(3/20) Storm in the Village (24 page)

'You make us a cup o' tea, gal, and I'll have a look round,' he said, gently. He put on his coat and cap again and went thoughtfully out into the downpour.

His wife watched him go grimly, arms akimbo. The worm had turned.

He returned fifteen minutes' later. The children were seated at the table demolishing thick doorsteps of bread and margarine. His own plateful of baked beans and rasher stood ready for him.

'Anyone seen him?' cried his wife anxiously, hand on heart.

'No. But I told old Lamb at the Post Office and he said he'd keep a lookout.'

'Fat lot of good that was!' commented his wife. Arthur Coggs lied quickly.

'And I saw the copper on his bike. Going on home he was, so I let him know our Jo were out somewhere!' His wife looked at him suspiciously.

'It's the truth!' protested Arthur, beginning to bluster. 'And I'll tell you another thing—if he ain't home before bedtime we'll leave the doors unlocked so's the kid can get in.'

'I'll go out meself,' answered his wife resolutely, 'as soon as this lot's finished with.' She looked at her gobbling brood, at the poor, scanty meal, the cracked plates, the meagre fire and at her shifty, lying bully of a husband. The new-found fire burnt steadily within her and gave her unquenchable courage. She turned upon him again furiously.

'You've driven our Jo to this,' she told him shrilly, ‹1 went for him, I knows that, but only because I was that worried and fed-up. If I'd had a good man behind me all these years, there'd be no need for us all living worse than pigs. Things is going to alter here, Arthur Coggs, or, mark my words, you faces the lot on your own! I'm off otherwise, back to service, with good meals and decent people. I been a fool too long I reckons!'

The tears were running down her cheeks as she ended this tirade. The children watched her open-mouthed and Arthur Coggs, for once, was beyond speech.

Mrs Pringle presented Joseph Coggs to me just as I was about to lift my breakfast egg out of the saucepan. I had never seen a child look so exhausted.

'Asleep on the floor!' said Mrs Pringle dramatically. 'Lord! That give me a start! "What on earth can that old bundle of rags be adoing down there?" I thought to myself—when, all of a sudden, it moved!'

Mrs Pringle threw her hands up in astonishment.

'And been there all night, he says. What'll his poor ma be doing?'

'Be a dear and take a message down,' I begged. 'The stoves can wait. I'll give him breakfast while you're gone.'

Pleased to be the bearer of such momentous tidings Mrs Pringle hurried off with not the slightest trace of a limp, whilst I returned to my visitor.

'Do you like boiled eggs?' I asked him. He nodded dazedly. His eyes were puffy, his face and hands filthy and I led him to the sink while his two eggs boiled.

I stripped the child's dirty clothes from his waist up and gave him a thorough wash, as he stood silently impassive. He was pathetically thin, every rib showing and his bony shoulder blades protruding like a fledgling's wings. Here and there was an ugly bruise and the poverty-stricken smell of accumulated dirt and neglect hung around his fragile form. I wished that I had time to bath him properly, but after redressing him and combing his matted hair, I looked upon my breakfast guest with pride.

I let him eat before doing a little tentative questioning. The child seemed too listless, too dazed and too bewildered to do more than grunt a 'yes' or 'no' to my few queries, but it was enough to give me a true and heart-breaking glimpse of all that Joseph had endured throughout his short life.

By the time his mother arrived I had already decided that someone in authority would have to tackle this family problem. I had foreseen a forlorn, negative hopelessness from Mrs Coggs, but was pleasantly surprised to find that, though red-eyed with weeping, she was in fighting trim. To my suggestion that the County Medical Officer should take a look at Joseph and his sisters in the school, and that he might be able to give some help, her face lit up.

'I only wants a hand,' she said. ' 'lis that ol' house and all the kids. And Arthur's no help, as you knows, miss. If he brought his money home regular, us might've had a real house by now.'

I said that the Medical Officer might be able to pass their case forward to the housing committee. Something should be done, I promised her.

