Farewell to Fairacre (11 page)

He sounded genuinely put out, and I tried to make amends.

'Honestly, Henry, I don't remember us making a set date. I'm sorry if it throws out your plans. Can't we all go in together?'

'No, we can't,' he snapped. 'Leave it as it is, now you've made this muddle with John. I'll see you after the meeting.'

He rang off, leaving me thoroughly cross. I was positive that we had made no arrangements to meet, and in any case, that was weeks before when we had met at the Annetts' party. How like a man to put the blame on me! And if he resented my inviting John Jenkins to an innocent cup of tea, he must just get on with it. I had plenty to occupy me without worrying about foolish old men who behaved like infants.

What a blessing it was to be a spinster!

In no time, of course, it was the talk of Fairacre that I was going to retire.

Mrs Richards' eyes filled with tears when I told her, and I was obliged to find the box of tissues kept for infant eyes and noses to put her to rights again.

'I think I'll give up myself,' she wailed. 'I honestly can't face working with anyone else.'

I did my best to brace her, and before long she was herself again, much to my relief. What would the children think if
all
the staff - both of us - resigned at the same time, I said?

Bob Willet said everyone would grizzle about me going but he and Alice had said for a long time I was looking peaky and I worked too hard. I rather enjoyed the last part of his remarks. I so rarely get the chance to feel a martyr.

Mrs Pringle responded typically. It was her opinion, she told me, that I should have gone months ago. (My enjoyment of Bob Willet's assessment of my worth vanished immediately.)

'You've been off-colour ever since that first funny turn,' she continued. 'Shaking like a jelly. Tripping over things. Forgetting to shut the skylight. Sharp with the kiddies. Pecking at your good school dinner. I said to Fred, long before Christmas, "You mark my words, Fred, she'll either crack up and end in the county asylum, or the doctor'll make her see sense and retire." Those was my very words.'

'Well, luckily,' I said, as mildly as I could in the face of this tirade, 'I'm taking the second course. So far, at least.'

Mr Lamb at the Post Office said that I would be sorely missed, and maybe they would appoint a man next time which might make some of the children mind their Ps and Qs. This left me wondering how far my disciplinary powers had deteriorated in the past months and if, perhaps, I should have given in my notice years before.

But on the whole, I received nothing but kindness from my Fairacre friends and parents, and far more compliments than I deserved. Perhaps one had to go before one was really appreciated? I was reminded of the glowing obituary notices in
The Caxley Chronicle
dwelling on the sterling merits of local characters 'beloved by all'.

The children, of course, were much more realistic, wondering if my retirement would mean a half-holiday for them, who would take my place, and was I going because I was too old? Or was I
really
ill?

'You're not going to die?' queried Joseph Coggs interestedly.

'Not just yet,' I assured him.

John Jenkins proved to be good company. He had travelled in many countries, and had a cottage in the south of France which he visited for several months of the year.

His Beech Green house was providing him with plenty of household repairs, and these he seemed to be enjoying.

The Annetts had told him about my proposed retirement, and he asked me about my plans.

'I shall enjoy feeling free,' I told him. 'I look forward to visiting friends, and parts of the country I haven't yet seen.'

'Won't you miss the work? The routine? Setting off at the same time each day, and so on?'

'Good lord, no! Why, do you?'

'I did at first,' he admitted, 'but then I think men find it harder to adjust to retirement than women.'

I pondered this as I poured out our second cups of tea. There was truth in the statement. I could think of half a dozen men of my acquaintance, usually successful business men, who had been unsettled and irritable in the first months of retirement, nearly driving their wives mad.

'Women have wider interests, I suppose,' I answered. 'Everyday jobs like cooking and housework, and all the things that have to be looked after in a house. So often a man devotes himself to just one aim, like building up a business, or running an efficient office. When that's taken away he feels lost.'

'I certainly went through that stage. Felt useless, finished, chucked aside. That's why I took on so many voluntary jobs in the village. Too many, I realise now. Don't you make that mistake.'

