Farewell to Fairacre (13 page)

I pretended that I had not heard above the noise of the water running into the kettle, but my heart sank. I supposed it was all over the neighbourhood that I was pursuing a lone widower, if not two.

We drank our tea, and kept the subjects to such harmless topics as the ever-present influenza, the exorbitant price of seed potatoes, how much a Caxley decorator had asked for doing out the village hall, and so on.

John Jenkins was only mentioned again, as I drove her back to Fairacre.

'He's a nice-looking man,' said Mrs Pringle. 'He reminds me of the rent-collector as used to come regular to my auntie's in Caxley. Very civil he always was, and my auntie never failed to say what a pleasure it was to hand over the rent money every week.'

I made an appreciative noise.

'We was all surprised when he was took away for murdering his poor wife. Done it with a common meat cleaver too.'

Mrs Pringle sounded aggrieved, as though such a good-looking civil man could at least have picked a worthier weapon, such as a cavalry sword, for the job.

Driving back I hoped that John Jenkins, who looked so like the rent-collector, did not have the same murderous urgings.

Too late now to worry about it anyway, I decided, as I looked out suitable raiment for the outing.

It was a lovely evening. It was still light enough to see the countryside as we drove north, and the air was balmy.

John was an easy companion, and we had plenty to talk about. He obviously enjoyed music, played the flute, and was wondering if the Caxley orchestra would welcome him next season.

It was dusk when we arrived at Rousham, but the bulk of the house against the sunset glow looked interesting, and I said so.

'It is. We'll come again in the summer. It's the garden here that is the main attraction. It was laid out by William Kent early in the eighteenth century, and is pretty well unchanged. He had a lot to do with the house too. It's one of my favourite places. We'll make a definite date, as soon as it opens.'

The concert took place in the hall, and was just the sort of music I like, a quartet playing melodious pieces of Schubert, Mozart and Haydn, a delight to the ear and enabling one to let the mind drift happily.

At the interval we ate delicious snippets of this and that with plenty of smoked salmon and prawns and luscious pâtés around, and red and white wine flowing copiously.

Some of us went outside and stood on the steps, for the night was pleasantly warm. The stars were out, and a light breeze rustled William Kent's ancient trees.

As we returned we met two Caxley friends, Gerard Baker and his wife Miriam. As Miss Quinn, she had lived for a time in Fairacre, and was a good friend of mine. Introductions were made, and Miriam and I caught up with local gossip, leaving the men behind.

'I hear you are retiring.'

I told her why. She was sympathetic and sensible.

'You won't regret it. As you know I go back occasionally to help out if Barney wants me, but as time passes, I really don't want to leave all my little domestic ploys.'

I said I could well understand that. I did not imagine that my life would suddenly become empty.

She laughed and agreed. 'It won't be, I assure you,' she said, as we made our way back to our chairs. '"Nature abhors a vacuum", as my old science teacher taught us.'

A tag to remember, I thought, as the music began again.

March, which is reputed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, was doing the thing in reverse.

Not that anyone complained. The gentle weather, which had been so much appreciated on the Rousham evening, continued to bless us, and the influenza and other patients returned in a straggle to their duties at Fairacre school.

I took them for a shorter nature walk than usual one afternoon, in deference to their debilitated condition. We found catkins, of course, which had been fluttering in the hazel hedges for several weeks, but also some real harbingers of spring in the shape of coltsfoot, violets and one or two early primroses.

Joseph Coggs found a blackbird's nest, and we all had a quick peep, but hurried off as the male bird kept up an outraged squawking from a nearby holly tree, and we did not want his bright-eyed mate to desert the eggs.

'Soon be Easter,' said Ernest. 'My mum said Mr Mawne's going to have an egg hunt.'

This sounded odd to me. After all, Henry is a keen ornithologist, and an egg hunt sounded wrong. I must have looked puzzled.

"
Chocolate
eggs,' explained Ernest. 'All over the garden, and then a lantern show in the village hall.'

'That's very kind of Mr Mawne,' I said. This was the first I had heard that he was back in Fairacre. 'You will be going to both, I suppose?'

Ernest sighed. 'Well, my mum said you can't just collect the chocolate eggs and not go on to the lecture, so I suppose I'll have to go.'

Well done, mum, I thought!

As we passed the churchyard there was the sound of a spade at work. We looked over the wall to see Bob Willet digging at the bottom of a grave. He looked pink and cheerful.

'You lot playing truant again?' he asked, straightening up from his labours.

'Look! Two primroses!' shouted Patrick.

'And six violets!' called one of the Bennett boys.

'And we know where there's a blackbird sitting,' said Joseph.

'I can do better'n that,' replied Bob Willet. 'There was a grass snake sunning itself on my compost heap midday.'

'Can we go and see it?'

'He scarpered when he saw me. But it shows the spring's come. You'll have to look out for frogs' spawn before long.'

We waved him goodbye and returned with our treasures to the school.

This, I thought with a pang, would be the last time I should see the nature table decked with the bounty of spring. Where should I be when it came again?

I shook myself out of this melancholy mood.

Busy as ever, no doubt, for didn't Nature abhor a vacuum?