'I wouldn't know where I was!' she said wonderingly. She looked bemusedly about my kitchen, at the sink, the electric kettle, at the checked tablecloth and the breakfast food.

Joseph returned with his mother to Tyler's Row, there to sleep in his own bed.

'Let him come up to school dinner if he's awake by then,' I said to Mrs Coggs as they went down the path. 'And I won't forget to do what I can to help.'

And I should have done it long ago, I scolded myself, as I collected a pile of books and made ready to go over to the school. I made up my mind to get in touch with the vicar that same day. Two heads would be better than one, as Mr Willet no doubt would tell me, and between us the desperate conditions of Tyler's Row should be lightened by some hope from the county authorities.

Yes, I thought, remembering Mrs Coggs, the worm had turned indeed, and as it later transpired, the fortune of the whole Coggs family too. For before the end of the year the council house, which had been the home of old Shepherd Burton's family, became vacant, and the Coggs family was immediately moved in.

Mrs Coggs' new-found spirit glowed steadily in these surroundings. Arthur Coggs, in flabbergasted obedience to a court order, found himself handing over a fixed sum of money to his wife each week, and the whole of Fairacre voiced its approval. It was generally agreed that Joseph's rebellion on that stormy autumn evening had been 'a real blessing in disguise.'

20. Miss Jackson Hears Bad News

T
HE
autumn term slipped by. The elm trees, overshadowing the school, now stood in gaunt majesty, the wind from the downs blew breathtakingly cold and the first signs of Christmas were abroad.

The children were busy preparing a nativity play, and during handwork lessons the pile of Christmas presents for parents, such as smudgy calendars, bumpy raffia mats and little hankies bearing here and there a needle-prick of blood from some hard-worked finger, grew apace.

In the village shop delicious boxes of crackers glowed on the shelves and further delights were to be found at the Post Office, which also sold sweets.

Cheek by jowl with the red sealing wax and foolscap envelopes stood pink and white sugar mice with string tails, chocolate watches and tiny jars filled with minute satin cushions, all waiting to deck some cottage Christmas tree.

The younger children, under Miss Jackson's care, grew dady more excited, and I dreaded to think of the pandemonium which would greet the ceremony of 'hanging up the paper chains.' These grew at an incredible rate, scarlet linking yellow, yellow blue, blue silver, silver green, cascading down the sides of desks, lying in great rustling heaps on the floor and sending the makers into ecstasies. They plied their paste brushes madly, their faces flushed and their eyes sparkling. But Miss Jackson seemed unmoved.

I spent an evening with Miss Clare and our conversation turned to the girl. Miss Clare was busy knitting a pair of blue dungarees for Malcolm Annett's Christmas present.

'I hear that John Franklyn has found another attraction,' she told me, as her busy needles clicked. 'Mrs Fowler's niece who works at "The Bell".'

'Is it true, do you think?' I asked. Miss Clare lowered her knitting and looked steadily across at me.

'I'm quite sure it is. It seems to be general knowledge that the two are about together everywhere. Frankly, it seems the best thing for everybody. They are neither of them particularly likeable people, but they would suit each other very wed and I'm sure she is a good-hearted woman who would welcome little Betty Franklyn if the aunt wanted to part with the child.'

'And what about Hilary?' I asked. 'Does she know?'

'I think she must have an inkling. I'm pretty sure that she doesn't see the man as often as she did. But she says nothing.'

'Well, if she doesn't know now,' I said, 'she will pretty soon, if I know anything about village life!'

Mrs Pringle had more to say on the subject as she washed up after school dinner. Miss Jackson had taken the savings money to the Post Office to buy stamps, and Mrs Pringle took advantage of her absence to probe into this delicate matter.

'Seems as though the wedding bells'll be ringing out again,' she said, with ponderous jocularity. She swilled down the draining board with a sizzling hot dish-cloth that would have scalded a less asbestos-like hand.

