, but foolish, outpourings. She looked so young and silly that I remembered Jemima Puddleduck who was so cruelly deceived by another foxy-whiskered gentleman.

'I'll be in Fairacre if you want me,' I called back, lifting my bicycle from the fence. 'Don't be too proud to ask for help if you need it. And
please do
think over what I've said!'

'
Amor omnia vincity!
' quoted Miss Jackson, loudly and soulfully. And, distressed as I was, I noted that my assistant's pronunciation of Latin was execrable.

It was hotter and more oppressive than ever as I rode back down the steep slope to the Fairacre road. I must get in touch with her parents at once, I told myself, my head throbbing and eyes half-closed against the myriad flies that bombarded my face.

I did not know the Jacksons' address and nothing would make me worry Miss Clare for it, ill as she was. Luckily, by the time I was pedalling along the road towards the spire of St Patrick's, I remembered the name of Hilary's home town in the Midlands, and also that her father's Christian name was Oliver.

Black clouds were gathering swiftly overhead and there were ominous rumblings from the Caxley direction as I entered the school-house and made straight for the telephone.

'Enquiries, please,' I said to the girl and sat down thankfully, cradling the receiver. The line crackled as the thunder grew nearer. There was a rushing sound outside as the wind which precedes a storm lifted the branches of the elm trees that stand at the corner of the playground. A fierce eddy twirled a few dead leaves and dust round and round, in a miniature whirlwind, outside the window.

The girl was a long time in tracking down the Jacksons' telephone number from the few poor clues that I could supply. As I waited I was torn with anxiety. Supposing that they had already gone to the house by the sea and that there was no one at home? This was Saturday, and people generally took over a holiday house on that day of the week. And if I did get through-how on earth could I word the dreadful news which I must transmit? Confound the wretched girl, I thought wrathfully, raining my own and her parents' holidays!

A jagged orange streak split the black sky behind St Patrick's, and a crash like a ton of coals let down upon the school-house roof, rocked the room. A faint voice spoke through the hubbub.

'You're through!' it said.

Mr Jackson listened to my somewhat incoherent remarks with commendable patience.

'I'll come straight away,' he said decisively. 'I can be there in two hours and I'd bring her back with me. Don't worry, and many thanks!'

I said I was so relieved to find them at home.

'My wife had an attack of migraine,' he answered, 'so we postponed the journey until tomorrow.'

Another fearful crash shattered the air around me, and must have penetrated to the telephone.

'Are you all right?' said Mr Jackson. He sounded alarmed. I explained that we were in the midst of a violent thunderstorm.

'Oh!' said he, 'that all? For a moment I thought you'd fainted! I'll ring off now, and be on my way!'

Through the teeming rain which now lashed against the window I saw the church clock. The hands stood at half past four. On trembling legs I made my way to the kitchen and filled the kettle.

I spent the next few hours making plum jam, with a quarter of my mind on the operation and the other three-quarters imagining the happenings at the game-keeper's cottage. Would Hilary refuse to go? Would there be any violence? Would the cottage have been struck by lightning and the sorrowing and vengeful father arrive only to find two charred bodies among the smoking embers? I did my best to curb these morbid fancies and to concentrate on the jam, but it was uphill work.

The storm still raged and muttered, following the line of the downs. At times it died away in intensity, but returned again periodically with renewed vigour. The playground streamed with water and I guessed that the skylight would be letting through a regular steady trickle into my classroom.

At nine o'clock the telephone rang. It was Mr Jackson's comfortable deep voice at the other end.

'All's well! A few tears on the way, and now the girl's in bed. I thought you might be worrying. We'd write from the other house. Meanwhile, all our thanks.'

What a day, I thought, as I climbed the stairs to bed two hours later. The gutters still gurgled and the thunder still growled in the distance. I looked out upon Fairacre's glistening church and a few streaming roofs among the tossing trees.

This was the halcyon village I had mooned over so sentimentally early in the holidays, I thought grimly. Where now was the tranquil sunshine, the serenity, the innocent-hearted populace going about its honest business?

I thought of the misplaced passion of Hilary Jackson, the cupidity of John Franklyn, the evil gossiping of neighbours, the sad injustice of Miss Clare's ill-health, the misery of the Coggs famdy at the mercy of their drunken father under the broken dripping thatch of Tylers' Row, of the chained unhappy dogs in back gardens, bedraggled hens cooped all too closely in bare rank runs, and, over all, the tension engendered by the housing scheme and the ugly passions it aroused.

A flash of lightning illuminated the landscape in quivering mauve and yellow lights, distorting its normal lovely colouring to something livid and sinister.

Sick at heart, with the noise of the storm still raging round me, I sought in vain for the comfort of sleep.

PART THREE

Thunder and Lightning

15. Dr Martin is Busy

O
N
the hottest day of the year Dr Martin drove on his rounds along the winding lanes of Fairacre. Heat throbbed from the dusty road, the cows were gathered into any patch of shade that they could find, and the distant downs shimmered under a burning sky.