I promised that I would not, and soon afterwards we set out to the school hall in Caxley where Henry was to give his lecture.

He came bustling up to meet us as we entered, and I was relieved to see that he appeared in excellent spirits.

'Everything in splendid form here,' he cried. 'The headmaster was absolutely spot-on about the electrical equipment. And two sixth form boys to do the heaving about. By the way, I've booked a table for supper after the show. At the White Hart, if that suits you?'

We thanked him warmly and found our seats.

The hall filled up very satisfactorily, considering how bleak and unpleasant a night it was. Left alone I should have stayed by my fire. Obviously a great many people were more public-spirited.

The lecture on 'Birds of Prey' was vaguely familiar, and I recalled that Henry had given a simple version of it to our school some time before. We had followed it up by paying a visit to a Cotswold falconry, and a good time had been enjoyed by all.

Henry spoke well, and the slides were magnificent. There is something primitively splendid about the fierce eyes and cruel beaks of eagles, kestrels and the like which compel fear as well as admiration. We all sat enthralled, and although Henry's lecture lasted well over an hour no one fidgeted.

Half an hour later we were sitting at a table in Caxley's premier hotel, a comfortable old building, once a coaching stop, with ample stabling at the rear.

As well as Henry and John, the headmaster and his wife were present, and the master who had been instrumental in getting Henry to give the lecture.

'I hear you are retiring soon,' he said to me.

'At the end of the school year probably,' I replied, marvelling yet again about the dispersal of news.

'Well, if you want something to do,' he went on, 'I can find you a little job publicising the work of our local nature society. Very worthwhile, and you would meet lots of people.'

'I've often seen you at concerts,' broke in the headmaster, 'and I know you are fond of music. Do come and hear our school orchestra one day.'

'And you must join our Ladies' Club,' added his wife. 'We meet every third Wednesday of the month, and have really first-class speakers. Some of them charge over a hundred pounds, so you can see we get only the best.'

I began to see how tough I should have to be to resist all the pressure about to engulf me.

John Jenkins came to my rescue. 'I've already warned her about taking on too much when she retires,' he remarked.

'And so have I,' added Henry. 'There will be quite enough scope for her in Beech Green and Fairacre, I'm sure.'

'We'll return to the attack later,' said the headmaster, with a smile, and I was thankful that the conversation turned to rugby prospects for the rest of the season, and I could enjoy my excellent meal without harassment.

I was pleased to see Henry so jovial again, for although he had annoyed me by assuming such a possessive air when he had rung me about driving in, I was sorry to have upset him unwittingly. He was still in a sad state after losing his wife, and I did not want to hurt him further.

But my complacency was short-lived. At the end of the evening, after we had said goodbye to the Caxley contingent, Henry turned to me and said, 'Shall we set off then?'

'I can run her back,' said John quickly.

'No need. I pass the door,' responded Henry.

'Don't you worry,' replied John. 'You've got to unpack all your gear when you get back to Fairacre.'

I began to feel like a bone between two dogs. Both men were getting pink in the face.

'I'm afraid I left my gloves in John's car,' I faltered.

'In that case,' said John swiftly, 'you had better come back with me, as arranged.'

Henry took a deep breath, turning from pink to crimson in the process. 'Very well,' he managed to say, 'if it's
arranged
then there's nothing to say, is there?'

'Thank you for a really lovely evening,' I said weakly, but found that I was addressing his back.

John took my arm in an irritatingly proprietorial manner, and we made our way to the hotel car park. I was sorry that the evening had ended so unhappily, and said so to John as we emerged into the road.

'He'll get over it,' he said dismissively. 'The trouble with Henry is that he's such an old woman. Always was.'

I felt that this was as unkind as it was churlish. After all, Henry had arranged the evening, given us a first-class dinner, and been a genial host until the last few wretched minutes.

We continued our journey in silence. The headlamps lit up the hedges and grass verges glistening with a hard frost. An owl flew across our path intent on finding prey in this harsh world.