Amy rang me that evening to tell me about the plans for our Easter break in Shropshire.

'James has found a very nice country hotel, not far from Bridgnorth. The only snag is that we shall have to be there over the Easter weekend. It's the only time he can see the business man, evidently. He's abroad most of the time, but is nipping over to see his mother in Shrewsbury for the holiday weekend.'

'It's fine by me, Amy. I'm looking forward to it.'

'So am I. We'll pick you up on Good Friday morning then, and come back on Monday afternoon. Suit you?'

'Perfectly.'

'And did you enjoy the concert at Rousham?'

'How did you know about that?'

'I met Miriam and Gerard in Caxley. They said you were there.'

Was
anything
private, I wondered sourly?

'With that handsome John Jenkins,' continued Amy.

'That is quite correct,' I replied.

'Oh, good!' said Amy, with unnecessary enthusiasm. 'See you on Good Friday morning then, if not before.'

She rang off, and I went to close the kitchen window. The wind had sprung up, and squally rain showers were on the way, according to the radio weather man.

It was almost dark when I heard someone knocking at the front door. Normally people come to my back door, usually calling out as they come.

I opened the door to find John Jenkins there, with a book in his hand.

'Come in out of this wind,' I said.

'I thought you might like to look at this. There's a nice account of Rousham in it.'

It was a handsome volume dealing with country houses and I said that I should enjoy reading it.

I rather hoped that he would depart. His car was at the gate, and I imagined that he was on his way elsewhere. However, he lingered, and I invited him to sit down, and offered coffee. The children's marking would have to wait.

While the kettle boiled I rummaged in a very superior square biscuit tin, a Christmas present, and wondered why the lids of square biscuit tins never go on properly first time. Almost as frustrating, I thought, pouring boiling water on to the coffee, as those child-proof medicine containers where you have to align two arrows in order to prise off the lid. So useful in the middle of a dark night. And anyway, a child could undo the thing with far more ease than I could.

John was well settled into an armchair, but leapt up politely as I entered.

He seemed very much at ease and admired the cottage. I told him how lucky I had been to inherit it.

'You must come and see mine,' he said. 'Are you busy next week?'

I told him that the end of term was looming up, and perhaps I might be invited during the Easter holidays?

He brought out a pocket diary immediately, and my heart sank at such efficiency. I could see that there would be no escape.

The Thursday or Friday after Easter was fixed for me to take tea at his house, and half an hour later he left.

By now, the rain was lashing down. In the light from the porch it slanted in silver rods across the wind-tossed shrubs.

He ran down the wet path, raised his hand in farewell, and a moment later the car moved off.

Thankfully, I removed the tray and took out my neglected school work.

I was just getting down to the correction of such sentences as, 'My granny never had none neither,' when I heard someone at the front door again.

John must have forgotten something. I put aside my papers, and made my way, cursing silently, to the door.

When I opened it, the light fell upon a wispy figure drenched to the skin, with dripping hair and frightened eyes.

'You'd better come in,' I said, following Minnie Pringle into the kitchen.

Minnie Pringle stood as close as she could to the kitchen heater and dripped steadily from hair, hands and hem-line. If she had just emerged from a river, she could not have been more thoroughly soaked.

'I saw your light,' she said, as if that explained everything.

'I'll get you a towel and something to put on,' I told her. 'Strip off and dump your things in the sink.'

I left her shivering and fumbling with buttons, and went to find underclothes and dressing-gown. When I returned she was sitting on the rush matting on the kitchen floor.

Her back was towards me as she struggled to pull off a wet stocking, and I felt a pang of pity at the sight of her boniness. She might have been a twelve-year-old child, rather than the mother of several children, and pregnant with yet another.

Her normally red hair was now darkly plastered to her head, and dripped down upon her bent back. I noticed dark marks on the shoulders and stick-like upper arms. Could they be bruises? Had Ern really attacked her?

I put the towel round her, and the fresh clothes on the back of the kitchen chair.

'Rub yourself down well,' I said, 'and get dressed. I'm going to make some coffee for us both.'

To the accompaniment of sniffs behind me as Minnie set about her toilet, I busied myself preparing a ham sandwich for my guest. The sink was slowly filling up with sodden garments as we worked, and my head was buzzing with conjectures.

What could have happened? Why had she come to me? Usually, in times of domestic crisis she went to her mother at Springbourne or to her aunt Mrs Pringle at Fairacre. Why me this time?

And what on earth was I to do about her? Obviously, she would have to stay the night, and as luck would have it, the spare bed was made up. As soon as I had made the coffee I would fill a hot-water bottle, but the first thing was to get this poor drowned rat dry, and sitting by my fire with a hot drink.

Within ten minutes we were studying each other before the blazing hearth in my sitting-room. Minnie's teeth still chattered, but she looked pinker than on her arrival, and her hair blazed as brightly as the fire.

I began a little questioning as she grew more relaxed.

'I run off. Ern was real rough this time,' she volunteered.

'But what about the children?'

'My mum's got 'em.'

'Couldn't you have stayed with them?'

She considered this for a moment. 'She never wanted me. She said to go back to Ern. She said my place was with him, but I ain't going back. He knocked me about terrible this time.'