(3/20) Storm in the Village (28 page)

'Twould never have done,' repeated Mr Willet. 'I said at the time that 'twould never have done! Fairacre takes a bit of beating as it is!'

'I'd believe it when I sees it,' was Mrs Pringle's comment. 'I've heard too many rumours flying about lately for me to put much store by a lot of idle chitter-chatter. I'd wait till I sees it put plain in the paper!'

We had not long to wait, for the
Caxley Chronicle
came out the next morning and had given pride of place to the youthful reporter's notice of the meeting.

'In view of the government's recent decision for stringent cuts in expenditure, and having given the objections raised by local bodies his earnest attention, the Minister has decided, with reluctance, that the present housing-estate scheme must be abandoned.'

As everyone in Fairacre, Beech Green and Caxley pointed out to his neighbour the Minister had put the less important factor first. Naturally, it was the fighting spirit of the local inhabitants that had forced the issue, but as the Minister had seen reason in the end no one was going to quarrel with him over this relatively minor point.

'And give the chap his due,' Mr Willet pointed out, reasonably enough, 'he do seem to have sat up there cudgelling his brains over this ere business ever since last October. Say what you like, after six months' honest thinking he's pretty well bound to have got the right answer.'

'And that he have!' agreed Mr Lamb from the Post Office with conviction. And ad the neighbourhood, with rejoicing hearts, concurred.

The spring term had ended in a sped of warm sunshine which looked as though it might wed stay for the Easter holidays.

The chidren had run home, on that last afternoon, hugging their bright Easter eggs carefully to their chests, and chorusing cheerfully.

'Goodbye, Miss. Happy Easter, Miss!'

When I answered with 'Be good children and help your mothers,' and some wag had called, with well-simulated innocence, 'Same to you, Miss!' their delight knew no bounds. It was a retort which would doubtless go down in to Fairacre history.

The first morning of the holidays was so fair and sweet that I readily turned my back upon household affairs and set out for a walk on top of the downs. I chose the narrow little-used lane that winds steeply up the slope of the downs, beginning among trees which form a leafy tunnel in the summer and now showed the first small fans of breaking leaves, and later emerging into the bare open downland.

The scent of spring was everywhere, heady and hopeful, and as I gained the upper slopes I could hear the numberless larks carolling. I remembered Mr Mawne's remark: 'More larks to the square yard on those downs than anywhere else I know.'

Puffed by now, I arrived at a five-barred gate at the side of the lane, and leant gratefully upon it, looking down at the view spread below me. What an escape we had had, when the housing scheme had been abandoned!

A fine blue haze lay over the valley. Away to my right lay Beech Green. Miss Clare's cottage, tucked in a fold of the downs, was hidden from my view, but the reprieved Hundred Acre Field lay spread there tinged with tender green. Mr Miller had weathered his storm bravely, I thought. And for that matter, hadn't we ad, during this last year? I remembered the anxiety of the vicar, of Mr Willet and Mrs Pringle and of ad those among us whose lives would have been shaken by the advent of the new town. I remembered too Hilary Jackson's stormy passage, Miss Crabbe's brief passion, dear Miss Clare's fight for health, and Joseph Coggs' rebellion.

But that was behind us now. The storm had passed, the sunshine warmed my bare head, and I remembered, with an up-rush of spirit, that the barometer had said
Set Fair
when I had tapped it that morning.

I took a last look at Fairacre away below me. There it lay in a comfortable hollow of the sheltering downs, ringed with trees that hid many of the thatched roofs from sight. But the spire of St Patrick's pierced the greenery like an upthrust finger and, at its tip, the weathercock, glinting in the morning sunlight, seemed to crow a challenge to ad comers.

Well-satisfied, I turned my back upon Fairacre, happy in the knowledge that however far I journeyed, it would always be there waiting for me, timeless and unchanged.

M
ISS READ
is the pen name of Mrs. Dora Saint, who was born on April 17, 1913. A teacher by profession, she began writing for several journals after World War II and worked as a scriptwriter for the BBC. She is the author of many immensely popular books, but she is especially beloved for her novels of English rural life set in the fictional villages of Fairacre and Thrush Green. The first of these, Village School, was published in 1955 by Michael Joseph Ltd. in England and by Houghton Mifflin in the United States. Miss Read continued to write until her retirement in 1996. In 1998 she was made a Member of the Order of the British Empire for her services to literature. She lives in Berkshire.