As we approached Beech Green, I roused myself enough to give John polite thanks for the lift, and he responded, equally politely, about tea.

'I will see you in,' he said as we drew up at my gate.

'Please don't bother,' I said. 'You have been most kind, and as you see, I have left the light on.'

We wished each other good night, and off he went, much to my relief.

For the time being anyway, I had had quite enough of John Jenkins' company.

In the week following our Caxley evening, more snow fell. Luckily, it was not too heavy, but the ground was so iron-cold and hard that it lay for several days without thawing much.

The children's Wellingtons stood in a row in the porch, but I was surprised to see that the oldest Cotton girl, who had played Mary so beautifully in our nativity play, was the only child in shoes. Naturally, they were soaking wet, and I put them near the stove to dry.

'What's happened to your Wellingtons?' I asked. The two younger boys had come to school in theirs.

'Too small, miss,' she replied. 'Mum's getting me some in Caxley on Saturday.'

'Her shoes are too small as well,' piped up one of her brothers, and the girl flushed with annoyance.

'Well, you all grow fast at this stage,' I said cheerfully, 'and run your poor parents into a lot of expense.'

An odd look passed between the two children. A warning? Fear? Embarrassment? There was no telling, but we continued with our work and I soon forgot about this transitory and uneasy feeling.

February began as cheerless as the last few days of January had been. Consequently my bird table was thronged with finches of all colours, as well as robins and sparrows. Beneath it the blackbirds and hedge sparrows bustled about, and on one occasion a spotted woodpecker joined the gathering, scaring the small birds away from the peanuts which he attacked energetically with his powerful bill.

But by mid-month a welcome change occurred. The wind veered to the south-west, the air became balmy, and the last vestiges of snow, which had lain beneath the hedges, gradually melted away.

Our spirits rose steadily with the temperature. For one thing, the children could go outside to play, which was a relief to us all. The evenings were drawing out. It was possible to have a walk, or for the children to play outside, after tea, and the curtains were drawn at around six o'clock rather than four.

My resignation had gone to the office, and I had received an extremely kind and flattering letter from the Director of Education, no less. I was beginning to wonder if I had done the right thing by resigning.

Just as one feels much better when one has rung the dentist for an appointment and the pain stops immediately, so I felt now. The relief at having made a decision - even if it were the wrong one - was overwhelming.

I did not have many of these twinges of doubt. I knew only too well that the course I was pursuing was the right one.

Amy was particularly helpful at this time. She called one afternoon when I had just returned from school, and we had tea together. The window was open, and the curtains stirred in the warm breeze. A bowl of paper-white narcissi scented the room. Spring had come at last.

'I get restless at this time of year,' said Amy, lighting a cigarette.

'It's time you gave up smoking,' I told her. 'Don't you read about all the horrors it does to your lungs, not to mention unborn babies?'

'I'm not too bothered about my lungs after all these years, and there never have been any babies to worry about, worse luck.'

I felt a pang of remorse. Amy and James would have made ideal parents, but Fate had deemed otherwise. It was one of the reasons, I guessed, that James was so exceptionally good in dealing with the children and their parents in the Trust housing scheme.

'Easter's early this year,' went on Amy, blowing a perfect smoke ring. 'What are you doing?'

'Getting the outside painting done. Wayne Richards says he'll come as soon as we break up.'

'Is that your assistant's husband? The one with the handsome beard?'

'The very same,' I told her.

'And how long will he need to paint the outside?'

'Lord knows. A week, I suppose. Why?'

'James is off on another Trust venture around Easter. I think he hopes to find a house or two in the Shropshire area - lovely part of the country. I wondered if you would like to keep me company.'

'It sounds lovely.'

'No need to make plans yet. I'll have to fit in with James's arrangements, but bear it in mind.'

I promised enthusiastically, and we went out to look at the garden.

It was a cheering sight after the past gloomy weeks. The green noses of innumerable bulbs had pushed through the wet earth. The lilac buds were as fat as green peas, and the honeysuckle was already in tiny leaf.