'Mrs Fowler was telling me she helped her niece write out an advertisement for her engagement for The Paper.'
The Caxley Chronicle
is always spoken of in this way for it commands well-deserved respect from its few thousand loyal readers.

'Be a shock to some, I dare say,' continued the old harpy, with morose relish, 'but best in the end. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!'

I always find Mrs Pringle's invoking of divine support particularly irritating, especially when her mind is working maliciously. I tried to pin her down.

'Who do you think will find the engagement a shock?'

Mrs Pringle bridled self-righteously, tucking her three chins firmly against her black jumper.

'It's not my place to say. But this I do know. The gentleman—so-called—has been paying attentions to someone not a hundred miles from here. And there's no knowing what
she
might feel about it—the poor, put-upon, innocent soul!'

Mrs Pringle uttered this last with an affecting tremor in her voice and with her eyes upraised piously to the clouds of steam near the ceiling.

Luckily, the entry of Miss Jackson with the savings stamps called a halt to our discussion.

Nothing more had been heard officially about the new housing estate, but the matter hung ominously at the back of people's minds.

Dr Martin stood at Miss Clare's window looking at the brown furrowed beauty of Hundred Acre Field.

'I'd hate to think this is the last winter we'd see it like that,' said the doctor thoughtfully.

'Sometimes,' answered his patient in a far-away voice, 'I think I'd like this winter to be my last one.'

Doctor Martin turned and looked swiftly at her. Her blue eyes gazed serenely into space. He crossed to the chair where she sat, and looked down with mock severity.

'Now, none of that, Dolly. You'll see eighty yet!' Miss Clare smiled at him.

'What a bully you are! I'm very, very tired you know. I often sing that little bit of Handel to myself.

"Art thou weary?
Rest shall be thine,
Rest shad be thine".'

Miss Clare sang in a small voice, as sweet and clear as a winter robin's.

The doctor stood in silence, watching his old friend meditatively. When he spoke it was with more than usual robustness.

'Tonic for you tomorrow, my girl! A
large
bottle, with plenty of iron in it!'

'We must move,' said Mrs Mawne decisively to her husband, 'if this estate comes. The place won't be fit to live in!'

'I fear that we shad have to face much more responsibility,' said the vicar soberly to his wife, 'if our parish houses so many more souls. It is a very great trust—and we're neither of us getting younger, my dear.'

'Pretty wed double my turnover, this wid,' said Mr Prince, the baker at Fairacre.

'I shall have to give over the dining-room to Christmas cards next year,' commented Mr Lamb at the Post Office, surveying his cramped stock.

'This hanging about will dam' wed kid me!' exploded old Mr Miller in his threatened farm house.

And thus spoke many in Fairacre and Beech Green as they chafed under this intolerable burden of suspense.

It remained for Mr Willet to sum up the matter.

'Ah! It's a bad time for us all, waiting and wondering. Which reminds me. I've chose my words for my gravestone. What d'you think of that, Miss Read?

"Good times
Bad times
All times
Pass over".'

'For last words on a subject, Mr Wider,' I said, 'you couldn't do better.'

On the Saturday morning Mowing my conversation with Mrs Pringle, I went to Caxley to buy Christmas cards.

As usual this was no light task. After overcoming the initial shock of staggeringly high prices (unconsciously I still expect something rather distinguished for fourpence!) I found further difficulties confronting me. Despite the plethora of cards on view in the stationer's they seemed to fall into comparatively few classes-arch poodles, ladies in crinolines and ringlets accompanied by mawkish verses, stage coaches hurtling through cheering spectators waving beaver hats, and cards of a religious nature bearing three camels and a star embossed in gold.

Whilst I was turning over morosely a pile of cards showing puppies in hampers and kittens in boots, someone spoke. It was John Franklyn's sister-in-law, the woman who was looking after his daughter Betty, in Caxley.

'I haven't seen you for a long time,' she said, and my mind flew back to the scene in the vicar's garden on the day of the fete. As though she could read my thoughts, she went on.